#hob writes

[hobgoblinns]

a thing about the tenth doctor’s death is that we’re told he has a choice, but he never really did.

we’re told “he could have chosen to leave wilf, but he didn’t! he chose to die for him instead!”. but the doctor doesn’t do that. the doctor doesn’t leave people to die while saving himself.

in the end of time, he talks about his fear of regeneration. the feeling of becoming a new man, leaving all he is behind.

if he’d left wilf in that chamber, he would have been a new man. it would have made him someone else, someone more arrogant and probably more susceptible to the countless temptations he faces on his journeys. it would have sent him down a path of bitterness and rage and pride, and it would have changed him.

so there was never a choice. either way, the doctor, as he knew himself, would die.

[valeriianz]

Mega Popstar Dream and Hob, his extremely non-famous celebrity crush: THE FIC!

for @cuubism! based on this incredible post! Sorry it took me like, 6 months to write :') 5k later, here we are!

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“Alright, plans for today…” Lucienne plops down on the sofa across from Dream, a tablet in her hand and a cup of tea waiting for her on the coffee table. 

Dream is still in his sleep clothes; the pants of a mulberry silk, midnight black pyjama set, forgoing the matching long sleeve buttoned top for nothing but his favourite cashmere cardigan that is a size too big on him, draping over his shoulders elegantly and hanging open to reveal his bare, hair-free chest. He’s curled up on the corner of the couch with an old acoustic guitar in his hands, idly strumming away while a notebook sits waiting for him by his side.

Matthew, one of his trusted publicists, would sarcastically quip about how “work never stops,” but it’s more like “inspiration never stops.” Words and melodies are constantly floating around in Dream’s head, and if he doesn’t at least have a pen and paper with him at all times, they will drift away as soon as they come.

Dream listens as Lucienne goes over their itinerary. Awards season is upon them and these days a lot of Dream’s time is spent in appointments with designers and agents for campaigns and endorsements, even media training, still, at Dream’s level in his career. He still has the occasional gaff when speaking in anything that isn’t a practised interview. And, although Dream has gotten better at red carpet events, where a microphone is spontaneously shoved in his face, that coupled with all the flashing lights and overlapping chatter has made him dissociate more than a few times.

Dream nods along when Lucienne pauses to make sure he’s paying attention. He is. And she knows his quirks by now; that he needs to be constantly moving when taking in information. His fingers fluttering along the neck of the guitar, producing quiet blooms of sound that quickly fade away in the space between them.

“And then after lunch is the YouTube appearance…”

Dream stops playing.

“The what?”

Lucienne looks up at him over her coke-bottle glasses. 

“The interview with Centuries, the up-and-coming YouTube channel. We discussed it back in August.”

Right, Dream vaguely remembers the name. He doesn’t watch much YouTube… unless it’s interviews or clip compilations of Robert Gadling from his TV show, Prophecy. He’d be more ashamed of his search history if everyone on his team didn’t already know about his absurd crush.

Dream merely nods, trusting Lucienne and his team by now to handle trivial things like interviews or guest appearances. If he had needed to do any modicum of research beforehand, he would have by now. 

But now Dream’s imagination starts to wander, thinking about the video he’d watched before going to bed last night, his phone clutched in his hand while he took in a behind the scenes feature of the stars of Prophecy going through their period typical wardrobe and makeup, replaying Robert Gadling’s part over and over again. The way the hairdresser had combed her fingers through Robert’s hair, pulling it back to reveal his forehead and bushy eyebrows, expressive as ever, lifted up as he smiled widely in the mirror, the skin around his eyes crinkling with it.

Or the set’s costume designer taking Robert’s measurements, revealing the man in a thin white henley and boxer briefs, the camera only panning down for a moment to capture his tan, corded thighs just thick with hair and taking Dream’s breath away, squirming under the sheets of his too-big California king-sized bed. 

It was bad… Dream’s infatuation with Robert. His team had been worried at first, knowing the gossip columnists loved it when Dream got into a new relationship, shamelessly publishing questions of how long this one will last? And going down the timeline of Dream’s past lovers, all heat and passion at first, before inevitably getting snuffed out by their own intensity. 

Despite Dream’s track record– or maybe because of it– many people, male and female, had tried to capture the performer’s attention. Willing to endure the heartbreak at the end because, as nearly all Dream’s partners had attested to, Dream was an excellent lover. And perhaps, to them, the high was worth the pain.

But Dream had set himself on a firm break from romance. His heart couldn’t take it, so instead he pined, though not from afar. If media outlets were to take him seriously, they’d have a real story to invest in.

Perhaps newsmongers thought it was a joke, the way Dream was so candid about his interest in Robert. In past affairs, the public would just suddenly see Dream cozied up with a new paramour– no need to speculate when Dream would always just go for it.

Dream is surprised, too. His listeners are usually so quick to judge Dream’s suitors and even his relationships. Perhaps it is because Robert Gadling is barely a celebrity, in the eyes of Hollywood.

Prophecy is a BBC program, one of those low budget, historical dramas where romance doesn’t propel the plot, so unfortunately the series hadn’t garnered much success. Which Dream was boarderlined annoyed by. The writing was fantastic, the acting– superb. And Robert Gadling specifically… 

If Dream’s staff noticed how often his mind would wander into daydreams, a woebegone sigh escaping his lips, they didn’t say anything. Leaving Dream to write vague love songs that his fans speculated which ex it was about.

Despite his maddening crush on Robert Gadling, Dream refused to act on it. Not only because he was on a self-imposed break, but he truly was so terrified of rejection. Or worse, dating Robert and having things fizzle out, like they always did. 

Dream knew he wouldn’t survive it if Robert and him were to ever cross paths. So he made sure to steer clear of any events where they might overlap, even going so far as to inform his staff to keep their distance. 

Hiring a friend like Lucienne to be Dream’s manager had one downfall though; she knew him better than himself at times. And she was devious.

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Hob tugs on his ear as he sits in a chair at the table that’s been set up for his surprise meeting with Dream. The crew is still hovering– even after bustling around and getting everything set up.

It’s not that Hob is regretting this… but it is starting to feel awkward, waiting for Dream to arrive, to surprise him. What if the show’s producers were wrong? What if Dream took one look at Hob and turned right back around?

Though Hob had done some research of his own, after his agent had called him and offered the opportunity to him. Because that’s what this was… an offer— a favour, of sorts. He was barely getting paid for his time here, this was basically just for fun, and “exposure,” a word YouTubers loved throwing around. 

He’d heard of Dream, obviously, despite Hob’s lack of social media and smartphone. You’d have to be living underground to not have heard of Dream, the mega rock-star phenomenon that had risen to fame a short five years ago and was only getting more and more popular, especially as he began adding pop elements into his music.

Hob wouldn’t call himself a fan though. He knows the hits that played on endless repeat on the radio, what he hears in coffee shops and what his co-workers talk about. Hob doesn’t dislike the music, it’s very catchy and he can clearly hear why Dream is so popular. He is one of the few currently dominating the charts because he has actual talent. Dream writes and composes his own music and isn’t tied down by a label (anymore), it’s incredibly impressive.

Hob took the time to get into his music before this meeting. Dream’s lyrics are truly stunning, his arrangements unique and reflective of the words he would croon into the mic. Interestingly, Hob found himself enjoying the more dismissive tracks on Dream’s albums, the songs that weren’t mainstream, especially from his early records.

Hob took on the task of learning more about Dream like he would going into a new role. He liked falling into wormholes about a trade or language he had to learn, and he always put 100% of himself into anything he did. So it was inevitable that he would wind up discovering more and more things about Dream than he had originally intended. Becoming more and more interested and, unexpectedly, attached.

While he had been knee-deep in his music, Hob also watched plenty of interviews with Dream, finding the man to be more withdrawn and selective with his words. He was allusive and coy, and extremely awkward. Watching the way he would interact with TV hosts or answer random questions at red carpet events became endearing. When Dream was caught by surprise, this little lopsided smile would creep out and he would stammer over his words.

It was endearing, and surprisingly… cute.

Hob only had about a day to question if Dream really had a crush on him, like the producers of the show claimed. It didn’t take long before Hob found a late night interview with Dream where the host had pivoted to TV shows and casually asked Dream what he was currently watching.

Dream’s eyes lit up. He shifted to be more on the edge of his chair, and even leaned forward a bit.

“Prophecy.” Dream had said with full emphasis on every letter. “You watch it too, yes?”

“It is growing on me.” The host had admitted, similarly struck dumb by Dream’s entire switch in demeanour. 

And Dream goes on a tirade about how good the show is, the story, the set design, the costumes. How he’s not an actor, has never been on a TV or film set, but he can see all the detail and love and hard work poured into the show and is admittedly obsessed with it.

“And Robert Gadling…” Hob’s heart had leapt in his throat at the way Dream nearly moaned out his full name. “... he’s just so… passionate in his work. His face is so expressive and it’s like he becomes Ser Gideon.”

“Big fan, then?” The host smirked conspiratorially.

“Oh yes,” Dream admitted, crossing his legs and lolling his head to one side, getting comfortable. “I discovered him while watching Prophecy, and fell down a rabbit hole of his previous work. He mostly does stage, you know. And I’ve always admired live art, the theatre. And God– he does it so splendidly. He acts with his entire body and it’s just–”

“Sounds like you have a bit of a crush.” The host cuts in, his smirk sharpening as Dream throws a glare at him for interrupting. 

But then Dream smiles, a tiny thing at the corner of his mouth and his eyes fall. The crowd erupts into a chorus of cheers, goading Dream on and encouraging his embarrassment.

“Well,” Dream pulls his head up, resting it in the palm of his hand. “He’s very dashing, wouldn’t you say?”

Dream’s fingers on his other hand drum along his knee, his gaze gone wistful and distracted. It’s adorable, and maybe could be seen as an act, if not for the answer he gives the host after the next question.

“Have you ever told him of this? I’m sure Robert would be very flattered to hear he has such a notable fan.”

“Oh no. I could never,” Dream withdraws slightly. “If I were to ever see his face in person I’d probably die.”

The audience laughs good-naturedly but Dream has a pretty pink flush spreading up his neck now. 

It’s all downhill from there, Hob discovers. Apparently that had been the first time Dream had admitted to his little crush on Hob and after that, the subject would be brought up again and again, sporadically throughout the course of (if the timestamps on the YouTube videos could be believed) over a year.

Over a year of the very famous Dream proclaiming openly his very serious attraction to Robert Gadling and Hob had somehow never known of this.

Until the day his agent called him, a couple months ago, and asked if he wanted to be on this show. The gimmick was– typically– people (read: fans) meeting their celebrity crush. But for this new season, Centuries had a twist: celebrities meeting their celebrity crush. 

Hob had no idea what to wear. For Dream it would be a surprise, unless his agent instructed him to dress a certain way, Hob could only assume the man would show up in casual attire. So that’s how Hob opted to present himself. He wore a forest green jumper, the sleeves pushed up in the warm cafe, and a pair of simple blue jeans. His hair had gotten pretty long, at the director’s request for the next season of Prophecy, so he’d pulled that up into a small bun that struggled to stay in place. He opted to put in his contacts, though Hob was starting to regret it, wanting something to fidget; his hand kept unconsciously lifting to touch frames that he wasn’t wearing.

Hob tried not to think too hard about his look today. He knew Dream (shockingly, unbelievably) liked him, but for some reason didn’t want him to be disappointed in what he saw. What if Dream took one look at him and realised Hob wasn’t what he thought? What if the real thing didn’t compare to whatever Dream was making up in his mind? And why did Hob care at all?

Perhaps, because… Dream was. Well. Dream. 

Hob wasn’t blind. Dream was beautiful. Hob was sure the lavish lifestyle Dream undoubtedly lived in helped, what with top of the line skin care products and a dietician to make sure he stayed healthy and youthful. Whatever other products Dream used in his hair, on his straight, perfectly white teeth, even down to his nails– clean and pretty, cuticles invisible, usually covered in varnish that matched with whatever expensive outfit he was wearing that day.

And Hob. Well.

Hob wasn’t shy, he knew he was conventionally attractive, the attention he used to get even before his appearance in television clued him in on that. But nothing about him really stood out. Just another face in the crowd. He didn’t have any outstanding features, no connections in the industry, he was a very private person who… sometimes regretted accepting his role in Prophecy. Into Hollywood. 

Hob didn’t have social media. It’s something his manager had admonished him about, early on in his career. It would help connect with his fan base, his manager had said. Would be good for connecting with others in the industry as well, and building a social media following was just something everyone did. But Hob had refused. He’d always been a private person, even before he started acting. It was the one thing he refused to give up: his confidentiality.

