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dsudis · 4 months ago

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late night calls, sandman: "I know it’s stupid, but I needed to hear your voice.” ?

I almost never manage to write to prompts but hey, it's the summer of 2024! Sometimes crazy shit happens! I wrote this! Don't ask me how long ago I got this ask!

Dreamling, feat. retired Dream & comics spoilers for how he got that way.

The Sound of Your Voice

Hob scrolled back through his texts, reading the slightly disjointed conversation with Dream that had just trailed off into nothing, and then the previous day's exchanges. There were no selfies, but Dream sent pictures of the things he saw on his travels and found interesting--sometimes the sort of holiday snaps anyone might send, but often things that brought it firmly to mind that Hob was exchanging texts with the newly-human former Lord of the Dreaming, who was wandering the world in search of Normal Life Experiences.

He meant to scroll past, but he found himself studying the photos all over again: the instruction card from an airline seat; a scrap of spiderweb lingering in an unidentifiable corner of two beige walls; a spoon wrapped in a paper napkin; a puddle on a cracked pavement.

Hob zoomed in on that last, trying to discern a reflection in the puddle, trying to guess what Dream was doing with his hair these days by the shape of the shadow.

It had been a month now that Dream had been off on his travels. He texted fairly often, and always responded when Hob texted him; they had even spoken twice. The first time had been four days after Dream set out, when Hob hadn't heard anything, and gave up on being cool and called.

Dream had sounded mildly puzzled, but had been content to chat for twenty minutes. He had actually, haltingly, answered questions about what he was up to, what he'd seen, whether he was enjoying his adventure.

Hob had managed to compress four days of quietly losing his mind worrying about him into saying toward the end, "Don't be a stranger, right? I mean--you're not my--not a stranger anymore, so--we can keep in touch."

He'd nearly hung up then just to shut himself up, but Dream had said, "Yes, I see. I will."

He seemed to have understood, even, because since then he hadn't gone more than twenty-four hours without texting Hob some random observation or sending a photo or just Good morning, Hob, usually at a time that was nowhere near morning where Hob was.

Dream had even called, a week or so ago. It had taken Hob solidly ten minutes, in which Dream had scarcely paused for breath, to realize that despite speaking perfectly clearly, Dream was so utterly legless that he needed more absurd words for it. He was trolleyed. Gazeboed. Positively coat-hangered.

"Your turn," Dream had said abruptly, still not slurring a bit but audibly loosened, so that Hob was suddenly sure that Dream was lying down, sprawled somewhere, collar undone, shirt perhaps riding up.

Hob had been so entranced by that image--did Dream have a bit of an alcohol flush on, lighting up his pale cheeks?--that Dream had had to prompt him again to take his turn speaking. He had managed it just fine once he got going, happy as ever to have Dream listening to him.

Dream had made a few encouraging noises, then gone quiet, until finally Hob heard a tiny, unmistakable snore.

"OI!" Hob had shouted into the phone, and been rewarded with something that was almost certainly a snort and the clatter of a dropped phone.

"Hob?" Dream had said, returning.

"Drink some water, and lie down on your side to sleep," Hob had said firmly. "Your sister might not take you if you choke, but you don't want her to turn up and laugh at you, either."

Dream had actually said, "Ugh, she would," before he hung up, and Hob had spent the rest of the day laughing to himself as those words echoed in his ears.

He couldn't hear them now.

It was something that had happened time and again. Each time he met with Dream, hanging on every one of the sparse words that dropped from his lips, he felt that he would have that voice etched on his memory, ringing in his ears, forever. For days after, he could hear Dream's words again, playing them over in his memory.

But every time, before too long, he couldn't remember quite what those words sounded like. He might remember what the words were, but he couldn't hear them anymore. A few months on, he would forget the little quirks of Dream's expression.

At some point, every time, he forgot Dream's face.

He could remember what Dream looked like, generally: pale and black-haired, slim and tallish, dressed in black, obviously rich. But he couldn't bring Dream's actual face to mind, had to just wait out the century to see him again, to know him again. There you are.

He'd already started forgetting after their belated meeting, when Dream turned up again, though Hob still hadn't known his name at that point. There had been a dream, first, and then his old stranger had just--turned up in a pub when Hob was out drinking, having his own miserable evening. He'd pulled out of it enough to realize that Dream was even worse off than he was, that Dream was on the precipice of something unimaginable, but nothing he said had changed any of that.

And then he'd found himself attending Dream's bloody wake, which was how he'd learned who his oldest friend even was.

He'd had about a week to try to resign himself to never having another reunion, never refreshing those fading memories ever again, no longer having even one person he could look forward to meeting again on the long road of his eternal life.

And then Dream had turned up on his bloody doorstep: freshly human and tentatively immortal, as this new incarnation was technically his afterlife.

Dream had been nearly as bewildered by it as Hob was, and had stayed with Hob for a fortnight. Learning to function in a human body had been undignified and frustrating, but Hob had done his best to smooth the way. He had accompanied Dream through his first experiences of human-sized emotions, which seemed to be something he had no idea how to handle, where had possessed at least a general theoretical understanding of the physically messy bits.

After two weeks, though, he had seemed to be settling in, and Hob had let himself begin to think of what life might look like with his friend in it--and then Dream had announced that he needed more Life Experience and he was going off to find it.

Hob knew he'd said it like that, the capital letters audible even though his new voice had lost some slight uncanny edge he'd always had before. He just couldn't hear it anymore, and he couldn't hear Dream's drunken rambling either. He scrolled down through the texts again, trying to hear how Dream would say the words, but he only caught an echo, the velvety depth of Dream's voice.

It was late; he ought to stop fretting about this and sleep. There would be more texts from Dream tomorrow; sooner or later there would be another call, or Dream would turn up again. Everything was all right now; Dream was safe, and probably reasonably happy, out on his self-appointed quest to get the hang of being human.

Hob just wanted to hear that from him. He just wanted to hear _anything_, so long as it was Dream. He hesitated another moment, but he had never been good at resisting temptation. He just had time to try to guess where Dream was--and therefore what time it was--before he hit the call button.

It rang only twice before Dream picked up, sounding not just puzzled but properly disorientated, fuzzy with sleep. "'Lo? Hob? What's..."

All the circling misery of the last few minutes lifted instantly. _There you are. That's you._ "Hi, love," Hob returned, falling back into his own bed. "I know it’s stupid, but I needed to hear your voice."

There was a silence, but before Hob could take it back, or say something to give himself away even more, Dream said, "You could... do you think you'd like to--"

"Yes," Hob said, sitting up again, feeling abruptly wide awake, ready for anything.

"--Hear it more?" Dream finished.

"Yes," Hob repeated, standing. "Yes, I--where--"

"About five minutes," Dream said, which didn't make sense until he added, "it's a good thing you called, I didn't mean to doze off in the taxi."

"Jet lag," Hob said, mouth running on autopilot as he looked frantically around his bedroom. It was in a bit of a state; he hadn't gotten properly settled into his own newest incarnation before Dream turned up, and in the last few days he'd been... more down than he'd realized until right now, when he wasn't anymore, at half two in the morning. "I keep telling you, you have to respect the circadian rhythm now you have one."

"I have great respect for it," Dream said, sounding a little amused now. "Unfortunately--" he yawned, "international flight schedules do not, despite being entirely staffed by people who also need to sleep."

"One of those mysteries we may never solve," Hob agreed. "Uh, your room's a bit--"

"I will happily sleep on your kitchen floor at this point," Dream said, yawning again before he quite got all the words out. "Perhaps the stairs."

"Well, we can do better than that, at least," Hob said, pulling on a pair of joggers and giving the covers a few quick tugs so the bed looked plausibly disheveled rather than like a place of insomniac torment. He dashed down the stairs to the front door, and threw back the locks, listening to Dream's quiet on the other side of the line. "Dream?"

"Still here," Dream assured him, sounding a bit more alert now. "Just a few more blocks, I think."

Hob leaned out the door, peering down his street, listening as if he would somehow know which car on another street was the one with Dream inside. "Are you..." Hob didn't even know how to finish the question, other than _here yet?_ which was a stupid one.

"Yes," Dream said anyway, just as a car turned down Hob's street--a proper cab, not an Uber. Dream could be choosy about things like that. "I see you. I--I am very glad to see you."

Hob raised and arm and waved, to be sure the cabbie would see him too, and cleared his throat before he could say, "Same to you, my friend."

"Yes," Dream said dryly, even as the cab was pulling up, putting the rear door exactly level with the stairs to Hob's door. "I can see that."

Hob glanced down at himself and realized that he was both shirtless and barefoot, and showing a wide strip of his pants on one side where he hadn't managed to pull the joggers all the way up. Hob sputtered, already starting to laugh at himself and unable to find a riposte; he looked up again and his breath stopped.

Time stopped.

Dream was on the pavement below him, straightening up out of the cab. He was looking straight at Hob, with just as much bright gladness in his face as the first time they'd seen each other again after their longest parting.

Hob dropped his phone and darted down the stairs, colliding with Dream halfway and flinging his arms around him. He clung tight long after they were both steadied from the impact, pressing his face into Dream's messy hair. "Say something," Hob murmured, breathing in the not-too-recently-washed smell of him, soaking in the solidity of the angular body pressed up against his.

"Your front door's closed behind you," Dream murmured. "And I think you've cracked the screen on your phone."

"Bugger," Hob muttered, squeezing tighter; Dream's grip tightened in answer until Hob could feel his ribs creaking, and still neither of them showed any sign of letting go. "The door, I mean, that's a bother. The phone screen's been cracked for weeks."

Dream gave a little _tsk_, pressed a kiss to the spot just before Hob's ear, and then let go all at once, sliding past him to retrieve his phone. Hob pressed his fingers to the spot where Dream's lips had pressed, and didn't manage to speak, or even think anything coherent, before Dream was straightening up again, phone in hand.

"They can be replaced," Dream pointed out. "And you gave me a key before I left, so even the door is not such a great bother as that."

"Yeah, I wasn't that worried," Hob said, fingers still pressed to the spot in front of his ear, staring at Dream, who was going just a bit pink. "Dream, you--"

"You gave me a key," Dream repeated, making no move to get it out and unlock the door, still holding Hob's battered phone. "Before I left, you said. I could always. Come home."

"Yeah," Hob said, and finally managed to drop his hand from his own face, reaching out with the same fingers to touch the brightening pink of Dream's cheek. "You always can, love. I always want to hear you, and I always want to see you."

