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samsalami66 · 26 days ago

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Rising Malevolence

New Dreamling au anyone??? I am so excited to post this,,,

Summary: Panic in the Republic!

Rumors are spreading to the furthest parts of the Outer Rim about a new weapon of the Separatists that destroyed dozens of star fleets without ever leaving survivors in its wake.

Senate and Jedi Council send out Jedi Master Dream to stop this secret weapon before any more people can be killed...

Read on ao3 or under the cut!

Dream had a horrible feeling as he stared at the scanners on the bridge of his Star Destroyer. Marked by an unassuming green dot was the arrival of another cruiser in the Abregado System, coming straight out of hyperspace. If his assumptions were correct, and he was painfully certain that they were, his fleet would be faced with the Malevolence in a matter of minutes. Something deep in his gut told him that they were entirely unprepared for what was about to happen, even if their fleet of three Star Destroyers should easily outnumber the enemy. But this weapon had left no survivors thus far. Dozens of battles fought, and not once did someone live to tell the tale. Something was different about this ship, and the fact that they were going into this unaware of that difference left Dream feeling uneasy.

Perhaps he should give his position to Orpheus, just in case.

“Master!” called his old padawan as the hologram flickered to life, his voice holding the calm Dream was missing desperately without him. “Any news on the secret weapon?”

“They are about to exit hyperspace, only a few klicks from here. I wished to relay our coordinates to you, just in case anything goes wrong.” Dream followed his words with their current position, which Orpheus received with a nod.

“Good luck with the battle, Master Dream!” Orpheus’ padawan, Robyn, piped in, and for a moment Dream felt exceptionally old, seeing the student of his own student standing in full fighting gear.

“Thank you, young padawan.” Dream inclined his head at the boy and received the biggest smile in response. Next he knew, the alarm of the scanners to his right went off, signalling the arrival of the Malevolence in their system, and the soldiers on the bridge began shouting orders at one another. “Looks like I will need that luck now. I will contact you when the battle is over.”

The hologram disappeared a moment later, leaving Dream to deal with the horrors of leading an entire fleet into a fight without a plan. Orpheus, despite his young age, was considerably better suited for such a task than Dream himself was, and with every day of this war he recognised this fact more and more. Improvisation was simply not his strong suit.

“General?” One of the clones, with chin-length hair bound into a bun at the back of his head, approached him, and Dream hated that he couldn’t remember the man’s chosen name. “We are measuring an abnormal amount of energy in the area of the ship’s cannons!”

A quick glance to the sensors confirmed the clone’s words. Normal cannons did not need such concentrated levels of energy. Possibilities raced through Dream’s mind, blueprints and statistics of all the weaponry he had thus far encountered or heard of. There really was just one option when the energy levels kept rising above any mark Dream had ever seen and then further still. A blinding light was building on the ship’s flank and Dream rushed to the emergency alarm, panic rising high in his throat.

“It’s an ion-cannon!” he called frantically as the alarm flared up around them. “Immediate evacuation! Get the men to the rescue pods, now!”

With those words he himself sprinted for the pods, the soldiers from the bridge hot on his heels. Orders were shouted as the men crowded into the tiny spaces, five per pod, just like protocol dictated. They pushed him into a pod with four other clones, the one that had approached him on the bridge among them, and sent it off right before impact with the blast of the ion-cannon. The pod’s systems immediately went dark; communication, oxygen supply and boosters out cold. Through the window of the pod Dream watched the follow-up laser cannons of the Malevolence tear his fleet into pieces without any deflector shields, and a deep ache in his chest told him just how many lives were lost as the Star Destroyers went up in flames.

Clones or not, such a number of deaths would always send a ripple of hurt through the Force, for all life was sacred within its bounds. For just a moment, Dream allowed himself to grieve the soldiers that died for their cause, the men he would never get to know, before he inclined his head in respect and turned to the men in the pod with him.

“Are any of the systems still working?” he asked, his voice somber as he sat heavily on one of the benches provided in the small space.

One of the clones (bald, with a tattoo on his temple), immediately turned to the console behind him, pushing button after button without much success. Dream could see barely concealed fear written in the men’s faces, a rarity considering the training and upbringing of the clones. But the prospect of being killed swiftly in battle or in the explosion of a ship was different from eventual suffocation. It was a slow and painful death, alight with clarity until the very last breath.

Dream was not looking forward to it.

“Scoot over, I might be able to repair some of it,” another of the clones said eventually, his face set in determination. It was the clone from the bridge, the one whose name Dream was sure he had heard before, but couldn’t seem to remember. Deft fingers opened the screws of the panel beneath the console and dove for the machinery inside, all those electronics Dream knew very little about. But the clone seemed skilled in such work, and so Dream let him work and concentrated instead on calming the other men. A calm mind was the first step to a clear mind, after all, and clear minds were what they needed in this moment.

“Tell me your names, soldiers.”

The men seemed surprised at such a request from their general, but the clone with the shaved head answered first, after a clearing of his throat.

“CC-7032, General, Sir.”

Dream frowned and shook his head. “Not your number, soldier, your name. I do not wish to address living beings with numbers. You are no droids, after all.”

“...Voss, then. My name is Voss.” the man replied after a moment, and Dream accepted the name with a nod. The remaining soldiers then settled, somewhat, and took turns giving their name.

“G98-8897, going by Grenn.”

“KT3-1009, Kit.”

The clone that now had his entire upper body buried deep in the machinery of the pod didn’t immediately answer, but eventually reappeared with a pleased grin on his lips and hope in his eyes.

“H08-1389, Hob, at your service.” The trooper, Hob, turned to the console with a smile and with the press of a button, the emergency communicator lit up. “And our chances of survival just increased significantly!”

“Send an emergency signal,” Dream ordered and Voss complied with a sharp nod, repeating a message with their coordinates over and over into the communicator. With a bit of luck, someone would come looking for them and receive the signal and message. Not that Dream actually believed in something as paltry as luck.

- - -

A few systems away, Orpheus frowned at the hologram projector of his Star Destroyer with an uneasy feeling. Robyn seemed equally concerned beside him. It didn’t come as much of a surprise when the signal they received came from Coruscant and not the Abregado System.

“Orpheus?” Jedi Grandmaster Destiny asked with a gravity in his voice that rang all of Orpheus’ alarm bells. “Did you receive any word from Master Dream?”

A shake of his head was all Orpheus could muster at first, the worry overpowering in his chest.

“No, Master. I think we should organise a search party to look for any survivors of the attack-”

“That might be unwise, considering there have never been any survivors after an attack from the Malevolence so far. And we currently don’t have any troops to spare for such a rescue mission,” Supreme Chancellor Lucifer added with a certain air of disinterest. Orpheus had to bite back a comment, knowing it would be considered disrespectful by the Chancellor and Master Destiny.

His padawan, however, had no such qualms. Orpheus would have been proud, if the situation weren’t so dire.

“But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any now!” It seemed as no amount of stunned silence could keep Robyn from speaking. “We cannot simply abandon our own men based on such past experiences! If we give up hope so quickly, there surely won’t be any survivors by the time we decide they are worth our time and resources!”

“Your student oversteps, General Orpheus.” the Chancellor said eventually, and Orpheus inclined his head apologetically.

“Forgive my padawan. He has yet to learn a thing or two about following orders.” Betrayal radiated from Robyn in waves, and it took everything in Orpheus not to wince at the glare Robyn levelled at him. “We will keep our fleet on course, Chancellor.”

The men nodded, satisfied with Orpheus’ easy compliance.

“May the Force be with you, young Orpheus.” Master Destiny said in farewell.

“And with you, Master.” With those words the hologram disappeared and Orpheus could turn to his padawan, who had crossed his arms over his chest and refused to meet his eyes.

“So that’s it? We are just leaving them to die out there?”

Orpheus sighed, fondly, at the defiance in Robyn’s voice. The boy was far too much like him.

“Now, I didn’t say that, did I?” He turned to his Admiral, a woman with more patience than Orpheus truly deserved with all the shit he pulled, and grinned. “Jessamy?”

“General,” the woman replied wryly, but with steady professionalism in her voice.

“The fleet is under your command until we return. Keep it on course.”

A nod from her was all Orpheus received and he couldn’t help but chuckle as she disappeared to give orders to the clones on the bridge. Robyn beside him looked increasingly hopeful as they made their way towards the hangar and stepped into the Twilight, their M2-unit Matthew beeping away excitedly as it recognised them.

Robyn laid a hand on Matthew’s head with a soft smile, his eyes alight with fondness. “Hey there, little one. Been faring well without us?” The enthusiastic answering beeps made Robyn chuckle and he gave Matthew’s head a few pats before sitting down next to Orpheus in the cockpit. “So, what are we doing, Master? Chancellor Lucifer said we don’t have the resources for a rescue party.”

“And we are not using any troops, are we? It’s just us, going for a little… expedition in the Abregado System,” Orpheus answered as he flicked the switches needed to start the Twilight. When Robyn only stared at him in disbelief, Orpheus couldn’t help but grin. “Receiving your orders and interpreting them are different things, my young padawan. You will learn, with enough time. Matthew, set course for the Abregado system!”

- - -

Meanwhile, four clones and a jedi sat in silence, suspended in the vacuum of space in the midst of a field of debris and dead bodies. For the longest time, the five men simply stared out the window of the rescue pod at the unmoving faces of other soldiers, their brothers, friends, and confidants. War was horrific at the best of times, and downright traumatising at any other moment. Dream detested it with every fiber of his being. After all, he was supposed to be a keeper of peace, a harbinger of hope, not the general of a battalion of men that he led to their deaths over and over again. More men died under his purview than his conscience could comprehend, the men outside of the window were just more names on a never-ending list of people Dream had failed.

“Someone will find us.” A voice, quiet but sure, sounded from Dream’s right, a cut through the total silence of the pod. It was Hob, the clone that had fixed the communicator.

“While I hope that you are right, I do not share your optimism,” Dream murmured in response. “It would be unwise to search for us, and there is no reason why they should suspect survivors.”

The clone frowned, a stubborn little pout grazing his lips that Dream found unreasonably charming. “But you are a jedi. They would not simply give up on one of your kind. You’re not expendable.”

The way Hob said those words, like they were true for Dream but not for himself, did not sit right with Dream.

“You are not expendable, Hob. None of you are.” Four pairs of eyes met his, none of which seemed to believe him. So, Dream took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could at least lift the spirits of these men, so they would not die thinking they could be replaced. “No matter the species or gene material, each life is unique within the Force.” Dream hummed and let himself connect to the Force within and around him, let it flow and ebb and touch upon the Force that lived within the clones, allowing it to tell him who these men were.

“Voss. You are a man governed by rules and order. You see your worth in the fulfillment of such orders and in servitude of your superiors.” The man blinked, surprised, but didn't deny Dream's words. “You are more than your ability to serve. Take breaks, find your own path, and you will see it reflected in the skills you value.”

“Kit. You are young, and afraid. You would much rather pore over books on a quiet outpost in the Outer Rim than fight alongside your fellow soldiers.” A look of embarrassment passed the features of the youngest soldier among them, and Dream placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I cannot fault you for craving a book more than a fight. It would be slightly hypocritical of me to do so.” The man smiled, wryly, and Dream mirrored it. “Courage is not everything. Use your smarts, your books. They will serve you better than the attempt at being someone you are not.”

“And you, Grenn. You judge harshly, and mostly yourself. You wish to be everything at once; faster, stronger, smarter, the ultimate soldier. But your strengths do not lie in killing, and well you know it. Those hands are better suited for a field medic, which might just give you the purpose you are dying to find for yourself.”

The tension, slowly but surely, seemed to dissipate from the pod. With every man Dream proved to know, to see, the heaviness lifted from their shoulders and made room for hope. Something Dream himself hadn’t felt in far too long.

“And lastly you, Hob.” Brown eyes looked at him with a hint of a challenge, and Dream met it without hesitation. “You crave time, more than anything else. Your accelerated aging weighs heavily on you, as does the constant struggle to stay alive. If able to choose, you'd want to live forever, discovering the pleasures of living the same life as the people you fight to protect.” The man breathed heavily, but eventually nodded his head. “Take it one day at a time. Worry about the future takes away from the joy of the moment, of which you fear to have so few. And do not lose that spark of optimism I can sense. Such a way of thinking is a blessing only few beings in this galaxy have.

“None of you are expendable. Not to me, and not to anyone else who understands what living means.”

Hob threw him a grateful smile, his eyes filled to the brim with something Dream could only describe as admiration. It made the parts of him that the war had hardened crack open to reveal something undeniably soft. A part of him started to care for the survival of this clone trooper, who hid hope and optimism behind his breastbone as if it were too dark a secret to have as a man surrounded by nothing but death and suffering.

“General! There’s another rescue pod!” Kit called from the window and immediately all eyes were following his. And true to his word, another pod floated before theirs. It was turned so that they could not look inside and see if there were any other survivors.

Dream reached out to the pod with the Force, let it wrap around the metal frame firmly, and then pulled so that it turned in their direction. What they saw sent a shiver down Dream’s spine. The metal showed clear signs of external damage, dents and breaks that were placed too deliberately to be caused by the explosion of the Star Destroyer. The five soldiers floating unseeingly inside had been shot in the head, clearly executed.

Something was out there, making sure there were no witnesses after the attack of the Malevolence, and it was only a matter of time until they found them.

“Looks like we’ll have to defend ourselves,” Hob said to his right and Dream nodded.

