#now in my dream world?

[nururu]

Everyone huge News!!!!! I had my first dirty Zoro dream last night 😏 I deserve celebrations from everyone.

[faespacecritter]

Maybe choose your words more carefully Narinder

[felassan]

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[gummi-ships]

Kingdom Hearts 0.2 Birth by Sleep - A Fragmentary Passage - Castle Town

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

this is so self indulgent... I wanted to draw my ideal Nadder. the Nadder i would want. im obsessed with her

even more indulgent cringe:

[cerise-on-top]

141 if reader gifted them a pet tortoise (or turtle if you prefer) :D /nf

— 🦗 (hi simon!!!!! yes i'm still here (and always will be)- i loved the post you did for my other request!! it was amazing (no duh) , love your writing style as always 💗 have a good day and no pressure!!!!! you don't have to do this or answer this ask either)

Hey, cricket anon! I'm glad you're still here, I was worried you wouldn't be :D Also, this is probably my favorite request I've ever worked on! I love turtles so much, it's unreal! And I love my favorite lads with my favorite animals! Nothing's better than the TF141 with a turtle or tortoise!!

TF141 Receiving a Pet Turtle from Reader

Price: Oh, bless your sweet heart. What could he possibly be doing with a little turtle, though? In fact, it won’t even leave its shell while he’s holding it. Sure, he could understand something like a dog, to keep him active, or a cat, to argue about food with, but a turtle? And yet, he’s completely enamored, even if he can barely see it. You say that it’s a box turtle, and it is rather pretty, he has to admit. It almost looks toxic with its red-ish, yellow-ish and black shell. But it shut itself in completely. As soon as you take it from his hands, it peeks out from its shell, staring at him. You’re holding it like a rather large burger, which he finds kind of funny. It’s a staring contest between the two of them at first, both of them just confused about the other. Price may claim that he has no use for a turtle, but you insist on him having it. You leave him with all the necessities to make sure it grows up to be a healthy specimen: worms and calcium. Naturally, with you being an expert in turtles, you help him out from time to time. Surprisingly, despite everything, it takes a liking to him fairly quickly. He’s very loving towards it, always feeding it just a worm or two too much, always giving it pats and whatnot. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he sometimes brushed it with a toothbrush as well, making it dance a little bit. He was hesitant to love it at first, would he really be a good keeper for a turtle? But his worries were unfounded, his turtle loves him to bits. Sometimes he plays around with it too. Sometimes, it ignores him playing and just walks up to him. It has bitten his nose before, by the way. Sometimes, while he takes a nap, he lets it sleep on top of his chest. Yes, it’s peed on him before, but he still loves it dearly. I can see him naming it something like Shelly. He’s not too creative with names.

Gaz: He’d be ecstatic if you show him a turtle. He loves those little critters, they’re just so cute. He can name a few as well, so he immediately knows that you gave him a red-eared slider! But what should he do with it? When you tell him that it’s a gift from you to him, he grows a bit concerned. Would he really be able to take good care of his little turtle? On the same day, he immediately buys a rather big tank and sets it up for the little critter. He lets it explore around his home during the meantime, but he did attach a helium filled balloon to it so he wouldn’t lose it. He always keeps the tank clean, he always feeds it on time. Though, because he loves it so much, he might feed it a little too much from time to time. Sometimes he’ll argue with it that it shouldn’t be such a glutton. In all honesty, as soon as you told him that that turtle was his, he immediately became protective of it. It wasn’t scared of him either, he just has an aura of calm and love that makes animals trust him. Little Mikey was no exception to that either. Though, Gaz doesn’t know if Mikey is actually a male or a female. He just called it Mikey because he liked the name and thought it to be fitting. If Gaz could, then he’d give it so many kisses, but he can’t because of salmonella, so he settles for brushing it on the daily instead. It’s not uncommon for Gaz and Mikey to be relaxing on the couch together, watching TV. Yes, Gaz has watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with it, claiming that Mikey needed some good role models. Whenever he has guests over he proudly shows off little Mikey. It’s his pride and joy and he sends you pictures of it on the daily, showing you how much he’s thriving. When Gaz is sad, he just watches Mikey bask in the light of his little lamp. It makes him feel better. Sometimes, Gaz wishes he was a turtle too so he could do turtle things with Mikey, that’s how much he loves it.

