#spring dreamling

[obsessiveagony2point0]

Do you think a crown of flowers could be considered an engagement ring?'

Original Post Date: April 7th 2024

Twitter/X•AO3•Pillowfort •Linktree•Bluesky•Ko-fi

[emihotaru]

Hello! No mermay this time, but since the @mr-sadman seasonnal exchange is over, and Moonlight-mav discovered her present, I can show it to you now! So, some Dreamling today!

Here are 3 little snippets from her fanfic Tomorrows Over Centuries I really enjoyed painting! I loved to make them snuggle!

You can read the fanfic here!

[teejaystumbles]

several sketches and art for the seasonal exchange gift I wrote for @bazzybelle - a short continuation of my witch!Hob verse. It's now part 2 in a series which may be further expanded:

Help this blackbird (there's a stone around my leg)

[five-and-dimes]

Your Eyes Slay Me Suddenly

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

AO3

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

Then he entered the kingdom of the Endless.

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

And King Morpheus brought the realm back to prosperity.

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

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

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

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

He was beautiful. 

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

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

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

“You are new to these parts, yes?”

“Aye, I am a traveler.”

“Just passing through, then?”

“Unless I am given a reason to stay.”

She gave him a reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he purrs, “delightful.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently he was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” his voice cracks, “Of course.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not.” 

Hob tuts softly, “You are.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[the-apocrypha]

the fourth dimension Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling || T || 8k || Complete for the @mr-sadman spring exchange - specifically, for @dsudis

Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Retired Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Human Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Panic Attacks, Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, Time Blindness

Most days, Dream could not tell you how many years ago he was made human. Or, if you like, how many years he has been human for. 

It is not that, if the information were pressingly required, Dream could not determine the number. He is capable of the mathematics. But the figure is a derived quantity his brain must summate, rather than a living, growing thing rooted in the backs of his retinas or on the tip of his tongue. It is a number that does not relate the innate softness of a stolen sweater, nor the texture of pencil calluses upon the hands, nor the taste of tea from a mug so beloved that it has been glued back together twice. In the grand scheme of things, the number is as fictional as the difference between Tuesdays and Wednesdays. 

However, when Dream does care to undertake the math, the starting point is on Hob’s left wrist. Dream put it there, so he would always know where to find it.

This morning in particular, it is wedged under the pillow Hob has octopused himself around and also copiously drooled on in the night. Usually Hob would be octopused around Dream himself, allowing easy access to his wrist, but it is spring, and so allergies leave Hob a primordial swamp of saliva and mucous in the night hours no matter how much medication he takes. 

Dream’s love has limitations. 

And so, the pillow.

Read on AO3

[mr-sadman]

The Mr. Sadman Mod Committee is very excited to reveal our Spring and Summer event schedule!!

Buckle up, because this is gonna be such a fun ride!

More details will be given in individual posts nearing the events' respective timelines!

Have fun and enjoy~

[landwriter]

oooh welcome back!! <3<3

tell us something about "Skin - 05.14.23", please? 👀

Teejay!! You know this one already, so here's a little scene. Dream is deeeefinitely a legitimate lighthouse keeper.

The man is pale, with pale eyes - the first blue, Hob realizes, that he’s seen in days. But his hair is dark as wet rock, as night-calm sea, as starless sky.

“Who’re you?”

The man swallows, and Hob’s eyes drop to the bobbing of his throat, like a blind buoy. He follows the line of it back up past hairless jaw to lips, pink and fulsome as a woman’s, that open and close soundlessly. Then he speaks at last, in a low and rough voice. “Keeper.”

“Did you wash onto the beach?”

The man blinks at him.

“That was a joke.” Hob gestures at the empty kitchen. “Where are the others? Did you just come ashore?”

He says nothing, and Hob speaks again to fill the silence. “From the tender. The crew. Hell, one other man. We’re meant to have three keepers.” Baleful silence. Hob’s impatience turns to frustration. “Do they not know that Caerwyn abandoned his post? He took the bloody boat. On Sunday. I’ve sent half a dozen carriers with the news.”

“Sea eagles.”

“What.”

“Or petrels. Could have taken them.”

Sitting down heavily, Hob scrubs his hands over his face. He can feel the picture forming. “Right. So they didn’t know I’ve been up here alone, doing the work for three men. You’re only here because the first occasional didn’t show when we were sent up. Caerwyn never got to the mainland.” He pauses. “God rest his soul,” he adds, reflexively.

“God rest his soul,” echoes the new keeper.

Hob stands again to leave. He hasn’t even taken off his oilskin. “What a mess this is. Good luck you’re here. I’ll tell the captain. He can send a telegram on Lewis.”

“No. Hesperus has left.”

He stiffens and turns. “Already?”

The keeper shrugs minutely. “It was not my decision to make.”

“I was repairing the shed. I was out for no more than an hour.” Hob shakes his head. He’s no servant of the protocol himself, but Captain Muirhead had seemed to be. Took a pride in his duty. “I can’t believe I didn’t hear the whistle. You didn’t think it was strange, when nobody greeted you at the landing? The captain didn’t care to lay eyes on us?”

“The weather was turning.”

“Bugger the weather!” Hob strides over to the window and peers out for sight of the departing Hesperus, but a thick fog had indeed swallowed the leeward side of the island. He rolls his shoulders and groans. “Bugger this rock. You can take the day. Wake me tonight.”

He goes upstairs without waiting for a reply.

[essie007]

Dreamling Fic: How the Light Gets In

Title: How the Light Gets In Writer: Essie Rating: General Pairing: Dream of the Endless I Morpheus/Hob Gadling Word Count: 12,985 Summary: Morpheus is just doing his job fixing a tear in the multiverse when he finds himself in another reality - one where he and Hob Gadling are married and have an infant daughter.

Written as a gift for @the-apocrypha for the @mr-sadman Spring Exchange.

[unpredictable-probabilities]

No Longer a Dream || Chapter 1: His End

Main Summary:

Hob had felt a sense of worry about Dream ever since they last saw each other.