“Men, get your helmets! Here is the plan…”

- - -

“Whoa… this surely doesn’t look good,” Robyn whispered as they arrived in the Abregado System and saw the debris of the destroyed fleet floating in the planet’s orbit. Hundreds of bodies were strewn between the ruins of the ship, but Orpheus couldn’t make out that of his old master anywhere between them. Considering the sheer amount of bodies and debris it might only be a temporary comfort, but Orpheus clung to that small piece of hope nonetheless.

“No, it does not. Come on, let’s see if we receive any emergency signals.”

Robyn nodded and turned towards their communicator.

“This is General Orpheus and Commander Robyn on board the Twilight, can anyone hear me?”

- - -

The hunters found them only minutes after Dream and the clones caught sight of the destroyed pod. It was a handful of battle droids manning the pod hunter, a brute, ugly thing with four appendages that were supposed to hold a rescue pod in place and break it open, so that the droids could kill the men inside. As the ship approached their pod, Dream pushed his lightsaber into Hob’s hand.

“Stay safe out there, men.” he said before the soldiers made their way out of the pod with the limited oxygen supply their armor provided. Not being able to go out and help them properly wasn’t ideal, but he would have to trust the soldiers to get rid of the droids on their own, since he had no way to breathe outside of the pod.

Shots were fired just above Dream and a quick look out of the window told him that the clones had already dispatched two of the four droids while the other two were still leaving the ship. With the numbers now on their side the men pushed closer to where the ships were currently connected, Hob holding the lightsaber carefully to cut off the constricting metal appendages. But none of them could predict from where the remaining droids approached them. Dream saw the droids preparing to shoot almost a second too late, but a frantic push of the Force was enough so that the shots went right over Hob’s head instead of through it. Kit and Voss dispatched the remaining droids a moment later and Dream slumped down next to the communicator with a sigh of relief as the soldiers reentered the pod.

“Can anyone hear me? Master Dream? This is General Orpheus and Commander Robyn on board of the Twilight.” The soft voice of his student’s padawan suddenly sounded from the communicator and Dream had to blink away tears as the eyes of the men around him suddenly lit up with hope.

“I told you someone was going to come for us!” Hob said with a grin on his face while holding out Dream’s lightsaber to him. “And not a moment too soon, the air in here is starting to get thin.”

“Keep sending that emergency signal, and let’s hope they catch it before the Separatists notice one of their pod hunters went missing.”

- - -

On the bridge of the Malevolence a man more machine than the human he had once been let out an angry growl.

“What do you mean, one of our units is not responding?”

“Unit PH-7522 does not reply to any of our messages.” One of the battle droids responded and General Corinthian threw it against a wall, where it broke into pieces in a heap on the floor.

“Didn’t I make it clear that I do not want any witnesses, General?” asked the hooded figure from the back of the bridge, haughtiness and arrogance written into every syllable of its speech.

General Corinthian growled once more and stared out the front window of the Malevolence, hatred building in his very human eyes. “Yes, Count Burgess.” Then, towards the nearest droid he yelled an order. “Set course for the Abregado System! We will personally make sure that there are no witnesses.”

- - -

For the longest time, Orpheus and Robyn received no emergency signal as they made their way through the debris field. No matter how often Robyn repeated the message into the communicator, the answering silence seemed never-ending and Orpheus was slowly giving up hope that they would find his old master. He didn’t quite know how to deal with the thought of his master being simply… gone. Dream was the only person Orpheus would consider something akin to family, a father figure more than anything. And while Dream was aloof and serious and weird, he had still taught Orpheus everything he knew, about the Force and the galaxy and even himself. In many ways, Dream was his closest friend.

An excited beeping noise pulled Orpheus out of his thoughts and a moment later the communicator blinked a bright green, the voice of a clone filtering through the static.

“This is H08-1389. We’re in rescue pod 2259, General Dream is with us. Requesting immediate evacuation, our oxygen supply is running low.”

“Matthew, get us to wherever that signal is coming from! And be quick about it!” Orpheus ordered and Matthew immediately navigated the Twilight towards the source of the signal. With the help of a tractor beam they pulled the pod into their hangar, and Orpheus and Robyn were on their feet and running towards it the moment it passed the energy barrier of the ship. Out of the pod stumbled Dream, unharmed, followed closely by four clones whose legs gave out under them the moment they stepped out of the pod.

Orpheus quickly ran up to his old master and pulled him into his arms, making sure the other man didn’t collapse on him. “I’ve got you, Master. Are you alright? Do you need medical attention?”

Dream shook his head and gestured towards the clones behind him. “I’m, I’m fine, but my men, they should be looked over by a med droid.”

“Robyn is on it. Come on, I’ll get you to the cockpit so we can leave this place.”

But Dream did not allow himself to be moved until he saw a medical droid scan the soldiers and he asked, with hesitation in his voice. “Will they be alright?”

“Their oxygen levels are low, but with medical attention they should be back to full health in a few hours.”

Tension seemed to flood out of Dream at the med droid’s statement, and he slumped into Orpheus’ arms as if the strings holding him up had been suddenly cut. It was… unusual to see his old master care so openly for the survival of his soldiers. Usually the man kept a careful distance between himself and those that fought under his command. Something about these men must have been very special.

Orpheus helped his old master make the way back to the cockpit, where he saw one of the scanners blink, signaling the arrival of a ship coming out of hyperspace. Dream immediately stumbled towards the cockpit's console and started powering down the ship, which Orpheus helped him with without asking questions. However, Dream seemed to sense his confusion.

“They cannot know we're here. The secret weapon is an ion-cannon, the biggest I've ever come across. If they get any power signal on their scanners they will shoot.”

A chill ran down Orpheus' spine at his master's words, the implication that Dream's fleet had been hit by such a weapon, leaving them entirely defenseless against the laser cannons of another ship. That they had managed to send out any rescue pods at all before the impact was a miracle.

To their right Matthew let out a series of nervous beeps and Orpheus hastily turned to the little droid and cut his power off with an apology.

“The med droid!” Dream called as he stumbled back towards the door, but he was too weak to run, his legs like jelly beneath him. “We, we have to shut down the med droid!”

Orpheus ran past him and down to the medical chambers as fast as his body would allow, but as he turned the corner he saw one of the clones slumped over a deactivated medical droid, chin-length hair falling around his face and almost hiding a cheeky grin. “No worries, General. Turned the droid off when the lights went out.”

A sigh of relief escaped Orpheus’ lips. “Good work, soldier. Good work.”

- - -

When the Malevolence arrived in the Abregado System, General Corinthian watched their energy scanners with bated breath, ready to order the ion-cannons to shoot at the smallest of signals. But seconds passed, then minutes, and no signal appeared on the scanners. Nothing.

“It seems like the survivors are gone, General,” a battle droid noted eventually, and General Corinthian turned to the offending piece of metal with anger burning in his eyes.

“Yes, I am not blind, droid. We will retreat to plan our attack on the Kaliida Shoals Medical Center. And make it quick.”

- - -

The moment the Malevolence re-entered hyperspace, the Twilight’s systems came back online and one certain M2-unit calculated a course back to Orpheus’ fleet, where he and his padawan would explain to the jedi council and the chancellor why they had blatantly disregarded their orders. But they also had information that could be used to destroy the Separatists’ secret weapon, which should be enough so that their little misstep might be overlooked.

But before any of that could happen, Jedi Master Dream made his way down to the medical chambers of the Twilight, looking for one very specific clone trooper.

“Hob?” Dream called into the chamber, and the soldier looked up with bright eyes and an easy smile.

“General.”

“When you’re back on your feet, join me onboard the Negotiator, Commander.”

And with those words Dream left the Twilight and newly promoted clone trooper Hob, Commander of the 663rd, behind.

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #star wars au #Dreamling Star Wars AU #Jedi!Dream #Clone!Hob

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samsalami66 · 1 month ago

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Tangled Dreams

Chapter 1 of my Dreamling Rapunzel AU is up now on AO3!

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: With the power of the starlight flower, Queen Night could be saved, and it didn’t take long before she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, Prince Dream of the Endless. He was a miracle, with hair that shone silver with stardrops and eyes as blue as the sky on a clear day. A pout graced his lips far more often than a smile, but his sheer existence brought a smile to the townsfolk nonetheless.

And for a full year, the kingdom lived in bliss.

That was, until one fateful night, the young Prince was taken. King Time went to check on his son and only found an empty crib where the Prince should have been, an open window, and the stench of evil. On that day, the kingdom lost its brightest star in the night sky, and an old sorcerer gained a gem he did not own.

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #Dreamling Rapunzel AU #Tangled Dreams

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samsalami66 · 1 month ago

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Hello, hope you're doing well!! I hope it's ok for me to send you a 🖋️...

Hey there love! Im doing amazing, and it absolutely is still okay to send me little pens, though I may have forgotten to actually answer this in WEEKS lmao.

But here, have a little snippet from the second chapter of my Dreamling Rapunzel AU (Disney's Tangled version)

No the first chapter is not up yet, but SOON.

Hob wakes because something is trying to pick his eye out. Really, it isn't much weirder than the last time he has woken up, facing a frying pan and an angry fey or angel of some sort, but this one certainly hurts a lot more. He tries to swat away the insistent creature, but strong wings flap against his hand and the impossible little bird bites down on his finger with a loud caw.

The shriek he lets out at the sudden pain gets slightly overshadowed by the thunk of his body hitting solid ground, as suddenly the doors to the closet he has apparently been shoved into are opened. Now he's lying on the floor, staring up at a ceiling painted with hundreds of stars in all shapes and sizes and the strange fey-angel that confronted him earlier.

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #salami asked #dreamling rapunzel au #Tangled Dreams #somtimes titles are so easy

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samsalami66 · 1 month ago

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Hiii Ssammyy! @embroiderling here!

I've just seen you posted that long list of prompts. Can I ask for a fake marriage/relationship dreamling, with the prompt "kiss me while everyone's looking."?

🫶

Hey there @embroiderling! Have this little fic I definitely didn't write just after I got that prompt... <33

Read here or on ao3!

Dream wasn’t entirely sure what led him to the situation he was currently in; running down the streets of Los Angeles like he was chased by the devil. Perhaps it had all started when he met Hob Gadling on the set of his latest show, witty and charismatic and throwing him smiles that would light up the entire room. Or it had been when Dream found himself smiling back, accepting the easy friendship Hob proposed for them and meeting him outside of filming for drinks and movie night and sleepovers at his home spent trading stories and a glass of wine.

But actually, it had probably been the moment Dream agreed to Hob’s insane plan of marrying him.

Yeah, they probably skipped a few rather important steps right there, between friendship and marriage, but that was not really the problem they were facing. No, the fact that they were two of the most well-known actors in the industry that married for something as crude as a green card was not really the problem. The fact that they had both been married before, that Hob was a widower and Dream divorced, was also not it.

The problem was that being married to Hob was easy. Too easy. Marriage with Calliope had been… harder. They had both been characters, stubborn and intense and with a temper to match. For Dream, marriage had always been about damage control, about preventing some inevitable argument or other. But eventually they would always end up yelling or crying or hurting each other, before doing it all over again the next day.

Marriage with someone Dream had never intended to marry, had not even found himself interested in at first, should have been worse.

Instead, marriage with Hob Gadling was heavenly. They lived together. Shared a bed. Hob did not mind Dream cuddling up to him to steal some of his body heat. They would read together on the couch, then talk about their current books while they made dinner. When Dream complained about the laundry needing to get done, Hob would do it and not allow him to help. He would come back with a pot of tea and the offer of a massage should Dream’s feet or back or neck hurt from acting all day.

Dream found himself searching Hob’s touch whenever he could and never being denied. When out on his own he would see something and bring it back home for Hob and receive the world’s biggest smile in return. So he did it again. And again. Their living room was overloaded with antiquities and books and little trinkets, all lovingly displayed.

And they never fought. Over a year of living together, of sharing a house, a room, a bed, a life, and they did not fight once. How could life with Hob be so good, when Dream’s entire life before hadn’t been?

Well, the answer should have been clear. But for some reason, Dream hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t noticed, and now Hob was gone. Not gone gone, just. Gone. His friend, his husband, was gone from their home and Dream did not know where he had disappeared to after their… disagreement. It hadn't been a fight. Because in a fight, both parties got angry. In a fight, partners tried to hurt each other after they had been hurt first. But Dream hadn’t been hurt by Hob. Hob would never hurt him, not in a million lifetimes. Instead, he hurt his friend for no reason but his own stupidity and insecurity.

And now… now he was running. Not away. He was running towards Hob. Or at least he hoped so. Finding his husband was a much harder matter than Dream had hoped for when he started running. But he was getting closer, he was sure of it. Their bench. That would be where Hob was. Sitting on the right side, peas in hand, feeding the pigeons. It had been one of Dream’s favourite rituals. Whenever a role got to him too much, twisted his stomach into knots and left his heart aching, he would sit on that bench and feed the pigeons.

And now, as Dream turned the corner, he saw his husband sitting in the spot he had claimed when he had first joined Dream in this little ritual of his. Those beautiful brown eyes were staring off into the middle distance, while one of his hands threw peas to a flock of birds and the other turned his wedding ring around between his fingers.

The sight made Dream’s heart ache, his best friend reduced to nothing but numbness. He had done that, and he would make it right again.

“Hob,” he called once he was close enough to be heard, and his husband’s eyes immediately snapped towards him. There was surprise there, possibly at the sheen of sweat that plastered Dream’s hair to his face, proof that he ran all the way here. Not that he stopped just because he found Hob. No, he ran straight into his husband’s arms, which wrapped around him all too willingly.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong, love? Are you alright?” The words ached, because Dream was not worth this level of care after how he had hurt Hob. But now that he wasn’t running anymore he couldn’t breathe, and so he allowed his husband to hold him for a moment, just until he could form an actual response.