Ghost: He feels neutral about most animals, aside from snakes, which he is deathly afraid of. So I think he wouldn’t want to take the little tortoise you’re offering him initially. Ghost doesn’t know anything about tortoises, so he’s certain he’d just kill it. Not that he’d get that attached to it in the first place, he’s got better things to do. The two of you make a deal that if the turtle isn’t being taken care of properly, you’ll come to retrieve it and take care of it instead of him. That’s the thing with Ghost, though: He always tries his best to appease the people he loves, no matter what. He wanted to appease you by taking good care of it. In his case, you gave him a somewhat endangered little critter, a hermann’s tortoise. Ghost doesn’t know that at first. Yes, the resident edgelord may pretend to not care about it too much at first, but he gets attached fairly easily. It’s just so small and so young and so fragile. His protector instincts are kicking in whenever he sees it. I mean, when he got it, it was smaller than a pack of cigarettes. However, under his care, it’s thriving. It grows into such a big and healthy specimen. Ghost bought several books on how to care for turtles and tortoises and he makes sure that it’s always fed and entertained. He named it Nike. One could argue that he named it after the Greek goddess, but he actually named it after the shoe company. He just took the first best thing he saw and decided that it made for a good name. Nike has fallen asleep in his hands before. Ghost is a very warm person with very warm hands. Besides, Nike felt comfortably cool in his hands, so he dared not to move and wake it up either. People may look at it, but no one but you and him are allowed to touch it. He cuddles it fairly often and it doesn’t seem to mind either. Whenever Ghost is home and in its field of view, it immediately crawls up to him. It loves him so dearly. It has escaped its enclosure before, but instead of running away it ran towards Ghost. He could never scold it, so he just wrapped it in a blanket and cuddled with it on the couch.

Soap: Soap was certain he could go for something bigger, but not too big. When you said you’d get him an animal, he expected something along the lines of a dog. He never would have considered a reptile. Sure, they’re cute, but what could he possibly do with something like that? Either way, back at home, he has a rather big yard and lots of greenery. And thus, you gift him a sulcata tortoise. It was fairly small when you got it and he didn’t really think much of it. However, within a year he noticed that he’d likely need to build a small shed for it or else it’ll outgrow his home. And that he did. His tortoise is a little rascal. Like Gaz, he doesn’t know if it’s a male or a female, he just named it Bonnie because it reminded him of you. It’s not uncommon for Bonnie to eat the flowers from the bushes, or the flowers in general. His mother would have killed him for it, but Soap lives alone these days. Soap scolds Bonnie very often because it keeps eating everything in his garden. But he lovingly scolds it, there’s no malice whatsoever behind his words. He actually also works out so that he’ll always be able to carry it home if it strays too far. Soap is a strong lad, but Bonnie is a great motivator as well. He often feeds her all kinds of dubious vegetables he’s found in the store, before trying them himself. I mean, if the tortoise eats it, then it can’t be bad, right? He celebrates the day you gave it to him by making it a big platter of lots and lots of snacks. Soap even arranges the food nicely so that it’s eye candy as well. He takes so many pictures of Bonnie, it’s unreal. And yes, he sends each and every single one of them to at least one person. You’ve received so many turtle pics. Ghost has probably blocked him for a day or two because Soap kept spamming him with blurry pictures of Bonnie. Sometimes, while it’s basking in the sun, he just lies down next to it and takes a small nap. Loves spraying Bonnie with the hose, it gets so demanding with the water. It always wants to be sprayed with water and Soap lovingly scolds it that it doesn’t need to be sprayed any more.

[yuwuta]

PLS PLS PLSSSSS keep talking about kids with olympic athletes! gojo and nanami pls pls pls i have to Know. everything u wrote about yuuta was already so so cute

(prev olympics au here)

the gojo twins are hilarious because your baby boy looks exactly like satoru, but has very little of his personality—it seems like the only things he inherited was satoru’s love for sweets and love for you. still, even though he’s a strong swimmer, he much prefers to relax in his floaties alongside you if you’re also in the pool, or chill by your side on a lounge chair, glasses too big for his face keeping the sun out of his eyes as he shares his smoothie with you, and asks to borrow your phone to take pictures of his sister and daddy in the pool. 

your baby girl on the other hand… she might have your face but she’s got satoru’s everything else—his competitive streak, his confidence, and definitely his mischievous nature. she’s the one who tiptoes into your bedroom at five in the morning, tapping at her daddy’s shoulders, and putting her little finger over his lip to shush him before he can wake you up; she’s always the one to convince satoru to take her swimming the backyard at the crack of dawn, and why by the time you and your baby boy wake up, she and satoru are already past warm up laps and swimming lessons and onto who can make the splashiest canonball competitions (she always wins because while her tiny body can endure a belly flop, satoru’s years of training physically doesn’t allow him to do it… and maybe because he’s not so competitive when it comes to his baby girl, he’ll always let her win). 