When Dream appears on his doorstep a month later, Hob's worries only grow.

But now he has a chance to be there and actually take care of Dream. And by God, he'll do his damnedest to keep his friend safe.

Total Word Count: 13,712

Author's Notes:

This work is a gift for @zzoomacroom as part of the @mr-sadman 2024 Spring Exchange <3 If you prefer to read it on AO3, here's the link~

Heads-up that I haven't read the comics leading up to the Significant Canon Event I mentioned here, I just got information about it from the internet, including the personality of a certain character that hasn't appeared in the show yet. So if the timelines or some other things don't match up, that's why.

Anyway this was really fun to write, and I hope you all have fun reading it too! ^_^

Chapter Summary:

Dream appears on Hob's doorstep injured and barely conscious. Hob helps him recover and worries about what could have happened to hurt his friend that much.

Chapter Word Count: 4,386

---

The butter sizzled on the tagine pot, so Hob lowered the heat on the stove before double-checking if he had evenly coated the chicken wings with the breading before frying them. He had become fond of the mixture of ground cinnamon, ginger, turmeric, pepper, salt, and olive oil ever since he first tried the recipe last Christmas.

While the chicken cooked, Hob got to work on the glaze; simmering honey, a cinnamon stick, and some apricots in a saucepan.

He usually didn't make elaborate dinners after a school night, but seeing as it was a Friday and he had just finished marking the backlogged essays, he figured he deserved it.

After everything was cooked, he set them on the coffee table in front of the telly. Some Jeopardy and then a good book would be the perfect way to end the evening.

Hob put his feet up on the armrest, the plate on his lap, and was about to take a bite of chicken just as the show was starting.

A knock on the door made the fork stop halfway to his mouth.

Hob sighed and put the plate down on the coffee table before walking towards the door.

One downside about living in a flat above The New Inn was that sometimes his staff came up to ask for his input about one thing or other. Tonight could be about the inventory; they usually had to restock for the end-of-month specials.

He opened the door and his eyes widened, any thoughts of the Inn fleeing from his mind.

“Hob…” Dream was standing unsteadily, his voice barely more than a breath.

His black coat was in tatters, and his pale cheekbones seemed more prominent on his bruised face. A cut above his left eyebrow was bleeding.

“Jesus, Dream—” Hob barely got the words out before Dream's legs buckled.

Hob quickly caught him, wrapping his arms around his friend’s waist as Dream slumped against his chest.

“Dream? Dream?” Hob heard the growing panic in his voice when Dream's limp form didn’t respond.

He half-dragged, half-carried Dream to his couch, barely registering the sounds from the TV show.

He propped up Dream's head with a pillow and gently brushed away the lock of hair that was sticking to his forehead.

Was Dream sweating?

Dream’s eyes were half-closed, and he seemed to be mumbling something.

“What? What do you need?” Hob leaned closer to hear him better.

“...leave. I must leave.” Dream looked like he wanted to stand up but couldn’t seem to remember how.

“Leave?” Hob said in surprise. “Mate, you can barely keep your eyes open."

"Must… Keep you safe…"

"I'm perfectly safe. It's you we should worry about. And why’d you come here if you’d just leave immediately?”

Dream shook his head, wincing as if the small movement caused him pain. “I did not… I was brought here.”

“What?” Hob frowned and took a breath. Each answer from Dream just brought up more questions. “That doesn’t matter right now. What’s important is you recover, yeah? Stay here.”

Hob quickly got the first-aid kit from the cabinet and went back to Dream's side. “Just gonna clean up that cut on your forehead. This might sting a bit.”

Dream flinched when the cotton made contact with his skin but didn't seem to have much energy to protest.

“Right then,” Hob said after cleaning up the cut. “I have to remove your coat to see your other injuries. Is that alright?”

Dream frowned and grudgingly nodded, his face contorting in pain as he tried to shrug off his coat.

Hob tried to help as gently as he could, and the coat practically fell apart in his hands with how shredded it already was.

“Jesus…” Hob tried not to think of the last time he saw Dream. His friend visited for a drink, and there had been a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach that made him reluctant to let Dream out of his sight.

The shirt underneath the coat was torn in a lot of places too, and the fabric stuck to Dream's skin with dried blood. Hob frowned and took a closer look. The dark patches of blood had a shimmering quality to them, like there was glitter mixed in. He checked the cotton he had used for the cut on Dream's forehead; it was faint but it was there, the glitter with the dark red.

Alright, so his oldest friend was bleeding starlight on his couch. But more importantly, most of the bleeding seemed to have stopped already. He didn't know if Endless even needed their wounds to be cleaned and disinfected, but it was better to be safe.

“I'd have to cut your shirt off of you to clean the rest of the wounds, sorry. But if you're not comfortable with that, I can… Uh…” Hob racked his brain for an alternative. He knew what Dream had gone through from 1916, and he didn't want to make his friend feel so exposed again, but he didn't want to risk him getting an infection either.

Dream reached for his hand and gave it a weak squeeze. “I trust you.” It was barely a whisper but Hob heard it clearly.

Hob smiled reassuringly at his friend even though he's not sure how well Dream's half-closed eyes could see him.

It didn't take very long to get the shirt out of the way and clean the cuts on Morpheus’ torso. Hob’s army doctor knowledge came naturally to him, and all the while he pushed down his worries about what could have possibly done this much damage to his godlike friend.

Dream's pants were intact and had no cuts, as well as his boots. So after making sure that his face and torso were tended to, Hob removed his boots and gently lifted him up from the sofa, supporting his back and the backs of his legs.

Dream grumbled a noise of protest, but his eyes were fully closed.

“Just taking you to the bed, you'll recover better if you're more comfortable,” Hob explained, carefully walking towards the bedroom so as not to jostle Dream. “So you get the bed tonight and I'll take the couch.”

He placed Dream down on his bed and quickly put the blanket up to his chin.

“There. You rest up, and tomorrow, tell me who I need to fistfight,” Hob said mostly to himself, he suspected that Dream was asleep already.