"I thought I--I thought perhaps--it might have been only..." Dream shook his head, giving up on putting it into words, but Hob didn't need him to spell it out; he'd worried himself that perhaps it was a problem that Dream only had him, only knew him. He'd known it was a good idea for Dream to go out into the world, even while he'd hated it. "But there is no one like you."

"And no place like home?" Hob added lightly, because he couldn't not, even when he could see Dream's perfectly earnest expression, the steady dark intensity of his gaze.

Dream snorted softly and put his hand over Hob's, pressing it to his cheek while he leaned in, closing the distance between them again.

Hob started to tilt his head, ready to guide Dream into possibly his first kiss in a world where noses would not politely reshape themselves to stay out of the way, but Dream first pressed his forehead to Hob's, breathing deeply and saying nothing. Hob settled his other hand on Dream's cheek as well, keeping him close, breathing in for himself the reality of Dream here with him again, safe and sound and wanting to be here, of all the places in the world he might be exploring.

"We should go inside," Dream murmured, and Hob just shivered at the secret sound of his voice before he made sense of the words.

He tipped his head back to meet Dream's eyes, and found Dream smiling wryly. "I fear we may be carried away here on your front steps, otherwise."

Hob dropped his hands to Dream's shoulders, where it was safe to grip as hard as he needed to while he let those words sink in, his whole body flashing hot at the possibilities. "Yeah. That's. Probably wise, yeah."

Dream nodded, still smiling, and held up a familiar key. "Shall we?"

Hob forced himself to drop his hands and turn to go back up the stairs. Dream followed him, close enough that Hob could almost feel him; when Hob turned the knob and realized that the door had in fact locked behind him, he had no time at all to be frustrated by it before Dream pressed up against his back, bringing his hands--and, crucially, his key--to join Hob's.

"You gave me a key," Dream said, so close to Hob's ear that his lips brushed it, so deep and warm that Hob could drown in it. "You knew I would want to come home to you. And now here I am--" the key slid home, and Hob bit his lip to hold back a noise at that altogether unsubtle promise of things to come. "Coming home. To you. With you."

Hob pushed the door open, but before stepping inside he asked, knowing it was ridiculous to hesitate, with Dream plastered up against him and hesitating anyway, "Will you tell me again tomorrow?"

"I will tell you again every day," Dream said without hesitation. "Every time I come home to you, wherever that may be, it will always be you."

"Right then," Hob said, and whirled in Dream's arms to kiss him as he stumbled back inside. Dream followed him, and didn't stop kissing him except to laugh when they staggered into a heap at the top of the inside stair. Hob tugged him back down into another kiss, and let Dream's voice echo in his ears a while longer.

#fic #the sandman #dreamling #the sound of your voice #prompt fic

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gabessquishytum · 1 month ago

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The ton of London is abuzz with the latest drama unfolding between Morpheus Endless and his father, Lord Time, over the question of the former’s marriage and just who is meant to meet him at the altar.

From almost the beginning of the Season, everyone had been treated to the sweet and clear courtship of Morpheus by Mr. Hob Gadling. It seemed to be love at first sight, and from a practical standpoint was considered to be a rather good match; Hob might have been new money, but what he lacked in connections he more than made up in wealth, looks, and honest charm. The Endless family are well-connected and well-respected, and while Morpheus could possibly have held out for a more equally-connected match, he was a third child (thus bringing little status to a marriage, when compared to his elder siblings), and furthermore had been considered rather unapproachable, aloof and cold, at least until Hob had managed to melt that icy exterior.

It had gotten to the point where anyone paying attention expected to hear of a proposal any day now, when chaos erupted: Lord Time, who had evidently not been paying any attention to his son or his courtship, heard the match being talked of as a settled thing, and quite firmly announced that he would not allow it. That he had in fact been arranging Morpheus’ betrothal to Mr Roderick Burgess!

Society is shocked by such a choice. The Burgess family was nearly as nouveau riche as Mr. Gadling, but with a much worse reputation (and possibly less rich). And to Roderick, to whom most of the poor reputation belongs, and who has a grown son of his own! By every measure Hob Gadling is clearly the better catch, besides which Morpheus Endless’ honor is quite firmly engaged at this point, and it would be scandalous to jilt Mr. Gadling after such a blatant courtship for such an inferior alternative.

Yet Lord Time refuses to budge on his decision, and no amount of attempted persuasion by his acquaintances, children, or even his wife (who normally presents a united front with her husband), will convince him that this course of action will damage his family’s reputation and his son’s happiness.

Morpheus doesn’t intend to take this lying down however. He plans to put himself in increasing compromising positions with his real fiancée (who is fully on board with the plan), until he is either officially engaged to Hob or considered so thoroughly ruined that the Endless family’s reputation can never recover.

And so the ton holds its breath at this game of chicken, waiting to see which happens first: the son bending to his father’s stubborn will and submitting to the sanctioned match, or the father breaking against the son’s determined willingness to drag the family name through the mud in order to marry his preferred suitor.

(Little does the ton know just how unlikely the former outcome is, as Morpheus loves Hob Gadling as strongly as he hates Roderick Burgess. Thus he is fully ready if necessary to bring himself and Hob off in the middle of a crowded ballroom, and make it very clear that this is not the first time they’ve engaged in pre-marital relations, if that’s what it takes)

Yes!!!!! I love these Bridgerton adjacent ideas for dreamling because those two are SO dramatic, you just know that they'd thrive in those conditions.

The nice thing about Hob being new money is that he doesn't really have much of a reputation to ruin, and no family to be disappointed in him. He cares very little about what anyone thinks of him; the only person he's interested in pleasing is Morpheus! And although he'd certainly prefer to save Dream’s reputation, for the sake of his beloved's place in society, Hob has no trouble at all in following Morpheus’s orders and misbehaving all over the place!

And it's certainly convenient, since they've been fucking ever since the Season began. Now Hob doesn't have to bother trying not to mark Morpheus’s neck above the line of his cravat. Hob has some well-placed conversations with some of the most notorious gossips in the ton, and soon enough everyone is craning their necks to see if the love bites are visible on Morpheus’s pretty white neck today...

Finally, Roderick Burgess seemingly can't take the idea of marrying a ruined slut like Morpheus any longer (despite the connections to the aristocracy, and all the benefits that would come with the marriage... Burgess can't cope with the fact that he would not be the first to break Morpheus in, so to speak). He breaks the deal with Lord Time, and what do you know, less than a week later, Morpheus and Hob are quietly married at an intimate little ceremony.

The ton decides to conveniently forget about the couple's scandalous behaviour - they're safely married now, so it's all quite alright. It was for the best that Morpheus married the man he clearly adored! And the honeymoon period seemingly hasn't ended either... at every ball of the next season, the newlyweds are bound to sneak off for old times sake, to some secret corner where they can renew their marital bliss. Not to mention what they get up to on the carriage ride home! It's quite clear to everyone (thanks to all the noises of satisfaction coming from behind the curtains) that Morpheus chose the right husband <3

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft

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valeriianz · 5 months ago

Text

Summary: Part 2 of my Hard of Hearing!Dream. Part 1 here! Dream struggles with his new disability and Hob tries to help... along with Dream's new friend, Jessamy.

Square/Prompt: A1 - Why Did You Do It?

Rating: T

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: human AU, deaf!Dream, angst, happy ending, established relationship

Fill for @dreamlingbingo! (thank you @mallory-x for the read through!)

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When Dream turned 30, he celebrated it in a crowded bar that doubled as an art gallery, close to his apartment. It was his favorite bar, because it was an eclectic gallery first, with a bar open for events. Luckily, there was a local exhibit on the night of Dream’s birthday and he knew it would be the perfect place to celebrate. This way, he could appease his friends who wanted to go out and drink and celebrate, and Dream could stare at art and make a quick escape if need be. It gave a chance for everyone to focus on anything else but him after the initial round of shots.

Hob never took his focus off Dream, though. Even when they would float away to opposite sides of the room, Dream would turn his head and find Hob staring at him, smiling at being caught before turning his attention back to the person he was in conversation with.

At that point, it had been two and a half years since Dream had told Hob about his diagnosis… that he would go permanently deaf. In that time, he did indeed completely lose his hearing in his left ear, but his right was still working pretty well. He had just gotten used to tilting his head slightly to the left so people would understand to talk directly into his good ear.

And Hob was still here. Patient, sweet, loving Hob. Who Dream secretly had a crush on probably since they were first introduced. They’d moved in together last year, and while there were some bumps in the road, complications that arose with moving in with a lover, Dream was surprised to find that he was… happy.

He couldn’t stand it, sometimes, how happy Hob made him. Even his friends had noticed how he smiled more, seemed to have a more positive outlook on life and even on his disability. And it felt natural, like Hob just brought out all the good traits about Dream, like they had been lying dormant and just needed the confidence, the reassurance that he was allowed to feel this way. This happy.

And then, 45 days after Dream’s birthday party, he woke up to Hob shaking him awake, because he was sleeping through his alarm that was apparently blasting through his phone.

But Dream couldn’t hear him. Or the alarm.

He watched with horrifying realization, as Hob’s lips moved, hovering over him, but no words came out.

So much for five years.

Hob had clocked Dream’s blank stare relatively quick, his lips shaping the letters of Dream’s name with a hand on his face, Hob’s brows pinched up and–

Dream cried.

He felt foolish for it. He knew this would happen eventually. He just thought he’d have more time.

Dream speaks with his audiologist the next day, with Hob by his side. Dream had wondered about hearing aids while he still had a modicum of hearing, but had been hesitant. His insurance barely covered them and, while hearing aids may have helped in the past, after several tests, his audiologist confirmed with Dream that now, they wouldn’t even be able to pick up background noise. They wouldn’t help at all.

Dream and Hob had left the office with defeat hanging heavy in the air. Mostly from Dream.

He’s not proud of the person he had been in the week following his permanent hearing loss.

But in time (and therapy), Dream was able to move on. And it really wasn’t so bad, once Dream accepted that this was his life now.

If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can still hear Hob’s voice, especially with his lips pressed against his throat, behind his ear, murmuring sweetness into his skin and sending vibrations into his skull. It’s one of the most calming things Dream has ever experienced; laying in bed with Hob, in the absolute darkness and absolute silence, his remaining senses heightened, it’s both relaxing and unexpectedly erotic. To feel Hob completely surrounding him, grounding Dream, warm and solid and safe, it lights Dream up from the inside and reassures him that everything would be okay.