How could someone like Dream, who had limitless options, countless people fawning over him, find Hob in a sea of faces and latch on like he did? How was he able to know so much about him, when Hob had been so careful to not stand out? It was enough to make Hob skeptical, flattered– a swarm of contradictions but mostly… curious. Hob was so curious.

It was his best and worst trait.

The entire coffee shop, a locally owned one that perhaps was easiest to rent out for a couple hours, is barren of customers, only the crew of the YouTube show present as well as Hob’s small entourage and several of Dream’s agents, as well as a few of the cafe’s staff, patiently waiting behind the counter.

It’s a little awkward, to say the least. 

After Hob has drained his second glass of water and traced every grain on the table’s surface, someone announces that Dream is finally arriving and it’s like a switch is flipped in the room. Everyone either goes ramrod straight, or twitchy with nerves. It’s enough to break the tension in Hob, replaced by amusement, momentarily distracted and wondering if he’d ever cause such a reaction just by the sound of his name.

And now Hob, for his part, doesn’t know what to do.

The producers had informed him to just act natural, be himself, that this was essentially a blind date. But calling it a “date” only made Hob sweat. This definitely was not a date. He looked around at the camera’s pointed at him and at the door, a little red light on them blinking to indicate that they were recording. Hob sighed, slouching a little in his seat and taking steady breaths in through his nose and out his mouth, his hand out on the table’s surface and drumming his fingers. Christ, there wasn’t even music playing, all was quiet in the room.

At last, the front door to the cafe opens with a jaunty ring of a bell and Dream steps through. He halts as soon as the door swings shut behind him though, his gaze imperceptible behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban shades, but his head swivels around, visibly confused before a woman out of sight of the cameras (Lucienne, she had introduced herself as, Dream’s manager), catches his attention and nods with a smile.

Why is everyone so quiet? Hob bites his lip, he’s bursting to say something, even a simple hello, but had been told to remain silent until Dream initiated contact. But Dream is clearly uncomfortable, stepping cautiously, like a cat in unknown territory. 

“What’s this?” Dream speaks, mostly toward Lucienne. His voice sends a pleasant shudder up Hob’s spine, despite how caution colors his tone. It’s a lovely voice. Smooth like chocolate, clear and deep, commanding attention. Hob had heard it countless times through his headphones, singing or giving an interview, but the full force of it in person made Hob’s heart jumpstart in his chest.

And he’d only spoken two words.

Hob is tucked away into a corner table, next to a window with a deep burgundy curtain drawn over it. It’s perhaps why Dream only spots him only once he’s fully in the center of the room, his head turning and his entire posture freezing up.

It’s a little silly, to see how Dream still hasn’t taken off the sunglasses, but even more so that Hob is somehow able to tell that Dream’s gaze has found him, draped over him like a physical thing.

Hob waves, putting on an easy smile, afraid to spook the man further. He also– fuck these producers– speaks first.

“Hello,” Hob swallows his nerves, keeping his voice soft. “Would you, ah– would you like to sit?”

Hob gestures to the empty seat across from him.

It takes a moment, and Hob’s smile grows as Dream just continues to stare. He’s suddenly grateful for the shades, certain that if he had to experience the full force of those eyes on him, Hob would be just as– if not more– nervous than Dream.

And it’s the obvious fact that Dream is nervous that somehow manages to calm Hob down a little. It’s also doing wonders for his ego, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

Dream swallows, and the movement catches Hob’s attention, watching how his throat moves and the way the snow white skin there begins to flush a pretty pink. 

Cute.

Dream at last takes a step forward, then another. His focus zeroed in on Hob, which kicks up Hob’s calming heartrate, his breath coming out in shorter intervals because– fuck. Dream is dressed to kill.

A fitted black jacket with narrow labels, open and revealing a black, smoky, intricately woven sheer top with subtle ruffles that drape down the collar like a scarf. He’s wearing a silver watch on one wrist and a mess of silver bracelets on the other. The pants match the jacket and they go on for miles. Hob licks his lips as he feels his mouth drying. The black boots Dream wears reveal a red outsole, the flash of color barely perceptible with every step.

Dream’s lips part, expression otherwise unreadable, when suddenly he walks full on into the back of a chair.

The sound of the collision is like a balloon popping in the quiet room. His hands fly up to grab the chair, steadying it but his legs continue on, stumbling and causing the chair to scrape loudly on the hardwood floor. Hob makes to stand and help, just as Dream topples forward, one hand attempting to latch onto the table for support and taking that down as well in a noisy crash.

Hob vaults upwards just as the room tenses around them, frozen with uncertainty, and a camera comes in close. Hob barely perceives it, wanting nothing more than to shove the man operating it away, but his focus is on Dream, laying in a heap on the floor among the table and chair.

He hears some muffled jittering and sends a glare up in the general direction, catching Lucienne’s worried expression– she’s taken a few steps forward as well– along the way.

Hob collapses to his knees at Dream’s head just as the camera arrives and Hob can’t stop himself from waving the man away, shooting him a disgusted look, before looking to Dream again.

“Hey, you okay? Anything hurt?”

Hob’s hands spread out uselessly, wondering if it was okay for him to touch Dream. His glasses are askew and he’s lolled his head to the side, nearly knocking them completely off. Hob could see his eyes squeezed shut, his ears beet red.

“Just my pride,” came a small, miserable response.

Hob smiled, huffing a short laugh as he chanced to reach out and gently swipe his fingers over the top of Dream’s head, pulling hair out of his face.

Dream’s eyes open and peek sideways. Hob, again, felt his breath catch. Blue. Like the clear ocean, glinting from the sun’s rays. Or like gemstones– sapphire, sharp and bright. Wow.

“Wow…” Hob hears himself speak and blushes, heat spreading up his neck. 

Dream’s eyes widened, turning to flop on his back and letting those expensive shades fall from his face and Hob was struck by the full force of those blue eyes. 

They’re just as captivating as he’d imagined, even more so, up close and in person.

Hob almost forgets they are surrounded by a camera crew, almost lets himself touch Dream again, imagines putting his hands on either side of his face, just to feel how warm his skin must be, tinged pink. It’s so endearing… and such an attractive look on him, only making the blue of his eyes pop so much more.

But at that moment someone coughs politely and Hob comes back to reality, blinking and clearing his throat. The sound startles Dream, who flinches, still on the floor, and looks side to side.

Hob helps him up, slowly, his nerves singing as Dream’s hand lingers in his as he manages to stand to his full height. There’s a moment of corporeality where Lucienne finally approaches Dream, as well as someone else on his staff, double checking that he’s in fact, okay.

Dream nods and mumbles something to them, his gaze continuing to swing over to Hob, as if checking that he’s still there.

The irritation and distrust that Dream carried on his shoulders when he’d entered the room have vanished, replaced by awkward tension and acceptance. He’s still obviously embarrassed by what happened, his hand rubbing the back of his neck and his lips pulled in to form a thin line, eyes focused as he’s mic’d up, understanding now what kind of position he’d been forced into.

Well, maybe not forced. He looks at Hob again, who’s taken his seat again at the table. Not forced, tricked maybe. Dream probably thought this was an interview of some sort, there must’ve been a reason he was dressed up so well.  

Eventually, Dream sits with him, drinks are brought to them (a coffee for Hob and a tea latte for Dream), and they take a moment to sip the hot beverages.

It’s good coffee, at least. Hob looks into his drink as he sets the mug down, thumbing over the lip of the ceramic cup. He lifts his lashes to watch Dream, who’s also studying his drink, dunking the tea bag over and over again in the liquid.

Hob nibbles on his bottom lip, his fingers now tapping on the mug, his brain sifting through a thousand ice breakers, a thousand things to say, before sighing and leaning back as casually as he can.

“I know you didn’t plan this” Hob starts, falling back on an old charm he hopes will break the tension. “But this is the strangest way to get a man’s attention.”

Dream snorts into his drink and Hob laughs as it sprays foam over the table’s surface.

Hob wipes the mess with a napkin while Dream hides his mouth behind his hand, flustered all over again. Hob smiles. This Dream is so unlike how the man presents himself in public. Poised, professional, god-like. Dream wielded his star power well, it commanded attention and intimidation, only faltering enough to garner his loyal fanbase, to give himself human qualities that listeners could connect with and fawn over.

Like the rambling during red carpet interviews. Or talking about Robert Gadling… talking about him. 

But Hob had never seen… this. The stumbling, the blushing, the insecurity. It made something warm and incredibly fond well up in his chest.

Dream finally collects himself, taking a breath and dropping his hand back to fiddle with the handle of his cup.

“What about your attention?” Dream tilts his head to one side, eyes gone playful but still with a hint of nerves behind them, uncertainty.

Hob’s smile hesitates before he laughs softly, shaking his head in delight. 

He had not anticipated that Dream would flirt.

“I think all you had to do was look at me,” Hob murmured softly, ducking his head a little, letting himself be honest because– how could he not? 

Dream’s lips parted, his face gone lax. 

And that pretty blush crawling up his neck again, making Dream drop his head slightly, a tiny, shy smile peeking through, making something take hold of Hob’s heart and give it a squeeze.

“You can’t just say that.”

“I’m not. Just saying it.” He wants to say more, actually. Hob gets it now. He gets it. Why Dream has half of the fucking world at his feet.

Suddenly, Hob wishes he was the only one. The only person to worship Dream, to know his smiles and his voice, how easy it was to make him blush and stammer. 

Hob takes a long breath and realizes, oh God, I’m gonna fall in love, aren’t I?

Dream nearly squirms in his seat, meeting Hob’s gaze again like he can’t help it. Like he’s amazed Hob’s here at all, before he blinks and casts his gaze to the side, at the large handful of people in the dining room. Hob looks too– just a quick glance. He’d forgotten for a moment there that they had an audience.

So Hob hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his cup before propping an elbow up on the table and resting his chin in his palm.

“So,” Hob grabs Dream’s attention, thinking it best to divert the conversation… for the moment. “... when did you know you wanted to become a singer?”

They relax again as the conversation turns casual. They share their history, from childhood to now. Dream admits he never entertained the idea that he could perform professionally… he liked to sing and play at open mic nights, but the idea of fame scared him. But it was all he knew how to do, he said. Play guitar and write poetry. 

Hob shares that sentiment, but with acting. He’d loved the stage and figured he’d be happy doing that forever. Auditioning for a small part in a film was just for fun, and then it’d snowballed from there. Prophecy was his first major role, but already he was making headway, catching attention (mostly because he was so private) and rejecting offers from other major studios. Hob did enjoy acting in front of a camera, it was fun, in a different way. But for now he wanted to stick with indie stuff and small roles. Unsure if this was the life he wanted for himself.

Dream had gone quiet again, at that, his gaze faraway. Hob wondered what he was thinking about, but before he could ask, Dream changed the subject, asking about Hob’s favorite plays.

Then Hob asks about Dream’s favorite poets, writers, what book he was reading right now. They discuss music and the cities they’ve lived in, sharing embarrassing stories that crack Hob up and make Dream laugh out loud, the atrocious sound unable to be hidden behind a hand.

Hob stares and stares and wonders what he’d been doing his entire life.

Dream has this aura about him, his own gravitational pull, and Hob is powerless to its charm, getting sucked into the point where Hob never wants to leave. He could get lost in the blue of his eyes, his shy smiles. Hob is smitten. And probably a little bit in love.

Before Hob is ready to let Dream go, someone announces that it’s time to wrap up. The spell is broken and the two men fall silent once more.

The director instructs them to say some final lines, some awkward dialogue that apparently is traditional with this channel’s gimmick, and then the shoot is proclaimed to be finished.

Like a dream, everyone is already chatting amongst themselves, scattering about, though the cameras on the tripods remain on. Lucienne walks up the table, thanking Hob for his time and energy, shaking his hand, before turning to Dream.

Hob’s head spins. The illusion is shattered, and Hob has a fraction of a second to wonder if it was all a setup.

But that thought is squashed as Dream’s face sours at something another man says over his shoulder, trying to encourage him to stand and make their way to their next appointment “... already 8 minutes behind schedule…” and Dream looks desperately towards Hob.

Hob stands at the same time as Dream, his mouth working uselessly as he scrambles to say something– anything, to keep Dream here. To borrow him in private for just a moment, just a second!

Hob is only reminded how Dream is an international celebrity by how quickly he is escorted away from him. Despite how well they’d gotten along, despite how they’d run over the shoot time because no one wanted to disturb them. Because there was something there, Hob knew it. And now it was being ushered away from him.