He sighed and looked down at his friend. He had never seen Dream sleep before, and seeing it now made him feel a surge of protectiveness, not unlike what he felt in 1789 when Lady Johanna’s thug pointed a knife at Dream's throat.

Hob returned to the living room to tidy up before he could fully analyse such feelings.

He tried eating the chicken on his plate, but he had lost his appetite and felt too nauseated with worry to eat properly. He cleaned up and put all the food in the fridge, glancing from time to time at the open doorway to check on Dream.

After everything had been put away, he returned to his bedroom and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. Dream looked much more relaxed now, the crease on his forehead had smoothened and his breathing came more evenly.

Hob knelt down and brushed a strand of hair from Dream’s face, barely touching the skin. “Good night, love,” he whispered, warmth spreading in his chest at how right the words felt.

He stood up and turned to go, deciding to leave the door open in case Dream needed something. But before he could walk away, he felt a hand grab his own.

“Stay,” Dream’s voice said, soft with sleepiness.

Hob looked at him in surprise, unsure if he heard correctly. “You… want me to stay in this room? Okay, um, just give me a moment to get the spare mattress—”

Dream shook his head and blinked blearily at Hob. “Beside me.” He moved aside to make more space on the bed, not letting go of Hob's hand.

Hob swallowed. Dream’s grip on his hand might still be weak, but Hob didn't feel nearly strong enough to pull away. He felt himself nodding. “Of course.”

He climbed in beside Dream, who pulled the blanket over the both of them as soon as he lay down.

Dream pressed in closer to Hob, tucking his head under Hob's chin, his hand over Hob's chest. “You are very warm.”

“Uh,” Hob managed, his brain still trying to process how they ended up here.

Dream felt cool against him, and Hob wondered if he was cold. That would certainly explain why he was suddenly all snuggly.

Hob tentatively turned and put an arm around Dream, making sure that his touch stayed over the blanket and not on Dream's skin. “Is this better?”

Dream made a contented hum, and when he didn't reply several moments later, Hob realised he had fallen asleep.

Hob sighed, resting his chin on Dream's soft hair. Tomorrow, he would ask Dream what had caused his injuries. He'd see what else he could do to help and what else Dream needed.

But for now, they both deserve a good night's rest. And in the darkness of his bedroom under the covers with Dream, Hob allowed himself to believe that he deserved this, too.

***

Hob began to wake up when he felt the mattress shift. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and saw a slim figure get up unsteadily from the bed and onto the floor.

“Dream,” Hob sat up, the events of last night coming back to him all at once. “Is everything all right?”

“I apologise for intruding on you last night. It was not my intention…” Dream trailed off and looked down at his bare chest, seeming to notice it for the first time. His eyes widened fractionally, and Hob was quick to jump out of bed and get to his closet.

“Here, take this.” He got the first black shirt he saw and handed it to Dream.

Dream looked at it uncertainly for a moment before putting it on. It hung loosely around his frame; the sleeves reached down to cover half of his hands and the neckline showed his collarbones. “I thank you for your kindness. I will be sure to repay it soon. But for now I must leave.”

“There’s nothing to repay— Wait, leave? You were barely conscious just hours ago, are you sure you should be going out by yourself already?”

Dream nodded once. “I feel quite alright. You have taken care of my injuries and…” He glanced to the bed and averted his eyes for a moment. “I apologise for my behaviour. It was crude of me to insist upon your company as I did last night.”

Hob shook his head. “Not at all. We’re friends, right? I’m always happy to keep you company.”

Dream gave him the barest hint of a smile. “I must go. I will return your item of clothing as soon as I am able.” He turned and headed for the door.

“Whoa wait,” Hob followed him to the living room. “I don’t care about the shirt. At least let me check on your wounds before you leave.” He kept remembering the way Dream looked when he arrived, how he fell limp and unresponsive in his arms.

“You have done more than enough for me, my friend,” Dream said gently. “By all rights I am… not even supposed to be alive anymore. But I am grateful that it was you to whom they brought me. Regardless, I cannot stay long. I thank you again.”

He walked quickly towards the front door, but Hob was faster.

“Hey,” Hob grabbed his arm and spun him around so they faced each other. “Not supposed to be alive anymore? What are you— You can’t just say that and then leave! What…” he trailed off, looking into Dream’s eyes as he held Hob’s gaze.

“Hob. I must go.” Despite his firm voice, Dream looked conflicted.

Hob couldn’t discern if the conflict meant he wanted to stay longer, or at the very least explain more. But Hob didn’t want to cause him any more distress. He reluctantly let go of Dream’s arm. “Okay, but… will I see you again next week?”

Before Dream had visited him a month ago to say that he was going to do something important, they had seen each other every week since Dream’s return from Fawney Rig.

The second that it took for Dream to answer was enough to make Hob's stomach turn with nervousness.

"I believe so, yes."

Hob nodded. "You take care, alright? If you need anything you know you can always come here."

The smile that Dream gave him was less subtle this time. "You take good care as well, Hob Gadling." He went out the door and closed it behind him.

Hob almost immediately began to pace the floor. There was something he couldn't quite figure out about the conflict in his friend's expression. Maybe two centuries ago Dream would be too prideful to stay or rely on him, but he was different now. Something else was stopping him from staying with Hob even though it seemed like he wanted to.

Hob stopped in his tracks as he remembered something that Dream said last night.

"Must… Keep you safe…"

Dream left to protect him. Dream was worried that whatever attacked him last night might follow him here.

"I am… not even supposed to be alive anymore."

Something was after Dream.

Hob flung open his front door and raced outside, praying to whoever god was listening that his friend hadn't teleported away.

He was just able to see Dream exit the Inn as the door closed behind him.

“Sir? Who was that?” The bartender asked Hob but he was already running to the door.

Dream walked fast. He had already gone a good distance when Hob got out onto the street.