kento’s professional judo career honestly doesn’t last very long. after his first olympic games, you two start dating and he proposes just after he wins gold the second time he’s in the olympics; he does maybe two more years of national competitions while you’re pregnant, and decides that the intense training for the next two years in preparation of a third olympic competition isn’t worth missing time he could spend with you or your baby girl—plus, with all the money he’s made from competitions, winning gold medals, brand ambassadorships, commercials, and collaborations, he had enough money to provide for all of your for the rest of your lives. so, that’s what he does (his dream has always been to be a househusband, anyway...) his previous salaryman career comes in handy when deciding how to invest his money, how to buy a house, how to take care of his friends, how to set up a fund for your daughter, and an extra account or two… just incase more babies come along… 

by the time your baby girl is four, she’s already kento’s biggest fan. she loudly and proudly proclaims to everybody that her daddy was basically superman and won all the shiny trophies and medals in the house from when he was being a superhero. if anyone recognizes kento when they’re out together, she always confirms their suspicions, proudly boasting, “yeah kento is my daddy! he’s a winner!” it always makes kento’s heart swell to hear her praise. he doesn’t compete professionally anymore, but he does train from time to time, and has taken on a few mentees, and your daughter LOVES to watch him coach/train. she’s got her own uniform that she always puts on whenever they go to the gym together, and gets so excited when kento or ino or yuuji pretend to spar with her. 

she’s honestly kento’s mini figure. she’s respectful and reserved, but strong and knows when to fight and how to use her voice. there’s a time when he gets a call from her school saying that she got in a fight, the principal frames it as your daughter needlessly pushing around an older kid, but your daughter is certain in her words when she tells her dad that it was because the kid was being mean to the younger kids, and to her. kento doesn’t say a word to the teachers—doesn’t even fight them sending her home early for the day, because he’s happy to scoop her up and take her out for ice cream and tell her that he’s proud of her.

[cator99]

out of curiosity, would you consider yourself butch?

used to be a blonde underweight twink and now I'm a based jock still got the chanel bag and the sick albeit matured mind of a suckpig to prove it so I'm gonna let you decide whether you wanna call me that word just cuz I got a pussy and short hair. I promise you that there have been enough advancements made in the art of lesbian sexual dynamics in the past 50 years to broaden the vocabulary used to describe the plethora of types of masculine females.

[oceans-beloved]

Meme dump yayyy🥳✨️

(off to make more now muhahaha >:3)

[luck-of-the-drawings]

smth smth about 'the thing that the character did that you thought was rly rly funny in the moment is actually linked to a terrible trauma that lies within said character.' or wahtever.

[pixelchills]

The reason I chose El Chip as the villain for ANSSW the Prequel and to MDD is not because I actually chose to, but I once had a dream I was getting married to Sun and Moon and they wanted to hold our wedding ceremony in A BEAVER THEMED THEME-PARK

And I got so wet from the rides it wasn't even funny, and thus I just think beavers are manipulative and evil.

[cherrirui-official]

A collection of totally normal Boisona doodles while I try to get back into the swing of things lol

@saltydkart-reblogs

I don't rlly have anything to add here but while I'm here I might as well repost some other saltydkdan related shitposts in the cut while I'm here bc it would be a waste to leave them all on my now abandoned twitter account lol

[sluckythewizard]

had this thought rotating in my mind since arthur had to wear that Anti-Sun disguise. and well. now u see it too

[gummi-ships]

Kingdom Hearts Dream Drop Distance - The World That Never Was

[louielle]

TO JE ZÁZRAK

JSME MISTŘI SVĚTA

JSME MISTŘI SVĚTA PO 14 LETECH!!!!!

JE TO TAM!!!!!

DOHÁJE JE TO TAM!!!

