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sunderwight · 7 months ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#svsss #bingqiu #scum villain's self saving system #bingyuan #scum villain #long post #whoever the roderick burgess proxy is here he's got a big storm coming #going the classic dreamling fanfic route and having shen yuan get rescued instead of having to escape by himself #shang qinghua has definitely made other people immortal on various whims and impulses #he bestows his gift recklessly on a betrayed young prince at one point and the divine emperor is just like 'enough!'#'if you're doing to do this I'm going to make you babysit the results! you descend and work for that prince now!' so he's got his hands ful #dreamling might be the situation but shen yuan isn't much of a dream of the endless type #and luo binghe is nothing like hob gadling lol #'I want to live because I love life!' nope it's mostly about spite #the hardest part of this AU is imagining a universe where shen yuan would ignore luo binghe for long enough to let actual centuries pass

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lenreli · 2 months ago

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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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