The rush of the morning commute wasn't helping. Three times Hob had lost sight of Dream in the foot traffic, and each time he was afraid that Dream had teleported. Maybe he was overreacting, maybe there was nothing to worry about, but he'd rather not risk it. He had no idea that Dream had been captured and imprisoned for over a century; if Dream went away and died somewhere, would he ever know? Or would he keep waiting century after century for someone who would never come back?

Hob pushed down the wave of nausea that rose with that thought, and focused on keeping his eyes on Dream. He had considered calling out to him, but worried that it might only drive him away further.

Dream turned a right to the park, and Hob followed, keeping his distance.

Dream went to an empty bench and sat down.

Was he waiting for someone? Hob stood half-hidden behind a tree a few feet away, unsure of whether to approach.

“Will you not sit with me, Hob Gadling?” Dream said without looking at him.

Hob was only briefly surprised, then he chuckled to himself and walked over to the bench. “So you knew the whole time, then?” He smiled sheepishly, tugging at his left ear.

“I would recognize your presence anywhere.”

Hob was relieved to see that Dream didn't seem upset and even looked fondly at him—if Hob dared to believe it.

Hob shifted uneasily in his seat, feeling Dream's warmth even though there were a few inches of space between them. “What’s wrong?” he finally asked. “Are you in danger somehow?”

Dream seemed to weigh his words before speaking. “You must not worry about me, Hob. You need not have followed me here.”

“You're my friend, I'll always worry about you. Especially when you pass out in my house and say stuff like you shouldn't be alive anymore,” Hob said pointedly.

Dream looked down for a moment, his long eyelashes catching the light of the sun. “I suppose I do owe you an explanation after all that you have done for me.”

“No, it's not that.” Hob sighed. “You don't owe me, I'm just concerned. And if I can't do anything to help, at least let me be someone you can talk to.”

Dream stared out into the park where families were having picnics and kids ran around with their dogs. “What do you know of the story of Orpheus?”

“The bloke in Greek mythology?” Hob furrowed his eyebrows while trying to remember what jumbled knowledge he had of the myths. “He had a lyre, and he was the one who almost succeeded in getting his wife out of the Underworld, except he looked back when he wasn't supposed to.”

It was one of the more popular stories, and one that stuck with Hob as someone who had also lost a wife too soon. He would have also braved the Underworld to get Eleanor back, and like that poor sod Orpheus he would have also looked back.

“Indeed.” Dream kept his eyes looking in the distance. “Shortly after his failed quest, Orpheus was killed and his body hacked to pieces. His decapitated head remained conscious and was able to provide prophecies to adventurers and travellers alike.”

Hob pondered that for a moment. “What a way to live, eh? Just a talking head. Travelling would certainly be out of the question. Even I'm not sure how long I'd be able to do that.”

Dream was quiet for a few seconds. “He did not wish to continue living like that himself. And in exchange for a boon, he asked me to help him. End his life.”

“...Oh. You knew him, then?”

“Yes.” Dream said calmly. “He was my son.”

Hob stared at Dream, speechless in his surprise. After having known Dream for centuries, he had half-expected that most people in mythology were real. But knowing that Dream lost his son in such a way made him feel a deep sadness; no pain compared to outliving a child.

“And did you…” Hob couldn’t even finish the thought.

Dream nodded. “I asked for his help in finding my brother. In return, he made me promise to help him end his existence as a lone head of an oracle. He was unhappy, and I could not refuse when he asked for my aid.”

Hob fell silent. If he had been in Dream’s place, would he have had the strength to do the same? If Robyn had asked for his help in ending an unhappy existence, would Hob be selfless enough?

“I'm…” Hob trailed off. What could he say? He was sorry that Dream had to help with the death of his own son? Dream wouldn’t want to be pitied. “I'm glad to see you're okay, at least. But what did you mean that you're not supposed to be alive?”

“The old laws forbid us from killing our own blood, on pain of death. When the Kindly Ones found out what I had done for my son, they came to enforce the law.”

Hob could only imagine what it must have felt like for Dream, knowing he would be killed for fulfilling a promise to his son.

“How did you escape?” Hob's voice came out in a whisper, as if speaking any louder would bring the attackers upon them again.

There was a slight frown on Dream's face as he tried to recall what happened. “I am not entirely sure. I had no plans to escape. I regained consciousness shortly before my siblings brought me to your door.”

“You had no plans to escape?” Hob said incredulously, horrified. “You knew that your punishment was death, and what— You just— You just sat there while they tore at you?” He didn't even want to imagine such a scene.

Dream finally looked at him. “You are upset.”

“Of course I'm bloody upset! You just told me you planned to die. Were you ever gonna tell me?” Hob had gotten to his feet. He didn't know when the tears had started to well in his eyes.

“I had said goodbye to you. Before.” Dream looked at him with a sombre expression.

“What…” Hob frowned, processing what that could mean. “When you visited me for drinks a month ago? That's it? Was I supposed to wait for you for an eternity not knowing that you had died?” His voice broke.

“There would have been a funeral,” Dream looked up at him, his voice soft and his eyes resigned. “You would have been invited.”

“Oh, well then that makes everything better, doesn't it?” Hob was almost yelling now. “Centuries of friendship and I'm only supposed to find out about your suicide mission at your bloody funeral?” Hob’s tears began to fall, and Dream's eyes widened as he stood up.

“Hob…” Dream said in concern.

“You don't understand, Dream. You're the only person whose funeral I'm never supposed to attend. I've long since accepted that I would one day lose everyone I care about, but not you! What happened to meeting every century? Why didn't you wish to live?”

Dream stared at him in surprise and confusion. “I… did not think you cared that much. About our meetings. About…” he seemed to struggle in getting the words out. “Me.”

“Of course I care about you,” Hob's voice quieted down. He suddenly felt exhausted. “I never hid that, did I?”

There was conflict again in Dream's eyes, and a moment later he had stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Hob, pulling him in a loose embrace.

“Is this alright?” Dream asked softly.

