#writing tag: dreamling

[lu-inlondon]

rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words

I was tagged by @rekishi-aka - thanks, love <3

Fic with the most hits: Of Angels and Bells A Lovesquare-multichapter, for which I wrote 13k in one day, completely shredding my wrist for two weeks :D Marinette has a kid in this one, which is Adrien's which he doesn't know for reasons* (*because I said so).

Adrien drives a black jaguar, which I thought was hilarious, but only one person got the joke T-T

Fic with the second most kudos: A Token of Affection A Dreamling-OS, which I wrote because I found a knitting pattern I thought Dream would love :D So Hob gets to knit and live my "I studied in London during the pandemic"-experience

Posting this was so wild? Because I've been writing for a much smaller fandom for about a year or so at the time, I was floored by the amount of kudos this one received overnight. But I'm happy people liked this fluffy OS and grateful that I learnt about the sweater curse

Fic with the third most comments (comment threads): Sand zwischen meinen Zehen, deine Finger zwischen meinen Hörk, undercover at a holiday resort, pretending to be a couple trying to salvage their relationship.

It was supposed to be 7 chapters and an epilogue, but I had to much fun torturing those two, so I ended up with 37 chapters :D

Fic with the fourth most bookmarks: Here's the deal, Kitty Four chapters of Marichat smut with an eventual identity reveal.

This is by far my most popular fic and I'm both surprised and not surprised at all :D For one it's smut??? And people - while they read it - are more reluctant to leave comments (no judgement) so I don't get why it has so many. But then again it's Marichat ;)

Fic with the fifth most words: A little Trouble goes a Long Way A Stucky-Multichap (this game really covers all my fandoms, huh?) with accidental baby acquisition and the second fic I ever posted to Ao3

Spelling and Grammar could be a bit better on this one, but it was the first long story I wrote in English so overall, I don't mind. I'm just happy that people liked it :)

Fic with the least words: Well, there are two that share the same wordcount of 500 words - Die Sache mit der Steuererklärung und In der Lampenabteilung

Both are short Hörk Fics, both are thanks to @pinksnowrabbit. The first is a Rainer POV OS, that examines both Leos tax report and his relationship to and with Adam, the second is based on this gif, which both Leo and I think is very cute Adam behaviour :D

tagging @aanabear2803, @starlighnes, @writingowl1985, @falleraatje, and anyone else who might want to play and playing is (of course!) optional

[amielot]

Horn.

Bonus:)

[martybaker]

Over the rainbow

So I know we love torturing or at least inconveniencing retired Dream with new human ailments and realities, I love doing that as well, but the thesis of this was - what if Dream retired and he finally got to be at peace and all was well, actually 🥹

(started this for prompt First time for dreamling week but here we are over a week late)

————

“I’ve never been kissed,” Dream announces.

He’s settled on the far end of Hob’s sofa with his knees up, chin settled on top of them and arms loosely hugging his legs, somehow looking both comfortable and relaxed as well as like a model in the middle of a photoshoot.

Hob’s had a hard time not staring but when Dream says that line his eyes immediately snap to the vision on his couch, clothed in hues of beige, wrapped in Hob’s own softest cardigan, and he nearly spills the tea that he was bringing for a sip.

“Huh? What?” He asks dumbly, voice unnaturally high pitched.

Dream merely blinks at him and waits him out.

When the wheels in Hob’s brain start turning again he does try to parse that statement, but all he can come up with is: “But…you’ve had relationships? You had a wife and all, did you not kiss? Was it all like, metaphysical or-“

Dream rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “Of course I’ve kissed my partners. Let me rephrase the statement. Murphy has never been kissed.”

Oh.

Dream’s talking about his new human body. His new self, that he named Murphy, a name to be used for dull but necessary identity paperwork that Hob obtained for Dream through rather illegal means.

It’s only been a little over a month since Dream turned human, but he’s been very…calm while settling into his new reality. The retirement was his own choice and he seemed to be perfectly content with his decision, despite the fact that he was forced to live with Hob in his messy little apartment while they figure something of his own for him.