“I am sorry, Hob. For what I said.” There was no answer and Dream supposed that none could be given anyway, and so he continued. “I had not realised how… deep your affections for me were. I. I expected some catch, for I had not known marriage could be so wonderful.”

There was pain in Hob’s eyes and Dream suspected it was not because of him, but rather for him.

“And here I was, thinking I’ve been rather bloody obvious.”

Dream huffed a laugh and took Hob’s hand in his, so that their wedding bands were resting against each other. “Looking back, I wonder how you ever became an actor.” That, at least, got him a grin. “I do not want to leave you. Not when the five years are over, not ever. You’re it, Hob.” Silence, stunned, but there was also a bud of hope that was threatening to spill into a smile so bright it would break Dream clean in two.

“So kiss me now, husband mine, while everyone in this blasted park is looking.”

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #salami asked #fake marriage au #idiots in love #i adore them

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samsalami66 · 1 month ago

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Cinnamon Warmth

I simply HAD to write a little continuation of @unpredictable-probabilities' wonderful fic Where It Goes, so definitely read her fic before you read this one or else this will make little sense!

Read either here or on AO3!

To be completely honest, Morpheus was a bit nervous now that he was standing in front of the Gadling family home, his one hand resting in the crook of Hob’s elbow. Agreeing to Christmas brunch with Hob's parents had been easy as they had laid in the bed of the hotel, relishing each other's presence and warmth in their own little bubble, away from the rest of the world. But standing in front of the other man’s childhood home as his unexpected plus one for Christmas was a bit more spontaneous than his usual endeavours, and so the nervousness perhaps should have been expected.

Hob on the other hand seemed totally unbothered that he would be introducing a man he met the day before to his parents, even with what had happened to him last Christmas. Morpheus strived for such a level of self-assuredness and optimism. If he were lucky his family would only disown him for such a decision. Or behead him, if he were less lucky.

“Promise they don't bite,” Hob murmured to his right, and Morpheus snorted in response.

“I wouldn't be too sure of that. Their son certainly didn't seem disinclined if prompted, and he must have learned it from someone.”

“That would be Marleen's influence right there, I tend to keep my teeth to myself.” A male voice suddenly answered from the doorway, amused to no end. Morpheus whipped around with a deep blush rising on his face to the man now standing in the doorway to Hob's home. Leave it to him to make a bloody fool of himself first thing.

Mr. Gadling was a very soft man, with smile lines around his mouth and crows’ feet around his eyes, which sparkled with the same sort of mischief Morpheus had already witnessed on Hob's face. There was also the same sort of resolve to make him feel safe and welcomed, and Morpheus deflated a bit at that slowly familiar look on his face.

“Apologies, Mr. Gadling,” he said quickly and held out a hand to Hob's father, determined to overcome his social faux-pas as quickly as possible. “I'm Morpheus, Hob's… friend. At least for now.”

The man barked a laugh at that and ignored his hand in favour of giving Morpheus a full-bodied hug. “I do like a man that knows what he wants! Call me Frank. No need to be all formal with family, eh?”

Morpheus was released with a clap to his back and the most stunned expression he had ever worn in his life. He was given a moment to collect himself as Mr. Gadling moved to hug his son with the same enthusiasm he had bestowed upon Morpheus. The comparison made something ache in his chest, but in the best way he could imagine.

“Now come in, boys, it's freezing! Marleen will want to meet the new face, so prepare for all the usual motherly fussing.” Mr. Gadling winked at him then, and Morpheus had exactly zero seconds to prepare before he was being pulled into the next pair of arms at the same time as Hob.

“Oh, Robert, you didn't say you would be bringing such a gorgeous young man along!” The woman now embracing them both had a smile that rivalled the sun and brown eyes the same shade as Hob's. She smelled faintly of garlic and bacon and herbs, which caused Morpheus' stomach to growl with interest. The croissant perhaps hadn't quite been enough to fully ease his hunger this morning. “And he's hungry too! Well thank goodness I just finished preparations for brunch.”

Mrs. Gadling shooed them into the dining room before Morpheus even had the chance to introduce himself and then headed off back towards the kitchen to continue her preparations. All that Morpheus could now do was blink, but somehow it didn't help with his orientation. Beside him Hob chuckled, then slowly led them to the table so they could sit down.

“Perhaps I should have mentioned that they're very handsy.”

Honestly, Morpheus wasn't sure if that would have helped. Nothing could have prepared him for this welcome.

“It's alright…” Morpheus frowned as he realised that it really was alright. Usually he hated physical contact. But somehow, this wasn't too bad. Some part of him was even hoping to experience it again. The Gadlings were… warm. Their touch felt soothing instead of irritating. Perhaps it was a quality the whole family shared. “They're nice.”

“They try their best,” Hob agreed and Morpheus nodded in response.

Pans and pots clattered in the kitchen and some colourful but delighted curses accompanied most sounds. Morpheus was itching with the need to make himself useful.

“Shouldn't we help your mother with preparations?”

“Not if we want to keep our heads, no. She takes great pride in preparing Christmas brunch by herself, we get to do the washing up later, if we're lucky.” Hob’s voice was fond as he talked about his mother, about this joke that must be reoccurring every year.

“Marleen is a very independent woman,” Mr. Gadling agreed with a smile from the doorway, and Morpheus got the feeling that popping in on conversations like this was simply his thing.

“She certainly seems like one, Sir.” Morpheus cringed a bit at his politeness, but no offer of first names could erase a lifetime of addressing even one's own father as ‘sir’.

“Polite boy you are, hm?” He chuckled and sat down opposite them, then rested his chin on one of his hands to look at them. “How did you guys meet?”

Morpheus opened his mouth to answer, when Mrs. Gadling suddenly flicked her husband against the temple with a disapproving click of her tongue.

“At least wait until we're eating before you grill them. Here, be quiet.” She instructed and shoved a steaming pastry into Mr. Gadling's mouth, who only shrugged and munched away happily on the very fluffy looking cinnamon roll.

Mrs. Gadling then places the rest of the tray and several other types of pastries on the table, quickly followed by a spread of hearty cheeses and meats and bread, as well as a pot of tea. It was simple, but the heat radiating off the pastries and breads spoke of a very early morning spent in the kitchen and hours upon hours of preparation work. Morpheus felt slightly unworthy of being on the receiving end of such a meal, made with care and love and at the sacrifice of time and energy.

His own parents did not cook or bake or put any effort of their own whatsoever into Christmas dinners. They hired private chefs that made incredible eight course meals which only tasted of the craft but never of love.

When Morpheus bit into a warm cinnamon roll dripping with sugary goodness and topped with an ungodly amount of frosting he tasted nothing but the love Mrs. Gadling held for her family. And possibly enough sugar to give him cavities overnight. He dove in again immediately after the first bite.

Mrs. Gadling looked pleased at his enthusiasm as she cut off a piece of fresh bread for herself and buttered it generously.

“So, now, how did you meet your lovely new friend, Robert?”

Hob chuckled at the curiosity in her voice and quickly swallowed his mouthful of cream cheese puff pastry.

“Fell asleep on him on the train yesterday.” Two pairs of eyebrows were raised at that and Morpheus felt a blush dust his cheeks again. “And Morpheus very gallantly saved me from face-planting when the train suddenly broke down.”

Mr. Gadling made a face that said Yep, sounds like my son and Morpheus wasn't sure what it said about Hob that such a situation apparently was very like him.

“And you just decided to tag along for Christmas brunch, darling?”

It took Morpheus an embarrassingly long time to realise she was addressing him with ‘darling’. Considering she didn't ask his name, he probably shouldn't be so surprised.

“Er, yeah. Yes, sorry. I didn't have any other plans for the day and as Hob offered… I hoped his family would be as lovely to spend time with as he himself is. And I haven't been disappointed.”

“Oh what a charmer!” Mrs. Gadling laughed in delight and nodded her approval. “I'm glad we didn't scare you away yet, sweetheart. But I gather if you survived a full day with Robert, you'll survive a meal with us.”

“It is no hardship,” answered Morpheus quickly, then turned slightly more red than he had already been. “Neither spending time with Hob nor with you. I feel very welcomed, although you barely know me.”

Both Mr. and Mrs. Gadling smiled indulgently at his words and Hob, too, seemed touched by them.

“You're going to be good for our boy.” Mr. Gadling stated then and Mrs. Gadling hummed her agreement. “So, what do you do, son? Music or art?”

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #christmas fluff #meeting the parents

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samsalami66 · 1 month ago

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Tough decision, but "I will hang on (until I can't anymore)" with Dreamling? (Soccer au maybe? 🥺)

🤘five-and-dimes

Shooting for the Sky

Hey my lovely @five-and-dimes! Thank you for the prompt, I had a great time writing this! I hope you don't mind some humour sprinkled in between the usual angst and fluff, the idea suddenly grew wings and took flight and I had zero control over it.

Morpheus is regretting every single decision he has ever made in his tragically short life that led him up to this moment. If only he wasn't at fault for a hundred percent of them, from starting to kick a ball around with Olethros at age ten, to signing his first professional contract and later joining the Fiddlers.

This blasted team of absolute nutters.

Team building, Hob has said with a smile and a glint in his eyes that Morpheus hasn't quite been able to place. Now he knows it to be unbridled insanity mixed with a healthy dose of sadism, joy granted by witnessing his best friend's early demise due to the heart attack he would surely suffer in the next few moments.

Morpheus has heard about team building exercises where a team went to play minigolf or drove around with go-carts or some other safe and ordinary and fun experience. But of course his band of suicidal idiots would go skydiving for such an event. And of course they have all done this before, since they have zero sense for self-preservation and do not care about their personal well-being at all.

Those words out of his mouth have only caused the other men to burst into laughter when he said them.

So now he is here. ‘Here’ being an aeroplane about a kilometre above sweet British grounds, strapped like a toddler to Hob Gadling's chest. Apparently you do not jump on your own the first time you skydive, which has never been a thing Morpheus gave much thought to, since he never expected to find himself in this situation.

But he has done a lot of things he didn't expect himself to do since he has met Hob. Wonderful, amazing Hob, who is currently resting his chin on Morpheus’ shoulder so he can look out the window while Morpheus himself is trying his hardest not to hyperventilate.

The team would never let him forget it if he had a panic attack over skydiving. Their serious support ends with the after-effects of abuse, everything else will become part of the Terrific Team Tales (what an awful name), which they recap at least once a year on pub night, specifically to torture the other members with embarrassing stories of the past.

It is a horrifying tradition. Truly grotesque.

Morpheus will not give them more material by panicking.

So, instead, he concentrates on Hob.

Hob, who stands pressed to his back, head to calf, lending to him the warmth Morpheus so rarely feels on his own. Hob, who's scent envelops Morpheus like a hug of comfort and safety, calming him like few other things could these days. And Hob, who's midsection is pressed directly to Morpheus’ backside. Will be pressed to his backside for the whole dive. Together, in the air, putting his life in Hob Gadling's hands.

Oh dear.

Perhaps the panic attack is the better option after all. These thoughts will only lead him to a single outcome, and he's absolutely not going to face this conversation after falling a whole kilometre out of an aeroplane. Absolutely not.

Just as Morpheus is about to force his thoughts back onto the ridiculous ideas of his teammates, the voice of the pilot sounds over their headsets.

“We reached the final height for the jump! The door will be opened as soon as we hit the agreed upon coordinates. Have a good way down, gentlemen!”

Cheers ring out around Morpheus, and ten men, Hob included, jump up and down with barely concealed excitement. Hob's jumping jostles him where he stands, and Morpheus barely catches himself before he would have crashed backwards into Hob.

“Someone's excited,” he comments with a wry smile, which only turns softer when he looks over his shoulder to see Hob's bright eyes, shining with joy.

“I get to share one of my favourite activities with my favourite person, of course I'm excited!”

Morpheus softens even further at that answer, Hob’s affection as always so easy to grasp.

“Ugh, find a private channel to flirt on with your man, Hobert!” Sounds Corin's voice over their headset, and Morpheus can't help but chuckle at how he and Hob stick their tongues out at each other.

“Ten bucks that I’ll land first!” calls Abel into the round, which Cain immediately meets with “Twenty bucks that you’re full of shit!”

“Fifty that you’ll both be last,” Mervyn murmurs, and the rest of the team laughs at their bickering, as they always do.

Cain and Abel, the other brothers in the team, have a sort of love-hate relationship going on. Half of the time Morpheus is a bit worried they might kill each other with their antics, but in the end they would never seriously hurt each other. Though if it does happen one day, Morpheus believes the murdered brother would come back to life just so that they might continue their bickering. Mervyn likes to pretend that he doesn't find it hilarious.

Behind Cain and Abel the door of the aircraft suddenly opens, the wind suddenly overpowering every thought Morpheus might have had. He couldn't look outside, as there were about nine burly football players between Hob and him and the door. But even just the coldness of the air against his face, unnatural in comparison to the cold he has felt so far down on safe ground, wipes his mind clean of coherent thought.

“Ready?” Hob says, so close to his ear that Morpheus feels his breath on his cheek, clearly to avoid speaking over the open channel. It makes him shiver, but the cold covers the real reason just fine.

“Absolutely not,” he replies as loud as he dares, while making grabby hands towards Hob's arm to hold onto. The other man complies immediately, and Morpheus digs his fingers deep into Hob's biceps. “But I'll be fine as long as you're there.”

“If you change your mind, say the word, yeah? We don't have to jump.”

“Kollité, I would do a lot of things to see you happy. Including jumping out of a plane with only a piece of cloth strapped to my back, like some crazy person.”