Hob clenched his fists onto the back of Dream’s shirt and ducked his face into Dream’s chest, letting the last of the tears fall. All his pent-up worries since finding out about Fawney Rig and Dream's visit last month had surged up all at once, and now he was having a meltdown in the middle of a park. He'd be embarrassed if he didn't feel so wrung out.

He gently pulled away once his breathing had evened out. “Sorry, I've cried all over your shirt now.”

“It's your shirt,” Dream said with a hint of playfulness.

Hob chuckled. “Right. But seriously, Dream, are you still in any danger?”

Dream glanced at the sky, as if making sure there wasn't anything approaching. “If the Kindly Ones still wanted me dead, I believe I would be already. Something has happened to stop them, though I do not know what that could be.” He looked at Hob again, and when he spoke his voice was quieter. “I did not want to risk them following me to your home. That is why I had to leave.”

“Yeah I figured that much. But if you said they were only upholding some law, then they'd have no reason to harm me, right?”

Dream paused to consider it. “Indeed. But still I would rather you not encounter them.”

“And I'd rather you have a safe place to stay while you recover. Do you have anywhere to go?” A thought occurred to Hob. “Can you still teleport?”

Dream glanced down and didn't say anything. It would make sense that he was weakened enough not to have his powers; Hob should have realised that sooner.

“Wanna come back to my place and maybe we could figure something out over tea?” Hob asked gently. “There's also the spiced chicken I made for dinner last night, would take no time at all to reheat it.”

“I do not need to eat.”

“But I do. And I'm famished, love.” Hob belatedly realised what endearment he had just said, and he cleared his throat before averting his eyes in what he hoped looked like a nonchalant gesture. “Anyway. Shall we?”

Dream looked at him contemplatively before nodding.

They walked in comfortable silence, just enjoying each other's company while they went past the shops and restaurants. Some couples they came across were holding hands while walking, and Hob vaguely wondered what it would feel like to hold Dream's.

He should probably turn his thoughts to something else now.

“So, if you had a son, does that mean you're married? Is someone out there waiting for you to come home?”

Dream looked caught off-guard for a second and Hob wanted to kick himself. He never could stay quiet when it was the smarter choice. He was about to apologise and take back the question, but Dream was already answering.

“I have not been married in a long time. My former wife and I… We have had our problems even before our son was condemned to being an oracle. We had grieved separately. No one is waiting for me.” Dream's voice held an almost indifferent resignation, and Hob wanted so badly to tell him that he would always wait for him. That he did wait for him, all day and night at The White Horse in 1989, and every day since.

Dream stopped in front of a food stall. “I believe they sell grilled meat and bread over here. Shall we purchase some?”

Hob looked at the stall and raised an eyebrow at Dream teasingly. “I thought you said you don’t need to eat?”

“But you do. Love.” The corner of Dream’s mouth turned up.

Hob felt his face warm and he chuckled nervously. God, this man was going to kill him. “I don't have any money on me. I ran out of my flat in just my pyjamas, you know? Barely managed to put my shoes on. Besides, we're almost back there now,” he rambled, looking at anywhere but Dream.

“Then let us proceed to your home. I would not want to further intrude on your daily routines.” Dream began walking again.

“You're not intruding,” Hob said as he walked beside him. “How many times do I have to say it? I'll whack you over the head until you understand that you're welcome to stay with me anytime.”

Dream looked at him with a frown that Hob would never say he found endearing. “You would not dare.”

“Or what?” Hob challenged.

Dream narrowed his eyes at Hob. “You have grown insolent,” he said without any bite to it.

“Always been,” Hob winked.

Dream looked back at the road again, but not before Hob caught his smile.

---

Note:

I had no idea what a tagine pot was before I wrote this fic, but it sounds pretty cool and I can see Hob owning one.

---

(Chapter 2) ->

(Masterlist)

[bazzybelle]

Title: Swim For Brighter Days

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Word Count: A little less than 30K

Summary: “You do not write with the others?” she finally asked him after three days of Hob reading the books in the house.

“Sadly, I am not much of a writer. I print books and I read them. The goddess herself neglected to bless me with her words,” he’d responded, smiling up at her. She was wearing a beautiful, white gown, flowing gracefully down to the floor. Elegant white gloves covered her hands and arms, while her hair was intricately braided in what Hob assumed was inspired by the women of Ancient Greece.

“Have you never tried before?”

“A few times, when I was younger and far more arrogant. Wrote a poem for a—” Hob stopped short, not knowing how exactly to refer to his stranger. Was he a friend? A casual acquaintance?

"A special person,” she finished for him.

“A special person,” Hob said.

Written for the @mr-sadman Spring Exchange for the amazing @kydrogendragon. My dear friend, I hope you enjoy this fic. I had such a wonderful time writing it! I had been meaning to try to write Immortal Throuple, and you gave me a good reason to go for it. Thank you for being a wonderful person and an incredible friend.

Huge thank you to @ginjones for the beta help, and to the Sadman Shaxberd Sprints for the encouragement to keep going.

[ralkana]

Come, O Love, Whene'er You May, And You Are Welcome, Welcome

• The Sandman (TV 2022)

• Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

• Teen And Up Audiences

• No Archive Warnings Apply

Additional Tags:

• Developing Friendships

• Developing Relationship

• Making Up

• Reconciliation

• Getting to Know Each Other

Hob's mysterious stranger has finally returned, and has declared them friends. Now, they have to learn what that means.

or

16,000 words of Hob & Dream getting to know each other.

----------

16,500 actually. Jeez! My work for the @mr-sadman Spring Exchange is live!

I had so much fun writing this. It's been a really long time since I just sat down at the keyboard and the words just flowed.

@starlightervarda, I hope you enjoy it!

[obsessiveagony2point0]

I fulfilled the poll

“Fields of flowers, skies so blue, The world awakens, bright and new. Spring’s embrace, so warm and kind, A season’s dance, in rhythm we find.” - Poem

Original Post Date: April 1st 2024

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⬇️ Close Ups ⬇️

[emihotaru]

I still can't believe someone wrote a whole Dreamling fanfic especially for me. Thank you, @starlightervarda !!