And in time, Dream comes to appreciate the silence. It’s nice, it’s peaceful. Living in a large city, with constant chatter, cars honking and sirens blazing, used to be a sensory nightmare; that creeping, prickling feeling of overstimulation has vanished and now it’s just… nothingness.

It was scary at first, Dream would be a fool to not admit it; watching the world continue around him, people living their lives, living his own life, all in absolute silence. Not being able to hear the beep of the microwave, indicating when his food was done, or water coming out of the faucet while he washed dishes, or the sizzle of oil in a pan while cooking… little things that Dream had never really perceived whilst hearing them every day. All of that sound just– gone. Like hitting the mute button on a movie.

Dream tries to convince himself that he doesn’t miss the mundane noises, he could barely hear them anyway… but he often feels lost without them. So learning to welcome the quiet was the only way Dream could stay sane.

Though going deaf after decades of being able to hear (albeit poorly) and speak gave Dream the advantage of continuing to communicate in spoken English. He still has an inner voice, can still read lips very well, and so the communication gap with his friends and even strangers isn’t as wide as Dream had feared.

It makes learning sign language difficult. Dream at first did not take the lessons very seriously, especially with Hob being the only person to practice with, in those early days. Hob did help, though; he fumbles and signs broken ASL and Dream fumbles back. But it had been so easy to fall back on the habit of using his voice. But as months turn into a full year, Dream learns by trial and error that he realistically can’t continue traversing through a hearing world without sign language.

The hardest challenge he’d run into, for example… Dream never thought he’d need to prove his deafness.

Of course people get confused when he can speak perfect English, out in public spaces like a cafe or a bookshop, only to then turn around and seemingly ignore everyone around him. It is a strange experience, for Dream, to go around communicating as usual, speaking when he can’t even hear his own voice and reading lips. But he can’t be constantly on the lookout for anybody trying to get his attention. Watching belatedly as someone he had been exchanging dialogue with, roll their eyes and walk away in a huff. Dream truthfully has no idea how he might come off to a complete stranger who can’t realize that he’s deaf. Rude, perhaps. Or uncaring.

It’s enough to convince Dream to get fake hearing aids… he feels ridiculous wearing them, like he’s giving in to a social construct that only exists in his own head. But, annoyingly, while wearing them, the way people communicate and treat him improves exponentially.

Funny, that.

Hob, of course, notices.

“When did you get these?” He touches the little device in Dream’s ear, his fingers turning into a caress. “I thought aids didn’t work for you?”

Hob speaks while he signs, they both do, to help make the hand motions stick. Though Hob often slips up and signs exact English, not proper American Sign Language, which he’s doing now. It doesn’t help in the learning process, but it’s a start, and Dream has no leg to stand on when it comes to corrections.

Dream swipes his index finger across his nose.

“Fake.”

Dream offers no more explanation, turning a page in the book he’s reading. They’re sitting on the couch, Hob properly facing the TV, and Dream lounging sideways, his legs draped over Hob’s lap.

Hob taps the edge of Dream’s book, getting his attention once more.

“You’d rather put a sign on you that announces to the world you're deaf?”

Dream sighs, knocking his head back.

“I know I shouldn’t have to…” Dream starts, his fingers fumbling, a new sign of nervousness he never thought he’d had before. “But it might make things easier.”

“Things?” Hob finger spells, his hands coming down, palms up, in a sign of confusion.

Dream moves a hand to his mouth.

“Communication,” and then to his ear, “understanding.”

Hob’s brows furrow and Dream slowly looks back to his book.

Dream wonders if they’re thinking the same thing. Remembering how difficult it became, living together, after Dream lost his hearing permanently. Hob would forget that Dream couldn’t hear, which was frustrating enough, but the slip-ups were near constant in the beginning.

They’d get into arguments over it, a flame that Dream wasn’t proud to admit he’d always fanned. He hated that his hackles were constantly rising, always on the offensive, like Dream was expecting Hob to take the bait and fight back. That would, of course, spiral into meaningless fights over something stupid like leaving the laundry in the dryer for too long, or forgetting to pick up a particular ingredient they needed for dinner at the grocery store.

Dream was ashamed to admit he didn’t help in the situations, often coping out by just– not looking at Hob so he couldn’t see his lips moving or his awkward signing. He’d turn around and stomp away and Hob would be left to chase after him, hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around so they could communicate.

It got easier… Hob was so patient with Dream. He never got so angry he would give up. He always apologized, even when Dream was just being dramatic.

Hob knows by now that Dream would never take the easy route. And sure enough, Dream ditches the fake hearing aids. With them on, people started treating him with gloves on, or stare at him nervously, wondering how to approach. It’s frustrating and annoying– how Dream can’t seem to find a middle ground.

It takes unloading to his new deaf friends about Hob; seeking advice for how to temper these unexpected feelings of disappointment and changes in Dream himself… they never used to fight, before Dream lost his hearing. This is unknown territory for the both of them.

Dream had discovered the community in his city, for deaf people. He’d found a meetup online, after his therapist suggested looking into attending the weekly meetups.

As always, Dream was at first skeptical. His sign language was still spotty at best, and he wasn’t a social guy even when he could hear so. He wasn’t hopeful.

Luckily the deaf community in his city is more than accepting of him, patient when he slips and signs exact English. And when Dream is done airing out his grievances, they encourage patience with Hob. That having a hearing partner is always going to be a struggle, but Hob is clearly coming from a place of compassion and wants to learn. That’s more than can be said for most people.

Dream feels foolish, all the sudden, for his actions against Hob, looking sideways at Jessamy. She was one of the founders of these d/Deaf meetings, and they clicked immediately. Unlike most of their peers in the group, she too had been born hearing and then lost it due to illness. Her and Dream were a lot alike, though she was older and had been wading through this new world for over two decades. She was fluent in ASL, and didn’t even speak while communicating.

“It’s considered rude to speak here, during these meetups,” she had explained during Dream’s first time with the group.

Jessamy becomes something like a confidant for Dream. She too has a hearing partner, Matthew. The amount she and Dream have in common is almost frightening. But in time Dream discovers it’s nice… to be seen. To be understood. She helps Dream comprehend the beauty of the silence even more. And that they can still attend hearing events just as before.

So with her encouragement, a few months down the line, Dream and Hob join her and Matthew at a music festival. Jessamy excitedly points out interpreters several of the bands have on stage, and Dream feels a bit of relief. He can also feel the vibrations all around him from the loud speakers, though it’s not as pronounced as they would be in a venue with wooden floors; the earth beneath their feet grounds the pulsating bass lines to something dull and unrecognizable.

Dream’s not quite fluent enough in ASL to understand every word the interpreters use, especially at the speed they’re going in to keep up with the song, but he gets the gist. And he has to admit it’s… fun, doing this. He hadn’t been to a concert or music festival in almost five years, and spending it with both Hob and his new friends is nice. It’s easy to stay within their safe space and not feel pressured to speak with strangers or awkwardly ignore them; everyone here minds their own business and in time, Dream loosens up.

After finding available, good seats for the next band they’d all agreed on, Hob and Dream set out to the nearest vendor to grab drinks and snacks for the four of them, while Jessamy and Matthew hold down the fort, so to speak.

While standing in line, Hob asks if Dream is enjoying himself. And, surprisingly, Dream is. He says as much with a smile and taking a playful nudge from Hob.

As the line shrinks and they come closer to the counter, Dream’s gaze moves from the short menu taped to the window to the man taking orders. His lips move sluggishly and hesitantly, speaking with an accent that makes it difficult for Dream to parse. But it doesn’t phase him, what everyone wants is on the menu and the transaction should be simple.

Now, Hob could just place the order for him– for all of them, but Dream had been determined, lately, to converse in transactions like this himself. It was good practice not only for Dream, but also whoever was taking his order as well. To learn patience and practice his communication skills. It was a little nerve wracking, but for the most part it was easy. If a cashier or barista or medical professional had trouble exchanging words with Dream, well, that’s what he carried a pen and pocketbook around for.

The person in front of them moves to the pickup counter and Dream sees the man behind the counter call out what must be a, “Next!” but the way his lips move, it looks more like, “Nect!”

Dream swallows and signs as he speaks, to– hopefully– indicate how this would potentially be a one-sided conversation.

“Two orders of fries, one mac and cheese, three shots of Bacardi, one shot of vodka, and a lemonade, please.”

The man barely looks at Dream while he types the order into an iPad. Dream nods, mostly to himself, and looks down as he reaches into his back pocket to grab his wallet.

When he looks back up, the man is in the middle of saying something to him.

Dream’s brows wrinkle.

“Can you repeat that? I can’t hear you.”

After he speaks and signs, Dream offers up his card, assuming the man just told him the total.

But the man visibly sighs and leans forward a bit, his mouth opening widely.

Dream focuses but only manages to make out the words “fries,” “double,” and “which do you want?”

“Um…” Dream licks his bottom lip. “One more time? Slowly, please.”

With a truly agitated face now, the man moves his lips again, but as Dream studies them, hoping to fill in the words he missed, instead new words are added and Dream finds himself stumped.

“Fries, yes. And singles, for the shots,” he guesses.

The man types something into his iPad but looks again at Dream with a growing look of irritation in his gaze. Dream looks behind him and sees a line of customers, before facing the man again, once again catching him in mid speech.

“Hold on,” Dream grumbles, settling the card down and digging through his pocket for the pen and paper. “Clearly I am deaf and raising your voice is not helping–”

Dream nearly jumps as Hob steps up suddenly to the counter, almost getting in front of Dream.

They exchange a few words before finally Hob nods and hands the guy his own card.

Dream stands silent, his pocket notebook in his hand and blinking slowly at Hob, who gives him a sheepish smile over his shoulder before nodding again to the man and taking both their cards back as well as the receipt.

They walk to the pickup counter without exchanging a word, meanwhile something begins to burn the back of Dream’s neck, prickling down his arms and coiling in his stomach.

Dream tugs on Hob’s arm as they settle next to the mobile vendor.

“What just happened?” He doesn’t speak. Dream can’t find his voice right now.

Hob rubs the back of his neck, his gaze focused on something behind Dream.

“No french fries,” he signs without confidence. “Curly fries only.”

Dream blinks. The uncomfortable feeling in his gut tightening.

“Did you just order for me?”

Hob’s shoulders deflate, nodding.

Dream gapes like a fish for a few seconds, his eyes darting from Hob to the man that just took their order, and back.