Frantic, Hob asks to borrow a pen from one of the staff members, hastily scribbling down his phone number on a napkin. He turns his mic pack off, and, with a quick glance around, spots Dream standing off to the side as his manager speaks with the show's producer, likely just saying goodbye to them as well.

Hob tries to school his expression into something that’s not insane as he marches up to Dream, catching his attention immediately and holding out his hand.

Dream takes it, a flash of curiosity and wonder– still– at the sight of Hob before him.

Hob clenches Dream’s cool, bony fingers in his, pressing the napkin against his palm.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Hob says, very aware that there are still cameras around them.

“Likewise,” Dream says, his chin tilting down, a secretive smile curling his lips as he certainly feels the napkin in his hand.

Hob smiles, too. He swallows before leaning in close, bringing his free hand up to cover Dream’s lav mic, just in case it’s still on, and brushing his lips against Dream’s ear.

“I’d love to see you again, without cameras.”

A quiet gasp tickles Hob’s eardrum and he grins as he pulls back, elated at the spark of mischief in Dream’s eyes.

“I would like that…” Dream whispers, his low voice cutting Hob straight to his core and knocking the wind out of him.

Hob can only nod, feeling dizzy, as Dream’s hand closes around the napkin and they separate.

Dream nods too, smiling as he’s finally turned away and out of Hob’s sight.

(stay tuned for part two! in like... another 6 months to a year lol)

[five-and-dimes]

May turn this into a proper fic someday, but I continue to have Feelings about Dream affecting the weather in the Dreaming so I’ve decided that Hob (like me) feels like the subjects of the Dreaming don’t appreciate just how useful that is.

Hob falls asleep and finds it pouring rain in the Dreaming, and someone is like “oh yeah it’s super annoying it rains whenever Lord Morpheus is sad :/” and Hob is immediately like “has anyone checked on him?” and they’re like “wat” and Hob is just staring with blatant judgement like “it rains when he’s sad. It’s raining. You know he’s sad. Has anyone, like, gone to try to make him feel better? Or are we only focusing on the rain part?” and before the other person can respond Hob just starts ranting like “in the Waking when Dream is sad he’s just stoic and doesn’t say anything or he’ll snap at something and I’ll think he’s mad and I’ve got to go full Sherlock Holmes to try to figure out what the issue is and what I can do to help because God forbid he just tell me when I ask. And you’re telling me that in the Dreaming the weather just TELLS you?? Like the world’s most blatant and accurate mood ring? You don’t have to guess or try to wrestle it out of him, you just KNOW? And you don’t use that to your advantage to take care of him??? Skill issue.” And then he goes upstairs and gives Dream a nice quiet cuddle and they talk a bit and the rain clears in record time. Hob learns what every weather pattern or strange happening in the Dreaming corresponds to and is always ready to give Dream whatever he needs for what he’s feeling. 

Not because he doesn’t want it to rain. But because he doesn’t want Dream to be sad.

[issylra]

DREAM OF THE ENDLESS | 1.02 “Imperfect Hosts”

[ambiently-80s-gay]

dont normally post my art on here but i feel like i nailed the morpheus Stand™ on this one

i guess this is a "dream likes to occasionally appear in the waking now" type universe but tbh i just thought this would be funny

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Tw: suggestive

Idk whether i read this in the extras or an interview mxtx gave but its been said somewhere hua cheng likes to make xie lian beg and cry when they do the ghost king's tango, right?

So how they came into that (pun half intended) is i think after their first time xie lian started crying because the experience was intense and passionate and his head's swimming with all of these hormones and the very physical release of tension hes built up for literally centuries

And hua cheng honest to god panicked

Why is dianxia crying?? Did i do something bad? Did i hurt him? Was i too much? Did he not like it? Does he regret it? Is he disgusted with me? Did he realize im not worth his affection? Did he only do this because i wanted to and i somehow coerced him into it and he didnt actually want this?? Does he hate me?? He probably hates me and never wants me to touch him again-

Meanwhile xie lian is holding onto him tightly seeking comfort and as he slowly calms down he notices hua cheng tense and asks him whats wrong

And hua cheng apologizes with the saddest look on his face ever which makes xie lian go ??? Wtf san lang wym???

And hua cheng goes onto this long spiel about how he never meant to cause xie lian pain or discomfort and that he womt do this to him again and he understands if xie lian wants nothing to do with him anymore

Meanwhile xie lian is still high on endorphins and goes "i liked it, what do u mean???"

"But you started crying???"

"It wasnt a bad cry, San Lang, what do you mean never do this again???"

So San Lang takes like 10 seconds to consult his braincells like alright chat how do we feel abt making dianxia cry from pleasure?

And the consensus is that san lang is so into that

Xie lian can see the ideas pop into hua cheng's head and goes 'san lang dont get any ideas' and hua cheng smiles this sweet, deceiving smile and then the crying becomes their thing

And one day xie lian goes "hey san lang how abt i try to make you cry during it for a change"

And san lang bursts into butterflies

[tempo-takoyaki]

Transmigrator!Hua Cheng AU (aka SVSSS x TGCF AU) | I mean technically it's an AU but I wrote it in a way that would make it fit as HC's POV throughout TGCF, so AU or theory? Take that as you will | Warning: Canon Compliant Violence, Suicide ideation, Implied non-con (not between Hualian and never actually happens here)

"A Tale of Three Princes" was Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky’s latest novel. Unlike his previous success, Proud Immortal Demon's Way, ATTP (as it was called by the fans) was a renowned  masterpiece. Far from the stallion novels Airplane readers had been used to, ATTP was more akin to one of those classics that would be taught over and over again throughout  the centuries. What made it so peculiar though was the narrative device used to tell its story.

ATTP was not in fact a single story, but three, set in the same universe, centuries apart. The three stories were updated one after another daily, by chapters of ten thousand words (as Airplane readers were used to). Which meant that the readers had no idea how each story ended before being swept up into the next...

Which also explained why Zhu Qiang did not know any of the three endings when he got reincarnated into ATTP.

It had been just another terrible day for Zhu Qiang when he died. He had found a quiet spot in his school's stairwell to unwind and read the latest update of ATTP when his bullies had found their way back to him. He had put up a good fight, maybe too much, as he could still remember losing his footing and falling head first onto the stairs. When he had opened his eyes, it was not to the stairwell's ceiling, or even a hospital, but a busy street where people in ancient clothing looked at him strangely.

After a few minutes, he had put two and two together relatively quickly. He  had transmigrated in none other than the second story of ATTP, also called the Xianle Arc. As for which character he was supposed to be... He had no idea. When he had asked the system about it, it only flashed him a [System has encountered an error. System update…] which was not helpful in the least. Despite his more introverted personality, he had no other choice but to ask around… And the answers came relatively quickly: “It’s the monster child!” “Get away you fiend!” “Disappear!” With a sigh, he came to the realization that unlike many of those popular transmigration novels, this life wouldn’t be too much different from his previous one.

He hadn’t been the best looking guy back in his hometown, at least from what he knew, and people had always bullied him for it. This time around, he had no mirrors or phones to confirm what others said, but he supposed he wasn’t much different. (Though to be fair, even back in his previous life he had always carefully avoided mirrors and photos, he couldn’t even recall what his own face actually looked like). Once the system had finished its update, it tried to give him some helpful directions to survive, like where he could find food or shelter, but any questions about what character he was supposed to be were left unanswered. (All that he knew was that he was about ten years old). However, he finally got access to his stats (after days left to his own devices) and he almost choked on the spot.

“MINUS THIRTY-SIX ON LUCK?! WTF?!”

The reason for  these god-awful bad stats? A passive skill called Eye of Misfortune which reduced his own luck by a hundred points, and the one of surrounding people by fifteen percent. Completely unfair… But it explained people’s glares and insults. Again, with no mirror to look for, Zhu Qiang had no idea of what that Eye of Misfortune actually looked like. But at this point, he had understood that the best way to stay on the down low was to hide it. Usually, those types of novels would then introduce a special ability only the protagonist could have to solve his main issue and become a total badass… But asking the system about it, for the very first time, it seemed to express an actual tangible emotion.

[System apologizes. There has been an error. UV003 has no special ability attached to this vessel besides Eye of Misfortune and Demonic Heritage.]

Ah, yes Demonic Heritage. Another passive skill that actually was useful, unlike the other, as it made him less receptive to pain by fifty percent. He supposed it was linked to Eye of Misfortune in some way… But again how could he know when he’d apparently spawned out of nowhere with a backstory he wasn’t aware of? As time passed, the hope of bettering his life slimmed down until it seemed barely believable. 

He had no parents to take care of him. No home to find shelter in. No prospect of finding a job with his “deformity” as people called it… Only two months went by before he called it quits.

If he hadn’t died in that stairwell, he probably would have jumped from the rooftop of his school. He wasn’t afraid of death, he had hoped for that prospect for many years prior to reincarnating. But reincarnation hadn’t been kinder to him. It hadn’t offered him a life he could change, one he could better to prove he was worthy of something, anything. The system flashed him warning signs, but fuck it, he was tired. So tired of playing into God’s hand. 

[Major Event Activated: The Last Parade of Xianle.]

At the top of the castle’s wall, he could remember the first chapter of the second story of ATTP. “His beauty was beyond compare, his stance the one of a mighty warrior, and his gaze behind the mask: determined, fierce, and maybe even sly in his own childish way.” (Chapter 2 of A Tale Of Three Princes) He was too tired to go on, but if he had to go one last time, he wanted to see the prince, his favorite character, before doing so.

Once he saw him in his golden clothes, Zhu Qiang took a step beyond the edge and…

…

[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Great things must be said three times! You have successfully changed the plot "The Star of Bad Omen" into "A Fateful meeting"! Character role changed from "Canon Fodder" to "Side Character". +100 B-points!]

… Uh?

He was cradled into a pair of strong arms, holding him tight against embroidered robes despite his dirty appearance. He heard the sound of a wooden object hitting the floor, and he looked up. There, with the most gentle eyes he had ever seen…

[New Character Unlocked: Xie Lian, Prince of Xianle. Second protagonist of A Tale of Three Princes.]

Zhu Qiang wanted to strangle the system with all his might. Finally, finally he knew which character he had been transmigrated into: THAT ONE STUPID KID WHO KILLED HIMSELF DURING THE PARADE OF XIANLE, CURSING THE ENTIRE COUNTRY IN THE PROCESS. WOW. That one child who had no name but haunted the entire second plotline of ATTP. Never named but always present, the curse of the city, the failure of its inhabitants, a character full of symbolism but no actual practical utility to speak of… No wonder his luck stat was so low and the system did nothing to make up for it!! He was born to die!!! 

That alone, pissed him off enough to reschedule his suicide at a later date. If he had to die he wanted it to be by his own hands and his own choice. If the system wanted him dead, then it was no better than his bullies back in his previous life! Besides, he was already laughing in its face, because he had been held by the Crown Prince of Xianle, a beauty amongst beauties, the most perfect and fascinating character ever written (in Zhu Qiang’s own biased opinion as a 16 year old).

What happened afterwards though was embarrassing to say the least. First he had been found out by Qi Rong (that bastard traitor, he had always hated him even when he was only a reader) who had beaten him to a pulp (he was so thankful for Demonic Heritage at that moment), then Xie Lian had saved him (yay!) and he had taken care of him (double yay!) and then he and his subordinates had asked him questions (fuck).

“What’s your name?” He doesn’t know. “What does your mother call you?” Uuuuh people said his cursed eye was red so maybe… “Hong…Hong-er?” “How cute!” Nailed it. “Where are your parents?” Damn, he wishes he knew! “I… ran away from home.” “Poor boy…” He would have felt awful if it weren’t for Xie Lian’s gentle hands and his soft smile. Any lie in the world was worth it if it allowed him to see him. He was however, feeling very uneasy in the presence of Feng Xin and Mu Qing, Xie Lian’s two closest servants and friends who were eyeing him as if he had a bomb hidden under his clothes. Especially Mu Qing, the last chapter of ATTP about Xianle he read implied that Mu Qing was about to betray the prince, and so Zhu Qiang (now renamed Hong-er) didn’t trust him one bit.

But even so… After that awful cultivator told him he didn’t deserve to live (and god did he already know that)... Xie Lian took him in his arms and said he wasn’t a monster. No matter how ugly his sobbing was, no matter the reason for his misfortune, Xie Lian, unafraid of him, held him and told him he was not a monster… that was more than anyone had ever done for him in two lifetimes. And for the first time in a long time, Zhu Qiang cried.