And the 12 years old me who red The Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles back in the nineties is so happy, too^^

[aralezinspace]

Lost in the Darkness

M || Dreamling || 4.3K

~~Read It Here~~

Dream decides to relive one of his darkest hours in the hope that both he and Hob may find closure, penance, maybe peace.

My contribution to the @mr-sadman spring fic exchange, for Essie! Brain really went 'what if we did the fishbowl rescue but somehow made it sadder and more feels-y' Title is from lost in the darkness from the musical Jekyll and Hyde

Hope you enjoy!

[whisperprime]

Edit: Somehow a ton of paragraphs got moved around before posting this. Not sure how that happened, but they should all now be fixed now.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Interlude | Part 11 | Part 12

It rains near nonstop over the following day, but it puts little damper on Hob's good mood.

For the first time in centuries, he knows he will see Dream again. He doesn't have a precise date, but he will see him again.

And it won't be life or death or some other traumatic reason.

He hopes.

The thought buoys up his good mood and keeps it there through the morning and well into the afternoon.

Lucas, the head of his team of contractors, has been eyeing him all day. Hob is a little surprised it takes the man as long as it does to finally comment on it. "You’re in a good mood today. Meet someone new last night?"

Hob took a moment to finish sanding the area of the bar he had been working. They had just recently installed it and he'd wanted to try and knock out the staining and finish before the end of the week. Spot to his liking, he turned his attention to his nosey, friendly acquaintance. "No, no one new."

Lucas raises an eyebrow. His look is far too knowing. "Ah, one of those." He pats Hob on the shoulder, telegraphing the intent before following through when Hob doesn't move away, as he passes to get some more paint. "Old flames can be alluring, but you're just as likely to get burnt the second time."

Hob makes a noncommittal noise, both at the touch and the comment. From what he's observed, Lucas is always tactile with those around him that will let him get away with it. He thinks it his way of showing that he's come to see Hob as one of the boys.

He also thinks Lucas views him as a feral cat in need of getting used to human touch. Hob blames that on the fact that the first time the blond man had done it, the immortal had flinched so hard he'd spilled his drink. It had been the first time Hob had been touched by someone other than Dream since he'd been rescued.

Lucas had been more mortified than Hob had been, the latter brushing off the apologies. He hadn't explained why he'd flinched, but he had assured Lucas that it was fine to touch him, just warn him first. None of the rest of his crew were quite so tactile, but word had still spread amongst the group.

Since then, there was always a pause for permission before any contact.

Hob still felt the twinge of fear that Mammon had stolen the ease and love he'd had with touch, even as he reminded himself that all wounds took time to heal from.

Amy snorts from where she was tackling another wall. She's one of two women that made up Lucas' six-person crew. "You only say that because you have terrible taste in partners."

Mary, the second woman, laughs from near by Amy. "All of them might as well be incubi, for all Lucas can't stay away from them."

Lucas points a paint brush at them. "You're both just jealous I have an eye for excellent looking men."

The women made a few jeers at his exspense. Lucas might have an eye for great looking men, but he was not great at distinguishing keepers from one's that really should have remained one night stands.

Hob joins in their merriment. "It's not nearly that exciting. Just ran into an old acquaintance I thought I might not see again. Said they'd come by sometime."

Mary gives him a sympathetic hum. "Oh, but we know that look, luv. You definitely want them to be more than that."

Hob won't deny it, but he also doesn't want to prod this topic too much. His hopes are far too close to being up. "Cheeky, the lot of you. Am I paying you to build my pub or tease me?"

"Both!" Six voices ring out together. Hob contemplates flicking paint at them but doesn't care to start a paint fight when he still needs to get this bar table taken care of.

He finishes it within the next few days, which is just as well. In the weeks leading up to the start of the new term, Hob is forced to switch his focus from working on the New Inn with the builders to preparing for returning to the classroom.

Seeing the office that will soon be his home away from home feels like some integral part of himself sliding back into place. He wasn't always a teacher in the time between the Other Dream's death and when he met the Herald, but it was a preferred profession.

Add all this to teaching at a new school for the first time and Hob's feeling really good about his near future.

The afternoon of the day before the start of classes, Hob retreats out to a bench not far from the Inn. The contractors hadn't been in that day, so Hob had been taking it as an excuse to take some down time before everything went straight into the chaos that was the start of any semester.

The weather outside is a nice 21°C and Hob just takes a moment to close his eyes and bask in the sunlight. He has had ample opportunities over the summer to get some sun, and even taken many of them, but it still hasn't gotten old.

Hob's lounging spot is close enough to the park to hear the sounds of other people also taking advantage of the good weather, but far enough away so as not to be bothered by them. He is getting better with crowds, but he still finds them to be overwhelming after a while. There are too many people to keep track of and he has difficulty truly relaxing.

He absolutely could not allow himself to close his eyes and let his guard down in one. This is the other reason he had chosen this spot. Close enough to hear civilization, but far enough away that the sounds of a crowd would not drown out the noise of someone approaching while he has his eyes closed, face turned up to the sun.

It's been a fairly good system, so far.

Which is why he nearly jumps out of his own skin when he hears someone take a seat beside him.

Hob tenses. The average human shouldn't have been able to sneak up on him, so this is either the not so average human or something not human at all.

He's aware the being he's waiting for is perfectly capable of sneaking up on him, and has already done so once in this new timeline, but one doesn't spend 96 years not knowing when a demon is going to come for them without becoming more than a little hyper vigilant.

Hob slowly cracks an eye open and tilts his head to the side to get a look at his guest.

And all at once feels the tension drain out of him as he sees that it is, indeed, Dream.

"You're going to give me a heart attack one of these days, dove," he says as he relaxes back down onto the bench.

Dream nods in acknowledgement of the critique. He does not give any promises that it will not happen again.

Git.

Hob huffs as he sits up properly. “Good timing, as usual, though. If you showed up this time tomorrow, I’d be neck deep in afternoon classes.”