Hob looks increasingly fond the longer Morpheus talks, and eventually he smacks a loud kiss to his cheek, and then another to his forehead and his nose and wherever he can reach from behind Morpheus’ back. It's silly and adorable and so Morpheus laughs, free from the fear of judgement he once had.

“I like my men a little crazy.” Hob murmurs into his ear then, and Morpheus thinks he might choke on the thin and cold air.

“Let's go boys!” Corin then calls over their headsets, which suddenly brings movement into the aeroplane. One after another, the Fiddlers jump out of the open door, some head-first, others (Ken) do a flip into nothingness. And all too soon, Hob and Morpheus are the only ones left on the plane.

“Run. Makes it easier to jump,” Hob calls over the noise.

Screw it, what is there to lose (except his life, the part of his brain that is not yet totally beyond salvation provides) anyway?

Together, he and Hob run the ten steps towards the door of the aircraft and jump.

Morpheus regrets it almost immediately.

Upon falling, his stomach swoops and turns in the most uncomfortable manner possible and when he looks down he sees certain death rushing at him. His heart pounds in his ears and he's pretty sure he doesn't breathe for at least a full minute with how light headed he feels as he finally sucks in his first breath.

But then broad arms snake around his chest, impossibly warm hands are splayed across his ribs, and Morpheus feels himself melt against Hob. He trusts this man, quite literally with his life, proven as of this moment. After all, Hob is the one that has the parachute strapped to his back and he is also the one who knows how to work it. Morpheus thinks (hopes) that in an emergency he would remember the instructions Hob gave him a few hours ago and pull the right flap, but he prays it won't come to that.

He would much rather enjoy Hob's warmth against his back, the arms that hold him and not open his eyes again until they're on the ground once more.

“Just hold onto me, love.” Hob whispers into his ear and Morpheus can’t help but snort.

“Oh I’ll hang on, alright? Don’t think I will let you go though, once we’re on the ground.”

A chuckle, right beside his ear, and Morpheus simply closes his eyes and concentrates on Hob’s warmth, the wind on his face and the adrenaline rushing through his body. After that first moment of falling, the tingling in his stomach almost turns into a pleasant sensation and he feels like every breath fills his lungs up way past the limit. He could run a marathon right now without breaking a sweat, the amount of energy coursing through his veins is just perfect.

Slowly he starts to understand why the other men were so excited for this team-building activity.

Adrenaline-junkies, the lot of them.

Morpheus opens his eyes next when they are suddenly jolted into a slower fall. As he looks upwards he sees the bright green parachute with the Fiddlers’ club crest in the middle that Hob has shown him during their preparation for the jump. Since this is a team building exercise, naturally all gear is sponsored by the club and usually Morpheus would find this incredibly tacky. But looking upon the crest of the Fiddlers only fills him with a sense of pride, to be using or wearing anything sponsored by this team is simply amazing.

He’s proud of who he works for, who he’s representing, and the thought is so sudden Morpheus feels tears sting in his eyes.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hob’s voice sounds next to his right ear and Morpheus has to blink a few times before he can see clearly what Hob is referring to. But once he does he lets out a small gasp of surprise. The sun is setting on the far horizon and a few clouds break her light just so that reds and purples and pinks colour the sky around them like the most stunning of watercolour paintings.

“Oh,” he whispers as the tears suddenly spill over, his throat closed off with emotions he can't quite name. It really is beautiful. The sky, the view, the man behind him. His life, really. He's grateful for so many things in that moment, but he manages to voice one thing.

“Thank you, Hob. For taking me along. And being patient with me.”

“Anytime, lovey. Anytime.”

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #salami asked #soccer au #dreamling soccer au #fuck it we ball

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samsalami66 · 2 months ago

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Hullo!! Here's one from the I Will prompts for Dreamling please!!

"I will fall in love (with you)"

Easy as Breathing

Hey love! Thank you so much for the prompt (and I apologise that this took so long). Have a short but sweet addition to the soccer au, I hope you like it <33

Read here or on AO3!

Weekends have always been Morpheus’ favourite part of the week, although the reasons for it have changed drastically since he joined the Fiddlers. Whereas a bit more than a year ago he loved weekends for the fact that he would not have to deal with Roderick or Alex or any of his other teammates for two whole days, he now loves weekends for the time he can spend with his friends outside of training. Truth be told, almost all of his time is spent at Hob’s apartment on those days. While he loves all of his other team members, they are not Hob.

Hob, his best friend, who is currently stirring a pot of Morpheus’ favourite soup while singing along to the musical they discovered together last month. The unsteadiness in his lyrics is made up with the enthusiasm in his voice. He sings like he does most things in his life: with emotion, heart, and dedication. His hips are swinging, wooden spoons are being misused as microphones, and Morpheus is pulled into spins and sways every moment Hob does not spend with a knife in his hands.

Whenever he puts his head on Hob’s shoulder and lets him lead, he prays for it to never stop. He wishes to feel Hob’s powerful voice and laugh vibrating in his chest forever, to wake up to that bright smile and those caring eyes. Morpheus can't remember a single time he has felt so safe before finding the Fiddlers and Hob. Completely and utterly safe. If he were to fall, Hob would catch him, again and again, literally and metaphorically.

Every one of Morpheus’ bad days Hob meets with sympathy, a helping hand, a shoulder to rest on. He does not mind the tears and snot and cries of rage and frustration because Morpheus couldn't stand his racing heart and sleepless nights anymore. But no nightmare or panic attack or act of anger can scare Robert Gadling away. He's there, whenever Morpheus needs him.

And Morpheus is learning to do the same. He pulls Hob's head into his lap when he notices his friend growing restless and frustrated, cards through the long strands of his hair and massages his scalp until all the tension bleeds out of him at once. When the tears come, so often for others, for the destinies of people who were not his to save, he lets Hob hide his face in his neck and cry until he is shaking with missed breaths.

But Morpheus notices that over the past few months, it has become less. The crying, the nightmares. Roderick’s voice is a more distant presence now, undoubtedly there, but less overpowering than it had once been. Quieter. Never less angry.

Hob, too, seems to get overpowered by his emotions less and less. These days he notices the tension in his shoulders and chest as much as Morpheus does, and does his best to breathe through it, to decompress by going for a run or talking the emotions out with Morpheus.

“Bad with boundaries,” Hob had once told him, and Morpheus had frowned. In his eyes, Hob seems to be rather good at setting boundaries with assholes, but that hasn't felt like the right thing to say. “When I see people hurting, I want to help. But not everyone can be helped. Doesn't mean I stop trying.”

Morpheus wondered for a while after that, if he could be one of those people who simply couldn't be helped. Every time he woke up screaming from a nightmare, he would apologise to Hob. Over and over, until Hob would take his face in hand and remind him of his progress. The fact that he is going to therapy, changing habits, getting better.

Morpheus hadn't seen his progress, until that moment. The fact that Roderick’s voice and the nightmares and the panic attacks were still there was proof of the opposite in his eyes. But Hob pointed out they were getting less. Only twice that month did he wake up screaming. He was more focused, and didn't get lost so easily in the dead man's voice. Only one panic attack in six months.

He smiled more, Hob said.

Morpheus thought that wasn't entirely his own doing.

After all, Hob taught him how to smile again, with his awful puns and endless patience and ridiculously thoughtful gifts. Gerhard the Great sits between their pillows on Hob's double bed, which is slowly becoming their bed with how much time Morpheus spends sleeping in it. There's also his spot on the couch now, his mug in the cupboard, his part of the bookshelf and closet. At this point, Morpheus wonders if moving in with Hob wouldn't be easier.

“Hob?” He asks, face pressed into his best friend's neck, his eyes closed. Hob hums in response, easy as breathing, and Morpheus feels no fear speaking his next words. “I think I'd like to live here. With you. If that's something you'd like too.”

The arm around him tightens, and then the other hand Hob has been using to stir the soup comes to rest at the nape of his neck.

“I'd love to have you here, Dream,” Hob murmurs, close to his ear, and Morpheus smiles.

Easy as breathing.

“I think,” he whispers, quietly enough that it only rings between their chests, between their hearts that are pressed together in their embrace. “I will fall in love with you, kollitós. One day.”

One day. When he will have healed enough to think of words as big as love.

“Can't wait for that day, lovey.”

The words are quiet, soft, and they warm Morpheus down to his very core.

He thinks he looks forward to that day as well.

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #soccer au #dreamling soccer au #fuck it we ball #salami asked

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samsalami66 · 2 months ago

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A Canvas For Revenge

Hob/Dream | Explicit | Graphic Depictions of Violence | 3.6K

CW: Torture, Gore, Blood, Morally Grey Characters

Summary: Hob Gadling is a man of devotion and of loyalty. While saving his oldest friend from Roderick Burgess, he takes his time to turn the Nightmare King's torturer into a a blood-offering with methods he learned in his youth.

More under the cut or on ao3!

Dreams do not find Roderick Burgess anymore.

For fifteen years now, he has slept without dreaming, in silence, in peace. No nightmares of death and poverty, of his Randall lying dead in a trench in Gallipoli. These days, the only things that plague his mind are Alex and Ethel, and the Endless trapped in his basement. But those problems keep to his waking hours, and so at night, he finds rest. The first true rest, in as long as he can remember.

It is almost poetic that capturing The Prince of Stories is what finally grants him peace, a happy end to his story, which has never known anything but death and suffering.

Perhaps Destiny has it out for his younger brother. Perhaps the old fucker decided Roderick finally deserves something good, after everything.

That he deserves riches and magic and life. He deserves to live. Forever, even. Perhaps he might. He’s already feeling younger than he had five years ago, his vitality coming back to him the longer the Dreamlord sits unmoving in his cage.

Living forever… what a thought. To see the rise and fall of nations, of kings and politicians, to see how the world tears itself apart with war and greed. Roderick might just enjoy an eternity of that. An eternity of pain.

Not his own, of course. Never his own.

Roderick turns in his bed, the fantasies he spins in his mind making him deaf to the creak of the stairs, and blind to the shadow darting along the corridor outside his room. While he imagines tales of revolution and war, of torture and screams, he does not hear the gasps of dying life before his door, the thump of bodies hitting wood, and does not feel the sweeping gaze of Death as she reaps soul after soul.

She is busy tonight.

For all that Roderick believes to know about her and her siblings, believes himself grand and knowledgeable and superior, he does not even stir when she settles into the armchair to his right to await her final appointment of the day.

And this one promises to be an entertaining one, at least. Six hundred years of experience tend to make a man creative.

When Hob Gadling enters the bedroom of Roderick Burgess, it is with practised ease and quiet. He barely disturbs the air around him as he locks the door behind him, and his boots make no sound as he strides towards the man laying in bed, caught up in stories that were not his own. Dream would not grant him such dreams, were he free. Death knows this. And so she feels nothing but satisfaction when Hob holds a bloody dagger to the old man’s throat, and feels the fantasies turn and twist, into what her brother would call a Waking Nightmare. Although, she doubts any of his creations could come close to the vision that Hob makes in that moment.

The man is clad from head to toe in black leathers, gloves covering strong hands where they hold the dagger. But his eyes… nothing would ever match a human’s lust for blood, for revenge, Death knows this well. And Roderick was stupid enough to get the one with the most pent up bloodlust on this planet on his bad side. Robert is a dangerous man, when it comes to that, and old Burgess will find out about that just in time.

“Who- Who are you?” Roderick stammers. His eyes flick around in the dark in the search of something to defend himself with. But there is nothing in reach, and Hob knows this. He doesn’t look away from Roderick, his eyes fixed on those of the other man and he presses the dagger further into his throat. The smell of blood begins to seep into the room, but it gets swallowed hungrily by the foundations of Fawney Rig, the manor's bloodlust matching that of the man who will burn it down to the ground.

“I, old man, am your end.” Hob replies, his voice quiet but cutting, an auditory representation of the weapon he holds.

“If it's money you want-” Burgess cuts off with a pained groan as Robert presses the dagger further into his throat with a condescending click of his tongue.

“You will speak when spoken to, and will think twice about offending me with your narrow-minded world-view.” Silence follows those words, and Hob nods approvingly. “Good boy. Now, you have someone in your manor. Trapped.”

The fear in Roderick's eyes grows upon hearing Hob's words and Death can't help but smile to herself as she watches the man swallow and nod.

“This man-” Roderick opens his mouth to protest the fact that Dream could be anything close to a man, but Hob shuts him up with another swift move if his dagger. Never enough to kill, only to cause pain. “This man you have trapped. He is important to me. He is my friend. And I do not take kindly to posh old bastards stealing away the people I love and keeping them in their basements.”

Only just does Roderick resist the urge to laugh at Hob’s words, but the disgust is clear in his face and his tone, even if only one of them carries over the darkness of Night.

“Oh, come off it, beings like him don’t have friends. Especially not some human mortal.”

For a moment, Hob is silent, contemplating an idea. Death can see that it makes Roderick nervous, his throat constricting uncomfortably against the sensation of the knife pressing into the thin wound Hob has left behind so far. He doesn’t dare to speak, too afraid the other man might take the only thing he has left in his miserable existence.

But after some minutes, Hob finally nods and shifts the knife so it presses deeper into Roderick’s neck and so that he can whisper the next words into the other man’s ear. His voice is cold and clear as he speaks, a tone that immediately sends chills down Roderick’s back with fear.

“Do you want to hear a story, old man?” In an astonishing display of intelligence, Roderick slowly nods in response. “Smart thing,” Hob whispers, grinning. ��Once upon a time, there was a man, sitting in a tavern with his friends. They talked and drank and joked, like they did every day. Normally, no one paid the drunken peasants any mind as their tongues loosened and their words got bolder. But on this day, when a man called Death stupid and proclaimed he would never die, someone was listening. Someone walked up to the man, pale as the moon and dressed in black, the red gem of a Lord resting on his chest, and asked to meet him in this very tavern, in a hundred years time.” Hob pauses there, takes a deep breath, and then grins. “That day was the seventh of June, 1389. And the man met with his mysterious stranger every hundred years after that day, over 542 years. And in order for his stranger to make their meeting in 1989, the man has to make sure that his friend doesn’t get hurt, or captured.”