Well, if.

Dream also seemed perfectly content in Hob’s space and showed no interest whatsoever in looking at flat listings.

Not that Hob minded. He would happily spend every minute every day with his friend, if it wouldn’t make him feel guilty about slacking on his job and his students. After all, Hob’s chosen career wasn’t just to keep himself busy, he really enjoyed teaching young impressionable minds about days past, keeping the history alive. Remembering.

But his joy in teaching was currently found lacking compared to the newfound joy of Dream in his home. Not just visiting, robed in dark colors, taking time off of his duties to spend a moment with Hob, but human, dressed in earthly colors, there in the mornings for shared breakfasts and still there in the evenings when Hob returned. Reading a book, slowly going through Hob’s vast vinyl collection, playing the piano, painting, knitting, molding clay. Pale blue eyes focused and clever hands at work, creating, always creating. He’s always been an artist and that part of him stayed true, despite the big change.

All things considered, Hob’s really been having a hard time keeping his foolish heart in check. And with Dream saying things like this, things like-

“This mouth has never been kissed.”

Hob’s eyes drop to Dream’s lips as soon as Dream says that, just to see them twitch in a pleased smile.

Hob stares at him, at a loss for words, while Dream looks back at him expectantly. Expecting…an answer? A reassurance?

Hob clears his throat. “Well…I’m sure it will be? It’s a very lovely mouth,” he says, unable to stop the blush coloring his cheeks.

Dream sighs a long suffering sigh and pets the couch next to himself. “Come here,” he commands.

There’s no ancient power of a monarch of the Dreaming behind it anymore, but Dream still keeps his regality, his head held high, a quiet gravitas to him. Not quite the same as when he was an Endless, but still there.

Confident, elegant, graceful.

And calm, like the still water of an indigo lake high in the mountains.

Hob blinks. What was the question? Oh, right, he was being summoned. He moves to sit next to Dream.

Dream turns towards him, leans in and closes his eyes.

Is he…?

Hob is frozen in shock once again. “Ahh, you, you want me to…?”

Dream opens his sky blue eyes again, staring into Hob’s soul. “Yes,” he says decisively.

There’s a beat when they just stare into each other’s eyes and then Dream closes his again. Waiting, alluring lips just a few inches from Hob’s.

But Hob’s having a crisis. They’ve never done this before! Dream’s never said anything about being…attracted to Hob, he’s never suggested, he never seemed interested that way.

One time, Hob got drunk and Dream had to drag his ass upstairs to bed, and Hob was just enough at his senses to remember that he slurred: “D’ya know what I like best about being immortal?”

“What,” Dream asked as he pulled Hob upwards, making sure he wouldn’t stumble on the stairs.

And Hob smiled goofily and said: “You.”

Dream just blinked at him. He didn’t say anything, not then, not when Hob got propositioned by the shopkeep when they were out together, browsing for new (old) records, not when Death was visiting and she teased if they changed their dates to weekly instead of centennialy.

Not when they were walking in a park, and Dream seemed to be watching a couple on another path on a stroll as well, holding hands.

Hob’s good mood made him act foolish, he reached out a hand in offering, but Dream… he just stared at it. Hob quickly withdrew it, running it through his hair, chuckling nervously. “I was just teasing,” he said weakly, but by that point he was sure his feelings were transparent and Dream’s lack of reaction was a clear signal.

Then again, maybe this was just harmless experimentation? Wanting to know what it feels like, being kissed as a human?

But Hob still hesitates. He feels too strongly about Dream to casually mess around without being wary of the consequences.

“Uhh, wait. I, are you sure? I don’t-“

Dream sighs and his patience with Hob apparently runs out because he pulls Hob towards him by his shirt, kissing him square on the lips.

Hob makes a surprised sound, but then he closes his eyes and falls into the kiss.

It’s unhurried and rather chaste, yet Hob’s heart seems to be doing its best trying to jump out of his chest.