The Dream Lord raises an eyebrow at that. His attention focuses fully in that way that Hob has come to know that Hob has said something he finds of curious. “You are returning to school.”

“Yes, but not as a student.” The immortal grins and does a partial bow, similar to how he’d done when he’d introduced himself as a knight in 1589, but while still sitting. “Professor Gadsen, at your service.”

Something warms behind Dream’s eyes in much the same way they had when Hob had told him he’d started in the printing profession. “You’ve become a teacher.”

Hob straightens back up, his hand going to his ear in slight embarrassment. He’s forgotten how nice it felt to have his old friend look at him like that. “I did some off and on work as a professor in the other timeline. Must have taught at a dozen different schools. Didn’t always do it, but it’s probably my favorite profession, with publishing after that.”

Dream tilts his head to the side at the reminder that Hob has lived this whole other life. “What subject?”

Hob doesn’t know if he means what he’s taught in the past or if he means this time around. Decides to stick with the present, for now. “History 101, this time. Got my first two classes tomorrow.”

Dream nods. He falls silent, afterword, seriousness settling back on him like a cloak.

Hob, knowing this was unlikely to be a simple pleasure trip, waits to see what this is about.

He’s not kept waiting long. 

“I have some questions about the memory.”

Ah. Of course.

Hob sighs. “I think it would be best to move this conversation indoors.” He stands up and points over his shoulder. “I know a place we can chat uninterrupted, if you’re okay with a change in scenery.”

The Endless nods his consent, before rising to his feet as well. He follows as Hob starts heading back home. “Where are we going?”

The immortal throws a smile over his shoulder and points to the building in question. “Just a little something I’ve been working on for the last five months. She’s not done yet, but she’s getting there.” He near bounds up to the door as they near it. Opens the door and holds it open for Dream to enter for. “May I present: The New Inn.”

Dream pauses in the doorway, taking in the room before him. Most of the structure is finished, along with the bar and back room. He hasn’t gotten all of the appliances for the kitchen just yet, nor has he brought in even a fraction of the table and chairs, but there is a fridge and stove back there, along with a single table and chair out on the main floor that Hob, Lucas, and his crew take breaks out.

It’s not quite how he’d hoped to first introduce it, but he’ll take his victories where he can.

When Dream finally enters, allowing Hob to follow, he slowly works his way around the bar and into the main sitting area. A single, pale hand reaches out and runs along the lacquered surface of the bar table. “The New Inn is a pub?”

Hob puts his hands into his pocket to keep them from giving away his nervousness. Is glad he did when his old friend turns to face him fully, something intense laying behind those blue eyes staring back at him inquisitively.

“Yeah.” Hob answers simply. “I built her the first time, too.”

He watches as the implications of the statement lands. Blue eyes briefly darken, before that heat is banked. 

Hob clears his throat. Gestures to one of the seats, as he offers, “Would you like some tea? I think I have a brew you’d like in stock.”

He knows full well that Dream will like it. It had taken a few tries, but he and the Other Dream had found one he’d like. It hadn’t done anything for him, truly, the way tea drank in a dream would, but he’d enjoyed the taste of it. Hob had made sure to keep some on hand in the decades that followed, even if he couldn’t bear to drink any of it, just so he wouldn’t forget.

Dream nods as he takes the seat and Hob quickly escapes back into the back.

The excuse of making tea gives him the chance to settle himself. Knows that this isn’t going to be a pleasant conversation. Curses the fates, again, for the memory having somehow followed him. 

Maybe dawdles a bit more than he should, because he really doesn’t want to talk about this. Hob briefly daydreams about hiding up in his flat upstairs, until he belatedly remembers that the being in the other room can hear daydreams and that really is going to give off the wrong impression.

Sure enough, when he returns to the sitting area, Dream looks like he’s mere minutes away from getting up and hunting him down. Hob chuckles softly at the look, ignoring the glare he gets in response for his amusement. “Sorry, dove. I wasn’t really going to do it.”

Dream’s glare turns to something more considering, as it sinks in that Hob was saying he wasn’t planning on following through with his daydream. He clearly wants to interrogate the immortal human over what all he knows. 

Hob isn’t about to hide that from him, but he’s kind of enjoying being the mysterious one for a change and he’s not about to give up all his secrets unless asked for them.

It seems that line of questioning is for another day, because what Dream asks is: “What originally happened in 1916?”

The wave of anger, both old and new, is familiar, and Hob doesn’t try to tame of his face as it twists into a snarl. “Some half-assed magician thought he could summon Death. Planned to try and get her to bring back his son.” He wrapped his hands around his mug in a way that suggested he wished it was something else. Blue eyes ticked down to them, cataloging the response. “Wasn’t Death he got though.”

The room around them dropped several degrees, anger and affront in the downwards twist of Dream’s lips. “Did he not understand the damage he would have done to his world?”

Hob took a sip of his tea - the same flavor as Dream’s - and shrugged. “He wasn’t affected, so what did he care?” He placed the mug back down on the table. “Bastard died in 1926. To my understanding, it was his son that held your counterpart captive for the most of the time he was down there.”

He thinks of Alex Burgess, who fled Fawney Rig to run off with the man he loved. Wonders what was so different this time that he found the courage to run away rather than lock himself in a prison of his own making. Ponders if it was possibly because Paul had been else where, and as such, was a stronger lure away.

It was a thought.

Dream seems to finally remember that tea was placed in front of him. He takes a sip as he ponders this new information. Pauses to stare down at the liquid like he’s never seen tea before and Hob knows he’s scored a win with the flavor. The tea gets an almost mournful look as Dream drags his attention away from it. “Who was it that tried to summon my sister?”

Hob contemplates the pros and cons of sic’ing Dream of the Endless on Roderick Burgess. Finds himself asking, instead, “Does it matter? They didn’t succeed.”

Dream breathes out slowly, lips a thin line of unhappiness. “Perhaps you have a point. They would be long dead by now anyway.”