He already knew he was a curse on legs, and so no matter how thankful he was, he couldn’t extend his stay. He knew what sort of character he was, if he did, things would only get worse for Xie Lian from then on. And he didn’t want that for him… And then Xie Lian ascended.

It was a miracle that he stayed alive for so long. His saving grace? Not Xie Lian’s temple he had built himself and took care of. No. It was beating the other street kids like they had beaten him up before. Hey, no judgement, those weren’t modern times, the worst that would happen is some other kids coming back to get revenge and then he could whoop their ass over again. Uh? He was an adult beefing with kids? That’s a detail, system, buddy! Let him enjoy this miserable life of his that had not improved one bit in three years besides that!

[+32 exp point. User has obtained a new success: Child Beater. Congratulations… (-_-)]

Now it’s just making stuff up. Anyway, life was going, that was it. Every day was the same: go in the fields to get a flower for the crown prince’s statue (not only did it make him happy, it also raised his Faith stat!), pray, take care of the temple if need be, take leftovers from one of the big houses in the neighbourhood, beat other kids up when they came to provoke him (or steal his food), go back to the temple to pray (again), clean it up (again), steal food (again), beat kids (again) and sleep where no one will see him (...again). It was fine the first year. The second, it had become redundant, the third, he was wondering what the heck he was doing. Beating kids raised his stats slowly but surely, but becoming stronger wasn’t his goal. What he wanted… And that was it, he didn’t know what he wanted. And after three years, doubt made its way in the cracks of his broken heart: he lived so he could spite the system for attempting to kill him… But was it worth it? 

Xie Lian was a god now, and with his shitty luck, was he going to live long enough to even see him for the upcoming civil war? What was the point of it all in the end? He wasn’t supposed to live. He had never been meant to live at all… So why…?

“If you don’t know what to live for, then live for me.”

[Class upgrade: Beggar -> Soldier. Skill update: STR +15. DEF +13. CHAR +5...etc]

[New passive skills acquired: Blade of Xianle, doubles the amount of exp gained from killing humans. Demonic Heritage II, the might of your ancestors give you +20 to your Strength and Speed.]

[Major event coming soon: Land of Tender, Land of Loser.]

Reading about the Land of Tender had been excruciating. One of the main criticisms towards ATTP was how downright cruel some chapters were towards the main three princes. Each had one specific traumatic event that would shape them up for the rest of the story, their own fall from grace. In the case of Xie Lian… It had been the Land of Tender.

Unlike his previous novel Airplane hadn’t romanticized what happened at all. It was so raw and so awful many readers had considered dropping the story right here and there, Zhu Qiang had been one of them. It was the start of the fall of Xianle, marked by this cruel beyond humanly possible event.

Now, standing straight with his sword in hand, Hong-er faced the flowers. He couldn’t let them close, he knew what would happen if he did. It’s the exact reason for why he had followed Xie Lian in the forest to save Qi Rong even if he hated him. If he gave up, if he wavered for just one moment… Never could he forgive himself.

And then the flowers changed appearances, and laughing, they took the face of the Crown Prince.

Back when Xie Lian only used to be a character in Zhu Qiang eyes, he admitted he looked at some fanarts or some skimpy fics about him, sometimes even watched videos imagining it was him. Face with the real deal, he had vowed himself to never see him again as some sort of forbidden pleasure. And yet those flowers had seen right through him… Maybe they had all been right, his bullies, his parents, his teachers, the villagers, everyone… Maybe he was a monster.

“You’re not a monster,” he had clinged onto those words for years. But his palm against the white skin of his prince, he felt his devotion waver. He thought it was faith, he thought it was fate, now… he wondered, hadn’t it all been in the name of lust and obsession? When Xie Lian left, and he asked for him, he reminded himself of why he shouldn’t have gotten closer in the first place: he was a jinx.

Mu Qing kicked him out of the army after this event. There was no point in arguing with him. No matter how Hong-er told him he was the one at fault for abandoning the prince, the only acknowledgement he got from him was a slap to his face and his insignia snatched out of his hands. And back to the street he was. He wasn’t beating kids anymore, no point to that, he would destroy them at the first occasion. His stats were high thanks to how much he had killed (Paper men, he reminded himself after washing the blood off his hand, paper men). There was the epidemic too. Since he was immune, he got recruited to take care of the transport of the ill. The grotesque faces made him want to puke, but it hadn’t been the worst he’d seen at that point.

He saw Xie Lian one last time. And then another time, his eyes closed, holding the pagoda… And then Xianle fell. And he was back to beating kids up to protect the temples he rebuilt.

“I’ll never forget you!!” His one reason to hold on in two lifetimes.

He died in Xie Lian’s temple, stabbed by Qi Rong, not without smashing his head in retaliation. Heavens, he hated that guy. He laughed low and quiet, the system flashing his health bar lowering and lowering. And then… As he had expected it, everything faded to black.

[GAME OVER. 2/3 life left, start again?]

Wait… HE HAD SPARE LIVES???!!

[Class update: Soldier -> Malice. Base stats changed from Human to Ghost. Passive skills still active: Eye of Misfortune, Demonic Heritage I, Demonic Heritage II, Blade of Xianle...]

[To continue…?]

(I don't know if I'll do it in multiple parts or not, if you like it I'll continue. Other than that, here's the tweets that started it all:)

(I added one of the replies mentioning that it could explain why his writing is so bad because I hadn't thought about it when I made my first tweets, but looking at his writing in adaptations and comparing it to how modern chinese students write... You can see similarities.)

If you enjoy the concept you can add onto it in the replies, the reblogs or send me asks!

[shadowgale96]

Alternate meeting idea between hualian where XL accidentally finds HCs ashes while scrap collecting in an area that had once been his shrine, and HC is on a hellish crusade to catch the trash that dares handle his ashes when it’s for his gods hands alone.

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[amielot]

Horn.

Bonus:)

[hobgoblinns]

“i had estates” is an insane fucking line. like, here is a dude whose entire species is gone save for the one who destroyed them. and here they are face to face, and his first thought isn’t for all their friends that are lost, or the children that burned, or even for his own family. no, the master’s priority is that his wealth, his status, his superiority is gone. it hits him extra hard now, when he’s literally destitute and dying on a foreign planet, stealing scraps (of human flesh).

and so accusatory — you took my land from me. you destroyed what was mine. you, my friend below my station, the one i took pity on, the one i invited onto my pastures of red grass, betrayed me. you burned up every memory we made there together.

he’s a brilliant strategist, a charismatic leader, and a war criminal, but he’s also a spoiled brat. and so the doctor becomes the one who took everything from him, the target of his petulance. look at us now.

[kydrogendragon]

"And here we go, Robert Gadling gets ready for his third shot at the pole vault tonight," the announcers call out. Robyn and Orpheus sit on the couch at the Walker's, eyes glued to the television set. Rose, Jed, and Lyta crowd around the living room along with Lucienne and Jessamy and Matthew and even Jo and Rachel. Everyone had come over for the watch party.

"And here he goes. He needs to beat Sam Kendricks's score by at least three tenths if he wants to get a spot on that podium tonight. When we saw him back in Tokyo, he earned himself a silver medal. Let's see if he can earn himself a gold tonight."

Robyn leans closer. He grips the edge of the couch, eyes wide as his father takes a breath and races forward, pole in hand.

"And here he goes! Strong start there, good grip on that pole. Distance is looking good, maybe a bit short and oh!"

Their dad plants the pole down and thrusts himself up, up, up! He curves around the upper bar and...he hits it. He comes falling down, pole and bar alike as he crashes down onto the mat. Robyn deflates.

"Oh. Oh dear. I—" the announcer laughs. "Well, that's just unfortunate. Let's play that back. So you can see here—" the footage pauses as their dad's feet just begin to tip over the upper bar. "—he's got plenty of room here, lots of space up above. Robert is known for his strength and his ability to get good vertical height above that bar. But as he comes down—" the footage continues in slow motion. Their dad curls over the other side of the bar like they've seen him do hundreds of times before. It slows down until it stops right when he hits the bar. Matthew squacks.

"Oh my god!" Rose laughs.

"Oh, he is never living this down," Aunt Jo pipes off.

"So you can—" Even the announcer laughs again. "You can see where he hits the bar. And it's-it's really unfortunate because everything else about this vault was nearly perfect. But it looks like his, uh. Well. His lower half got a bit in the way there."

The camera cuts to their dad standing up from the mat, wincing as he gets to his feet. And then it cuts to Papa in the stands. He's doubled over, whole body shaking, and Robyn knows immediately that he's cracking up.

"Did dad really just hit the bar with his dick?" Robyn asks.

"Robyn!" Lyta cries.

"What! That's what happened, right?"

Jessamy chuckles before patting his head. "Yes, starling. Make sure to tease him about it tonight, okay?"

"There's definitely worse problems to have in life," Matthew laughs.

"Well, I can see now why Dream married him," Lucienne says.

"Please stop talking, I don't want to think about my cousin's junk, please and thank you," chimes Jo.

Orpheus turns to Robyn, frowning. "Dad's not getting a medal, huh?"

Robyn sighs. "No. I don't think so. Maybe in one of the other events, though."

"Hm. That's true."

The camera cuts to their dad, where he's standing at the stands in front of their papa. Dream's face is red from laughter, and even now, he's still giggling. Hob's laughing now, too, pressing a kiss to his lips. Hob whispers something to Dream, who bursts out laughing once more.

"Well, at least he seems to be in good spirits," the commentator says.

"As does his husband," the other chimes.

"Unfortunately for team GB, we won't be seeing any medals out of this event. Let's head over to the Men's Vault now."

"I cannot believe this is how you will be remembered, husband mine," Dream says, running his hand down Hob's chest. They're back at his hotel room, away from the villa for the night, much to Hob's pleasure. Those beds sucked.

"Don't remind me. My damn dick still hurts from that thing. I can't believe that happened. Christ." Dream chuckles, pressing a kiss to his jaw

"Well. Now everyone will know just how...well endowed you are. And how lucky I am to call you mine."

Hob shakes his head with a smile. "Guess you're the real winner from all this, aren't you?"

"If I have you? Then I always am."

Hob wakes up to exactly 46 messages from friends and family and co-workers alike, all commenting on his "performance" last night. Half sent him links to various articles, all labeled something along the lines of "Olympic Athlete Betrayed by his Penis."

Dream nearly pulls a stomach muscle from laughing so hard.

[five-and-dimes]

A Better Mirror

For the Dreaming Bingo FREE SPACE

Rating: Gen

Ship: Dream/Hob

Warnings: none

Additional Tags: Human au, self-esteem issues, body image issues, past toxic relationships, hurt/comfort, lots of angst but with a happy ending!

Summary: Dream is well aware of his flaws. The one thing he has going for him that everyone loves to remind him is that he's "lucky he's pretty". So if he wants Hob to stay, he has to make sure he never sees him looking less than perfect.

“So, what exactly were you attempting here?”

Hob is grinning good naturedly, but Dream crosses his arms and scowls, “This was not my fault.”

The plan, as Hob had asked, had been to make a large pot of rice that he could keep in his fridge so that he would have something to offer his boyfriend when he visited. Dream was aware that he wasn’t a particularly skilled cook, but figured if he had a few staples in his fridge then when Hob stopped by he could offer something simple. Rice with vegetables or eggs. Nothing fancy, just. Something.

Instead, Hob had arrived for his scheduled visit to find Dream fighting with his pot, holding it under the faucet to try to drown the wisps of smoke coming from it, and scraping at the blackened layer of burned rice seared to the bottom.

“Oh, someone broke in and burnt your rice then?” Hob teases.

Dream bristles, “The instructions said to cook for 25 minutes and that is how long I left it.”

“Didn’t feel like stirring it somewhere in there?”

“If I was meant to stir during the process then the instructions should have said so. I will not take responsibility for a poorly written recipe.”

Hob laughs, shaking his head fondly as he taps Dream on the nose, “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

He steps forward to take a closer look at the mess in Dream’s sink, so he doesn’t see the way Dream’s body freezes with a sharp inhale.

And he doesn’t hear the soft, defeated exhale of, “I know.

You’re lucky you’re so pretty.

Dream was well aware of his flaws. People loved to tell him about them to his face.

Why do you stand so stiffly? Can’t you act normal for five minutes? You’re so dramatic. You’re so arrogant. Why are you so quiet? You’re too romantic. You’re too cold. You’re too much. You’re not enough.

You’re lucky you’re so pretty.

He lost count of how many people told him that particular fact about himself. 