“I don’t want curly fries. I hate curly fries. We could have gone to another vendor. You didn’t have to–”

Dream cuts himself off, balling his hands into fists and taking a long breath, closing his eyes, shaking his head.

Hob always did this.

It took a while for Dream to notice, how if they were together, Hob would finish a conversation for Dream. Would speed an uncomfortable situation along with an interjection or provide unnecessary context with a stranger “He’s deaf, sorry…” without consenting with Dream first.

When Dream realized Hob was doing this, he would go quiet, unsure whether or not to stop him or correct him in some way. Dream never knew exactly what to say. Did Hob think Dream was incapable of handling tricky conversations himself? Did he think Dream was a hassle?

When Dream opens his eyes Hob’s hands are out, placating, his eyes apologetic.

“Why do you do that?”

Hob blinks. “What?”

Dream’s heart rate is steadily rising, his fingers shaking slightly.

“Make my decisions for me.”

“I didn’t realize I was,” Hob starts, his own signing gone fumbly. “I thought I was helping.”

“Yes. That’s the problem…” Dream starts, finally speaking again and letting his hands fall to his sides, his brain struggling to interpret correctly.

“What do you mean?” Hob asks.

“You don’t need to rush me out of an uncomfortable situation,” Dream starts again, his hands gesticulating uselessly. “If I’m communicating with someone whom I can’t understand, we can figure it out. They will learn. They need to learn.”

Judging by the way Hob is nervously looking around, Dream’s volume is surely rising. But he finds he doesn’t care.

“I’m not this thing you need to handle with gloves. Let me see a problem through until the end. No matter how long it takes.”

Dream is breathing heavily, he realizes, sucking in a gulp of air.

“Of course not.” Hob finally speaks, forgetting to sign. “I'm sorry.”

Hob’s eyes are welling up with tears and it somehow makes Dream more agitated, more words stumbling from his mouth without his permission.

“Then stop treating me like a burden!”

Dream turns and walks away.

It’s foolish, and childish. And as Dream stomps away, his own vision becoming blurred with tears, he knows it’s not just this moment that’s made him snap. It’s the culmination of events from the past year of being fully disabled. He hates that he can’t hear. He hates this adjustment period. He wishes he’d been born deaf so at least this hurdle, this life change wouldn’t feel so mountainous.

Dream wipes his eyes shamefully as his pace picks up to a run, pushing past people blindly. Regret screams in his bones with every step he makes, with every inch he puts between Hob and him. His chest aches with the urge to turn around and apologize, but he shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t!

Dream’s shoes clumsily connect with the dirt underneath him, his face becoming hot and, as he rounds the corner of an unoccupied stall, Dream collapses to the ground and allows the tears he’d been fighting back to fall freely, a sob choking in his throat.

He grips his hair as he cries, his face stuck between his knees. The past year flashes before Dream’s eyes, all of the hardships, the doctors’ visits, the fights with Hob. He didn’t deserve Dream. All of his kindness and patience and for what? For Dream to snap on a dime and expect too much out of him all at once?

Dream groans loudly, agitated at himself for seeing the problem; him, and unsure how to change. He knows he has a right to his feelings, but communicating them was so difficult. He’s becoming impatient with himself, with his slow learning curve, with Hob’s complacency to stay in their safe little bubble and treat Dream like this breakable thing.

Dream couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but his sobs had stifled down to sniffles, and by the time he felt a hand gently land on his shoulder, Dream was doodling shapes in the dirt.

His head snaps up and finds Jessamy staring back at him, her brows creased in worry.

“Hey…” She’s bent over, her hair falling in her face. “What’s wrong?”

Dream ducks his head, shaking it, officially feeling foolish for running away. The regret he’d felt for leaving Hob starts up again and he suddenly feels so scared. At this rate, Hob would break up with him. Surely he was getting sick of Dream’s dramatics, him lashing out.

“Hob and I never fought…” Dream starts, his hands moving sluggishly. “... when I was hearing.”

Jessamy plops on the ground in front of Dream.

“It’s me,” Dream continues. “I’ve become so… sensitive, since going deaf. I feel like, sometimes, Hob treats me like a child. Like he wants to wrap me in bubble wrap. It’s so infuriating– I’m not some helpless thing that can’t figure things out!”

“No, you’re not…” Jessamy starts, reaching a hand out and giving Dream’s knee a shake.

“It is OK to feel like this. You’ve only been deaf for a year…” her brows come up encouragingly. “The transition is tough, but it will get easier, in time.”

Dream nods solemnly, tracing lines in the dirt again. Jessamy waves her hand to get his attention once more.

“And you’re not alone, you know.” She smiles gently. “You got me and Matty–” she huffs a laugh at the look Dream gives her. “... and the entire gang to support you.”

Dream knew she meant everyone at their d/Deaf meetups and offered her a small smile. She’s right, of course. Despite how withdrawn and antisocial Dream had been in the beginning, even now still creeping out of his shell, the people he’d surrounded himself with had been nothing but kind and accepting and willing to listen and connect in ways Dream hadn’t thought possible.

“Hob is still around, too,” Jessamy interrupts his thoughts, her brows lifting knowingly. “That man loves you so much; you should see the way he looks at you– it’s disgusting.”

Dream manages to crack a real, genuine smile at that, especially with the way Jessamy is fluttering her eyelashes and putting on a spot-on impression of Hob’s puppy dog eyes.

He pulls a hand through his hair and looks down again. Images of Hob’s easy smile flashing behind his eyes, his hands caressing Dream’s skin, his strong arms lifting him in a hug, his sweet lips tracing the lines of his jaw and ear, murmuring sweetness that Dream could no longer hear but feel instead. Could plainly see Hob’s devotion and affection in their everyday lives together, how he would always start the coffee in the mornings so Dream would wake up to the smell of it. How Hob would leave the hallway light on during the day so Dream would come home– late from work– and have something to see by. How he always offered to help with dinner prep, chopping veggies or stirring something, often using the excuse to crowd Dream against the counter and kiss Dream silly.

“That man would pull the moon down for you, I hope you know.”

He would, Dream realizes, swallowing thickly. And he would do the same for Hob.

Dream nods, wringing his fingers out as Jessamy continues on.

“Remember, this is a learning experience for him, too.”

Her painted nails move with perfect fluency, always slowly for Dream to understand. And as one thumb comes down from her forehead to meet the thumb on her other hand, Dream nods again, sniffling and wiping his eyes.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Her lips curl sweetly, gaze flicking sideways suddenly.

She nudges her head. “Speak of the devil…”

Dream looks too, and finds Hob approaching them.

He curses to himself, wiping his eyes with more urgency and catching the almost giggle that Jessamy makes.

“I’ll leave you two alone?”

Dream takes a steadying inhale, pushes his shoulders back, and makes a weak fist and nods it back and forth.

Jessamy stands just as Hob steps up to them, his eyes guarded yet hopeful. She makes a sign of texting before stepping around Hob with a clap to his shoulder.

Hob watches Jessamy leave before meeting Dream’s gaze again, but says nothing. His eyes never leave Dream as he crouches down and takes a seat next to him, leaning back against the wall.

Dream stares back, studying the lines of Hob’s face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, which are shiny and puffy, like he’d been sobbing, too.

“I’m sorry,” Dream whispers, pushing a fist into his chest.

Hob sighs, his shoulders going with it. He speaks as he signs.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Dream shakes his head. “You’re always the one apologizing for my outbursts–”

“But you were right,” Hob interjects, his eyes pleading. “Dream, can I say something?”

Dream’s heart leaps into his throat, swallowing harshly. He nods.

“You need to tell me…” Hob’s gaze shoots up to the sky, as if searching for the words for his hands to convert. “... the first time, when I do something that makes you uncomfortable. So I can remedy it immediately.”

Dream takes a deep breath as Hob continues, his hands moving slowly but surely.

“Don’t let bad things fester and build. Talk to me.” His hand comes to his mouth in a motion similar to how Dream explained on the couch months ago. “Communicate. If you don’t correct me in the moment, I’m bound to repeat it.”

He takes Dream’s hands, his thumbs tracing circles over the knuckles.

“I want…” Hob awkwardly makes the simple motions with his hand still clasped with Dream’s, making him bite back a smile. “... to do this right.”

Dream takes another breath that rattles, his eyes prickling at the corners.

Hob’s eyes have gone watery, too, his smile lopsided.

“OK?”

Dream nods. “OK.”

Hob rises up on his knees just as Dream does, falling into each other. Dream squeezes his arms around Hob’s shoulders, tucking his nose into Hob’s hair and breathing in the scent of him, letting it envelop him and calm him.

Hob’s lips brush the skin behind Dream’s ear, pressing a kiss there, before he feels them move.

I love you.

#dreamling #dream/hob #dreamling bingo 2024 #sidenote: yes this is an american AU #because i know ASL and not BSL #yes im that simple lol #hoo! i made it!#my first fill letsagooo #this one kicked my ass sheesh #my writing

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kydrogendragon · 6 months ago

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Hob stares down at the small medicinal tube in his hands. He has been staring at it now for nearly an hour, and the ripple of excitement still runs through him. He takes a breath and unscrew the cap. The scent hits his nose immediately, and it's not...unpleasant, not really, but it certainly is strong. He squeezes a small dollop onto the pad of his finger and presses it against the under-responsive scent glands.

He knows, from his doctor and testimonials on the internet and even from friends he knows that the effects aren't instant. It's a gradual process, one that will take time, and yet the moment the cream is absorbed into his skin, Hob just feels better. He feels right.

Hob screws the cap back on and sets it down on the sink, beside his toothbrush and razor, ready for daily use. He looks up into the mirror and smiles.

It takes less time than he expects for Dream to notice. He's now been two months on A as of last Friday, and he's starting to notice changes (finally!) Nothing major, mainly that his scent glands have gotten more noticeable—to him, that is. They've started to itch in a way they never have before. And his sense of smell has gotten sharper too. The first time, he caught a wiff of Dream's scent from inside the crowded bar and knew it was him? Hob was ecstatic. So it shouldn't come as too big of a surprise when Dream stares at him with an even sharper gaze than usual when he answers the door.

Hob stands, bag of take-out in one hand, and a copy of the extended Lord of the Rings movies in the other. Dream looks him up and down, his nostrils flaring. Hob wonders, perhaps a bit tok late, if his scent is finally beginning to change as well now.

"You..." Dream starts, then shakes his head. "Come in."