Hob holds his tongue and lets the misunderstanding go. He does not correct him to protect Burgess from Dream, but rather because it feels too much like he would be turning his friend into a weapon if he told the truth.

He has already done that once before. He never plans to do it again.

No. He will deal with Roderick Burgess himself when the time comes.

The immortal human finishes his tea in a single gulp, savoring the sweet peppermint taste. It isn’t one of his favorites, personally, but he can still enjoy it. Especially with how long it’s been since he’s last had any. “Mm. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get some more tea.” He tips the empty cup in Dream’s direction. “Do you want anything else while I’m back there?”

Dream shakes his head, an air of distraction to the movement.

Hob does not try to stall a second time. Really just wanted some more tea. When he returns to the sitting area, he’s almost surprised to see the Dream Lord is still there.

And frowning at him. “What?” He hadn’t even daydreamed about escaping this time!

“You are still limping.”

“Oh, yes.” The immoral human returns back to his seat. “I don’t have the networks I had the first time around, so I have to wait until I can find a new doctor who’s willing to fix it but not ask any questions.” He would have been more than happy to look someone up from the first time around, but it’s been 273 years since he lived this year. He thinks he deserves to be forgiven for not remembering anyone’s names except the important ones.

Dream studies him. Carefully, he says, “I could fix it for you.”

Hob stares at him. “What?”

Dream gives him a look that states that he heard right the first time and he’s not going to get a repeat of it.

Hob coughs and shifts in his seat. The thought of those pale hands touching his ankle doing some odds things to his higher brain functions. “Sorry, dove. I just didn’t think this would be something you’d do.”

He gets a strange look in response, although he’s not sure over what. “I have broken things far stronger than human bones before.”

Oh, Hob has little doubt about that. Still, it’s not something he was expecting to have to deal with tonight, and finds himself at war between finally dealing with the issue and wanting more time to prepare for it.

He remembers that these aren’t things you’re ever prepared for. There isn’t really a reason to put it off. If set right, the bone will be healed by morning. He'll have to come up with a cover story for the sudden disappearance of his limp though.

Taking a deep breathe, he nods. “Let me run up stairs to grab something to bite on real quick. Won’t take more than a few minutes.” 

He’s halfway out of the chair, when Dream rises to his feet instead. “There is no need.” He holds out his hand, palm up and facing Hob, who suddenly finds himself flashing back to a certain encounter in 1789.

Instinctively, Hob goes completely still. “What are you doing?”

“I wish to sedate you.” Dream nods to the chair he’d just been getting out of. “You will want to sit back down first. I will wake you when it is over.”

Hob relaxes a fraction and his face splits into a smile at the consideration. “It's a kind offer, but I've dealt with worse.” 

Dream has the same stubbornness to him as when Hob tried to will off sleep right after his rescue. “If you will not do it for your peace of mind, then do it for mine. I will inevitably hurt you, Hob Gadling. I do not wish for this to be one of those times.”

“Ah, dove. How can I say no to that?” Hob feels himself folding like a wet tissue paper. He’s sitting before he even makes the decision to do so. “Yes. Yes, you can send me off to your kingdom for a bit.”

That pale hand starts to rise again just as a thought crosses Hob’s mind. He holds up his hands to block his eyes, as if that would actually protect them. “Wait!”

Dream pauses, and there’s a flash of irritation as his patience appears to be wearing thin at the interruptions. He near snaps, “What?”

The idea is mad and he’s likely pushing it. But Hob never got anywhere without being willing to take risks. And this is a risk he’s always loathed never taking. “Will you join me?” At the look of confusion, he elaborates, “In the dream.”

One of those elegant dark eyebrows goes up. “Why?”

Hob’s fingers go to his ear, nervousness winning out. “I want to thank you for this. For the rescue, too.” He drops his hand and squares his shoulders. “Let me treat you to a meal, in the Dreaming.”

Dream considers him, a knowing look in his eyes. “You do not owe me anything, Hob Gadling.”

He knows, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to spend more time with him. To take every chance he can get while he still can. “Maybe, but I still want to.”

A long silence. He’s just starting to fear he’s pushed too far, when, “Very well. I will join you for this meal.”

Hob feels his heart soar. He near leaps to his feet. “Well, if this is going to take a while, perhaps we should do this upstairs? We’ll be less likely to be interrupted if I sleep on my couch then down here.”

Dream hums in response to this. Hob gets the impression he’s said something of interest, but he’s not sure why living in the Inn would catch his interest. “You do not need to stop at the couch.” The immortal human pauses as he’s opening a back door that leads to the stairs to his flat. There’s that mischievous grin again that tells Hob he’s about to get another bombshell. “We can do this just fine in your bed.”

Hob feels his jaw drop. “Are you teasing me?”

The look he receives in return is too innocent looking to be for real. “Am I?”

Oh, one of these days, Hob is going to have his sweet, sweet revenge on this insufferable creature. He really will.

In the meantime, he’s just going to bemoan the fact that he’s totally not cleaned his bedroom recently and he had clearly not thought this through as well as he thought he had.

Part 13

[xx-vergil-xx]

hi i still come back to chapter 15 of hounds every once in a while just to feel something and the feeling is being clinically insane over dream’s absolute wrecking guilt 🥲 thank you keep writing and i’m dreading the upcoming chapters but bet i will read them all …

aghh thank you so much!!! <3 there is no greater honor as an author than to know that something I wrote is a thing to which you return <3 if even to experience lunacy and/or pain (actually that it caused Agony yeah that's also extremely high praise thank you)

I can promise an ending that is not downright tragic –– I love these boys too much to make em suffer all the way they deserve peace and joy as much as the next immortal couple <3

I am writing away! wanted to have ch 32 up tn but I don't think that is gonna b happening unfortunately (sorting out some translation things. maybe went a little too hard. but I'll let y'all be the judge of that), so posting New And Temporarily Painful Content probably tomorrow night <3

thanks for ur kind words and thanks for the ask in general, I love talking to y'all!!! <3 <3 <3