(Continue on AO3)

[cuubism]

I REALLLLLLLLLLLLLYYYY LOVE YOUR BELOVED PROFESSOR DREAM FIC!!!!!!!! PEOPLE TEND TO FORGET THAT!!! EVEN IN CANON!!!! HES FULL OF LOVE!!!! AND PASSION!!! AND HE CARES SO MUCH IT LITERALLY DOOMS HIM!!!!! AND IF ONLY HES BEING GIVEN A MUCH MORE KINDER CIRCUMSTANCES!! HE WOULD BEHAVES EXACTLY LIKE YOUR FIC!!! I FEEL SO CRAZT!!!! PLEASE NEVER DIE I LOVE YPUR WORKS SO MUCH!!!

I've grown quite fond of him myself 🥺 @five-and-dimes and I discussed him at length and created more lore for him. It was determined that Dream's earnest whimsy probably got him bullied a lot when he was younger. Not since he met Hob though.... it's probably a coincidence 🤷‍♀️ surely everyone just realized the error of their ways and decided to grow up and be kinder! Dream knew it would happen some day :)

-

Dream is still reeling as he reaches the cafe where he's meant to get afternoon coffee with Hob. He feels a bit shaky, but happy. Joyful. In disbelief.

When Cori had cornered him after class, Dream had been sure he was going to shove him up against a wall, or throw his books on the ground, or any of the other number of things he seemed to get satisfaction out of doing. He'd clutched his books tight, bracing himself.

Instead, Cori had, with halting, uncomfortable words, apologized to him. Actually apologized! Dream had been wary at first, sure it was just another way to hurt his feelings--he's been called gullible many times and he knows there's truth to it--but Cori hadn't taken it back, or suddenly turned on him again like he had every other time Dream had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. He seemed genuine.

It was what Dream had always wanted, what he had always hoped for, so decided to take it and just pray that Cori wouldn't change his mind again in the future. Or trip him as he walked away.

He didn't, though. And as Dream left to walk to his next class, he couldn't help but feel victorious. He knew he would get through to him eventually! He'd always known that eventually people would grow out of their juvenile pranks and learn to treat others better. And finally it was starting to happen.

None of the other usual suspects bothered him that day, either. Nobody tried to trip him, or snickered when he said something overly sentimental in class. It was like overnight the world had woken up and decided to better itself. It was magical.

So he's still shaking a bit when he sits down across from Hob, who's already gotten him his mocha latte. When he doesn't say anything at first, just takes several long sips of his drink, Hob nudges his leg under the table.

"Everything alright?"

"Cori," Dream says, "apologized to me."

He must have milk foam on his lip, for Hob reaches across the table to wipe it away with his thumb, lingering on the corner of Dream's mouth. "Did he?"

Dream nods. "It- it did not seem to be a joke. Hob, I think he actually learned."

Hob smiles sweetly. "That's great, honey."

"Nobody tripped me today," Dream muses. "Or made fun of what I said in class. I cannot believe it. I knew that eventually people would grow up and learn how to treat others kindly, but it's startling to see it happen in real time."

"They must have learned from your example," Hob says. He takes Dream's hand on the table and starts playing idly with his fingers. Hob is very touchy-feely with him, always holding his hand, or playing with his fingers like they're a fidget toy, or petting his hair while they're lying in bed together. Dream found it strange at first. He was used to others he had attempted to date wanting to rough him up a little. When he questioned it, they would say, with a laugh, you're just too sheltered. Dream didn't think he was, particularly, he just didn't understand wanting to push someone around. At least not without finding out if they even liked it.

When Dream mentioned it, Hob had said, with a grimace, that Dream's kindness could be misinterpreted as innocence, and it made people want to 'corrupt him.' Dream didn't get it, but there were a lot of things he 'didn't get', at least according to other people. In any case, Hob didn't do that, because he knew Dream didn't like it, so Dream is content now. And he has Hob to at least attempt to interpret other people's odd behavior for him.

"I hope it sticks," he says, worriedly. "I would hate for Cori and the others to backslide now that they're finally making progress."

"Oh, don't worry," Hob says, bringing Dream's hand to his lips and kissing his knuckles. He looks at Dream over their joined hands, gaze absolutely sure, a look that never fails to make Dream shiver pleasantly when it's directed at him. "I think it'll stick."

[lenreli]

i still feel your touch in my dream [dreamling]

[AO3]

M, 8.8k. Asking your best friend to be your fake boyfriend when you're straight is a foolproof plan. Or so Dream thinks.

-

“You’re―what,” Hob says, confused as he rubs the bridge of his nose. “Can you repeat that?” Well, maybe confused doesn’t cover it. Flummoxed, maybe. Bewildered. Definitely bewildered. 

“I want you to be my plus-one to the wedding,” Hob nods, getting that part easily. “And since you’re one of few people I trust, and as my best friend, we should pretend to be together. To piss off Desire,” he says slowly. Hob’s brows raise. 

Then he sighs, “I get the plus-one, I’m for the pissing off your sibling with―I’m just. You’re straight,” Hob says, hand chopping down between them. “Dream, you’re―did you forget that? Suddenly?” Hob’s voice gets very high-pitched at the end, making Dream quash a smile. 

“I do know, yes,” he says with a nod, “but it has been said that sexuality is fluid, and I’m quite frankly annoyed at Desire disparaging me for being the token straight,” he puts in air-quotes, “whenever I meet up with my siblings.”  

Hob opens his mouth, then shuts it, looking contemplative, “oh yeah, I could see that getting nasty,” Hob mutters under his breath. And it definitely has, Desire constantly poking and prodding him until there’s violence. Or he walks off. “And the wedding is―the weekend? At some fancy hotel or something, right?” Dream nods. Hob scratches an eyebrow with a nail, then sighs deeply. “Better be good food there.” 

Dream finally smiles, overjoyed even as Hbo stares into the distance intently, probably working out his work and whatnot. “Thank you very much, Hob,” he says, rocking on the heels of his feet. “Now, about your suit―” 

Hob groans and looks to the ceiling, “I have savings! I can afford a new one! Not like, fifty-thousand suits like you have somewhere, but fancy enough,” Hob waves him off. 

-

 “A taxi? Couldn’t afford a limo?” Hob asks once he’s inside said taxi, Dream giving him a look as he hangs up the garment bag on the handle inside, Hob’s own suitcase stowed in the back, along with his. “Couldn’t resist,” Hob says once he meets his eye, grinning. Dream crosses his arms as the taxi starts to move.

“Maybe if you showed me your suit I would’ve gotten a limo,” he retorts dryly. Dream stares intently at the black garment bag, hoping that unknown x-ray powers would appear. “If it’s some sort of monstrosity, for my sister’s wed―” 

“It’s not! And it matches yours! There’s black,” Hob defends with a shrug, and Dream huffs, placated. 

Hob gets out his phone, meanwhile Dream gets out a book, happy to spend time with each other in silence. At least, until― 

“Are you really sure you wanna do this?” Hob asks, once again. Dream’s eyes go to the ceiling, annoyed with Hob’s constant pestering about this. “I just don’t want you freaking out!” Hob says. “We’re gonna have to kiss! And―well, kissing, mainly.” 

“I’ll be fine,” he says with a sigh. Hob gives him a skeptical glance. “Even with not liking it, I know how to act,” he reminds Hob, and there’s a split-second of an emotion he can’t recognise on the other’s face, which gives him a spike of irritation, not knowing what it means, or why Hob hid it so quickly. 

“That’s true,” Hob sighs, hunching on himself as he scratches an eyebrow with a thumb. “I just hope you’ve mentally prepared yourself for the kissing and how touchy-feely I’m going to be.” 

“It’s more tiring work to deal with a whole wedding than that,” he says, and he’s mainly used to Hob in his space, legs brushing or Hob picking grass out of his hair, the other’s touches always pleasant. And never draining, like dealing with a loud wedding for example. “I hope you’ve prepared not to fall in love with me by the end of it, at least,” he says flippantly, not serious in the slightest.

Hob slides down the seat and looks out the tiny strip of the window not covered by his garment bag, “don’t worry, I won’t be.”

Dream, inexplicably, is cut deep by it.

-

The White Lotus is on the beach, the weather grey and dreary. Despair, like him, probably favours it, especially for her wedding. And he’s pretty sure they’re not going to go outside much, the schedule only allowing a dinner tonight, which they have to be dressed up for, then the wedding the day after. 

Even with the fake-boyfriend with Hob being there, he’s at least happy with the other man being there, always finding comfort with him. The shower cuts off and Dream blinks, stretched out on their one bed. His suit, all black, is itchy. Or maybe it’s because of some other reason as he waits, anxiety creeping slowly as he thinks of seeing his siblings, the dining room full of people which they passed on the way to their room― 

The bathroom door opens, and Dream sits up, breathless from the sudden movement as he scrutinises Hob’s suit. Pinstriped trousers and jacket, white shirt and then a blue tie. Though, the thing that catches his eye more is the eyeliner, making the other’s brown eyes even more intense. “Acceptable,” he says, swallowing as Hob smiles. “Eyeliner?” He asks. 

Hob shrugs and sits next to him, warmth pressing into his side, “we are together, so we should match,” Hob says with a smile. 

“Good thinking,” he nods. “Thank you for coming,” he breathes, anxiety dwindling as Hob leans into him. 

“Of course,” Hob says quietly, then eventually an ah, and Dream looks over as Hob gets something from an inside pocket of his jacket. “Got these for you, since you probably lost yours under all the black in your suitcase,” he says with a smile. 

Earplugs, the background-noise cancelling kind that he probably left at home, in the bag he usually carries. “Or the kind I accidentally left at home,” he replies with a huff, and Hob gives him an even brighter smile as he takes the earplugs, putting them in his trouser pocket. 

-

“Wait, how many times?” Hob asks on their way to the dining room. 

“This is her sixth marriage,” he explains. “Desire keeps making jokes about Despair―well,” he shrugs, “there’s a betting pool between my other siblings as to how long her current soon-to-be-wife will live,” he says quietly, Hob’s eyebrows raising higher. 

Hob lets out a quiet whistle, face baffled, “and? What did you bet on?” 

Dream sniffs, jaw setting, “of course, I’d never stoop so low,” he says as they stop outside the dining room. Hob blinks, clearly not buying it, “a year, at least,” he whispers between them.

“Wow,” Hob says, countenance showing nothing of what he thinks as he glances at the dining room. “Ready, partner?” Hob asks, an arm going around his waist, and Dream swallows at the warmth radiating from the other man. 

Dream sighs, then nods, walking past tables of people until they reach the table closest to where the brides are ― the family table, with his siblings, his and Hob’s names emblazoned on cards as they sit down. 

“Gadling? What is Gadling doing here?” Desire says across from them, tone judgemental as they stare at Hob, and Dream scowls, Hob’s hand still on his back as Hob smiles pleasantly. “Well?” They demand, glittery red eyeshadow sparkling in the light, matching their lips. 

“I’m his partner,” Hob says simply, and the table stops, everyone else’s eyes on swiveling to them. He can feel it, even as Hob’s other hand caresses his jaw, turning him to look at Hob, brown eyes kind― 

There’s gasps, but everything else seems to fall away, the kiss chaste―but luxurious, hands scratching through his hair as Hob pulls him closer. Hob’s tongue slowly presses into his mouth, teeth biting into his lips and he shudders, can only focus on the way that Hob tastes of chocolate, of the stubble scratching hard-soft against him, insides tingling and light-headed as he holds onto the other’s thighs. 

The kiss ends with another press of lips, and Dream hears himself make a small sound in protest, wanting more. 

… Wanting more? Dream blinks, looking over to see Desire gaping―which he also feels like doing, if it didn’t feel like― 

His atoms were being rewritten, can barely hear everything else over too much and not enough. Hob’s satisfied? He can only hear because of putting his head on the other’s shoulder, feeling him speak more than hearing it, and Hob’s hand on his neck, softly stroking the skin. 

Dream’s unwilling to let go, sounds slowly filtering back to him in a cacophony of noise, which makes him pull away, sitting back in his seat as he takes out the earplugs Hob got him, putting them in and then sighing as he only hears the table, Hob talking with Death. 

Hob’s hand is still near him, can feel the heat of it on the back of his chair, pressing into him, thumb rubbing up and down his shoulder blade and Dream’s lips tingle. Even the joy at seeing Desire still gaping is muted under the way he would rather be kissing Hob again.

-

“You good?” Hob asks, snapping Dream of of his daze between courses and speeches with Hob’s other hand coming up to his cheek, can feel a thumb trace his cheekbone as Hob smiles, brows showing worry. “Not too much?” 

“No,” he manages, and Hob slides his chair closer, legs brushing and Dream almost resists the way he wants to nuzzle into Hob’s hand ― until he does, and he can hear Hob’s small chuckle, bright and making him relax even more into it. 