“You’re lying!” Came Roderick’s hissed answer, the anger boiling in his throat spilling over into his tone. “This devil would never grant a peasant immortality.”

Once again, Hob grins, the echoes of memory shining in his eyes. “Oh, he’s no devil. And it’s been a while since I was a peasant, but I’m telling the truth. Alive, until I’m asking for Death. Now, how about we see how long you will stick around until you're begging for her sweet relief?”

“You will be waiting a long fucking time then.” Roderick spits in response, but Hob only tsks at him and grins with a glint in his eyes that matches that of Death’s brother when he is Nightmare more than Dream.

“Oh but Roddy, you forget something vital.” He gives Roderick’s cheek a friendly slap as his grin widens into something downright predatory. “I'm a mediaeval peasant. I grew up with torture so much worse than your privileged little modern brain could ever imagine. I saw a man being ripped apart limb by limb when I walked down the market square with my mum, saw a supposed witch’s stomach being eaten by rats as she screamed and begged for Hell to take her in. Oh, I know just the thing to break your precious pride, your resolve. You will scream so prettily for me, Roderick.”

The other man is struck silent at Hob’s words, at the edge of true malevolence in his voice. As all humans, Hob Gadling is neither an inherently good nor an inherently bad man. And, much like many others of his species, he is a thing spurred on by love. Love for life, love for learning, love for his friends. Hurting that which he loves has never turned out well for the offenders in the past. Death would know, after all she greeted all of them with the same satisfied smirk once Hob was done with them, and led them each to the Gates of Hell.

And after some centuries, she has come to appreciate Hob’s ways of delivering these souls into her domain. Watching him work was like witnessing an artist sculpt the most horrifyingly gorgeous pieces out of blood and bones and viscera, mediums only few would consider to handle with such reverence. But weren't all humans made up of these things? Why would a living human be any more beautiful than an Artwork of Death?

Each of those Hob has killed were offerings to her, sacrifices which she accepted with a smile as she felt the part of her that was fed by worship grow. And Roderick? He will make for the finest offering yet, with what he has done to her little brother, to Hob's most sacred friend.

Roderick will suffer. Hob will make sure of it.

“Just recently, I started studying history,” Hob begins to recall, threateningly calm as he pulls out knife after knife from his jacket and places them out of Roderick’s reach to his side, almost as if he were setting up a space for surgical instruments. “Can you believe it? A mediaeval peasant, studying the history he himself has lived through. Ironic, eh?” He pauses on a knife with jagged edges, smiles, and puts it all the way to the front. “As I was catching up on some stuff I had forgotten about again, the human brain can only carry so much information at once after all, I came across a rather funny section in a chapter on mediaeval torture methods.”

“What in God’s holy name could be funny about a passage on torture methods of a bunch of lunatics.” The other man hisses, and the movement of his throat causes the dagger to cut further into his flesh. The smell of iron in the room strengthens and the grin on Hob’s face grows with it.

“I'll let that misstep count because it's an excellent question. You see, Roddy, the passage talked about the infamous Blood Eagle, a method of torture and execution used by Vikings in the mediaeval era, of which they found several accounts in Norse scripture. But it seems to be unclear if this method actually existed or if it is just a product of mistranslation, especially as no archaeological finds could so far prove that it is indeed real.” Hob chuckles then, dark and thick and entirely devoid of humour. “But I remember it well. The little tradition carried over all the way to ol’ England and of course they had to try it. But where are the archaeological finds, if it was practised all over England? Well, you see, there are some things too gruesome even for a bloodthirsty mediaeval peasant to witness. There are some things better left sealed away and buried, things you will never unhear, things you will relive every single night for the rest of your life. And oh, how I'm looking forward to hearing your screams for the rest of my unending life. Every. Single. Night.”

And with those words, Hob gets to work. He guides Roderick out of his bed and orders him to kneel in the middle of the floor with the dagger still held to his throat. The old man is shaking with fear beneath Hob’s steady hands, his heart-rate worryingly high. Death would worry about him dying of a heart attack before Hob had his way with him, but then it’s well within her power to deny Roderick her gift just long enough for him to suffer through all Hob has planned… as repayment for his constant offerings, of course. To honour five hundred years of worship.

Death gets dragged out of her musings by a scream that echoes through the halls of the manor and seeps into its very foundations. It feeds into the darkness of this place, the inherent evil Roderick began to raise here with his Order of Ancient Mysteries. Once, he fed it with the screams of the innocent, with their fear and blood and tears. It comes as no surprise that a building of such corruption would turn against its creator without a second glance, would feed off him as it did off everything else. It seems to embrace the jagged knife that now pins Rodericks lower leg to its foundations, swallowing each rivulet of blood as it runs down the edge and pools on the cold stone.

“You bastard!” Roderick howls, his hands moving to rip the offending object out of his leg, but he realises rather quickly that the stone around him has begun to betray him, for the knife does not give. He is pinned to the floor, kneeling, completely at Hob Gadling’s mercy.

“When I was a lad, they said that if you could withstand this torture without screaming, you would be granted a place in heaven, despite your sins. Think you can earn yourself a ticket to the Almighty, Roddy?” Hob taunts from above him, a new knife already held in his hands. That grin of his, wild and predatory, turns into one of smug concentration as he cuts through Roderick's sleepwear and throws away the fabric after, revealing his canvas for the night. He runs the dull side of the blade once over the length of Roderick’s back, as if mapping out the diameters for his next artwork.

“You're sick! Utterly insane!”

A rather weak insult, all things considered, but eloquence tends to fail people in the presence of Death.

“Oh, yes.” Hob Gadling agrees, and then he presses the knife into Roderick’s flesh, deep, until he hits the ligaments that connect the ribs to the spine. It’s precise, clinical as much as it is artistic, a first brushstroke made by a steady hand. The scream Roderick lets out only contemplates the red trickling down his back and eventually mixing with the blood from his leg on the cold stone floor. It all looks the same in the dark, the same deep red that all humans bleed. But Roderick’s blood is darker in its essence, it holds all the hatred this man feels for the world. It looks much better spilled than it did flowing beneath Roderick's ashen skin.

The next cuts Hob Gadling makes sever the ligaments connecting Roderick's ribs to his spine, which makes it easy for him to pop out one joint after the other with strong hands, each sickening squelch of bones and flesh and blood accompanied by screams and cries and sobs. Roderick is not a pretty crier, and not a very proud man. He begs for mercy he does not deserve, promises compensation he cannot give. But Hob shows no sign of interest in such begging, ignores his pleas in favour of his work. Each move of his hands contributes to the sculpture he was turning Roderick into, forming his flesh like lesser artists would form clay. Hob is a man of the flesh, and so he knows this medium well. Better, perhaps, than those who invented the method.

Death remembers that the vikings and mediaeval executioners were much less precise in their torture than Robert is now. They broke bones where he disconnects joins, ripped muscle where he cuts it with the skills of a surgeon. Watching him work is beautiful in its darkness, its horror, downright nightmare-inducing. Dream will enjoy knowing Hob is doing this in his name, in his image. A show of devotion unlike any previous lover her brother held dear. And to think they have parted in anger last they met over the notion of friendship, when Hob now stands above his oldest friend's torturer, painting him into a picture of revenge.

Hob forces his knife behind Roderick's ribs next, severs what little flesh is still connecting them to the man’s inner organs. Death catches a glimpse of the beating heart underneath, the lungs contracting and expanding on every single of Roderick's sobs. But she only gets a full view of those inner workings once Hob forces his hands into the now free spaces, and pulls.

The scream Roderick lets out is one Death hasn't heard for centuries, one that has been buried and burned with the witches and murderers of the Middle Ages, only alive now in some of the souls in her Lands. But she does not usually make a habit of relishing in the screams of her wards, of those she serves. Roderick's screams are an exception. They are satisfaction given form, they appeal to the darkest parts of her being, the ones that crave revenge and blood prices and sacrifice in her name. When those ribs finally break under Hob’s hands the sound sends a shiver down Death’s spine, and she smiles indulgently as Hob moves them into position. He takes his time with it, unfazed by the blood on his hands and the heart beating under his hands. Once he is satisfied with the placement of the wings, the angle in which they stretch towards the ceiling, he runs a reverent finger over Roderick’s ever-beating heart.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, and smears the blood now on his hands over Roderick’s chest, right over where he can see his heart beating on the other side. A signature, marking his final satisfaction. “In Death, even a little maggot like you can learn what it’s like to be a butterfly.”

Roderick does not answer, does not seem to be capable of words, and so Hob just straightens with a smile on his face and sheathes his knives. Death does not see what Hob does next, for she doesn’t seem to be able to take her eyes off the kneeling man before her, not even for a second. All that she knows is that Hob returns moments after with her brother’s tools of office. The ruby glints much like Roderick’s blood in the light of the moon shining through the window, and Death can feel its magic strengthening with the devotion in the room, with the dreams of revenge fulfilled and forgiveness earned hanging in the air. He lays the tools out behind Roderick as if placing offerings at an altar, even closes his eyes in prayer. Hob Gadling knows the worship of old, knows the power it grants to their kind, and he is ready to pour all his knowledge into the revenge of his oldest friend.

Devoted to a fault.

“Please,” Roderick’s voice is raw from his cries, and his breathing is heavy, his lungs expanding much further than they should. “Please, just let me die.”

Only the answering silence in Hob’s sudden absence tells Death that the other man did not say these words to his tormentor, and so it takes her a moment to allow her eyes to leave the offerings and meet his eyes in the darkness of a blood red night. Presumably, Hob has left to free Dream of his cage, to bring him upstairs and present him with his artwork of devotion. Roderick will not receive her gift, not until her brother is here to witness Roderick’s final breath.

“You wished to summon me, Roderick Burgess, to beg for immortality. Is this not what you asked for?” A petty question. She enjoys asking it more than she wishes to admit.

“Not like this. Never like this.” A groan of pain escapes Burgess, and Death smiles.

“You do not get to choose the manner in which we meet, Roddy. You do not get to make demands from the likes of us. And you do not get to imprison us, display us like insects and expect no punishment.”

Roderick opens his mouth as if to answer, but then a shadow spreads throughout the room and steals away his voice, the air in his lungs and the warmth from his blood. Her brother is the furthest thing from human as he snakes around Roderick’s tortured body, around his artfully exposed heart, and in his wake leaves pain anew, before he locks Roderick’s mind into a carefully crafted dream of endless torture.

Hob Gadling stands in the open door, bloodied, an artist covered in the remnants of his work, smiling as Dream takes the mind of his tormentor for himself, plunging him into darkness unfathomable to the human imagination. He looks fond, unbelievably so, when the shadow that is Dream takes a more human shape again, although it is more Nightmare than Dream, more carnage than fantasy.

“You did this. For me.” Dream says, slowly, and Death stands to take her leave, unseen by both Hob Gadling and her brother. Even when indulging her darker urges does she not wish to impose on her little brother’s private affairs.

The last thing she hears before taking flight with Roderick’s spirit is Hob’s response, a dangerously quiet vow.

“For you, love, I’d make the entire world my canvas.”

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #cw: torture #cw: gore #cw: blood

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samsalami66 · 4 months ago

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Catching Up With The Past

Look at this, another part for the soccer au!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

“Boys? Could I have a word with you?”

The two heads of the men present turned towards Gilbert as he stuck his head into the locker rooms, pausing their conversation to listen to him.

“‘Course, what do you need, coach?” The shorter of them answered then, gesturing for him to come in and sit with them. He did so, grateful for the chance to rest his bad knee. Curiosity shone in the men’s eyes as they waited for him to state his business, their expressions open and unafraid.

“I have received a request for a transfer to our team. And I wish to discuss it with you both first, before I make any kind of decision.”

“Just us? Why not the whole team?” A frown creased the face of the taller man, confusion clear in his gaze. He had always been a perceptive one, and Gilbert couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Because this matter concerns you two in ways it does not concern the others.” Confusion only seemed to grow between them at his words. “The transfer request comes from Morpheus Ateleios. Given your… history with him, I ought to first ask you for your opinion on this.”

The men blinked at him for a long moment, too stunned to formulate a response.

The shorter man caught himself first and began to pace the room as he answered, his hands gesturing wildly, as they so often did when he was either nervous or excited.

“Morpheus Ateleios asked to be transferred to our team? Offence player for the Riggers. The guy I gave a black eye last season.” Gilbert nodded, having had similar thoughts when he had woken up to this particular email. “But why? He hates our guts.”

“I truly don’t know, son. It came as a surprise to me as well, after all there had been no talk about a planned transfer. All I can say is that he wrote to me the very day after Roderick’s sudden death.”

“Sounds to me like he’s running.” The other man finally spoke up, his face one of mixed emotion. Anger, fear, tentative hope, all so easily read from his set jaw and the light brightening in his eyes.

“Those were my thoughts as well. And you know I am not one inclined to turn away those who are in search of shelter. That being said, my responsibility lies with you boys, first and foremost. So, what do you think?”

The smaller man was the first to speak up, his pacing coming to an end right in the middle of the room.

“There has to be a reason why he wants to be transferred to our team, of all the teams out there. I say we do it.”

Gilbert nodded, having expected this sort of answer from his player. “You will make sure to keep your affections in check, I assume?”

A blush spread over his face and to the tip of his ears, but he inclined his head in agreement nonetheless. “Yes, of course. You have my word on that.”