Dream pulls away, slowly opening his eyes.

“How….how did that feel?” Hob asks, reminding himself that this was just an experiment. A one time deal.

Dream contemplates his answer. “Different,” he says.

“Different than when you were..Endless?

“Yes.”

“Good different or bad different?”

Dream frowns. “No such dichotomy applies,” he says, and then he leans back in again and Hob leans away.

He chuckles nervously. “Ahh, haha, hold on. You’re gonna make me think you like kissing me.” He tries to turn it into a joke, holding Dream lightly by his shoulders, trying to prevent him from darting forward again.

Dream glares at him. “And what, pray tell, is making you think I don’t.”

“Oh…really?” Hob lets go of one bony shoulder to pinch his own arm. Surely, he’s still asleep and this is just a …dream.

Dream’s glare turns even more unimpressed. “You’re awake,” he says, sharp, and as if to prove his point he kisses Hob again, more hungrily and passionately, biting at his lower lip, Hob’s hold too slack to hold him back.

They kiss and kiss and it’s far from chaste this time, Dream seems to have made it his mission to explore Hob’s mouth thoroughly, while his hands explore his chest.

Hob’s hand burrows into Dream’s hair, he isn’t able to hold back now, kissing back with vigor, treasuring Dream’s every gasp.

They’re both breathing hard by the time they part - by the time Hob has to pull Dream back by his hair to stop him from diving back in.

He can’t help but laugh. “You do actually need to breathe now, you know.”

Dream doesn’t seem too pleased with this reminder. He huffs, sitting back onto his heels.

Hob already misses the feeling of him in his arms.

He clears his throat. There’s a very important question to be asked first.

“Is it…just the kissing that you like?”

Dream tilts his head at Hob like a cat, measuring him. “You cannot tell?”

Hob shakes his head.

“You’re not very bright, Hob Gadling,” Dream says, and Hob would protest, he would tease back, but the words get stuck in his throat when Dream takes Hob’s hand into his own, putting it on his chest and making Hob feel his racing heartbeat.

Hob inhales, blushing.

“You…I…,” he sighs, searching for words. “I still have a lot to learn,” he offers, smiling at Dream.

“As do I,” says Dream.

It is marvelous seeing Dream like this. His words are confident but his heart beats wildly under Hob’s hand, pink colors his cheeks, chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

He’s trusting Hob with this, with his very human body whose reactions he cannot temper, cannot regulate.

Hob chuckles, feeling warm.

He loves this, the marvelous feeling of finding out your crush likes you back, the feeling that’s always incredible, no matter the time and place, no matter how many times he’s experienced it. One of his favorite feelings, the ones that make life an amazing journey.

“I really thought you weren’t interested in me like that,” he says.

Dream sighs. “I…could not be.”

Hob’s heart aches.

He has to touch, now that he’s allowed, now that he’s invited to. He kisses Dream’s forehead, his cheeks, delighting in the sighs he earns.

He kisses Dream's neck and Dream tilts his head for better access, making Hob feel lightheaded and so full of happiness he can hardly contain it. “I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you now,” he warns. “I’ll kiss you a hundred times every day.”

“A thousand times” Dream says, and Hob laughs, scraping his teeth against alabaster skin, making Dream moan.

He smirks, gaining back his confidence now that he knows Dream means this. He holds him around the waist, pulling him closer.

“I did learn a certain thing or two over the years,” he says slyly, dipping Dream backwards, laying him on the couch. Dream sighs indulgently, wrapping his hands around Hob’s shoulders, holding him close.

“Want me to show you?” Hob asks, and Dream hums in confirmation, pulling him for another kiss.

Soft notes play from the old record player, outside warm spring sun rays melt the last reminders of winter, birds chirp their welcoming songs.

Hope is in the air.

Dream’s here, in Hob’s home, in his arms. The cold weeks when he was distant and quietly hurting and Hob could sense something was very, very wrong but didn’t know how to fix it now seem like a distant memory too.