“Good,” Hob whispers, brown eyes soft and fond, affection clear to see and Dream’s throat closes up at it. Hob sighs and presses their foreheads together, and Dream’s lips tingle at their breaths, at the odd feeling of wanting Hob to kiss him again. Can feel it building up, the yearning for it. 

A small, miniscule part of him still thinks it was a fluke, that he’s― 

“You don’t mind?” Hob asks, lips brushing, and Dream’s heart jumps into his throat. 

“No,” he says after a breath, not wanting to be too eager, even though he is. 

The kiss is soft, indulgent and chaste, and Dream melts into it, remembering he has hands as he holds onto the other’s waist with one, the other petting at the soft-rough of Hob’s beard. It deepens and Dream swallows down a shiver, feeling like the air in the room is rapidly disappearing with how all-consuming it is.

There’s vague sounds of disgust, but Dream doesn’t register it, can only press into Hob more as a thumb touches his bottom lip, the rough drag of it he can feel down to his toes― 

And suddenly, it ends and Dream takes a deep breath, blinking as he looks at the waiters, bringing them another course of dinner, leaving him achingly bereft of Hob. 

Not a fluke, he thinks distantly. Dream wants to―for Hob to touch him more, searing hands and soft lips, wants more than just the arm on the back of his chair, Hob easily going back to eating and talking, and not at all like he’s changed everything Dream thought he knew about himself.

-

Dream wakes up the next morning, feeling like yesterday was a fever dream.

Or that may be because of Hob, who runs searing hot. And he’s holding onto, forehead pressed against the other’s back, sheets bunched down to his lower half as he touches Hob’s waist, skin soft. And hot. And, even just like this, Dream thinks of kissing the back in front of him, of waking Hob up with them, who’d smile and― 

Gently, he slips out of the bed and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door. 

Taking a deep breath, he sits on the cold tiles and rubs his face. So he may not be as straight as he thought, however it’s still terrifying. Especially with Hob, who’s―his best friend! 

Getting up, he moves to the basin, noticing his heart beating quickly. And. Fuck. Why is he hard?! Muffling a groan, he washes his face with cold water.

Maybe a cold shower would be more effective. 

-

“I have an idea,” Hob says, looking away from him as a hand tugs his ear, and Dream sits on the bed. “But I just, it’s silly―” 

Dream blinks, considering. Hob knows him, and he trusts Hob. With far more then he’s even beginning to realise. “Okay.” 

Hob’s head whips around, eyes wide, “you didn’t even hear my―” Hob wheezes out, sitting closer to him. “It’s―” the other’s loss for words, red on his face makes Dream confused. Though the hand on his shoulder makes him less so. “Because,” Hob whispers, and Dream swallows a sound as he’s gently pushed onto the bed, nails scratching up and down his throat―with Hob’s breath on the other side. 

Suddenly the cold shower doesn’t seem like enough as Hob bites into his neck, and he shivers, staring unseeingly at the ceiling as Hob licks and nibbles at his throat. The other’s stubble is pleasant, makes him arch up into it as Hob sucks at his skin. Gasping, he holds onto Hob’s shoulder, body tingling as a final lick gets placed over the stinging marks. 

“Not too much?” Hob asks, voice rough and eyes dark as they stare down at him, fingers still lightly caressing his neck. 

Heart racing, Dream gulps down a―whine, pathetic and needy as he shakes his head. Can feel the sting of it, the blood rushing towards the marks, towards his face. Doesn’t want to speak, with only more and yes on his mind. Especially if it involves Hob’s gaze so heavy, almost palpable on him.

Hob licks his lips and Dream can only watch, transfixed as Hob gives him a once-over―and he’s glad that his black shirt and pants are loose enough to hide the start of an erection. 

“I’ll―I need to get ready,” Hob says with a bright smile, walking off to the bathroom in the next breath. Dream inhales deeply, closing his eyes as a hand comes up to cover the bruises, heart beating out of his chest as he wonders if he’ll even survive the day. 

-

Dream’s focus throughout the day is shot, to put it mildly. Even as he stands with his siblings as the vows are made and papers are signed, the bright red mark on his neck aches and itches, showing close to his collar, his suit out for another day. Desire gaped at the sight of it, while Hob just smiled and kissed his cheek, the hand on his waist leaving as Hob sits down in the aisle, pinstriped suit on. 

After ― so many pictures, he’s happy to sit down next to Hob, groaning as he finally gets a chance to rest his legs. And putting his head onto Hob’s shoulder, sighing in relief as Hob laughs and pats his hair. 

“All done?” Hob asks as he’s pulled closer, the pleasant warmth of the other man making him relax even more, uncaring of the chaos around them of people talking and congratulations to the newly-wedded couple. 

“Had to stop Delirium from going into the ocean, at least until after lunch,” he mumbles. “And Desire kept bringing attention to―” my hickey, he doesn’t say, can feel his face heating just thinking that. 

“Poor baby,” Hob coos, kissing his hair softly―and there’s only a skipped beat of Dream’ heart as Hob guides his face up with a hand, more pecks against his forehead, down to nose. The soft, chaste kiss on his lips makes his insides flutter. 

Groaning, Dream hides his face back under Hob’s head, putting his arms around warm shoulders as he tries to not let his brain focus on the entirely new way he appreciates Hob in his suit, the hot rush of seeing him in it once they got dressed in the morning. 

-

The rest of the day seems to fly by ― the time creeping closer to them leaving. To Hob no longer having a constant arm on the back of his chair, or around his waist. 

A press of lips to his hair, a kiss that feels like all the air is sucked out of the dining room, indulgent and makes him light-headed. He can only follow uselessly as the kiss ends, and he shivers as fingers leave his hair. 

Dream is in a daze, has never been punch-drunk off of kisses as he doesn’t remember eating his lunch, or dessert. Can only think of the tingling of his lips, the pleasant scratch of Hob’s beard and gentle hands. Though, there was that moment of embarrassment, clarity as Hob put a spoonful of dessert in front of him, citrus-y in comparison to the chocolate mousse that he got. 

Lunch done, people leave or split off into groups, going to the beach or nearby bars. Hob and Dream end up sitting outside, people watching. “Aren’t you going to go in?” Dream asks eventually, though he would miss the warmth around his waist. 

“I’m good,” Hob says with a shrug, using his free hand to point out a group of people .”Polycule or messy divorce?” He asks. 

Dream stares at the group, two of the people talking intensely, the others watching on in worry. “One or two of them want out of the polycule, obviously,” Dream replies dryly. 

“Ah,” Hob says, gently nudging him to look at a waiter, strained customer-service-smile in place as he’s talked to by a particularly passionate customer. “He’s totally gonna get a special for this one.” 

“Disgusting, but likely true,” he says with a scrunch of his nose, making Hob laugh and lean into him. Dream’s heart races. And something springs to mind―that Hob’s only been the one giving kisses. Pulse in his throat, he presses his lips to Hob’s, can still feel the laughter as Hob stills, brown eyes shocked. 

Running off instinct, he presses forward, putting his hands onto Hob’s cheek, stubble soft under his hands. Hob lets out a small sound and returns the kiss slowly, even as the arm around his waist moves, nails digging into his spine, and Dream swallows a gasp, brain full of static pleasure. 

His pleasure only doubles as Hob’s free hand sits on his neck ― fingers pressing into the mark that was left, Dream can’t help the shudder, the overwhelming need to get even closer, wants to crawl into Hob’s lap as Hob’s lips move down, teeth scraping against his chin and down― 

“Ugh, really? I just got my appetite back,” a voice says in disgust, making Dream overtly aware of Hob at the edge of his jaw ― and Desire in front of them, a metaphorical splash of cold water. 

Hob breathes against his skin, which he can feel heating up at his sibling’s gaze, and Dream keeps his eyes somewhere on Desire’s red one-piece, bejewelled and bedazzled, skimpy and costing a small fortune, probably ― and Dream bites his tongue at the smile from Hob that he can feel before they part. “We weren’t doing anything,” Dream says eventually, voice rougher than it was before. 

Desire rolls their eyes and breezes past, saying ― something. Which he doesn’t catch due to the redness of Hob’s lips as he watches Desire walk by, an eyebrow raised. 

-

Usually, Dream would already be back into his hotel room by the time the sun sets ― but finds it hard to leave Hob’s side, the casual affection he experiences. And Hob doesn’t expect him to join in with a conversation as he talks with some of his sibling’s friends, a hand around his waist or on his shoulder as Hob talks about his job as a professor. 

“Sorry,” Hob says bashfully after they’ve left, apparently going back home. “Should we get room service, or dinner here again?” 

Dream blinks, can vaguely feel hunger underneath the pleasant haze of Hob’s attention. “I saw an Indian place on this road,” he offers, feeling pride as Hob brightens. “When we were in the taxi.” 

“Brilliant!” Hob says enthusiastically, close―and Dream freezes at the sudden kiss, hands cradling his face. 

He can feel Hob’s smile, his joy as he’s pulled closer, Hob’s body warm against him, and he relaxes slowly into it, grabbing onto Hob’s pinstriped jacket. And he thinks of Hob reacting like this outside of this hotel, heart in his throat as Hob ends the kiss with a lighter one. 

“Let’s go!” Hob tugs him along, and Dream can only walk forward. “No offence to your sister, but her food choices were certainly choices,” Hob says under his breath. 

Dream chuckles as they walk out of the hotel, “yes, her taste is quite… bland,” he grimaces. “Aside from desserts. She does love those,” he nods. 

“I need some complex spice or I might just go insane,” Hob mutters, making Dream smile as he looks down the road, this time Dream tugging Hob into going across the road. 

-

The next morning, Dream wakes up in Hob’s arms, can feel a forehead against the back of his hair. And they’re leaving― 

Which means no more kisses, no more of the casual affection, or this, Hob’s body searing and wrapped around him, and Dream feels heavy. 

Opening an eye, he sees they still have a few more hours before checkout. 

So he ignores it, putting his hands on the arms around him, and even with all that he’s recently learned, he shuts his eyes and lets the time pass. 

Hob’s leg between his ― the way Hob groans, arms wrapping tightly around him, and Dream swallows, worries that the other man’s waking up―but Hob just lets out a sigh. Hob’s head is now closer to his neck, can feel the breath on the back of it as Hob stretches behind him with a groan, their feet tangling. 

And a hardness against his lower back, only briefly. Dream’s mouth dries, skin feeling too-warm and too-tight suddenly, not helped by Hob’s body. Body warm and somehow right, and Dream stops thinking before that sentence ends.

-

Hob and Dream live together, have been roommates for years, fitting into each other’s places easily. And coming back from the weekend, there’s an oddness, a wrench thrown into the works. Hob is more closed-off, not as affectionate― 

And Dream can’t stop thinking about the weekend. It probably needs to be called The Weekend, capitalised. A moment between how they were before, and how they are after. 

Before, he felt no weirdness, stepping into Hob’s room, seeing Hob at his desk, marking papers in a ratty pair of sweatpants and shirt. Wouldn’t even register the bed as he steps, not thinking of Hob’s warmth, thinking of breath against the back of his neck as they slept. 

“Hob,” he says quietly, resisting the urge to fidget, still smelling of smoke and sweat from a club. A gay one.

Just to know that it’s not some Hob-shaped thing, these feelings―which, some of them are. Even with the kissing being good from these other men, the casual way he went about, almost detached and scientific, wanting to quantify it. This one’s beard didn’t scratch as nicely as Hob’s, that man’s eyes weren’t brown enough, this other man’s hands didn’t hold him as nicely as―Hob hums, still going through his work, and even with knowing that Hob won’t react terribly, he works through the tentative fear with a deep breath, stepping closer.

“I don’t think I’m straight,” he says, and that makes Hob stop his work. There’s heartbeats of silence, Dream’s heart racing at what he said, making it something real. 

Hob puts his pen down, still not facing him. “Oh.”

Dream swallows, feeling a bit confident now that nothing’s happened with what he said, “I went to that club you go to sometimes. It was nice,” he offers. Of course, he doesn’t says that you may have ruined me for all other men before I even knew or something else that would ruin their friendship. 

“I’m happy for you,” Hob’s tone is odd―indescribable, and Dream frowns, walking closer until he leans next to Hob. At this, Hob looks up to him and smiles, “really, I am,” he says, voice more matching to his words. “And thank you for telling me.” 

Dream tilts his head, relaxing against the desk, “how did you realise?” He asks, hit with the knowledge that over their many years of friendship, he’s never learnt. 