“Very well. What about you, son?”

The other man sighed, but eventually nodded as well. “Fine. But I can’t promise he will be happy to see me.”

“Well, good thing then we will only have to worry about that when you’re back at the end of next season, right?”

- - -

Hob seemed to be nervous today.

He was pacing, up and down the living room, gesturing even more animatedly than usual while telling Morpheus about the ending of the movie they had watched the evening before, which he might have missed by matter of falling asleep halfway through.

For a few minutes, Morpheus simply observed his friend, trying and failing to figure out what the reason for his nervousness could be. But there was nothing unusual about today or even next week, only Drink Night and training and another match at the end of the week. Nothing that would usually cause him to worry.

“Hob?” he called out, a hint of the confusion he was feeling making its way into his voice. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

His friend immediately stopped in his tracks, hands falling uselessly to his sides.

“I was pacing again, wasn’t I?” he sighed.

“You were,” Morpheus stepped closer to Hob and let his head fall on his shoulder, knowing that touch was one of the things that brought Hob the most comfort in these moments. Almost instantly his friend started to deflate, one of his hands coming up to run through Morpheus’ hair, and he allowed it for a few minutes without saying a word, hoping that Hob would begin talking of his own accord. When it became clear that he wouldn’t do so, Morpheus turned his head to look at him, the angle giving him a clear view of Hob’s profile.

“What’s wrong, Kollitós? If you tell me, we can find a way to fix it.”

He was mirroring Hob’s words from a few months ago, and from the small huff that left his lips it didn’t go unnoticed.

“‘Kollitós’? That’s a new one. What does it mean?” Hob deflected, which was rather unusual for him. Morpheus pretended he didn’t notice and placed a hand on Hob’s chest, right over his heart.

“Best Friend,” It was a simple answer, a word Morpheus had been thinking about for a long time now. There had never been someone like Hob in his life, someone he trusted so completely and who brought out the best in him. He was, on all accounts, the best friend Morpheus had ever had. But, perhaps, it was not a notion the two of them shared. After all, Hob was a much more sociable person, he had plenty of friends, many of whom he had known for the better part of his life, much longer than he knew Morpheus. “You don’t have to… to feel the same way about me, of course. But I wished for you to know.”

Morpheus did not quite manage to finish his sentence before he was pulled into a crushing hug, Hob’s arms squeezing his ribs so hard he struggled to breathe, but he couldn’t help the chuckle escaping him at his friend’s enthusiasm.

“What do you mean, I do not have to feel the same? Are you crazy, of course I do!” A kiss was pressed to Morpheus’ cheek, and he felt the spot growing warm under Hob’s gaze.

“I am glad, then,” He whispered in response, and cuddled up closer to his friend. “I guess you don’t want to talk about what’s stressing you out?”

Hob placed another kiss on his cheek before letting him go, an apologetic smile on his lips. “I’m sorry, lovey. Trust me that it’s nothing bad?”

Another sigh, but Morpheus nodded. “Alright. You know I trust you.”

- - -

Two hours and three glasses of wine later, Morpheus sat in the midst of his team, laughing over a story Matthew told, when the door to The New Inn opened behind him. Usually he would have barely noticed, after all guests came and went like clockwork at a place like this, but the way all heads at the table suddenly turned towards the door meant this wasn’t just another guest. But who could possibly cause them all to perch up like this, to smile and cheer and wave like they had never been happier to see someone?

“Olethros?” Morpheus whispered as he turned around, the name of his baby brother feeling so foreign and yet so familiar on his tongue.

“Hello, Oneiros.”

It had been years since he last heard that nickname, a decade at least.

The last time Morpheus had heard it was on the day of Delilah's funeral. It had also been the day Olethros ran from their home, after their parents had tried to pretend her death had been of natural causes, an accident, a simple fall down the stairs where she had broken her neck instead of the real tragedy it had been.

The last time Morpheus had heard that nickname, his brother had been in shambles, looking more like a haunted man than the child he had still been. He had been too skinny, much like Morpheus himself had been, struggling to eat and sleep and live with the knowledge their sister had taken her own life.

But Olethros had blamed himself for her death, for he had believed that he had been supposed to protect her and that he had failed.

It had destroyed him.

Now, there was a smile on his brother’s face, and a child in his arms. A little girl, no older than a year, with a shock of red hair and a smile that rivalled that of her father’s. Because there was no doubt about it, this ray of sunshine could hardly be anyone else’s. And Olethros looked… good. Happy. Settled. All the things he never had back home, especially during those past weeks, and also never had when they had seen each other on the pitch. Or perhaps he had, and Morpheus had simply been so blinded by anger and judgement and fear that he hadn’t seen.

He couldn’t remember why he had ever ignored his brother on the field, now, why he hadn’t tried to reconcile, to find out how he had fared.

So much lost time. So many lost chances.

But what if his brother was angry with him for all those years he had pretended that he did not care for his presence? What if he took offence to Morpheus joining his team, saw it as betrayal for someone of the family he left behind to infiltrate his new life?

What if he didn’t want to have Morpheus here? Would they make him leave? Would they favour their long-time friend and teammate over him, if Olethros wished for it?

“I… I thought you left the team. You hadn’t played in- in months, I- I-,” Morpheus knew that he was beginning to breathe too quickly, that his thoughts were spiralling, the tell-tale signs of a meltdown dancing just at the edge of his vision. He had never asked about his brother, not once since joining the team. He was an awful older brother, caring so little for his own family, for the person who had introduced him to the sport which had since taken over his life.

God, he still remembered afternoons spent on the clearing behind the estate, a goal marked by stones and a ball stolen from their neighbours the only equipment they had. They would train for hours, sometimes deep into the night, every minute spent laughing with a carefreeness they had never felt at home.

But then, Olethros had simply… gone. No goodbye, not even a note or letter.

The first time he had seen him again was in his first year playing for Fawney Rig, where his brother had parried every single one of his shots on the Fiddlers goal.

In all the years afterward, in all the games they played against each other, they had not exchanged a single word.

And now, there was just one thing Morpheus wanted to say to his brother, something he should have said years ago but hadn’t out of stubbornness and unfounded anger.

“I missed you, little brother.” His words caught on a sob as he stood and threw himself into Olethros’ arms, caring not for his tears, but only that his brother knew. And Olethros hugged him back with his free arm, holding him close in a way that sent Morpheus right back to his childhood, to nights huddled together in a blanket fort when their parents had been fighting. His little brother shouldn’t have had to take care of them all, protect them each time their parents’ fury had turned against them, but he always had, until that fateful day.

Morpheus understood now that his brother had done the right thing, to leave and protect himself for once in his life and find people who would help him.

“And I you, Oneiros,” Hearing the words spoken aloud lifted a weight from Morpheus’ shoulders that he hadn’t known he’d been carrying, the relief of it forcing more tears down his cheeks. “And I’m sorry, my brother.”

Morpheus had to blink at the words for a moment, not sure what they were supposed to mean.

“What for?”

His brother sighed and took a step back from him so they could make eye-contact, his free hand moving from his back to his shoulder, squeezing once.

“I am sorry for not noticing sooner that you needed help.”

For a moment, everything stood still.

Olethros knew about Roderick. But he hadn’t been with the team for months, certainly not since Morpheus had joined them, and there were few people even here who he had told all of it.

Actually, there was just one.

And suddenly, a lot of things came into perspective.

“One moment,” he said to his brother before turning around to Hob, who was currently hiding behind Cori and peeking slightly over his shoulder. “That was why you were so nervous today? Because you were… conspiring to reconnect me with my brother?”

His best friend winced at that, as if the very idea of conspiring against him in any way physically hurt him, and Morpheus was almost inclined to believe that was the case with how much time Hob had spent pacing his living room this evening. At least it had been quite painful to watch.

“It was rather intended as a risky surprise, I’d say! After all I knew from Olly how close the two of you have been back then and how much he wanted to finally reconcile with you and when I figured out why you have been ignoring him for all those years I couldn’t have simply not told him and I guess I just… I just wanted you two to get along again. I’m sorry, Dream.” Hob deflated a little after his nervous rant, the expression on his face so genuinely troubled Morpheus just wanted to pull him into a hug.

“You are an idiot, Kollitós.” he answered instead, his voice soft, and Hob immediately perked up upon hearing the nickname, a smile spreading over his lips.

“Your idiot?”

Morpheus hummed in agreement and turned back around to his brother, who looked amused at their banter, the smile on his lips matching Hob’s.

“Hobert told me that the two of you have grown close, but I’ll admit that it’s slightly perplexing to witness myself.”

Morpheus tried and failed to keep from snorting at the ridiculousness of Hobert, somehow an even worse nickname than Hob was on its own, but nothing could have prepared him for Cori’s answering whine behind him.

“Be glad you missed these past months, Lily, they’re absolutely disgusting together.”

Lily. Morpheus couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, completely unhindered, at the sheer stupidity of his friends. How in the world they kept coming up with these names was beyond him.

Though, perhaps, at least Dream made a little more sense if Olethros had continued calling him Oneiros over the years. Lily, on the other hand, was just a ridiculous nickname for his brother. After all, Olethros had never been particularly feminine.

Not like him.

And while Morpheus’ thoughts were on femininity, he realised that he had completely forgotten to address the metaphorical elephant in the room.

“What’s her name?”

Olethros raised an eyebrow in question at the sudden change of topic, and Morpheus couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Surely it was quite obvious who he was talking about.

“My niece, brother. What is her name?”

A hand reached for his from behind him then, warm and familiar, with callouses and scars he could tell by heart. Morpheus was not quite sure why Hob felt the need to do so now, but he would never refuse one of his friend’s offers of comfort.

“We call her Lily, too,” Olethros began, and his voice wavered slightly. “But her name is Delilah.” Suddenly, Hob’s hand in his made a lot of sense, and Morpheus was immensely thankful for it. “We wanted to keep her memory alive, even if our parents tried their hardest to achieve the opposite. Del deserves to be remembered.”

Morpheus nodded as tears gathered in his eyes, the emotions of having a piece of his baby sister again after all those years, even if it was just an old name on a new person, threatening to overwhelm him. But there was Hob’s hand in his, grounding him, and there were years of grief and months of therapy behind him, reminding him that those emotions did not have to overtake him.

And so he took a deep breath, allowed the waves of grief tearing at his heart to lap at him for a moment, but then let them go again, just like the sea let go of the beach after a moments’ embrace.

Then he smiled up at his brother, letting go of Hob’s hand, and held out his arm towards little Lily.

“Come on, let me hold my niece. And sit down, I’m sure we can squeeze you in next to John…”

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #dreamling soccer au #soccer au #fuck it we ball

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samsalami66 · 4 months ago

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What is this lawsuit I see under the soccer au??😱

This lawsuit, dear anon, is probably going to be the end of my sanity XD.

Planned for this fic is a lawsuit against the Riggers, led on by Dream and Hob, for all the abuse he had to endure while playing for the team (both as a player in general and because of his sexuality). It will involve some media scandals and the team trying to convince other players to come forth and talk about their experience at the team, as well as general angsty scenes spent at the police or in court.

Problem being: I know exactly nothing of how such a lawsuit might go down, or about the steps involved, so it will take a lot of research and planning until I will get that part of the universe started. But it's probably going to be the plot-heaviest fic of them all and I'm really looking forward to figuring it out. Dream deserves some justice for what was done to him, and the Riggers need to be supervised or banned.

Thank you so much for the ask!

Come and ask me about my WIPs!

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #tagged salami #salami asked #dreamling soccer au #soccer au #fuck it we ball

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samsalami66 · 4 months ago

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I'm almost afraid to ask, but for the wip thing "A day with the Riggers" from the soccer au? 🥺

🤘five-and-dimes

Hey @five-and-dimes ! Thank you so much for the ask my friend, I'm excited to talk some more about soccer au here!

First off, yeah, the fear is probably justified XD!

It's basically going to be what the title says, a rather typical day with Dream still at the Riggers, Roderick still alive. A little hurt no comfort as the main dish.

After talking so much about all the after-effects Rod's 'training methods' had on Dream, I really felt the need to give a glimpse into just how bad it was to experience. There will also be some antagonistic tension between Alex and Dream going on as a setup for the World Cup fic...

The exact scenes aren't planned out yet, but I'm looking forward to coming up with some delicious hurt for this universe. :)))

Ask me about my WIPs!

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #tagged salami #salami asked #dreamling soccer au #soccer au #fuck it we ball

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samsalami66 · 4 months ago

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WIP ask game

I was tagged by the wonderful @five-and-dimes, thank you so much love!!

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

I really have so very few WIPs I'm actively working on I'll just write down some of the in progress names of the ideas that are swirling around in my head!

Soccer au:

Destruction arc

A day with the Riggers

Lawsuit

Visiting the Dead

World Cup

Others:

Keep Your Friends Close (epic crossover)

Baldurs Gate crossover

Ehhhh Actually Writing Greece AU

Secret Service

Tagging whoever comes to my mind, sorry if you've been tagged already!

@kydrogendragon @bazzybelle @mid0khan @sable-simp @valeriianz

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #tagged salami #soccer au #dreamling soccer au #dreamling ancient greece au

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samsalami66 · 4 months ago

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Red Card Plays

Another day, another dreamling soccer au fic! Have fun reading!

Read on ao3 here!

(TW: Homophobia, Abuse, Panic Attacks)

“You’re here early.”

Morpheus didn’t look up at the sound of Hob’s voice, too used to it by now to be startled out of his warm-up. He took a deep breath so he might answer the unspoken question which Hob asked almost every time when he found him on the pitch way before training started.