Hob pulls back for a second, holding Dream’s head in his hands, savoring the moment.

“Will you stay?” he whispers.

Dream inhales, his hand shaking a little when he places it on Hob’s cheek, caressing Hob’s lips with his thumb.

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” he says, smiling.

————

[theaceace]

I can't help but feel that (in agreement with general fanon) Hob is the sort of person who falls a little bit in love with anyone who is 1) in his life for longer than five minutes and 2) even a little bit nice to him, and he (usually) isn't too shy about expressing it

So now he finds himself biting his tongue around Dream almost constantly because it would be so easy! Dream says something that could be misconstrued as an insult (it isn't and Hob knows it) and he's on the verge of sarcastically replying cheers, love you too because that's what he'd do with anyone! Every time Dream leaves it's on the tip of his tongue to let him go with a love you, bye

And he might have even gone ahead and said it - he doesn't think Dream will storm out over it these days - except that they've started hesitantly doing a little courting... Dating... Thing. However it works for an Endless whose every previous relationship has rapidly gone up in flames. And saying something like that just has really different connotations when you're in a new relationship! So Hob is being respectful by trying not to rush into things the way he normally does and would love to now

(never mind that he's definitely been in love with Dream at least a bit for centuries)

Meanwhile, Dream is losing his mind trying not to overwhelm Hob with the crushing force of his feelings, but clearly Hob can't feel the same. Just the other day he professed his undying adoration for a barista that gave him a free pastry as the shop was closing. He finishes almost every conversation with the friends he has made in this lifetime with a declaration of love. In fact, the only one who never seems to inspire any such feelings in him is Dream himself

(they sort themselves out eventually, of course, with perhaps a little meddling from all the people in their lives, whether they know what's going on or not)

[fulcrvm]

I am thinking thoughts about airports and flying again. And Dreamling, of course.

So. Human AU. History professor Hob has to fly around a lot for work, perhaps for conferences or smth of the sort so it's always to a small handful of the same nearby cities. He's pretty neutral on the idea of flying in general, though he wishes it was a bit more environmentally friendly, but Hob is a sucker for a nice airport and especially a nice airport lounge during layovers or before boarding.

Hob has begun to frequent a small local airline (White Horse Air, the logo is a coat of arms with a little pegasus, wyvern, and hippogriff on it, haha) when traveling because he likes their service (they've never lost his bags, not even once!) and their flights are never fully booked, which makes them quieter and easier for hob's chronic pains. He always picks seats with no one next to him so he can sprawl out and so it's easier on his knees.

Until, one day, he boards the little plane and there's someone in the seat next to his. Hob's sure that when he booked his seat, the other one was empty. Oh well, whatever, Hob's not going to bother the other man already sitting there for one flight— he'll just have to be a little more mindful booking next time. Hob shuffles into the seat, and notices that the stranger sat beside him is reading Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur! Hob gets excited because! That's a William Caxton publication! And Hob has so much to say about Caxton! He turns to the stranger to strike up conversation about it and... is immediately lost at how pretty the stranger is. Handsome, gorgeous, yes of course, but pretty, with the shell pink lips and focused blue eyes and slight frown at the book in his hands. Hob picks up his metaphorical jaw off the metaphorical ground and strikes up conversation with the stranger. Though the other man starts off apprehensive, somehow the two hours of flying fly by and the two of them end up talking about all sorts of art, history, and everything in between. Hob learns that the stranger works in publishing, thus his interest in Caxton.

Their flight lands, and the two of them disembark at the gate, still attempting to continue their conversation while Hob tries to wrangle his carry-on bags. (The Stranger only has a small laptop bag on one shoulder and a suit jacket folded over his other arm with him.) Then Hob has to check the time and begrudgingly says that he should probably head towards his next gate soon— this is just a layover after all. The Stranger looks ever so slightly disappointed and admits that this is his actual destination and he needs to meet his sister soon. They part ways, and Hob tries to dwell on the strange warmth in his chest. He thinks about the Stranger for his entire work trip afterwards.