JE TO DOMA!!!!🇨🇿🥇

[cuubism]

A little headcannon that has been stewing in my head for a while and has absolutely no proof from the cannon

Death has wings right? What if Dream used to have wings too but when his kingdom got invaded for the first time(that story he tells in the Overture) the invaders cut his wings off. That's the part of the reason why he crafted his helm and why's he so dependent on it. They took his wings so he took their skull and a spine, an eye for an eye kind of situation. Also, that's when Dream first started employing a raven. He still has scars on his shoulder blades that follow him to any form he takes. He's ashamed of them, sees them as a sign of weakness, a reminder of his failure and his flaws and goes to great lengths to cover them up. That's about it, but I'd love to hear what you think of it^-^

(Plus: Hob gently running his hands over the scars, showing Dream his own ones and reassuring him that there's nothing broken, or wrong with him)

NO BUT THIS IS SO ANGSTY I LOVE IT. i love suffering

i feel like a permanent injury like that would have to be done to dream's core essence, such as it is, rather than his 'physical form' - i don't know if dream's physical form in the waking world or other realms can even be hurt like that. it would have to be like, something that deeply wounds the dreaming, or the concept of dreaming, or just like the deepest core of dream as an 'entity' rather than it being a physical wound. (this is leading me on a mental tangent about injuries to large groups of dreamers also injuring dream, like, extinction events and such, but that's for another time).

you managed to rope me into it, congrats XD

content warning for blood, gore, violence, Things Done That Can't Be Undone, etc.

--

There is not much, in his long life and memory, that Dream is able to forget. Thoughts do not drift into irrelevancy, into the past, the way they do for humans. He is able to hold much, all at once, in the cavern of his mind, eons of all that has happened hovering close enough to touch. It is a heavy weight more often than it is an aid.

But he forgets, sometimes, with Hob.

With Hob, the rare points of their contact stand out as singularly bright stars in the nebula of Dream's existence. All else within him fades. When Hob takes his hand Dream feels clear as a desert sky, when Hob kisses him for the first time, Dream is floating free in a great salt lake, hanging weightless.

He forgets.

It's only after, bodies pressed together with pleasing heat and sweat-tackiness, Hob tracing patterns over his back, that Dream begins to remember again.

"Dream..." Hob's fingers stutter over his shoulder blades. His voice catches with the hesitance he has often displayed with Dream since their reunion. I think you're here for friendship. Dream feels the echoes.

He kisses Hob's throat, tastes the salt tang of his skin, hides his face away there. The weight of embodiment returning. "Ask your question," he says. "I swear not to part from you now."

"Is this from...?" Hob's fingertips dance up the raised arcs of scar tissue over his back. Pain sparkles in the wake of his touch like the sharpness of a hand-drawn tattoo in the permanence of its inking. As humans imagine it. Dream is not truly physical and could not bear such a mark. Except for this.

"No," he tells Hob. Blame for many of Dream's recent ordeals can be laid at Roderick Burgess's feet, but not this one. "Much older than that."

"Oh." Hob keeps tracing the scar over Dream's right shoulder blade. The touch aches deep in Dream's being where those wounds originate, but he does not tell Hob to stop. Even like this, Hob's hands bring him back, and back, and keep him here.

Hob is waiting, leaving an opening for him to elaborate. Dream is not yet sure whether he wishes to.

"It is not a pretty story," he says.

Hob strokes through his hair. Dream keeps his head tucked under his chin and so feels each word as it's spoken. "Neither of us is a pretty story, darling. Tell it if you want to."

Dream has not spoken of this in many years. There are those in the Dreaming who have served him for millennia whom he has not told. He has taken lovers, had them see the scars during their lovemaking, and still not relayed the story.

"When I was young," he begins, "and still coming into my power, the Dreaming was invaded. My borders were not as strong, then. My realm, less populated. Ancient beings, older than I was at the time, hungered for my realm. Sought its power for their own."

"Older than dreams?" Hob asks.

"In their universe, there were no dreams," Dream tells him. "Perhaps it is what drew them to me."

"Alright. Wow." Hob sounds thoughtful. He rubs Dream's back, between his shoulder blades where it doesn't hurt. "Go on, love."

"I fought them. But the collective unconscious of this universe was young and undeveloped, as was I; I had not mastered all elements of my domain. I fought, but inelegantly, and struggled to counter dreamless beings when all my power was in the unconscious. They were wholly anchored in the present; I, in the space between seconds; we were poorly suited as combatants."

"What did you do?" Hob asks, quiet. He can sense, Dream thinks, the direction this is going, that Dream would not be so hesitant to tell the story of scars born of victory.

"I did not know," Dream admits, equally quiet, still shamed by it, his own failure, and its branching repercussions, "what to do. And the Eldest God, he who had first rent open the walls of my realm, pounced on my uncertainty, captured me, held me--"

The memory, never forgotten, always just within reach should he turn towards it, rises again -- the silk-smooth black sand on the shores of the Dreaming, crushed into his cheek; the warm waters lapping at his mouth, nose, eyes, drowning him; the impossible weight on his spine of the impossible dreamless creature holding him down, arms wrenched behind his back, the feral animal growl that had escaped him, the equally animal panic beating under his ribcage, the fragile spun dreamstuff of him held in the sharptoothed maw of cold reality, his wings--

"Dream?"