Hob blinks but steps through, making his way to their usual movie spot in the living room of Dream's flat. "Mrs. Chen tossed in an order of samosas for you again," he says, untying the thin plastic bag handles. He hears the telltale sound of drinks being prepared in the kitchen.

"Mrs. Chen is simply determined to fatten me up," Dream calls back. Hob chuckles as he sets out the containers of food, then sets the DVD case on the television stand.

While Dream's still preoccupied, Hob takes a moment and wipes his hand across his scent glands, and takes a whiff. It's stronger, perhaps, than usual, but it still smells like him, he thinks. Maybe he just stinks in general, and Dream was being polite and not saying anything. He has been sweating a lot more since being on HRT.

He hums and settles into his usual spot on the couch.

[Transition stuff. They're chatting/watching the movie, ect.]

"Have you started seeing someone?" Dream asks him right as the screen prompts them to put in disk two. Hob whips his head back to find Dream staring at him with that piercing gaze once more.

"No? Why?"

"Because you do not smell like yourself." Dream's eyes narrow. Hob's heart jumps in his chest. Shit. Maybe he's gotten a bit nose blind to his own scent.

"I'm not seeing anyone, I promise. I'd tell you if I was." Dream eyes him a moment longer before huffing and turning back to the screen.

"I am not a fragile thing, Hob Gadling," Dream says coolly. "I will survive if you have found a possible mate. It is not as if I am some—some charge you are responsible for, that if you leave, I will shatter. Despite what my sister might claim."

"Dream—"

"And if you have found an alpha you are happy with, then I will be... happy—" his tone is anything but "—for you. But you needn't lie to me when I can smell their scent all over you."

"Their scent..." Hob's hand trails up to his neck, palm resting just above his itching gland.

"Yes. You reek of it. It permeates from you as if you have drowned yourself in it." Dream stands, stepping towards the DVD player but not quite finishing the small journey there. "I will understand if you find yourself with less time for me because of it. It is only natural to want to spend time with the one that makes you happy," he adds on, voice smaller than before.

Hob stands and reaches out, grabbing a hold of Dream's arm. He tenses in Hob's hold but doesn't turn, nor does he pull away.

"Dream, I—There's something I need to tell you." Dream takes a deep breath in as if preparing himself for the inevitable. "I should have told you sooner, I just...I didn't know what you'd think.

"I'm not seeing anyone, that's true, but you're right. This scent you're smelling is new. Guess I've been nose blind to it lately. But it's not anyone else's. It's...it's mine. Well, my new scent, I guess. For this moment of time. It might keep changing, I'm not really sure."

Dream angles his head to stare at Hob from the corners of his eyes, his face confused. Hob smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm transitioning. To an alpha. S'why I smell different. And why a whole bunch of other things about me might soon be...different."

Hob waits. Dream just stares. He can practically see the gears turning in his friend's head.

"Why were you afraid of telling me this?"

Hob lets Dream's arm go and slots his hands in his pockets. He looks down as he speaks. "Dunno. I know after Alex—" Hob sees Dream's muscles in his leg twitch at the name "—you weren't...I thought..." Hob sighs, neck tensing as he struggles against the persistent nagging fear lodged in his chest. "I didn't want you to be afraid of me. I didn't want to scare you off or lose you because you couldn't feel comfortable around me anymore."

"Do you truly believe me to be so weak?"

"That's not what I meant. You're not weak, I've never thought you were weak, Dream. But you can be uncomfortable. I can count the number of alphas you're fine with in close quarters on one hands and three of them are your own family."

"And why would you think you would not immediately be added to that list?"

Hob inhales, breath catching partway. "I...I don't know. Didn't want to presume? Thought maybe you'd find my new scent unbearable or something."

Dream shakes his head. "You are a fool, Hob Gadling." He turns to him fully, eyeing him no longer with doubt or concern, but with a new hunger in his eyes. His nostrils flare again as he takes in Hob's scent properly. Hob smiles when he hears the quiet happy trill in Dream's chest.

"Acceptable smell then?"

"Quite," Dream replies, stepping closer. "In fact, it is possibly the best scent I've smelled from an alpha before."

Hob's heart sings as Dream calls him an alpha. It's the first time he's heard it from someone he knows, someone who's not a doctor or pharmacist. It feels good. Feels right. And then Dream's leaning closer, and Hob can feel his soft cheek against Hob's neck, and his body flares at the touch. Dream rubs his cheek against his skin, scenting him, letting their scents combine.

Hob takes a deep breath and is smacked by a nose full of Dream. It's intoxicating. It's rich and smooth like silk. And it's doing something to his mind that it never did before. His instincts scream at him, tell him to hold, to touch, to claim. His skin ripples with anticipation, and it's torture. And it's this that he was afraid of. That he wouldn't be used to the instincts that come with being an alpha, that he wouldn't be able to resist or wouldn't be used to stopping himself.

He steps back, pushing Dream back by his shoulders. His hands dig into Dream's shirt, and when he sees the hurt expression on his face, Hob wants nothing more than to pull him back close, to comfort his omega.

No. Not his.

"I'm sorry, I..." Hob grimaces as he drops his hands and wraps them around his chest as if it would somehow quell the utter need to bite and to mate. "I should go, I—I don't want to accidentally hurt you."

"What is wrong?"

Hob growls, heat beginning to rise in him "Fuck," he hisses. "I think it's a damn rut. Well. A pre-rut, technically. Not a true one but—" he's cut off as a sharp lance to his side causes him to gasp. He stpes back, falling into the couch. When he looks back up, Dream's eyes are dark.

"That is what I smelled on you. Rut. Or the start of it. No wonder your scent was so strong. Is this your first?" Dream closes the distance, standing between Hob's legs, which does nothing to help the deaire to pull him down into his lap and ravish him.

"Technically," he replies, breathing growing shorter. "It won't last as long, at least it shouldn't. Maybe a day max. But they'll start more frequently until I get my first actual rut." Hob growls once more as that lance of pain shoots through him again.

"Fucking hell," he yells. "Do your heats hurt like this?"

"Sometimes, yes. Though, it is easier if shared with a partner."

Hob squeezes his eyes tight as he rides out the wave of pain. "Yeah? Guess I'm shit out of luck then."

There are hands on his knees, slowly pulling his legs apart. When he opens his eyes, he sees Dream knelt between them looking predatory. "Not quite. I am here, after all."

Hob's breath catches in his throat. "Dream—"

"I know you do not want me for a mate, but it is not uncommon for friends to help one another through ruts and heats—"

"—the fuck do you mean I don't want you for a mate?" Hob cries, his hands cupping Dream's face. Clearly this was not what he expected Hob to say because Dream kneels there, blinking for a moment before continuing.

"You...do? Wish me as a mate?"

Hob laughs. Dream scowls, but Hob just leans forward and presses a light kiss to his forehead. "I've wanted you for years now, Dream."

[They figure their shit out briefly]

[Then Dream rides Hob like a goddamn professional bull-rider. Hob's never come so much in his life. And he even gets the barest hint of a knot going. Dream compliments it and tells Hob he fills him so well, that he can't wait to get Hob's final knot in him and how he looks forward to going on this journey with Hob as well.]

#dreamling #the sandman #ky writes #hob gadling #dream of the endless #omegaverse #BtA Hob Gadling #Omega Dream #trans omegaverse

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lorastyrels · 8 months ago

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some dead boy detectives headcanons:

charles loves it when edwin reads out loud to him, he’s totally content to sit around and have edwin read stories to him for hours at a time

edwin being nervous about very simple pda when they start dating; little things like walking together and holding hands, charles would have to coax him into by rubbing the back of his hand

charles pretends to sleep, just throws himself down on the couch while edwin is reading and closes his eyes even if he physically can’t sleep, edwin never complains

edwin writes down little questions to ask charles after they finish cases, modern things like what microwaves do and what online shopping is and charles is always happy to answer even if they can get a little weird

they take walks together, often at night when they’re not working cases. mainly because charles likes watching the living and how London comes to life at night but also because edwin's love language is time spent together while charles is physical touch

hob absolutely rents their office out for them, has probably run into them too many times in the past 30 years so keeps the place up to date. he also sends cases their way. they're two ghost kids he wants to keep safe and they remind him of himself and dream

edwin would rather hear about charles life when he was alive than tell charles about his own. he likes listening to charles talk about what he enjoyed when he was alive

their first kiss would be in the middle of some petty argument in a graveyard while they're on a case and crystal and niko are late so edwin is complaining about the living again and charles kisses him to shut him up under the moonlight

#dead boy detectives #edwin x charles #I truly cannot get these out of my head so i’m writing them down here because they’ll probably become art ideas later on #literally I keep thinking about these and I have so many more but I have to put them SOMEWHERE before I go insane #i love them so much even if netflix takes them from me I will do things for them foreverrr #I haven't felt this for a ship in so longgg ;-;

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deviantly-inspired · 1 year ago

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Ok so I've seen the idea of food 'made with love' being what Dream enjoys most but I really think we, as a collective fandom, need to lean in more to the idea of it, actually.

We KNOW from the comics that Dream eats food; that he was starving after his freedom. But even though he's hungry, even in the waking world, he won't eat because there's been nothing but bad intentions and malice directed to him for over a hundred years. He's wary. Like a spooked horsed.

But Hob Gadling has always been so unashamedly fond of Dream, that it's... tempting. to indulge.

(it's more than tempting. He's already starving: for dreams for nightmares for softness for sharpness. Hob is the only person Dream knows that he would take any of it from. If Hob were to offer him poison then Dream would take it gladly, if only to have something to fill the void within him. How miraculous it is, then, that Hob would only every offer succor)

So maybe Dream stares at some home-made food that's being eaten on some picnic while they're about. And Hob needles him just a bit, trying to get some information. What all goes into being Dream of the Endless? And Dream enjoys their wordplay and games so he dances around answering but his gaze keeps going back to that soft little picnic, not too far. Hob steers the conversation towards intent, and Dream admits that, yes, he can sense the intent things are made with, before directing the conversation to something a little safer then the art of consuming.

(Dream would take and take and take and take anything that Hob would give him. Even poison. And would thank him for the malaise of it. It is safer, then, to not let even the hint of hunger touch his waking form.)