This, somehow, happens a couple times. Turns out they both frequent White Horse Air, and though they're never in booked seats next to each other again, the flights are always empty enough that they can shift to sit next to each other once the plane's in the air. They chat the flight away, and then part ways once they disembark, with the Stranger headed to the baggage claim and Hob to his next flight. One time, the Stranger even requests the hostess to bring out a special bottle of Chateau Lafitte 1828 just for the two of them to share. Hob's in awe. He really enjoys their conversations, it's nice to be able to talk about his interests in a non-academia environment. The Stranger always has the most intriguing and eye-opening perspectives on everything, too. It doesn't really help that Hob thinks... maybe he's developing a tiny, teeny, really inconsequential really crush on his Stranger. He's not in grade school anymore, how does he feel like this about someone he doesn't even know the name of yet!

This all comes to a head when Hob mentions to the Stranger that his layover is a bit longer than it usually is, and if the Stranger is in no rush, they can continue their conversation in one of the airport's lounges. White Horse Air is a bit too small an airline to have their own lounge, but Hob's collected enough miles to get into one of the other airline lounges and is fully willing to pay to get in one if it means more time with his Stranger.

The Stranger is extremely enthusiastic about the idea— which shows up physically as a subtle, coy upturning at the corner of his mouth and a little sparkle in his eye. (Hob feels proud that he can read this reaction so well.) He's so enthusiastic, in fact, that the Stranger offers to get them both into a first-class lounge. Hob doesn't even pretend to hesitate to say yes.

Let's just say they get to the lounge, split some cheese and wine, and the proceed to get even more enthusiastic with each other in a private room. Hob's lucky he brought a change of clothes in his carry-on. (Maybe Hob's not so lucky and can't sit comfortably during his next three-hour flight.)

Hob gets a bit emotional when he has to leave for his next flight (already missing being able to hold his Stranger's face so gently, being able to card his fingers through his soft, smokey hair) and gets his guts together to ask if the Stranger wants to exchange phone numbers or something, so they can be in contact more regularly. Perhaps even, meet on purpose maybe? The Stranger smiles and kisses him lightly on the cheek when he slips a business card into Hob's hand.

Hob's so caught up in it all that he doesn't check the business card until he's fully boarded and sat on his next flight. And he gawks.

Morpheus Aion The Dreaming Publishing House

As in, one of White Horse Air's biggest shareholders? Aion, as in, probably the sibling of Teleute Aion? As in, Teleute Aion, the CEO of White Horse Air?! Hob almost passes out.

In the end, Morpheus and Hob laugh it out. Morpheus promises he never abused his sibling privileges to invade Hob's privacy, but used the sibling perks to frequent White Horse Air flights a little more than he even needed to just for the chance to see Hob again. They're both happy to not need to keep flying just for that chance anymore, haha. Idiots in love! Turns out, while Teleute lives where Hob keeps having his layovers, Morpheus and Hob actually live just a few hours driving from each other from their shared initial departure location. It all works out perfectly, and Morpheus self-restraint from inviting Hob to move in (so they don't have to keep travelling to see each other, no matter how small) lasts not even a year after they officially start dating. Hob doesn't even pretend to hesitate to say yes :)

(Years down the line, much after they're married, Hob finally has enough miles to get them back into those first-class lounges to have more fun. It's all very lovely.)

[cuubism]

tagged by @dsudis and @tharkuun in last line tag game :)

my fav slow burn that's taken me 2 years to write. i'll finish it some day. probably.