Dream comes back to himself. Comes back to Hob. The overwarm flannel sheets. The soft press of Hob's body. He's tapping something on Hob's arm, and hadn't realized he was doing it. It's the rhythm of an old song from before the time of men, the electrical beats passed along root chains from tree to tree to tree, all the way across the great forests that now exist only in scarce patches on the earth.

Dream shifts ever closer to Hob's body, slips a knee between Hob's thighs to tangle them, bare skin to bare skin, limb to limb, root to root.

"I had wings, then," he says.

--his wings, flapping frantically in the face of the thing that pinned him, feathers catching and tearing on jagged armor, held to the ground the way a creature of flight was never meant to be--

"Oh," breathes Hob. He touches the long scar over Dream's shoulder blade again and pauses there. The pain catches the story to Dream again like a hook and holds it there as he continues bleeding it dry.

"The Eldest God dug his claws into me and tore the wings from my body." Dream's voice doesn't shake but he does not manage more than a whisper. "I am not a physical creature, Hob, understand this, I cannot be so easily harmed, it was not a physical form that was damaged, rather, the Old Gods came from stone and earth and it was stone they harnessed as their claws, ancient stone to carve into my being and tear out my wings from the essence of me, root and stem, flesh and bone, air and feather and starlight."

All of this comes out in a continuous rush, and Hob kisses the side of his head, says, "Breathe."

He can still feel, if he but thinks back, the tearing of the claws. A cold so bright it felt like burning. His face ground into the sand to muffle his scream, the howling whiteout of pain overtaking all other noise, the crack of his shoulder joint as it was broken. Star stuff spilling out over the sand - Dream hadn't even known he could bleed until then. Hands that should never have touched in the first place releasing him. Collapsing, disarmed, to the ground. Every limb on fire, the ones that were left.

"Dream."

He lost himself, and found himself again some time later curled in the shallows of the Dreaming sea, seeking shelter from the cold in the warm waters. Face half submerged, breathing as much salt water as air. Blood still spooling around him like leftover paint whirling in a water glass.

"Dream."

Even in those warm waters, he was shivering. Dream doesn't think he's ever been quite warm since; that cold latched itself in him somewhere and never left.

Hob's voice, now, against his ear. He's curled himself around Dream while Dream wasn't paying attention, Dream's back to the warm protection of Hob's chest. "You don't have to finish if you don't want to."

Dream will not leave a story unfinished, not even one such as this. "When I had regained my strength enough to fight back," he continues, "I was... not in control. I knew only survival. If the Old Gods had wished me to understand their world, they succeeded. I abandoned my powers and fought with my hands and my claws and my teeth, and I tore the Eldest God's skull and spine from his body. Both of us would be maimed, I thought; if he would have my dreams then I would have for my own the backbone upon which he held his earth. I listened to him scream. I watched each rib pry up from his chest and snap, my hands slick with his blood, his with mine, and felt nothing but the raw satiation of a wolf setting upon meat. I have told you, Hob." He takes his first breath in a while and feels it rattle, hollow, around his ribcage. "It is not a pretty story."

"No." Hob's hand finds Dream's against his middle, tangles their fingers, holds him. His breath is shaky in Dream's hair, words more so. "No, darling, it's not. I'm sorry."

They rewrote the story of the Dreaming, Dream recalls saying to Destiny, after. Before he had come to know, truly, what Destiny was. Kneeling in his garden, blood still draping his raw back like a shroud, Dream had sought meaning, answers, reason. Foolish, in retrospect, to even consider asking for succor.

Destiny had said that the Dreaming had seeped too far into the Waking world. That what had happened was a necessary rebalancing.

Had Dream not been forbidden from physical violence against his siblings, he would have bitten off one of Destiny's hands with his own sharp teeth and asked if he felt more balanced then.

"Now you know what vicious creature you lie with, Hob Gadling," Dream says. The words are heavy in his throat, but he can't find it in himself to slip from Hob's hold. Now you know the jagged turn at the beginning of my story.

He wonders, sometimes, what the Dreaming might have been like had it continued on the other branch of Destiny's forking path. What he might have been like. There is so much space between a winged creature and a once-winged creature. The entire sky.