But Hob didn't get to over 600 by being a slouch on his academics. He's smart. perceptive. He knows people, and Dream is certainly a 'people' even if he's not quite a person. So he makes something simple, that night. A stew maybe, and thinks of his mother's care and simple wishes whispered to the cast iron. love and kitchen magic. Spells for healthy children and a meal that will fill for longer than it should. Hob wonders, to this day, if maybe she was some sort of real witch and not just the magic that all good mothers are. But he can't ask her so he whispers wishes into his potatoes and encourages the bone to seep fully- he's going to be all bones like you if you don't fill him up- and thanks the meat for it's part and imagines it sticking to the inside of whatever Dream calls ribs to keep him going for a bit longer than he might have otherwise.

(there's all sorts of magic in the world. most of it regular folks will never get to touch. but there is a type of magic, the oldest kind, that's alive and well even in the most scientifically inclined people.)

Hob presents this stew casually. There's no fooling Dream though. It's simple appearance does nothing to hide all that was poured into it. The way the vegetables sing of harbors and the meat dreams of comfort. How the broth simmers with comfort and fullness and broken bread over centuries. love thickens the whole of it into something that will last. Something that will stick and keep him full long past when he should be hungry. To fill the most ravenous parts of him. He wants to consume. He cannot.

I shouldn't, Dream says.

It's yours, Hob replies. I made too much anyway. Wouldn't want this to go to waste.

The idea of it wasting, left to rot, a gift returned, is abhorrent. Dream never claimed to abide by the mortal concept of good. He eats the stew, and then the second bowl and then the third. And hob is only too happy to give him more and more and more, until the pot is empty and, still, Dream starves.

I shouldn't, Dream says with his eyes locked on Hob's lips.

I'm yours, Hob replies. I've always been yours. There's enough of me to pour into you, however much you want for however long you want.

I will want you endlessly, Dream warns with what little strength he has. There is nothing in me that does not hunger. I was born of Night most of all and this means that I know what it is to be a black hole, i know what it is to consume everything, even light, and still never be full.

Hob smiles and leans forward and pours himself into Dream's mouth, all of himself, all that he can spare and then more and more and more. He tastes like lightening and warm broth and bread broken under starry skies. It tastes like every daydream Hob has had for 600 years. It tastes like the knowledge that this will last, sticking to the inside of his ribs warming from within bolstering against that which would sap the meat from your bones. It tastes like something that will last.

(the oldest magic across every universe is love, of course. but you knew that already.

All stories return to their original form, after all.)

#dreamling #dev writes

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pandorem · 7 months ago

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Obviously going feral over the Orpheus and Eurydice quote but also can’t get over the fact that Orpheus and Eurydice are real people in this universe. Like Orpheus is literally Dream of the Endless’s son. I don’t have anything insightful to say about it, even via stories repeating and reiterating and that being such an important theme in the Sandman universe and how some truths become stories and some stories are more than true etc etc.

Also now just thinking of Hob mentioning that people have given King Lear a happy ending and Dream saying that it won’t last because all the great stories will return to their original forms (Shakespeare was actually the one to change it to a tragedy, and yes Neil knew this when he wrote that line). Still nothing coherent to say, just about how Charles and Edwin beat the odds and just how much of Dead Boy Detectives is like… a rejection of the queer tragedy we’ve grown so used to. Saw some people groan and comparing it to the mess of Supernatural and superhell etc which is wild to me because it feels like a conscious commentary and rejection of it.

Like. Simon and his internalized homophobia landed both him and Edwin in hell and its both made clear that the in universe reason that they were there is not because they were queer but because of the ritual sacrifice/prank, but that the symbolic and writing reason is because of the internal and external homophobia that the world subjects them to, and it is Simon and Edwin recognizing each other and Edwin saying that the way they are does not mean they deserve to be there, that it doesn’t have to be torture, that gives Simon the way out of hell. It isn’t Edwin confessing that sends him back, a demon interrupts him from confessing. Edwin has to confess at the door back to freedom so he can leave all of that internalized poison behind him back in hell where it belongs.

This post got super away from me and maybe I’ll actually write something coherent about all of these themes one day but yeah. Charles and Edwin at the gates of hell defied the trends of two tragedies, one very very old, and one that (while building off of tragic stories that have been around for ages) is far more recent

#dead boy detectives #edwin payne #payneland #charles rowland #the sandman #also the fact that some of the same people who gave us the superhell clusterfuck is FASCINATING to me #like I know that tv shows are done by many different people even in the writing room and it’s not actually a hive mind #and so many people in the process can have very different opinions on the show they make #so the fact that this feels like an outright rejection of the end of the show that THEY MADE just makes me go eyes emoji a little #dbda

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lenreli · 3 months ago

Text

The Red Line

[AO3]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I fail to see the problem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have not,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

“What type of music?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does try to come after the festival.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Fin]

#dc #the sandman #dreamling #dreamling fanfic #dream x hob #hob x dream #hob x morpheus #lord morpheus #dream of the endless #hob gadling #writing #not sfw #2024 dreamling bingo #finally i get this out #it no longer lives rent-free in my head #i love experimenting with daydreams/proxies dfghfghfg #it's very fun

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pa-nd-em-on-iu-mp-an-da · 1 year ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He feels safe.

He feels content.

He feels loved.

He's happy.

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

I just want the dweebs to all be happy.

Is it so much to ask for??

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five-and-dimes · 8 months ago

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Your Eyes Slay Me Suddenly

Finally get to share my fic for the Spring Exchange! I got assigned @im-not-corrupted, and it's my first time writing a knight au, but I'm really happy with how t turned out, so I hope you like it too! <3

AO3

If you had asked Sir Robert Gadling just a few years ago, he would have told you that he had no plans of settling in any kingdom. Ever since the loss of his dear Eleanor, he had found himself most content in traveling. A sword for hire making his way through the lands, throwing himself into new adventures before inevitably moving on. He escorted nobles and adventurers, he protected priceless treasures, he fought in tournaments for gold and glory, and then he carried on. Each new place brought their own unique experiences and joys, but none so great as to convince him to stay.

Then he entered the kingdom of the Endless.

He had heard rumors of the turmoil the kingdom had gone through in recent times. One of their main allies and trade partners had been brought low by their king’s death and near fatal wounding of the only prince, leaving the prince’s consort to struggle to hold the land together. The loss of protection and major imports left the Endless kingdom vulnerable, and they fell into a period of famine and darkness. However, a few years later saw one of the princes staging a coup, exiling the king and queen as well as a few other members of the royal family, taking the throne for himself.

And King Morpheus brought the realm back to prosperity.

Hob found the land intriguing in a way he hadn’t experienced before. The landscape was lush and vibrant, the kingdom built within the forest as opposed to clearing it away, and even the homes of the lower class were adorned with intricate artwork carved into the door and window frames. When he made his way into a boisterous tavern, he was greeted as though he was coming home, not a newcomer. As the ale flowed, he had tried to learn more about the history of the realm, especially the years when the crown had been taken. What he learned was that, for all the drama that a grab for power like that must have been, to those outside the palace, it had all been very quiet.

“Went to bed one night the same as ever. Next day we woke up, and there was an assembly being called,” An older man explained, leaning heavily on the table, “Standing on the balcony like some angel of death, there was King Morpheus, wearing the crown.” He shook his head, lost in the memory of his astonishment, “The King and Queen have so many kids I never could keep track of ‘em. But I coulda sworn that one was dead,” he shrugged, taking another long swig of his ale, “Guess I was wrong.”

Curiosity thoroughly piqued, Hob was more eager than ever to join an upcoming tournament. As always he enjoyed buddying up with the kingdom’s knights, sharing tales of his travels, learning more about the land he was visiting, placing bets and engaging in friendly banter. He was excited to join the festivities, and to get a closer look at the mysterious king.

As he entered the arena, looking up to the stands, he understood why his drinking companion had called the king an angel. King Morpheus was a spot of darkness amongst the colors of the crowd. The royals and advisors sitting beside him wore rich, deep colored fabrics that shone in the sunlight, but the king himself was garbed all in black. His robes flowed around him, draping over his form and concealing his figure. His collar was buttoned up his neck all the way to his chin, and gloves covered his hands where they lay primly in his lap. Long black hair was braided elegantly and made his face look even paler, as though he had never seen the sun before. The gold circlet with ruby accents on his head was the only color Hob could make out on his figure.

He was beautiful.

Hob was never one to deny his ego, and he always aimed to impress when he competed, but on this day he forgot about the crowd. There was only one person he hoped to impress with each swing of his weapon or shot of his bow. The days of the tournament passed, and he couldn’t help but glance up up up to the King after each success, hoping desperately to be noticed. And his pride clearly paid off, because when the tournament ended, as Hob collected his winnings and made his way towards the feast, he was approached by an elegant figure. Her waistcoat was perfectly tailored and a deep purple which made her dark skin seem to glow. But her poise and demeanor gave away her station far more than the richness of her clothing. Delicate spectacles sat on the bridge of her nose, and her posture was proud and sure, looking down on Hob without seeming to look down on him.

“You performed very admirably, Sir…” she stated, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Robert Gadling,” he bowed in greeting, grinning.

“You are new to these parts, yes?”

“Aye, I am a traveler.”

“Just passing through, then?”

“Unless I am given a reason to stay.”

She gave him a reason.

The King had in fact noticed him, had been pleased by his performance, and was looking to grow the order of knights protecting the castle grounds. Though a few years had passed, he was still new enough to the throne to be vulnerable to attempts to usurp him. And he wanted Hob to join. Hob had no intention of turning down an opportunity to be closer to the dark shadow of a king.

It did not occur to him until much later that he hadn’t even needed to think about it before deciding to settle here, in the Endless Kingdom. He moved onto the castle grounds, and he kneeled before King Morpheus and swore an oath, and the king looked down at him with glittering eyes. Hob felt like a madman for all the things he wanted, but he felt a little less mad when, before the season even had a chance to change, he was selected as the King’s personal guard.

“If I may ask,” Hob could not help but inquire, standing watch as the King worked in his study, “Why me? There must be knights whom you are more familiar with.” He was one of the newest in the order, and yet it was he who stood at the king’s side.

The King barely glanced at him, continuing his elegant penmanship, “I am interested.”

“In me?” Hob felt his traitorous heart flutter.

Here, King Morpheus did look at him, something sly and mischievous in his eyes, “In your experience.” Slowly and deliberately, he put his quill down, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands in his lap, “Tell me, sir Gadling,” Hob shivered every time he heard his name on those lips, “of your travels. Tell me of your life.”

And, well. Hob would never deny a command from his king.