“Yes I… I wanted to get some extra training in.” It was an easy lie, almost coming naturally with how many times he had already said it. “You are early as well.”

Hob nodded as he sat down next to him, mirroring his position.

“Oh yeah, it makes Gilbert happy when I show up early from time to time, to straighten my bad track record.”

This, too, was familiar. Finding pretty words in order not to outright name the punishment at hand, make light of the situation one found themselves in. It was only a matter of time until Morpheus would find himself subjected to the darker side the Fiddlers surely possessed, or be faced with it through one of the other players.

Though he hoped it would not have to be Hob, when it came to it. Morpheus had rather started to enjoy the other man’s calming presence.

“I understand. Say, what would Gilbert do if he was unhappy with a player’s performance?” Morpheus would want to know what to expect sooner rather than later, to get an understanding of what Gilbert’s chosen ways of training were. That way he might prepare accordingly.

“What would he do?” Hob was frowning at him, his arms crossing over his chest. “You mean outside of talking to you?”

Now, Morpheus was frowning too. Surely Hob understood that he could talk about this freely. They were teammates now after all, and perhaps even on the way of becoming something like friends. “I mean… extra training, punishments, or whatever you call it here.”

The stare Hob gave him was bordering on worry. “Dream” he started, slowly. “What did Roderick do, when he was unhappy with your performance?”

Weird question, but alright.

“The usual?” When Hob just kept staring at him, Morpheus continued with a roll of his eyes. “Running until collapsing, no water for the day, sometimes he got out the cane.”

Hob’s stare turned dark at his words, his jaw tensed and he took a deep breath.

“Burgess abused you?”

“What? No!” It was Morpheus’ turn to frown again. “No, those were just training methods, to keep us on track. How else would you ensure people keep up with it?”

“Enthusiasm? Loyalty? Adjusting the training to the players? Motivate them?”

“What motivates a player better than the fear of punishment?”

Morpheus was growing frustrated. There was no reason for Hob to be so stubborn about admitting to this.

“Anything, Dream, literally anything else would be more motivating for a player. You left the Riggers the moment Burgess bit the dust, didn’t you?”

That. Well, that was true. But Morpheus hadn’t left the team because of that, it was just that he couldn’t stand to play there when Roderick was gone. His ghost had been everywhere, his voice constantly at the back of his mind, telling him he was doing it all wrong, that he was a burden for the team, that only he could make him worth something as a player. That was why he had left.

“Dream, love, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?”

Of course he could, there was nothing wrong with him, after all. Any player Morpheus had ever talked to (which, admittedly, were just his old teammates. They hadn’t been allowed friendship or anything similar outside of their team) experienced the same treatment and knew about these training methods, accepted them as effective, even. So of course he could look at Hob. He could even hold his gaze, even if the worry in his teammate’s eyes made his stomach clench with a feeling he could not place.

“Nobody is going to hurt you here. Nobody, Dream,” Hob’s eyes held a seriousness Morpheus simply couldn’t understand, that did not make sense.

“But Roderick didn’t hurt me. He disciplined me, he, he motivated me and pushed me to be better, to be the best version of myself.”

His voice was loud. Morpheus did not remember raising it, nor did he know why tears were gathering in his eyes or why he felt the need to hug his knees to his chest like a toddler. He was not some child after all, and there was no reason for this.

“Oh, love,” It was so soft, so filled with care, and Morpheus felt the tears spill over. Arms wrapped around him, pulled him close, so that all he could feel was Hob’s warmth surrounding him as he cried. Though what for, he still wasn’t sure.

- - -

“How are we feeling?”

We. It implied a shared feeling, as if emotions could be experienced conjointly. Perhaps Hob Gadling really did share worry, fear and joy with those around him. Empathetic, in a way Morpheus failed to fully understand.

He was grateful for it now.

Now, they were sitting, together, in Hob’s car, waiting for him to be ready to step outside and begin therapy. He was not alone. Hob was here, with him. Holding his hand. Patient, caring. Morpheus was not sure that he deserved this care, this love. Which, perhaps, was one of the reasons he was sitting here. Or at least Hob had informed him that such thoughts were deemed ‘unhealthy’.

Morpheus could not remember a time where he had felt worthy of love. Or a time where he had been loved, the way Hob explained love was supposed to be. Unconditional.

There had always been conditions. His mother had loved him when he did her bidding, his father when he kept quiet. Epithumia had loved him when he left their home.

Hob said he loved Morpheus for himself, for his friendship and his character. Morpheus did not quite believe him, but perhaps he would, in time.

So, how was he feeling?

“I am. Afraid. Of talking to this person. But I also wish to. To learn. I wish to become a better friend.”

It was what they were, now. Friends. A baffling concept to Morpheus, that a person so caring could expand their care to him of all people. But he did. And Morpheus was thankful for it.

Hob grasped his hand and squeezed it tightly, the action grounding him.

“Being afraid of this is the most natural thing, love. I was so nauseous the first time I came here I almost turned around and went back home.” It didn’t sound like a bad idea at all, and Morpheus said so. Hob squeezed his hand again with a soft smile. “If you really don’t want to go, we can turn around and reschedule. We will do this in your time, however long it takes.”

“You would leave, now? When we are already here? When all I have to do is step out of your car and into the building?” It would be an inconvenience. It would mean doing it all over again, driving into the city and spending hours in his presence. Things nobody would want to do, not voluntarily.

“Of course I would, Dream. These things can’t be rushed. If you aren’t ready, it doesn’t need to happen today.”

Morpheus nodded, once, before taking a deep breath. Hob was not like the people he had known so far. He knew this.

“You will be here?”

“Awaiting your return, my friend.”

Another deep breath, another nod, and Morpheus pushed the door of the car open and made his way inside, knowing that Hob would be there. Just like he promised.

- - -

An hour later, almost on the dot, Morpheus stepped back out of the building, feeling like a single touch might break him apart. Hob had tried to warn him that there would be a lot of feelings he wouldn’t understand, and wouldn't be able to place. Never had Morpheus felt so out of his depth, like his skin didn’t fit quite right anymore and his mind was not his own.

But that was alright. Because Hob was there. Waiting, just as he had promised. Even if Morpheus didn’t feel like he knew himself anymore, Hob was waiting, patient, just like he always was.

Morpheus wanted to hug him, to be held, so he wouldn’t feel like he might shatter apart anymore. But at the same time touch felt impossible, the very idea made his skin crawl like a hundred ants were trapped in his veins. He wasn’t sure what to do about it, so he did not do anything, except open the passenger side to Hob’s car.

And there, on his seat, was a… a toy. A plushie. A fox-plushie, to be exact, large red ears with black tips, a very fluffy tail and black button eyes. It was… cute. It looked like something his younger self would have loved to own, something he would have paraded around as his favourite possession.

“A little surprise, for being brave enough to walk in there,” said Hob, his voice soft as he leaned towards the other seat so Morpheus could see him. He was smiling, pride clear in his eyes, and Morpheus could feel himself blush. It had been a long time since someone had last told him they were proud of him, longer still since he had been given a gift for doing something right. He must have been silent for a moment too long, missing the time it was socially acceptable to answer, because Hob was looking at him apologetically and reached for the plushie. “Sorry, I thought it was a good idea, but it’s childish, really, you don’t have to-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence before Morpheus snatched the fox away from him and held it close to his chest, suddenly protective over the toy.

“A gift from my only friend could never be childish, Robert.” Morpheus huffed, his eyes narrowed playfully at the other man. Teasing was still unfamiliar to him, but he believed himself to be finally getting the hang of it. “Also, don’t disrespect Gerhard the Great like that. He detests being called a children’s toy.”

His teasing must have worked, as Hob barked out a laugh at the name he had given the fox, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I wouldn’t dare! Gerhard the Great deserves all the respect I can offer. As do you, my friend.”

When Hob said ‘friend’, it sounded like a lot of things. ‘My king’, ‘My Lord’, ‘My Love’. It was never just one thing. Friend, for this man, meant everything. Morpheus doubted that Hob would stop calling his partner his friend, or that he could ever have a partner who was not also his friend. It was a weird thing to know so early on in their acquaintance, but Hob was an open book about these things.

Hob’s openness calmed Morpheus, made it easy to trust him. And so far, his trust had only been well-placed. The fox in his arms was just another reminder of the great man Hob Gadling was. He wouldn’t judge or harm him. The only thing Hob knew to do was to care and protect.

He had cared enough to know Morpheus would feel difficult about touch. And he had cared enough to think further, to find a solution Morpheus would have never thought of himself.

And so, Morpheus slid easily into the passenger seat, with Gerhard the Great resting safely on his lap and one hand playing with his ears.

“Could I tell you what I talked about with Lydia, in the past hour?”

“Of course! Whatever you want to talk about, my friend, I’m happy to listen.”

- - -

Autism and ADHD had not been the diagnoses Morpheus had expected to get first, considering all the problems he had come to realise he had. But, as it was, Lydia had handed him books on both topics only about a month after he started therapy, and the more he read about the disorders, the more he began to see why they hadn’t been particularly hard diagnoses to make. Perhaps the fact that he was never able to stop playing around with the tissue boxes that were strategically placed around the room had been a sign. Or that he had to cover his ears from the sound of the fan and had been seconds away from what Lydia had called a ‘meltdown’, because the sound had felt like someone was scraping his brain with sandpaper.

Perhaps, if Morpheus had had access to these books earlier, he would have noticed that he was different a lot sooner. He understood now that arguments with his old teammates had often sprouted from misunderstandings and an inability on his side to communicate his problems. Though they hadn’t been the best human beings either, so they probably wouldn’t have listened to him about his problems anyway.

But Lydia said that he would have to try it with the Fiddlers in order to know if they were the same. Morpheus didn’t know why anyone would want to accommodate his problems, especially when he could simply push through them and pretend nothing was wrong, like he had done his whole life. Unhealthy, Lydia would chide him. He began to understand where Hob got that word from.

He, too, said a similar thing after all, when Morpheus told him about that week’s session. It’s unhealthy to go about your whole life masking, he had said. Morpheus hadn’t known what ‘masking’ was supposed to be at that point, but he had nodded along like he understood. Whenever something is making you feel uncomfortable, just tell us, yeah? Promise we will try to help. And that had been it.

Honestly, Hob hadn’t seemed particularly surprised about the diagnoses either. Perhaps Morpheus hadn’t been doing as well at hiding his problems as he had previously thought.

But even with Hob’s reassurance and the fact that nothing between them or the team seemed to change after the diagnoses, it still took Morpheus another month to voice a matter of discomfort to them. Old habits die hard, after all.

It was a Saturday and the team was getting ready for Drink Night, as was customary for them. Morpheus had been staying at Hob’s place, as he often did these days. They would watch movies or prepare dinner together on Friday nights. It was a comfortable routine, especially when Drink Night was always held at the New Inn and they simply had to walk down a flight of stairs to get there. They had their corner booth reserved every week, the bartender and waiters knew them all by name and were close friends of Hob’s, who was also the owner of the pub. If it ever became too crowded or loud for him, Morpheus would simply excuse himself to Hob’s flat.

It was a comfortable routine. One Morpheus was not very inclined to break.

But this Saturday, the team wanted to celebrate the opening of a new place around town. It was so new, there were no reviews or pictures online. No menu. It would be on the other side of London, far away from any of their homes, and they might have to stand in a queue in order to get in, if they would even get in all together.

Morpheus was… slightly uncomfortable at the idea.

“You look like your spine might snap with how tense you are.” Well, perhaps it was more than slight discomfort. Or Hob was simply getting too perceptive. Either way, he has been called out and was not feeling particularly great about it.

“I’m fine.” He tried to deflect, but Hob was having none of it. His hands came up to massage Morpheus’ shoulders, turning him into jelly with his strong fingers digging into Morpheus’ tense muscles.

“I can see that you’re not. Tell me what’s up so we can find a way to fix it.”

Hob made it sound so easy. As if Morpheus just had to say the word and he would make it happen, no matter what the request was. Perhaps he would.

Morpheus realised he wanted to find out.

“I do not wish to go to another pub today.” He answered quietly, eyes closed and focusing on Hob’s touch, grounding him. “I fear getting… overstimulated by the surroundings and unknown parameters and not having a place to withdraw to. And I… I enjoy spending time at The New Inn.” It was a slow explanation, halting and awkward, for Morpheus was still unused to voicing his feelings in this manner. But it was easier with Hob at his back, and the knowledge that he would never be judged by this man. When he finished his explanation, the hands on his shoulders disappeared so that arms could circle around his waist and pull him into a hug. Hob was warm and solid behind him, and Morpheus felt safe like this, safe to voice any and all of his concerns.

“Thank you for telling me, Dream. I’m so proud of you.” Warmth he wasn’t quite certain he deserved to feel swelled in Morpheus’ chest at the words, at the knowledge of having made his friend proud. “Let’s text the others to meet us here instead, yeah?”

Telling the other team members felt scarier than telling Hob, but Morpheus thought he could do anything with Hob holding him close like this.

“Very well.” He murmured, and Hob’s arms left his body in search of his phone. Morpheus knew it was in the bathroom, where Hob had been shaving a few minutes prior and upon telling him so, he received a kiss to the cheek from his friend.

“What would I do without you?”

It was a good question, though Morpheus felt he should be the one asking it. He answered nonetheless, but really it was more for himself than Hob.

“I don’t know, Hob. I don’t know what I would do.”

- - -

As the beginning of the season approached, Morpheus began to talk more with Lydia about how this time was different from how it had been at Fawney Rig.

The overall mood of the Fiddlers did not change much as the first match drew nearer. They were growing excited, more active at training, but not really stressed or anxious. The daily talks with Gilbert seemed to help them a lot, hearing that he believed in them to play a fantastic season and could see they were coming together well as a team.