Hob shrugs, going back to his marking. “When I was teenager. It was like getting slapped over the head with it,” he says with a laugh. “One of those dramatic moments when you see―well, you know.” 

He’s happy to note that Hob’s arm presses into his waist, the careless press of before, that Dream now appreciates in another way, “and figuring out your sexuality?” 

“Well, that took a while. But honestly, it’s different for everyone,” Hob rests his head on his hand, pen tapping against his cheek, “no pressure from me for you to figure it out. Even just being not straight or queer, or feeling an affinity to any of the labels, or not. Whatever!” 

Dream nods, sliding up onto the table, pulling up the papers as he does so. “How goes academia today?” 

Hob groans, resting his head on the one he’s marking. “I’ve read through two AI essays. I wish they knew more!”

-

Dream wakes up, sheets tangled and blood rushing, reaching across his bed for― 

A Hob from dreams, dark eyes staring down at him, and he groans, pulling the sheet over his head. His cock aches, leaking as he shuts his eyes, trying to keep the remnants of the wet dream in sight. The pressure of Hob’s hands trailing down his body, the long-healed bruise on his neck, more being bitten onto him. 

He can’t remember the last time he got so worked up from a dream, not even during puberty. 

There wasn’t even anything explicit, just the pressure, the sight of Hob on top of him. Fingers trailing down his body, down to his thighs, Hob’s lips following his hands. Dream shivers at the remembrance of it, overwhelmed with it. 

Biting his lip, he takes a deep breath as he grabs his aching cock, sparks of pleasure making him gasp as he imagines it’s Hob stroking him. 

Hob’s hands, searing hot, pleasantly rough and he whimpers, dick leaking around his fingers incessantly. Hob staring up at him, eyes dark and black, the gaze tangible and fuck, he wants it, pulse jumping under the imagined weight of it. 

Biting his cheek, he lets out a small cry as the orgasm rushes up to meet him, come coating his hand, and the sheet on top.

In the post-orgasmic haze, he can only manage a small amount of shame, thinking of Hob as he did.

-

Dream stares down at the text message, dread already making its home in his stomach. 

Desire

that boyfriend of yrs should come ;) unless… 

Sure, Hob and he are still ― that’s not the problem. He doesn’t even know how to articulate it, considering Hob’s either hot-or-cold with him, entirely randomly. And today Hob’s been distant, smile not reaching his eyes. 

Taking a deep breath, he goes to the kitchen, where Hob’s making dinner. “Hob?” The other man hums, focusing on a pot of pasta. “You should meet up with my siblings and I this Saturday,” he says lightly. 

“As your partner?” Hob asks, voice flat and Dream winces, his silence telling. “Think I’ll be busy that day,” Hob says, turning to give him one of those smiles that doesn’t show in his eyes. 

Walking closer, he watches as Hob puts things into another pan, “are you sure?” 

“Can’t get out of it. Sorry,” Hob says, not sounding sorry at all as he shrugs. Or truthful, either, which feels like the worst part. He has heard from many of Hob’s exes about his lying, among many other flaws, but he’s always willing to tell the truth to Dream. At least, until this. 

“Okay,” he frowns, not wanting to call it out. Hob gets out some small spoons and tries the pasta sauce, humming in consideration. And suddenly Hob is staring at him, a happy smile ― which does brighten up his eyes ― on his face, and Dream blinks at the spoon in front of his face, pasta sauce on it. 

“Spicy enough for you, or more?” 

-

There was sound coming outside of the apartment, but Dream waves it off as Hob, putting on his sleepclothes after a shower. Opening the bathroom door, he absently dries his hair, then freezes. 

In front of him ― well, not him ― but in front of Hob’s door, is Hob, every ounce of attention on the man he’s crowding against the door, sharing small laughs and words. The man is is tall and dark-skinned, thin dark locs in Hob’s hands as they kiss. 

The man glances over at him, and Dream jolts into awareness, somehow freezing up even more as he gulps, insides twisting in― 

Jealousy, the way the man starts to speak up more ― then a hand covering his mouth as Hob shushes him, eyes sparkling even from the side as he finally opens his bedroom door, more hushed talking as the door shuts, Hob not even aware of him. 

Wide-eyed, he quietly goes to his own room, noting that he has felt this before with Hob’s exes, or hookups. Which he wasn’t aware of, the jealousy, until it flooded through him, always thought of it of―he wasn’t sure, something about Hob’s attention, about stealing Hob away from him, he’d thought once. And the envy of it, can think of a yawning void of Hob’s casual, flirting touches with others.

 Putting on his headphones, Dream puts on his music and tries not think of how he wants to be the focus of that attention again, those heady kisses and― 

More, even, he thinks, can feel his face heating as he gets out a book to read. Though he ends up stuck on the first page, unable to retain more than the first word, can only think of wet dreams and the ache of wanting to be the one Hob is paying singular attention to. 

-

Desire gives him a judgemental look, making him feel small in between the rest of their siblings. “Your boyfriend’s failed to show up again,” they say acridly, and Dream tries not to grimace. Considering the way Desire’s eyes light up, he’s failed. 

The judgement is suffocating, and Dream considers running away. Or getting a seat outside this suddenly stifling restaurant. 

Work thing. Can’t miss it, was Hob’s lie this time ― and ― he gets it, that they’re not in the actual relationship his sibling’s think it is. The relationship that he wishes it was, but it’s not like he’s going to say to Desire, who lorded it over him when his last relationships broke. 

He can’t do that. 

“Well?” They drawl, looking smugly satisfied as they twirl blond hair around their finger. 

“He’s busy,” Dream says with heat, unwilling to give in to the pressure. Desire scoffs. Dream opens his mouth― 

“Sibling, let it go,” Despair replies with a sigh, and Dream boggles, feeling as surprised as Desire looks. “I wish I was with my wife right now, but alas,” she continues with a pout. 

Desire squint-glares at him, but does let it go, though they settle on a scowl and a huff. “Fine, but only for you, sister dear.” 

Next to him on the left, Death groans, “now that that’s over with, can we order? I only have so much time―” 

On his right, Delirium speaks up, “you always say that!” 

-

“What happened to you?” Hob asks, and Dream freezes, gingerly stepping into the kitchen ― which he was hoping to sneak past, unable to account for Hob’s apparent radar. Hob gives him a once-over, and he resists the urge to curl up on the small stool, head pounding.

“Nothing,” he says, not wanting to talk about the weird tension between them. Or the excellent idea he had to get drunk enough to actually have a one-night stand. Which is more Hob’s thing, Dream at least preferring at a bit of emotional connection before doing that. 

And so. Alcohol. And a particularly nice man, eyes more of a hazel than brown―”if you say so,” Hob says dryly, eyes on his throat. Ah. Hickies. He  groans as he cups his throat, skin tingling as he flops onto the counter, the chill of it nice compared to the heat in his face. “Painkiller?” 

Dream groans, nodding against the counter, “please,” he says, hearing Hob move around their tiny kitchen. “Aren’t you meant to be at work?” He asks, reasonably sure today is one of those days where Hob leaves. Which he was kind of hoping for, and didn’t get. 

“The semester ends soon, and so I just decided to Zoom for those who really want to ― or need to do more,” Hob explains, and soon enough something cool is pressed against his temple, making him open his eyes, blankly staring at the glass of water against his forehead. Sitting straight, he downs the painkiller next to the glass, drinking most of the water before he puts it down. “Sorry to ruin your apparent sneaking,” Hob says, expression intensely focused on him, and Dream scowls. 

“How did you know?” He asks, can feel the other’s dark eyes on his neck, on the marks put there. They didn’t even do anything ― just heavy petting, the other man citing the alcohol on his breath. Though there was a handjob, quick and yet a marvel, the feeling of another’s man’s dick in his hand― 

Hob’s face becomes hard to understand, but only briefly before he smirks. “I have my ways,” Hob says. Dream gives him an unimpressed stare as he puts his head onto his arms on the counter, which also helps with the scrutiny he can still feel. “Your boots are very stompy,” Hob says, solemn. 

Dream stares down at his black platforms in betrayal as he pouts into his arm. “They are,” he mutters, in the end deciding to let go of the betrayal. He can’t stay mad at them. 

A bowl gets placed in front of him, and Dream stares in confusion at the cereal and milk in it. “You should eat,” Hob says as he puts a spoon in the bowl, pushing it into his arms. Dream blinks and can only agree. “My classes start in two hours, so wanna watch more of that show?” 

Nodding, he takes the bowl, absently eating it as Severance gets put on. 

-

Dream swallows the hurt as Hob’s hand, coming up to his shoulder ― stops and goes back to Hob’s side. They were so good, and suddenly, this again, the aborted touches, and he resists the urge to ask why? 

Mainly because he’s not sure he’d like the answer. Hob gives him a smile before he leaves and Dream sighs, flopping down onto the sofa. Can only think of the way Hob continues to not touch him. 

And that Weekend, where Hob was always touching him, and for all that he did appreciate it, he wants it even more now. Closing his eyes, he brings up the memory of it ― a hand on his shoulder, or on the small of his back. Fingers in his hair and a soft beard. 

Putting his arms around himself, Dream grabs onto the echoes of them, desperately wanting it to be Hob. 

He considers ― briefly ― of getting up, going to a club and trying to push himself in the easy skinship of that, but discards it, mind still spiraling on why won’t you touch me anymore, not even a pat on the shoulder― 

His phone rings and he startles, pulled out of his head as he opens it, Death’s face on the Calling screen. Huffing, he accepts it. “Sister?” He greets in confusion. 

“Desire set up another meeting, and this time didn’t say that Dream’s boyfriend should show up or else,” she mutters, and Dream’s heart drops, rubbing his face. Fuck. “So, you know. Just saying it here and not in our groupchat so Desire won’t be so, well.” 

“They will be,” he says, suddenly a lot more tired. Especially with Hob’s constant lies, the lack of touching, Desire’s apparent need to see Hob as his partner― “thank you sister,” he replies shortly, hanging up as he grits his teeth. 

Grabbing a red pillow next to him, he screams into it, at least transferring the screaming inside his brain to the outside. 

-

Dream is ― between jobs, at the moment, unsure what to do next― 

And there’s bashing on the door, which thankfully distracts him from looking at employment listings. Sighing, he opens it, then blinks at Matthew, with Hob hanging off his shoulder like a limpet. “He’s your problem now,” is Matthew says before Hob is shoved to him, and Dream freezes as Hob groans into his shoulder, the soft heat of Hob making his skin tingle as Matthew leaves. 

Blinking, he shuts the door as Hob leans into him, and he scrunches his nose at the beer he can smell from the other man. Dream doesn’t want to take of a drunk Hob ― but also, Hob isn’t shifting away, so he pats the other’s shoulder and takes them to their kitchen. “Usually you’re better at this,” he comments as he gets out a glass of water, putting it into Hob’s free hand. 

“Dr’m,” Hob slurs, staring at him with wide brown eyes ― and the hand leaves the glass to hold Dream’s cheek, and he stills, can feel his blood rush wildly up to the touch as he swallows. “‘Msorry,” Hob slurs, pressing into the where his ear meets his jaw. 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he chokes out, confused as he soaks up the other’s body heat, the press of Hob against his side. Swallowing again, he picks up the glass and puts it up, Hob grabbing it. “Drink.” 

Hob huffs, but drinks. Dream tries not to stare too obviously at the way Hob’s throat works, at the odd amount of stubble leading down to soft skin ― and Dream looks away hastily as the glass is put down on the counter. “Dream,” Hob says, sounding a bit more lucid. Though, hands do grab his cheeks and he can feel his skin heating under the touch as Hob turns his face until their eyes meet. 

His mouth dries at the intensity of Hob’s eyes, brain no doubt working hard in between all the alcohol. “Hob,” he says, matching the other’s tone. “You’re drunk,” he says, unsure what pointing it out will accomplish. 

Hob’s hands caress him, and he shivers under the callused fingers, not wanting to break the contact ― but also, he should, before something regrettable happens. Like Hob coming closer, and Dream can’t find it in him to break from the other’s gaze, “I want,” Hob whispers ― and a thumb grazes the edge of his lip― 

Dream’s mind crashes as he pulls away Hob’s hands, who stares down at them in confusion as Dream takes a deep breath. “You’re drunk,” he repeats, more for himself as he wills his heart to not beat out of his chest. “Let’s,” he mumbles, leading Hob to his bedroom. 

“Sometimes, I think,” Hob says, pressing him against the doorframe, and he sucks in a breath at hands going into his hair, pulling him to look at Hob again. 

Hob’s expression is that inscrutable type again, and all Dream can think is I’m gay. Which feels like a very fucking inopportune time to think that, considering how, again, drunk, Hob is. 