Although he would not deny… editing, occasionally. Never lying, of course, he wouldn’t dare. But he saw no harm in skipping the less flattering parts- the years lost to drinking his grief away, the times he tripped over his own feet learning to charge in heavy armor- and only slightly embellishing his victories. Morpheus always listened with rapt attention, as though Hob’s tales were the most interesting things he had ever heard. Perhaps, Hob considered, they were.

“It seems you have always been a capable warrior, Sir Gadling,” Morpheus smiled as he delicately ate his breakfast, Hob leaning against the wall beside him as he finished the most recent recounting of his exploits.

“Had to learn fast,” he grinned, “Some of us have to get roughed up if we want to keep you royals so soft and pretty.”

At first, he thinks he has said something wrong, because Morpheus’ head snaps up to look at him, eyes sharp and calculating. But a moment later, his body softens, like an exhale, and there is a pleased smile on his face, and Hob knows that he has said something right.

“I do not remember that part of your oath,” he says teasingly, “a vow to keep me soft and pretty.”

“It was unspoken,” Hob replies immediately, “Took one look at you and knew a delicate thing like you needed a skilled sword and shield at your side.”

“And it seems I chose well,” he sits up a little straighter, almost preening, “I trust a knight of your strength and… stature,” Hob felt his cheeks warm as Morpheus blatantly looked him up and down, “will have no trouble protecting my integrity.”

“With my life, my lord,” he gives a half bow, and when their eyes meet he is certain that something is there.

It became a regular part of their time together, after that. Time passes with Hob telling his stories, and Morpheus fluttering his eyelashes at what a rough and adventurous life he’s led, and Hob gently teasing about the soft and cushioned life he’s led. The contrast between them was exhilarating, and each time the king leaned into it was a bolt of excitement to Hob’s bloodstream. If Hob had his way, King Morpheus would never have to lift a finger. As he accompanied him through the castle, from his chambers to the throne room to the dining hall and back again, he opened every door for him with a deep bow. He would lift the king’s fork to his lips if allowed.

Morpheus does not seem to mind. For all that he is known as a stoic and cold king to those outside of the palace, each day Hob sees his little smiles, and the laughter in his eyes as Hob bends over backwards for him.

On this day, Hob thinks he might be the first knight tasked to pick blackberries for his king. Morpheus sits on a stone bench in the shade of the garden as Hob diligently fills a bowl with the ripe fruit, occasionally glancing back to see Morpheus’ warm, amused smile.

“It would be a shame to stain such finary,” he had claimed, eyes crinkling slightly in restrained mirth, turning to show off the glimmer within the fabric of his clothes.

“Oh of course,” Hob teased in return, “We wouldn’t want our precious king to get his hands dirty.” He bowed, taking the king’s gloved hand to kiss his knuckles. His skin was covered by such fine leather, he could only imagine how butter soft the skin beneath it must be.

King Morpheus smirked down at him, “You earn your keep well, my knight.”

“Anything to be kept by you,” he winked.

The only response is a silent huff of laughter, but Hob cherishes it all the same. As he stands, he holds a berry out between his fingers, “Perhaps you should test them. Make sure they are up to your standards.”

His eyelashes flutter, a coy smile on his lips as he leans forward, and Hob may have started it but he was unprepared for the feeling of his king’s mouth wrapping around his fingers, plucking the fruit from his hand before pulling back with a soft swipe of his tongue. Hob feels himself shudder as Morpheus hums in pleasure.

“Yes,” he purrs, “delightful.”

“Is that so?” Hob feels his heart beating wildly in his chest, but he feels confident and daring as he leans in closer, “Perhaps I should get a taste myself.” He thinks that no fruit on earth would compare to being able to lick the taste from Morpheus’ lips.

But he will never know if he is right. Before he has a chance, he lays his hand on Morpheus’ waist, only to have his wrist gripped tightly and torn away.

“Do not-” The hissed words are cut off so abruptly that Hob can hear the click of Morpheus’ teeth as his mouth snaps shut. His eyes are steely, stepping back to put himself out of Hob’s reach. It is so far and away from any interaction they have had before that Hob feels as though he has whiplash.

There is a moment's pause where Morpheus seems to be waiting for him to speak, and it is only then that Hob remembers their respective ranks, “I apologize, my liege,” he bows deeply, the formality feeling wrong. This is not who they are to each other. Or so he thought.

He glances up just in time to catch the way Morpheus’ throat bobs as he swallows thickly, “I have been away from my work long enough. Deliver what you have harvested to the kitchens and then rejoin me in my study.” He leaves no room for a response, turning on his heels and stalking away, heedless of the fact that they are not meant to be separated this way. Hob’s job is to watch over him. But, after watching his king’s back disappear back into the castle, he does as he is told.

His thoughts are a storm as he passes the fruit off to the kitchen staff, dragging his feet to delay his return to Morpheus’ side. King Morpheus has always been vocal about fighting tradition- about making a better realm, even if it meant going against the “old ways”- and Hob had, foolishly perhaps, assumed that meant that Morpheus would not be against marrying outside his station.

Apparently he was wrong.

Arriving outside the study door, Hob feels his heart burn. With rejection, yes, and grief, certainly, but also with anger. Anger at the king’s hypocrisy, his arrogance and conceit, to think so lowly of Hob as to toy with his feelings and then snub his touch. As though Hob’s hands would somehow taint his royal figure.

Well, Hob refused to be ashamed. He was proud of his rank and status, he was proud of his life, and no man or king would make him feel lesser. So when he walked into the room, he held his head high, and kept his eyes cold.

Morpheus glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but did not say anything.

The weeks following are tense. At first, Morpheus seemed to try to restart their flirtatious banter, but Hob refused to engage. He was not a toy for the king to play with as he pleased and then shove away when he got too bold. In another kingdom, Hob thinks he might have been executed for the glare he sent the lord’s way. But Morpheus only sighed and looked away, and eventually stopped trying. Their days were now filled with tense silences as they walked together.

Hob is seriously considering leaving Morpheus’ order to continue his travels on the day the assassination attempt happens. He is overseeing a trial between two nobles, something about one of them infringing on the other's land, Hob hadn’t really been paying attention. In hindsight, the two seem more amicable with each other than one would expect for a dispute to reach the point of coming before the king, but at the time Hob had just been grateful that it was a quiet day.

“My King, I have some evidence that I believe may sway you in my favor,” one of them announced.

Morpheus, with varying success, did try to keep from being too far above his people. As such, it was not unusual for him to stand and approach the noble when he gestured him forward, presumably to show or explain something to win his case. Hob, as usual, is only a step behind him. It is because of that that he catches the glint of metal in the noble’s hand within his robe.

With a wordless cry, Hob lunges forward, shoving Morpheus roughly to the ground to step in front of him. There is a loud clang as the noble’s dagger connects with Hob’s gauntlet. His eyes are wide at Hob’s speed, and he has no time to react before Hob’s fist makes contact with his nose, blood spraying as he collapses. Around them, the rest of the knights in the room rush into action, restraining both nobles and sweeping the room for any hidden danger.

With the threat so swiftly taken care of, Hob is free to look down at where the king was sprawled, dark fabric pooling around him as he pushes himself up, dark hair concealing half his face. They look at each other, the adrenalin of the moment still rushing through both of them.

“Are you alright, my liege?” Hob asks softly, holding a hand out.

Morpheus nods slowly, taking his hand and allowing Hob to pull him to his feet, “I am. Thanks to you.”

As they stand, hands still clasped for a moment longer than necessary, Hob realizes that he has missed Morpheus. Perhaps he cannot have everything that he wants so desperately. But if this is all he can have, well. At least he can have this.

“Of course,” he smirks, “I did swear to keep you soft and pretty, remember?”

He means it as an olive branch, a remembered joke between them to show that they can still be more than simply knight and king, even if they cannot be more. He does not mean to make Morpheus’ eyes fill with tears.

“Yes,” his voice cracks, “Of course.”

Hob is not given a chance to respond- not that he knows how to respond at all- before the king is turning away, calling for his advisor, Lady Lucienne, the one who had first approached Hob about his position within the court. The two convene quietly for a moment before Morpheus orders the knights present, including Hob, to take the two traitors away to be questioned and search the grounds for any other suspects.

It feels wrong to leave the king’s side. Hob feels a desperate need to watch over him, to keep him safe and protected, to wipe away the tears that look so perilously close to falling. But he has been given his orders, and the king and lady are already moving to sequester themselves somewhere private to discuss what to do with the situation. So, with one last look back, he goes to fulfill his duty.

Hours later, when the palace is confidently secure and the traitors are under lock and key, Hob feels no less anxious to be at his king’s side. He was told to return to his own quarters, to rest for the night, and he did try at first, setting his armor aside and laying in bed to try to calm the burning in his heart. But there is no rest to be found here, and soon he finds himself walking purposefully through the halls in his casual clothing, a decision he only regrets when he finds himself faced unexpectedly with the king’s advisor.

Lady Lucienne is exiting the room just as he approaches the king’s chambers. Still half in the doorway, she raises an eyebrow at the clearly off-duty knight before her, and Hob freezes, feeling like a child caught stealing sweets.

“Sir Gadling,” she greets cooly, “I did not expect to see you so late. I thought you were resting,” she raised an eyebrow at him pointedly.

“Yes, m’lady,” he bows his head, but tries to continue awkwardly, “I simply could not rest, and wished to check to ensure the king was well after the attack today.”

“He is well,” she answers shortly, “so you may-“

“Lucienne,” a deep voice calls out from within the room, “he may enter.”

Frowning, Lucienne gives Hob a quick narrow-eyed look before re-entering the room, closing the door behind her and leaving the knight alone in the hallway. He waits awkwardly as a hushed conversation happens behind the door. Finally, Lucienne emerges once more, still eying him warily, but opening the door wider to allow him entry into the king’s chamber. As he enters, he is surprised when she exits, closing the door again to leave him alone in the room with Morpheus.

The room is grand, as expected for a king, and Morpheus sits primly on the edge of the large, ornate bed in the center. He is no longer wearing the extravagant, heavy garb that he dons in public. His current night robe, while as dark and elegant as all of his attire, is also thinner and more lightweight. It is also… revealing. The silky fabric contrasts sharply with his pale, nearly white skin, and for the first time, Hob is granted the sight of his king’s forearms, his neck, the jut of his collar bones, his calves. And with it, he is granted the sight of countless scars.

Dark, rough scar tissue circles both his wrists like bracelets, a matching ring around his neck. There are some marks that Hob recognizes as blade wounds, and others that he thinks might be burns. They criss-cross over each other and dip below his robe, suggesting that what he is seeing is only a fraction of what exists. All of the marks look old. It does not make them look any less painful.