In contrast to that, Morpheus remembered nothing but fear around the same time last year. The Riggers had been agitated, frightened of the threats Roderick would throw their way the moment he laid eyes on them. They had known that a lost match would mean punishment, that they would have to double their efforts in training and halve their hours of sleep for the weeks to come in order to placate their coach. And even then, they would get the cane.

Apparently, a safer environment did not immediately erase years of abuse (and wasn’t it a weird thing to finally accept Roderick’s behaviour for what it had been).

But it helped, to be able to talk about his fears with Lydia, and, later, with Hob. They had even convinced him to talk to Gilbert about it, who had pulled him into a tight hug after his explanation. On all accounts, the team and Lydia were doing their absolute best to reassure Morpheus that failure was alright and that it would not end in punishment or disappointment. Nobody would think less of him if they lost.

And yet, when the first match approached, Morpheus found himself pacing the locker rooms, his hands shaking and mind racing. He couldn’t lose this match. It was not only the first of the season, but his first as a player for the Fiddlers, his first chance to prove himself as valuable to the team.

What would happen if he fucked this up? What would the others think of him if he couldn’t manage to win their first game? Would Gilbert think his trust had been misplaced? That he hadn’t been worth the money of the transfer?

“Dream?” Hob’s voice called, and unlike usual, it brought forth fear instead of warmth (which only made Morpheus feel worse, for Hob did not deserve to be feared). “Are you coming? We’re about to go on the pitch.”

He wanted to say no, that he was about to throw up or scream or pull out his own hair with how afraid he was. But there was no time left, the point of saying something long past, and so Morpheus simply nodded and followed his friend.

Hob was perceptive as always, throwing him worried glances as they stood in line in front of the stairs to the pitch. The others were talking animatedly to the opposing team, cracking jokes and wishing them luck, but Morpheus couldn’t help but keep to himself and hide slightly behind Hob from the cameras. The public didn’t need to see just how nervous he was. Thankfully, Hob picked up on it quickly and moved to fully shield him from their view, taking one of his hands into his own and squeezing it tightly.

“You will do just fine, Dream. I know you will.” It was a whisper, only meant for Morpheus’ ears.

“What if I don’t?”

“Then you have given your best and will try again next time.”

Morpheus huffed, disbelieving. “I do not believe that that would be the end of it.”

It looked like Hob was about to respond, but he was interrupted by the announcement that the players would now enter the pitch. The time for talking was over.

For the most part, the match went alright. Hob shot an early goal, grinning wide as the crowd erupted into cheers. He bowed and threw them kisses, as was his custom, and Morpheus now understood that there was no arrogance behind that celebration, but genuine love and adoration for his fans. He had never understood it, because the Riggers’ fans had been similarly horrible to the players. They had always hated him, but it got worse after Roderick told the world about his sexuality. After that he would have food and sometimes flares thrown at him from the stands, booing from the crowd whenever he shot a goal. Morpheus couldn’t remember a single time fans cheered for him.

Perhaps if he proved himself with the Fiddlers, the fans would start tolerating him, cheering for him.

But for that, Morpheus had to score.

He tried everything, every single trick up his sleeve, but the ball never found its goal. The goalkeeper was good, too good, and with every goal Morpheus failed to score his desperation grew. This was not how it usually went. He was better than this, he was so much better. But it seemed like he wasn’t good enough to win them this match.

Ten minutes before the end, the opposing team scored the equaliser.

Five minutes later and they were leading.

There was nothing Morpheus could do anymore. His last shot went sailing over the goal, a pathetic attempt overall. And then it was over. The referee announced the end of the match, and everything came crashing down.

He was breathing too quickly, too shallow. They lost. The first game of the season, his first game for the team, and they lost.

“Dream?” Hob’s voice was close, and so soft, but Morpheus couldn’t help flinching at the sound of it. Surely not even Hob was a good enough man to look past his miserable performance today, he would be angry or disappointed, would blame him and- and punish him- “Dream, love, please look at me. Everything will be alright, just look at me, yeah?”

He couldn’t ignore Hob. Not even when he was afraid the other man would hurt him could he deny him a request, and so he lifted his eyes to look at his friend (and in this moment, friend meant so many things. It meant ‘knight’ and ‘protector’ and ‘sun’ and ‘hope’. It meant everything).

Hob looked sad. Worried. Morpheus wanted to take him into his arms, hold him close, but before he could say so, Hob had already pulled him in. He was too warm and smelled of sweat, but it was still Hob’s smell, Hob’s warmth, and so it was nothing but comfort to Morpheus.

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay that we lost.” There was no stopping the tears once they started, the fear and stress crashing down on him with Hob’s words, spoken even in the face of their loss. “You did so well. I’m proud of you, okay?”

Morpheus didn’t understand how Hob could say these things when he had every reason to be mad at him, but he was grateful for it. Even if the rest of the team didn’t react as well as him, Morpheus felt like he would be able to stand their judgement with Hob at his side. Though it was only a matter of minutes before he felt more arms around him, hands clapping on his back and shoulders. A mix of Well done, Dreamy! and Good shit, boss! reached his ears, each member of the team coming over to congratulate him. They were all in good spirits, grinning wide, and Morpheus slowly began to relax under their steady praise, the reassurance that nobody blamed him for their loss.

But only when a soft hand reached for his shoulder with the words You did well, son, did Morpheus relax completely, hiding his face in Hob’s neck and finally breathing normally again for the first time in weeks.

- - -

After that first match, Morpheus was slowly growing into his role as the second offence player. Without the fear of failure weighing on his shoulders, he was able to play in a way he had never been capable of before. He had fun.

Of course, he had always been good at football, and he had always gained a certain form of joy from seeing his skills develop and having them acknowledged. But he had never had fun playing with others. The Riggers had tolerated him for his skill, but they hadn’t played with him. None of them had been anywhere near good enough to keep up with him, even if they had tried.

Playing with the Fiddlers was different.

Hob was incredible, he saw the game in ways Morpheus had never before considered, offered advice and tricks and actually managed to teach him things. His technical skills were great as well, though they were not nearly as precise as Morpheus’ own, which were built from hours upon hours of non-stop training and repetition, in contrast to Hob’s quick improvisational talent. He was quick at coming up with a new move, whereas Morpheus was quick at finding the right move for the right situation. By all accounts, it should come as a surprise that the two of them managed to work so well together. But after an initial period of familiarisation, they functioned like they were made to play with each other.

Game after game they became better, weaving through the opposing team without difficulty, communicating by a single glance. It was the most fun Morpheus had ever had playing this sport.

The fact that they won almost every game after that first one became a certainty, inevitable with the force of nature Morpheus and Hob had become.

And the fans of Fiddler’s Green had picked up on it immediately. By the fourth game they were screaming when Morpheus scored, and by the eighth game a song erupted in the fanblock.

Mister Sandman, bring me a Dream! Bum Bum Bum Bum, make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen!

It came as a total surprise, his nickname having apparently reached the fans, and Morpheus tried his best to hide the tears in his eyes as the people cheered at him when he waved in response. Fans were cheering at him for the first time in his career, and had even come up with a chant, all while he was having the time of his life playing for a team that supported and cared for him.

It was as close to heaven as Morpheus thought he might get.

At least until, one game, he had to be reminded that his life was simply not like that.

During their fourteenth match of the season, after he and Hob had scored a goal each before the break, Morpheus found himself in a one on one with one of the defenders. The man was big, bulky, and by default, slower than him. But his instincts were good, and so they were head to head for several seconds, fighting for the ball, until Morpheus gained the upper hand and was about to move past the other man. That was when he suddenly grabbed Morpheus by the shoulders and shoved him into the advertising boards, hard enough to rob him of the air in his lungs.

Moments later, in which Morpheus was still regaining his orientation, he felt something wet hitting his face. It was… familiar, which only added to the panic he felt rising in his chest. Spitting in his face was one of Roderick’s favourite methods of degradation, whenever he had wanted to remind Morpheus of how dirty and sinful his existence was.

“Do you think I will be outplayed by a little cocksucker?” The man was yelling, his face close enough to Morpheus’ that he could feel his breath hitting his cheek with every word. Another shove, and Morpheus was falling to the ground, his back hitting the board hard. “You won’t get away with it, little fag, because nobody here gives a shit about you. Nobody will come and help you. You’re nothing.”

Morpheus wasn’t sure when exactly the voice of the defender turned into that of Roderick, but he knew that it was his old trainer that he heard screaming at him by the end of it. Flashes of a cane were appearing at the edge of his vision, and Morpheus cowered in fear from it, trying to shield his body as much as possible and closing his eyes against it. The yelling continued, insult after insult thrown at him, all of it in the voice of a dead man.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Morpheus heard Lydia’s voice, the words PTSD and triggers and panic attack making their way through the screams and the growing sound of his own breathing, which was getting more hectic by the second. The words were closely followed by breathe and comfort and safety and a mantra of Hob Hob Hob Hob. Morpheus tried to force them past his lips, through the gasping breaths he was taking and the sobs shaking his body. Everything would be alright if Hob was there. Hob would protect him, against Roderick and Alex and everyone else, he was safety and comfort.

Around Morpheus, the lights were suddenly dimmed. Hands gently grasped his head, covering his ears, and another sob left his lips at the relief he suddenly felt. He hadn’t noticed how overstimulated he had become, how loud the voices around him had been and how bright the lights. The hands had to be Hob’s, because no one else had ever touched him so gently, and no one else would know that light and noise might bother him. Morpheus simply had to make sure. Concentrate on the voices he could hear, the actual voices, not that of Roderick’s ghost still pestering his mind. Between the shouts of players and fans, he could finally hear it, a soft repeating of Dream Dream Dream. When his ears registered Hob’s voice, his nose was quick to follow, noticing Hob’s smell was everywhere around him. Opening his eyes was easier then, knowing that his friend was close, and so he managed to squint into the dimmed light after blinking a few times.

What he saw then was Hob, shirtless, holding his jersey over their heads to block out light and cameras and onlookers alike, softly repeating his name over and over again. It was just them in this little bubble, and Morpheus finally felt like he could breathe again, like the air was reaching his lungs, and so he gasped desperately for air, trying to get his breathing back under control. But finding a rhythm seemed impossible, and with every second he continued to struggle he felt himself drifting back into a panic. But then arms pulled him against a strong chest, his ear pressed to bare skin, and he could feel it rise and fall beneath him. Follow the rhythm, in and out, in and out, until he was finally breathing normally again.

“You’re doing so well, Dream. That’s it, take your time.” Morpheus knew the sound he made upon registering Hob’s words again was embarrassing and weak and pathetic, but right that moment, he did not care about it. Hearing Hob, not only his voice but his words, had become one of his greatest comforts over the months. Everything would be alright with Hob there.

“Hob,” he managed to whisper, and when his friend only pulled him in closer he said it again and again, until hands were running up and down his back, through his hair, and Hob was pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I’m here, my friend. I’m here.”

Only then did Morpheus finally feel secure enough in his breathing to move away, to look at Hob, and notice that his hand was bloody, his knuckles a deep shade of purple.

“You’re hurt.” He frowned, cradling the hand carefully in his and turning it around for inspection.

Hob shrugged, jostling it, and winced.

“You should see the other guy.” A terrible response, and Morpheus made sure his facial expression told Hob so.

“Don’t hurt yourself on my account.”

“He deserved it for being a little bitch.” Morpheus looked at his friend disapprovingly, and only received a kiss to his cheek in response, which must be wet and salty from tears. Not that Hob seemed to care about it. “I had to show him that someone does care about you, alright? That we won’t stand for homophobic bullshit, on or off the pitch.”

It shouldn’t have made warmth grow in Morpheus’ chest to hear Hob would fight to protect him, to prove his care and acceptance of him. But it was the first time someone stood up for him, and he couldn’t help but feel touched by such a display of love. He didn’t feel worth that effort and sacrifice, but couldn’t help craving it anyway.

Of course, he said none of it. But Morpheus hoped Hob could feel it in the hug he pulled him into. “Idiot.”

His friend hummed and hugged back, not denying it, and Morpheus couldn’t help but giggle into his chest, the adrenaline of the situation coming down on him all at once.

“Let’s get out of here?” Hob whispered after a while, and Morpheus frowned.

“But the match isn’t over?”

“Well, I received a red for punching that douchebag, so it is for me.” Morpheus scoffed, and Hob only laughed at him for it. “And while you could totally continue here, we could also go home and finish watching Lord of the Rings.”

“You’re a tempting man, Hob Gadling.”

A wink, eyebrow waggle and eye-roll later, Hob put his jersey back on and helped Morpheus up to his feet, from where he could make out the rest of the team standing around them. They stood in a half circle, shielding them from the other players, the cameras. Standing to protect them. Well, everyone but Cori, who was wearing Hob’s captain’s armband and standing above the guy that had attacked Morpheus, talking to the referee. The defender really did look worse than Hob, right eye swollen and nose at an awkward angle, most definitely broken.

There was some satisfaction in seeing him writhe in pain as a medic pressed antiseptics to his face.

But there was no time to relish it, as their movement was noticed by the team and suddenly Morpheus was enveloped in a group hug, the now familiar feeling of hands clapping his back and grabbing his shoulders grounding him like few other things could. None of the men judged him for who he was, none of them cared, and they proved it by hugging and touching him without fear, in front of everyone. The Riggers had never stood up for him, had never touched him, and had laughed at the idea of offering protection.

The Fiddlers were nothing like them. They were a family.

Perhaps he would heal one day, with their help.

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #salamiwrites #dreamling soccer au #soccer au #fuck it we ball

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