"I know." Hob bites at the back of Dream's neck, light but sharp, then kisses that same spot. The nip of pain is unexpectedly soothing. Hob too knows what it is to bite and claw and writhe and maul. “I know. I’ve known your darkness, honey. Don’t you worry.”

“They fled me,” Dream tells him. “The Old Gods. After. I did not understand why at the time.” He had stood, bloodied, shaking, over their Eldest one, bones grasped in his hands, and watched them disappear. These beings that could still have shredded the Dreaming and swallowed it, but chose to run. “Now, I imagine it is like the way men will flee from an animal that is so much smaller than them but has gone rabid. The wrongness. The danger of irreparable madness. They saw me ruined and wished not to catch it, saw the Dreaming—”

This wound has dulled over time and become but a throbbing ache at the base of his skull, a reminder of something missing. But it never disappears.

“The Dreaming, changed, from what they had wanted.”

Dream’s back has never been quite right, since. His anatomy is meant for two sets of joints, not one. But it is only a fitting marker of the permanent damage done that day.

“Changed?” says Hob, so gentle now, lips brushing his skin.

“There was once more,” Dream says. “The collective unconscious was once more… collective.”

“Wait. D’you mean…?”

“Yes. There was more interconnection between minds when I was young. There were not human minds in the sense that you would know them, not yet. But there was communication, and knowing, back then.”

Vestiges of it still linger. In the vast underground networks of the trees, the paired spins of distant atoms. The matched steps of lovers finding perfect synchronicity in a dance. But—

“That was sundered with my wings.”

The cold that had washed over Dream when that realization hit had been worse than the pain of losing the wings in the first place. How he had failed the dreamers under his care. Let things fracture and tear and separate when they were meant to be together.

Hob sighs against the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry, Dream.”

“I am sorry,” Dream says. “It should never have happened.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Hob agrees, and it’s sweet pain sliding between Dream’s ribs, for Hob to press his fingertips to the rawness of him and say, yes, failure, failure, I see it now.

But Hob kisses the point of his shoulder, the ever-tense muscles of his upper back, the hard curve of his scapula and the calcified line of another almost-joint, lost to time. His lips find the uneven scar tissue and press there, which is its own sweet pain, but sliding towards sweet, a sharp bite to kissed lips.

“It shouldn’t,” Hob whispers, and the words vibrate to the core of him. Hob does not see his failure, will not; Dream had forgotten Hob’s charity towards him, how he will see the blood on Dream’s hands and wipe it away instead of asking how it got there. Dream’s failures have stolen something from him he does not even know to miss, and still.

Now Dream does wish for Hob’s hands slipping under his ribs. Hob would find the aching wretched thing within him that had been loosed that day and hold it in his palms, wash the blood from it with careful strokes. Would that Hob could have held him then, submerged him deep in the waters of the Dreaming sea until the dark and the warmth and the strong hold of his arms had soothed the flayed and violated creature that Dream had become back to sanity. Before the gnashing rageful part of him had turned predator and fully grown its claws.

Perhaps there is succor to be found, after all. How quickly Hob Gadling has become it.

“I wish that I could have…” Hob sighs. It sounds mournful, longing. “I don’t even know. Helped you. Held you. Futile, I know.”

“I would not have you feel badly. It is long past and cannot be undone,” Dream says, as if Hob’s words don’t mean more to him than he could possibly know.

“Nothing can, sweetheart,” Hob says. His hair brushes Dream’s shoulders. It is terribly soft now, in this day and age. Dream suspects it was not always so. Human lives have rarely been soft on their bodies. He appreciates the softness of Hob’s body now, and how it cradles him. Dream himself has long been unchangeably hard-edged. “But I would still help you.”

“Sweetheart,” Dream repeats. Dream might have been sweet, once, at the end of a different story. “You would call me this, at the end of this tale?”

Hob turns him so they are facing each other once more. A tear has gathered in the corner of his eye, and slips down to wet his pillowcase as Dream watches. Tears for Dream. Warm salt water. He smiles at Dream anyway.

“You’re my sweetheart. My dear one. You think I would think anything about this other than sadness for you?”

“Dear one,” Dream echoes. “Always good to me, my Hob.”

“‘Course.” Hob squeezes his hand. Hands that too have known violence, but soft for Dream, always. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?”

“Only what you have already done,” Dream says. “Be a cavern where I can shelter from the cold.”

Hob kisses him, hot and lingering, and pulls the blankets up over their heads.