--

“I want,” said Dream, eyes dark, “to go home.” For a second Hob thought he meant the Dreaming, but Dream’s gaze on him was far too intent for him to disappear now. No, what Dream meant was exactly what Hob hoped he meant. “We’ll walk home, then,” he said, anticipation already stirring in his belly. “Hmm. No,” said Dream, and then he stepped through reality, Hob still caught in his grasp. Hob’s head spun, both from the sudden emergence into his bedroom, and from Dream crowding him up to the bed. “You really don’t do things by halves,” he said, bracing Dream by the hips again, holding tight. “A common complaint of former lovers,” said Dream. Lover, Hob’s heart beat, lover, lover. “And not one I have ever been able to assuage.” “Don’t,” Hob said, and pulled him back in for another kiss. Don’t, he thought as Dream pushed him down to sit on the bed, let Hob’s borrowed jacket fall away and helped Hob out of his shoes since he couldn’t just vanish them into mist the way Dream did. Don’t limit yourself. Don’t starve yourself. I want all of you, all that you have to give me, all of it.

--

tagging @five-and-dimes, @the-apocrypha, @im-not-corrupted

[valiantstarlights]

Last Line Tag Game

Tagged by @kydrogendragon @lenreli and @teejaystumbles ✨ Apologies for only getting to this now 🙇‍♀️ Thank you all for tagging me, though! 🥰

This is for teejaystumbles's The Bodyguard AU. 😎 The clues are in the numbers. 💃

No pressure tagging: @valeriianz @gabessquishytum @cuubism 🙇‍♀️

--

5

"No."

"...'No?' You're declining the job offer?"

"Correct."

"For god's sake, why? It's not like you to turn down a job before you even meet the client."

"'No' is a complete sentence."

"As is 'fuck you' and 'why.' No, brother; I know you. There has to be a reason why you're turning this job down."

"Can I not simply be enjoying my well-deserved vacation?"

"Okay, first of all, you got shot four years ago. Second, just last week, Destruction was whining about getting his ass handed to him when the two of you got in the ring and sparred. Destruction. A professional MMA fighter. Whining. Let that sink in for a second. Third, the salary is 500 thousand a year. I mean, what more do you want? Or is that figure too low for you after you worked for Morningstar?"

"(small sigh) You know I do not care about how much I'm paid, so long as the amount is fair and reasonable."

"Then why--oh. ...Oh, right. Now I remember. You don't work for artists anymore."

"Careful, sibling."

"(dramatic sigh) Oh, big brother. How many years has it been? Ten? Eleven? And you're still--"

"If this is your best effort in trying to persuade me to take the job you're offering--"

"(light laughter) No, no. Don't worry. I've changed my mind. I never should have called you in the first place. I know how difficult it is to convince you to do something when you have already decided against it, and I have no intention of trying to get you to change your mind either, because unlike you, I simply do not have enough free time to wallow in sadness and think about--"

"(hangs up)"

[five-and-dimes]

Last Line Tag Game!

Tagged by @valeriianz and @amielot 🤘💕

I want to finish this fic so bad, but apparently I have So Much left :')

“I am a writer,” he explains, “I am in the process of outlining my next novel.” Hob whistles, impressed, “Next novel, huh? Is that why you don’t want to tell me your name? Don’t want me fawning over the famous author?” “I use a pen name,” he states plainly, “I simply enjoy watching you struggle.” “Should’ve known,” Hob shakes his head with a laugh, “What genre do you write?” “Fantasy.” Hob is a little bit terrified of the feeling blooming in his chest, “For real? That’s amazing! So is what you’re working on now the next in a series, or do you write standalone novels?” The man seems surprised by the question, but turns to face Hob more fully, “I have written standalones before, but this particular story is the third in a trilogy.” “Ah, that’s why you’re so focused on your outlining. Gotta make sure you wrap everything up properly.” “Indeed.” There is a pause as he seems to consider something before asking, “Are you a fan of fantasy?” “Oh absolutely,” Hob replies gleefully, leaning over and holding out his right arm. Winding around his forearm is a serpent-like beast, waves around its body and a delicate compass by its head, stylized like a monster drawn in the waters of a medieval map. “Always loved stories of monsters and magic,” Hob explains. Once again, he sees his stranger’s eyes sharpen at the word “story”. “I especially love old sailors' stories, ‘here there be monsters’, sirens and leviathans. We don’t know nearly enough about our oceans to convince me it’s all fantasy. But to avoid sounding totally off my rocker I’ll begrudgingly use the word,” he winked. “Fantasy realism, one might say,” the other man quips with a smile. Hob likes him when he smiles. “One might.”