Hob feels his mouth open, the breath rushing out of him as though he has been struck. He can tell, he knows, that the scars are old enough to have been made long before Hob ever met Morpheus. Still, he feels a strange sense of failure. As though it is his fault for not meeting Morpheus in time to protect him.

When he finally raises his gaze, he finds Morpheus looking at him, patiently waiting for Hob to finish his inspection. Hob opens his mouth, but cannot find any words that might soften whatever is happening right now.

Finally, Morpheus speaks, “Once, I was a prince. And now, I am a king.” His voice holds the gravity of an execution, and the sorrow of bowing his own neck beneath the blade, “But there was a time, in between, when I was neither.”

Hob takes another shaking step into the room. There is something dreamlike in the situation, an anticipation, a feeling of falling. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Morpheus turns his eyes forward to stare at one of the large landscape paintings he’d commissioned from a local artist, “I was sixteen when I was taken,” he states plainly, as though his words don’t gut Hob to the core, “It was… easy. For them to steal me away. Far too easy, even for an unloved spare like myself. As if it had been allowed.” He pauses, but keeps his face carefully smooth and neutral, “I still do not know for certain. Whether I was stolen or given away.” His next words are spoken more to himself than to Hob, “Perhaps it does not matter.”

Everything in Hob wants to move closer, to hold his king and shield him with his body, as though the past was an arrow aimed for his heart that Hob could stand in the way of. And yet, he feels frozen. Feet rooted to the ground by a pain so great even his strong and stoic king cannot keep it from his voice.

“When my blindfold was removed, I found myself brought before King Burgess.”

And now, Hob gasps, a too-loud inhale in the heavy tension of the room. Morpheus looks at him, his body stiff and his face still carefully empty.

Hob feels like he can’t breathe, “How…” his voice cracks desperately, “How long were you there?” He might be making a mistake by asking, by speaking at all during this tale, but he has to know. He has to.

“I was kept as a secret treasure for ten years,” Morpheus reveals bluntly. “I escaped my imprisonment roughly six years ago.”

The timeline stretches before Hob’s eyes, and he wants to weep.

“I was there,” Hob exhales in horror. Morpheus’ blinks, eyes blank and not understanding. “I… Ten years ago, I…” his throat feels like it is closing, but he forces the words out, “Burgess’ kingdom was one of the first I traveled to after I lost Eleanor. I was raised in the land neighboring it. I was there for nearly a year, drinking and fighting and participating in tournaments to distract myself from grief. I was offered a place in his court but I. Declined.” He takes half a step back, and then a full step forward when he sees the way the motion makes his king’s face fall. “I was right there,” he whispers.

“I doubt you could have done much,” Morpheus replied, turning his face to look at the wall again, “I was not flaunted before his people, or even the rest of his court. Only a select few knew of my presence beneath his castle. He…” his voice trailed off, and his eyes glimmered as tears began to well. But he stubbornly blinked them back, “It does not matter,” he says again, even softer.

Hob wants to scream that it does matter, of course it matters. But his king looks so wounded right now, and it has nothing to do with the scars. So for now he waits, and lets Morpheus tell him no more than what he is ready to share.

“Eventually,” he continues, his voice steady once more, “the prince’s consort grew pitying. I am sure when he released me he expected me to simply run. But I had more than earned my right to vengeance.” His hands clenched into fists in his lap, “Burgess was almost too easy. He had grown old and careless. He was not so powerful as he thought himself when I was in chains. I spared his son the killing blow only out of gratitude to his consort.”

The stories of the fall of the Burgess Kingdom make much more sense now, with this information, and even the decline of the Endless kingdom who had for so long been allies with them.

“It took me some time to return to my home kingdom. I was weak, and needed to heal and regain my strength. I also gathered allies. Lady Lucienne, Sir Matthew, among others. My family was not expecting my return, and so it was easy to claim the throne for myself. My parents I exiled, along with their supporters. My siblings I allowed the freedom to do as they wished. And what they wished was to leave.”

A few of the king’s siblings had visited in Hob’s time at his side, but never for long. Hob ached at the pain he saw now. The pain of being abandoned so quickly after his return.

“And a few years later…” Morpheus’ gaze was heavy as he looked at Hob once more, “a traveling knight competed in a tournament, and caught my eye.”

Hob still remembers that day so vividly, the dark shadow of the king, the way he was too far for Hob to see his eyes and yet he fantasized about them looking at him. His heart swells in his chest to know that they were. And now he is here, stepping towards his king, his friend, the man he has stood beside for nearly two years now, and he cannot help but ask, “Why did you not tell me this before?”

When Morpheus sighs, it is heavy, and Hob thinks that a lesser man would have crumpled under the weight of the despair in that single breath.

“The parts of me that appeal to you…” he explains slowly, “being… soft. And pretty, and delicate, and pure…” he keeps his head high and shoulders back and it does not make him look any less ashamed, “they are all a fantasy. The reality is that I have long been. Damaged. And sullied.” Almost unconsciously, he brought one hand up to clutch at his robe, holding it closed just a little tighter, “Perhaps it was cruel of me to deceive you in such a way, but our games… brought me comfort. I could pretend, even if just for the briefest times, that it was true. That I was someone you could want.”

Eyes fluttering closed, he sighed, “I thought. If I could have nothing else. I could at least have that.”

His voice is so even, despite how soft it has grown, barely audible in the expansive room. He speaks as though reciting history- something that has already passed and cannot be altered. A tragedy that cannot be changed.

When Hob moves towards him, it is barely conscious. It is like floating down a river, like gravity, a force of nature that perhaps he could fight against if he wanted to. But he does not want to. And so he moves to his king and he kneels, and he did not know it was possible, but it feels even more right now than it has every time he has kneeled before. Morpheus looks at him, the slightest furrow in his brow, confused, surprised, strangely lost. Hob takes his hand, as he has countless times before, and for the first time feels the rough calluses on his fingers. He kisses his knuckles, and his lips brush his bare skin for the very first time. Morpheus gasps, silent, and Hob would have missed it had his eyes not been fixed on his king’s face.

And then he continues. He brings his lips to the ring of scar tissue around his bony wrist, kissing first the outside, then the inside, leaning forward to continue kissing up his arm. There is a part of him that is appalled at his daring- this is his king, he has no right to take such liberties. But there is a much larger part that is desperate to prove him wrong. He has sworn an oath to protect this man. In this moment, he wants to protect him from his own expectations.

And so he pushes himself up, still holding Morpheus’ hand as his lips trail over the landscape of texture across his skin. He kisses over the fabric of his robe, not pushing it aside, not asking Morpheus to reveal any more than he already has. He stands until he is, like blasphemy, looming over his king, leaning down to kiss along the rope of scarring along his neck. He feels, more than hears, the way Morpheus gasps as his lips caress his skin.

“No game could compare to the reality of you,” Hob breathes against his skin, letting his tongue lightly trace the texture of him, “You do not need to pretend that you are wanted.” Leaning back, he finds his king staring at him with wide, watery eyes, and Hob allows himself a moment to sweep his gaze down his figure in appreciation, “Look at you,” he whispers, “Look at how much you’ve survived.”

He brings his free hand up to cup Morpheus’ cheek, and his king still looks disbelieving, and so what can he do but lean in and kiss him. When their lips meet, it feels like the inevitability of dawn after a long dark night, like everything was meant to lead them here. They move their lips together slowly, softly, until the taste of salt blooms between them. Hob pulls back, and Morpheus drifts after him, tears streaming down his face. And for all that he has been through, he looks at Hob as though this, this love and wanting, is what will finally undo him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hob kisses the tears from his cheeks, even as Morpheus shakes his head.

“I am not.”

Hob tuts softly, “You are.”

Feeling emboldened by his love, by a love he now understands is returned, he pushes gently at Morpheus’ shoulder, guiding him down to lay on the soft, rich fabric of his bed. Morpheus’ eyes are wide when he moves to straddle him, but he does not push him away. His hands hover over his hips hesitantly, and that is the moment Hob stops worrying about this being his king. Right now, this is just Morpheus, who has been torn apart, and pieced himself back together, and pushed Hob away because he was so certain he would not be wanted as he is. And Hob wants him, and so there is nothing more important than leaning down to kiss every inch of exposed skin.

“You are so strong,” Hob whispers, pressing his lips to the rough skin of his neck again, “but you have protected yourself for long enough. Let me, now.”

“Hob,” Morpheus’ voice is breathless, his hands finally come to clutch at his tunic, “I…”

“I have sworn an oath to you, my king,” he kisses the burns along his collar bones, “And I would swear another to you, my friend,” he kisses the raised scars on his chest, “and yet another for you, my love.”

Slowly he kisses down to his stomach, where he feels Morpheus tense and shudder even through his robe. Morpheus is breathing heavily beneath him, gasps and sobs and moans as Hob touches him all over. He tugs at Hob’s tunic and Hob obliges, tugging it over his head and reveling in the way Morpheus stares up at him, his tears slowing and his throat bobbing as he swallows at the sight of Hob’s muscled chest, his body hair broken up by ropes of scars from his years of knighthood.

Hob takes Morpheus’ hand, calluses caressing calluses, and leans down to settle his weight on top of him. He pressed their chests together, pale and scarred against tan and scarred. “See?” Hob whispered against his ear, “We match.”

Morpheus’ breath hitches, and his hand clings tighter to Hob’s. He does not let go for the rest of the night, even after they have finished their gentle rutting and have both stained the insides of their clothes. He allows Hob to use his own shirt to clean them both, and to wipe his tears away, and to curl around him beneath the covers, but he does not let go.

In the dark, Hob kisses each of his fingers, “Would that I could protect you from the things that have already happened,” he whispers, “But I swear to you, my beautiful Morpheus, that no new scars shall adorn your skin while I am here to prevent it.”

He feels fresh tears fall against his skin, and he knows it will take time for Morpheus to truly believe his words. Hob will slowly reveal the parts of his past that he had edited out, and Morpheus will do the same, and eventually they will lay together with no fabric between them, and Morpheus will still cry at the kindness and the love and the want in Hob’s eyes, and that will be okay. For now, they sleep in the safety of each other's arms.

And in the morning, Hob will help Morpheus dress, kissing up his body as he buttons his robe until he is once more fully covered, kissing his lips as he fastens the last button.

#the sandman #dreamling #my writing #spring exchange #knight au

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