It doesn't stop him from thinking it again as Hob chest presses against his, fingers threading more through his hair deliciously, and Dream’s sure Hob can feel insanely fast his heart is beating, can feel his pulse hammering in his neck as it arches. “Dream,” Hob says, voice rough and low― 

His name said like that becomes a reality check and he forces him away ― or pushes Hob into his room, the door shutting loudly. Dream presses his head against the door, cool against his heated skin as he takes calming breaths. 

Drunk. He was drunk ― he’s drunk, Dream thinks to himself desperately, can still feel Hob’s touches, the searing heat down to his bones.

-

A finger presses into his mouth, rough and shiveringly familiar, arousal coursing through him at the simple touch. “My partner,��� Hob says, other hand coming up to caress his cheek. “All mine, aren’t you?” 

Dream whines, arching up into the solid body above him, the  heat of him maddening. “Please, yes,” he keens, shuddering as Hob leans down to kiss him, slow and toe-curling deep, the press of it going into his bones. “Please,” he croaks. 

“Dream, my Dream,” Hob whispers into him, sharp teeth and soft stubble making him gasp as they go down his jaw, down his throat ― with Hob’s hands trailing down his naked body. The teeth biting down his throat make him ache, wanting it all over as he scratches up Hob’s arms to scratch up his shoulder blades. 

“Yours,” he breathes, senseless to anything that’s not Hob, that’s not the overwhelming bliss he feels, cock leaking under Hob’s dark stare. 

Hob presses down on his lower half, hazy heat making him whimper as his hands go into Hob’s hair as more marks get placed on his throat, down to his collarbones. Fingers enter his mouth and he licks them, sucking them until Hob lets out a breathy moan. “I want you,” Hob whispers, a finger flat on his tongue as the other’s trace around his mouth, making his whine.

The fingers leave and Dream misses them already, mouth feeling empty as Hob rests his forehead against his cheek ― and he can only cry out as slick fingers touch his cock, stroking it gently. “Hob,” he keens, stars exploding behind his eyes as Hob strokes him to a hurtling orgasm―

“Hob!” He cries out, snapping to awareness sharply as he wakes up. Slapping a hand around his mouth, he groans at his sticky pants as his heart-rate calms down. Letting out another groan, he curls up and pulls a pillow close, hugging it tightly as he tries to linger in the wet dream.

-

Dream feels he’s going insane, just a bit. Which isn’t helped the meet-up with his siblings tomorrow, Desire texting him every day about his boyfriend― 

And said ‘boyfriend’ being even more reserved than usual. With an added bonus of being angry, that Dream knows more from the way Hob slammed the door shut in the morning, then anything else. 

Even Dream’s resurgence of wet dreams, filled with comforting and rough hands is only enough to keep him from―well, he doesn’t know, but at least the memories are enough to keep him somewhat sane as he comes to terms with the enormity of his feelings towards Hob. Mainly because there’s an absence of Hob’s smile and laughter directed towards him, or the inane things Hob would talk about.

Dream stares at Hob on the other sofa, nose in a book. At least Hob doesn’t seem as angry, though he can’t help the dread he feels at what he’s going to ask. Dread and exhaustion ― over all this. 

“Hob?” He says, taking a deep breath as Hob hums, still reading his history book. “I’m meeting up with sibling’s tomorrow, and―” 

“Can’t make it,” is all Hob replies with, voice short and final. Dream scowls, some of his exhaustion turning into irritation, prickling in his bones. 

“But Desire has been―they’ve been, and having my partner there―” 

Hob finally looks up, a scowl on his face, “but I’m not your partner. I’m―why not just ask any of the other men you’ve been fucking?!” Hob asks, tone acrid at the end, book fluttering as he gestures with his hand. 

“Because they’re not you!” 

The silence is absolute as Dream realises, belatedly, what he said in the moment. Hob’s brows furrow, anger leaving his face as Hob gives him a confused stare. Sighing deeply, Dream covers his face with his hands, too tired to take it back, and apparently wanting to bare his soul. Where it’ll likely be crushed, he’ll deal with those emotions in about a week or so. 

Dream chuckles, and it sounds insane to his ears, “they’re not. I did ― be with other men, just to know, that I’m not,” he frowns, annoyed with the way his words come out in a jumble. Frowning, he considers his next words, “you ruined all those men for me. I kept searching for the way you held me, or the way you kissed, and in the end they never matched up because I wanted―I want. You,” he finishes quietly.

“Me?” Hob asks, the almost-amazement in it making him look up. “You’re not just saying that?” 

“Why would I just say that?” He hisses. “I discovered I’m gay because I enjoyed kissing you so much, then discovered that I have feelings for you which I never realised because I thought I was str―”

 Mercifully, his ramblings are cut-off. By Hob’s lips on his, hands framing his face and Dream lets out a sound of relief as he grabs onto the other’s shoulders. The kiss itself is chaste, but considering how sparsely Hob’s touched him, this is all he needs as they press against each other, Hob gently leading them over to the larger sofa. 

“I have feelings for you too,” Hob says against him, brown eyes soft and affectionate. 

Dream huffs and pulls away, grabbing Hob’s wrists tightly and tugs them down to the sofa. “I thought you said you wouldn’t fall in with me,” he states, confused. 

Hob smiles and gives him a you’re an idiot look, “I’ve been in love with you for ages, long before that,” Hob says, tone much like his expression. 

-

His lips feel bruised and bitten, but pulling away from Hob is ― unthinkable, unfathomable. And Hob is the same, hands on his waist and biting down his throat, skin tingling as he shivers, Hob biting over already-made marks. 

“I missed this,” he whispers, patting the other’s beard. Though, some things are not that familiar, the way he sits on Hob’s lap, and he definitely would’ve missed this if he had it, the solid heat beneath him. “Not just the kissing, but you touching me. You stopped,” he breathes, can hear the whine of it as Hob kisses him, hands going under his shirt. 

“I missed it too,” Hob replies quietly, nails digging into his waist and Dream shivers, pleasure zinging up his spine. “It was just easier not to ― otherwise I’d never let go,” Hob says into his skin, and Dream swallows, nails scratching up his sides, “I’d never stop.” 

“Don’t stop,” he pleads, moving one of his hands to get under Hob’s shirt, feeling the hot skin ― and Dream keens, fingers stretching into the hair on Hob’s belly. He can feel Hob’s moan, can feel him pressing up as they share a spine-tingling kiss. Or maybe that’s the nails trailing up his spine, then back down. “Hob.”

The hand traces the edge of his pants until it reaches the front, making Dream’s dick throb, bringing awareness to how hard he is, “can I?” Hob asks, voice rough and eyes dark as they stare at him. 

Dream spares a moment to think how he’ll survive this, when this already feels like so much, but saying no ― or peeling himself off Hob isn’t an option. “Yes,” he whispers, bracing himself mentally as Hob kisses him again, and he almost bites Hob’s tongue as the hand goes into his pants, fingers trailing up his cock. Dream lets out a startled sound, mind firing at the touch as fingers caress his balls, then make their way to his leaking tip. 

His own furtive imaginings pale in comparison to the explorative way Hob strokes him, wiping his head clean of thoughts as he holds onto Hob’s chest, rough hair under his hand as he gasps into the other’s mouth. Grinding down, he can feel Hob’s cock, hard and ― untouched, which Dream wants to remedy, remembering his other hand as he undoes Hob’s pants somehow, running on instinct and need as he slides his hand to hold Hob’s cock, which is worth it alone for the way Hob’s hand jerks, the way he moans. 

Somehow, they separate enough for Hob’s shirt to disappear, showing heated skin and hair as they stroke each other into a frenzy, and Dream’s teeth ache. Hob’s so warm and responsive, a delightful stream of moaning his name, and Dream keeps staring at Hob’s throat, at his collarbones, the sweat gathering on them from their rutting― 

So he bites down near Hob’s adam’s apple, tasting the tangy sweat, can feel Hob shudder, can feel the startled whine ― and the sudden wetness coating his hand as he sucks a mark into Hob’s throat. “Dream,” Hob breathes, an arm pulling him closer, the hand on his cock pressing into him in ways that make him feel even more senseless, fucking into Hob desperately as his orgasm crashes into him. 

He can feel Hob breathing into his hair as Dream rests his forehead against Hob’s collarbone, brain taking it’s time to be more than the orgasm he just had, can feel Hob stroking his softening cock and he shivers at the feeling, letting out a whimper. 

Letting go of Hob’s cock, he looks down at the come covering it, and then wipes it onto Hob’s jeans. Hob yelps in offense ― then takes out his own hand, wiping it on Dream’s pants. “The nerve,” Hob mutters, and Dream smiles, though it disappears as Hob tenses, arms keeping him trapped against the other man. Blinking, he puts his arms around Hob’s shoulders, pulling up to look at the other’s wary face. Dream just kisses Hob, who goes oh, relaxing into it. 

“Will you,” he frowns, the words sudden, brain still getting itself together. Though, it’s what he was planning to ask anyway, “willl you join me as my actual partner, tomorrow? Entirely optional, the thing tomorrow, I just―” 

Hob’s brows, raised high as he talks ― rambles, again, that’s meant to be Hob’s quirk, though he did also pick up Hob’s quirk of thinking Shakespeare is overrated―until Hob cuts him off with a kiss, fingers stroking his hair. “Magically, I think tomorrow’s been cleared, and would love nothing more than to join my partner,” Hob says, eyes sparkling.

-

Walking on the sidewalk to where they’re meeting his siblings, Dream frowns, “we could always go back home,” he states, and he can feel Hob chuckle, the arm on his shoulders pulling him even closer to his partner. 

“Tempting. But we should probably let the place air out first,” Hob points out reasonably, and Dream pouts. “And I want to pay for your lunch!” 

“Hm,” he says, knowing the place they’re going to is very expensive, so Hob may change his tune once they’re inside. Speaking of, they walk in, his gaggle of siblings sitting at a large table in the centre. Death waves him over, and Hob squeezes him tighter, a kiss placed on the side of his head. Dream can feel his face heat up as they sit down. “Hello.” 

“What’s he doing here?” Desire asks right off the bat, golden eyes narrowed at Hob. 

“I was invited, wasn’t I?” Hob says, cheerful grin obvious in his voice as Dream picks up the menu, Hob’s chair squeaking closer to look at it with him. Dream looks over as Hob pales, noticing the lack of prices on it. 

“Desire is paying today,” he points out quietly, “you can buy me dinner tomorrow,” he offers in compromise, and Hob takes a deep breath, their heads brushing. 

Hob frowns, “fine,” he says, pouting and Dream smiles, oddly charmed that Hob’s so disgruntled by it. 

Desire makes a disgusted sound, making Dream look at his sibling over the menu, “what exactly were you expecting, sibling?” 

They cross their arms and sniff, “another no-show, of course. Or even terrible news,” they say with glee, like a break-up clear in their unsaid words. 

“Wow,” Hob whispers next to him. “Don’t you have better things to do than be obsessed with me?” Hob asks, and many of his siblings crack up laughing as Desire sputters. He’s even chuckling as Hob tugs him into a kiss, soft and pleased, ending with their noses brushing. 

“I’m not obsessed with the likes of you!” Desire hisses, face a bright red. “I’m not! Right, sister?” They say, facing Despair, who just shrugs. “There is ― I’m not!” 

“Alright, enough of this,” Death says between laughter, her stern look quieting the laughs, with Desire grumbling to themself as they hide in the menu, “we should order!” 

[Fin]

[hobgoblinns]

i love the idea of the doctor having this one constant fear! i think the vashta nerada particularly rattled him (“daleks, aim for the eye stalk, sontarans, back of the neck — vashta nerada, run. just run.”). and then in listen we learn he has a pretty good reason to be scared of the dark, too.

so much of the story of doctor who is about conquering your fears and proving that every monster has a downfall, but darkness isn’t a monster that can be fought because it’s everywhere. it’s something the doctor can’t defeat with quick wit, or science genius, or magic words or emotion or the power of love or anything like that. it’s something that can’t be conquered, and that they (and us, and the kids watching who are terrified of the dark) have to learn to live with.

and then you can obviously draw the millions of parallels to the doctor’s own internal ‘darkness’ and their constant need to outrun it and ignore it rather than actually deal with it head-on (which makes me think, maybe fifteen should be the first doctor NOT afraid of the dark?).

tldr this is an amazing idea and i think rtd should steal it

i think the doctor should be afraid of the dark

like there was whatever the fuck was going on listen, and then 12 went blind for a while, and then the vashta nerada lurking in the shadows of the library