No pressure tagging and also I can't remember who's already been tagged lol: @pellaaearien @omgcinnamoncakes @gabessquishytum @seiya-starsniper @wordsinhaled

[onehundredandeleventropicalfish]

[pellaaearien]

Pell I would LOVE to see a perspective flip for Mieux Aimé of Dream working himself up to present Hob with that single beautiful undying rose

@arialerendeair you are both wonderful <3 The fact that you remember a one-off fic I wrote back in February means it's VALENTINES IN SEPTEMBER, Y'ALL!

Partie Deux

There are roses everywhere in the Dreaming.

It is Valentine's Day in the Waking world, as Dream reminds Lucienne, who keeps sending him ever more pointed looks. It is to be expected.

"Of course, my lord," she says, conciliatory. Allowing him his foibles. Valentine's Day, in its modern form, is a far more widespread observance than it had been before his imprisonment. It is as good an explanation as any.

Lucienne, of course, knows better.

"Is it the dreamers who are preoccupied?" she asks, finally, on the thirteenth of February in Waking time. "Or you?"

He has no answer for her.

Under normal circumstances, he would not allow even his loyal librarian to speak to him thus. But the circumstances are far from normal.

The Lord of Dreams is courting a human. A human who might reasonably expect his lover to mark occasions such as these.

(Christmas just past had been spent in the warmth of Hob's flat, with the sweet smell of baked goods and the soft glow of fairy lights adding to the ambiance of their lovemaking. It is a memory that shines brightly for Dream. Valentine's Day is, however, a far less ambiguously romantic holiday, and Dream is unsure of the protocol.)

"Have you spoken to him?" Lucienne presses further, finding, as always, the heart of the matter.

"We have. Spoken of it," Dream answers. It is the truth. Hob has told him about his plans for decorating the New Inn, "keeping it tasteful," as he says, "so those who aren't interested can still enjoy it."

He has given no indication as to whether he himself might be interested.

"Go to him," Lucienne urges. The days leading up to the fourteenth had in fact been inordinately busy, with stress dreams taking over a large portion of the subconscious. It has not done anything for Dream's mood.

"The work-" Dream begins.

"The work is well in hand," she says. "The dreams are well practised and have their assigned roles. I am certain there will be nothing so dire it requires your direct attention, my lord. Go. Even if he has no wish to celebrate, you cannot believe he will turn you away at the door?"

No, Hob will not turn him away, Dream knows. (The knowing was hard-won, and is yet a fragile, wondrous thing.) But Dream has been mindful that he must not impose upon such extraordinary hospitality. Must not presume upon Hob's affections.

Perhaps if he brought a gift...? Or would that be presuming yet further?

In the end, he selects a single bloom, a solitary rose that had dared to bloom upon the arm of his throne. He thinks, as he does so, of the rose he had so absentmindedly brought almost to the door of their 1589 meeting, before thinking better of it. Would aught have been different, if he had? He is not Destiny, and cannot know. This rose will have to suffice.

He cannot quite bring himself to manifest directly in Hob's flat as he usually might. For the first time, he seeks the dubious comfort of the threshold: to be ejected, he thinks, would be a far greater pain than to be turned away.

It takes several eternities, or five Waking minutes, to gather the courage to knock.

Once he has done so, he is no longer in control of events. The noise of the film from inside shuts off, and he hears Hob's plodding footsteps approaching the door. The heart he does not have is in his throat, obstructing the breath he does not need, as he waits for Hob to appear. For his fate to be decided.

Hob's expression, when the door finally opens, is confusion, which quickly morphs to surprise upon seeing Dream.

"Dearling, come in," he says, welcome given as unhesitatingly as ever. Dearling, sweeting, lykyng, culver. Endearments from the time when Hob was young. Such things he calls Dream. "I wasn't expecting..."

He fails to finish the sentence, but has brought Dream into his home. Dream ought to explain his presence.

"I had thought. This day. Is for lovers," he says at last. Lovers, at least, they surely are. Perhaps Dream might be forgiven, if he is mistaken.

Hob slips his hand around the one of Dream's that is holding the rose. Even if the bloom were a Waking bloom, and capable of harming him, it would not have the opportunity to, by virtue of how gently Hob is holding him. Hob's other hand slips into its favoured position at the nape of Dream's neck, and he feels the last of the tension he has been unknowingly carrying dissipate under the weight of sense memory, of all the wondrous times Hob has held him like this. Hob presses their foreheads together, and Dream takes unnecessary breaths of Hob's human scent; of age, old books, woodsmoke, sweat, and the strength of earth.

Dream should not find the smell of humanity comforting. But it soothes him more than anything he has ever known.

"Hey, sweetheart," Hob says, and Dream shivers, to know that he is welcome. Is wanted. Is loved. "I'm so glad you're here."

[lu-inlondon]

3 Sentence WIP Game

Write 3 sentences of your current WIP and post them (in a new post). Tag people to make them work on their WIPs too. 

Ich wurde getagged von @anotherobsessedfangirl <3 (danke, dass du mich vom weiteren Prokrastinieren abhältst :*)

Im Sommer kann ich Dich lieben - Hörk Lehrer AU (Spatort)

Er durchquerte den Garten, schob sich durch die Büsche, deren Zweige an seiner Hose kratzen und dann erhob es sich in den Bäumen über ihn. Die Leiter schien ihm heute wie ein unüberwindbares Hindernis. Wenn er oben angekommen war, dann würde er mit Leo reden müssen, das hatte er sich fest vorgenommen, aber die Worte lagen noch immer wie ein schwerer Stein in Adams Magen.

2. Just like fanfiction - Hörk Fanfiction-Fanfiction (Spatort)

Mit einem Schaudern zwingt er sich dazu an etwas anderes zu denken. Vermutlich sollte er einfach schlafen gehen und hoffen, dass er gar nicht mehr daran denkt. Dann kann er sich morgen ganz auf den Fall konzentrieren und muss sich nicht wieder mit Hilfe von Kaffee durch den Tag schleppen.

3. Come see me after class - Dreamling Smut (Netflix The Sandman)

There is a good chance that he is, in fact, dreaming, though a few things make this highly unlikely. Amongst them is the very accurate depiction of his students (Hob's sure that his subconscious wouldn't be able to recall all those details) but first and foremost it's Dream's smile that cues him in that he's in the waking world.

The bastard grins and bats his eyelashes innocently as if he's blissfully unaware of what he's doing to Hob.

I'm tagging @falleraatje, @writingowl1985, @aanabear2803, @karalynlovescake, @pinksnowrabbit, and everyone else who'd like to do it :)

[rainbowvamp]

hob in the dreaming just minding his own business:

dream: *drops a book on a table that was not there three seconds ago*

hob: hey buddy… there a problem?

dream, glaring at the book: yes

hob:

dream, still glaring:

hob: …wanna share?

dream: do you truly believe i do not care for you?

hob:

hob: what the fuck??

dream, opening the book that is hob’s letters (written and unwritten) and pointing to one from a couple weeks ago:

the letter: “…and maybe sometimes i still wonder if you’ll come back. if you’re just amusing yourself with me…”

hob: what about that says i don’t care about you?

dream: it implies that i do not care for you. do you think so little of me?

hob, breaking out of that weird dream space where your brain just accepts stuff and actually analyzing what is going on: wait, no. hold on. how do you have this?

hob, scanning through a set of letters he wrote on an artistic kick in the 1700s: no really! how do you have these?

dream: my realm contains every book ever written and unwritten.

hob: and so you read my letters?

dream: they were addressed to me

hob: no. no. they were not addressed to anyone. they were unsent.

dream: i’m clearly the intended recipient.

hob: you are not. i never meant you to read these.

hob: i never even wrote some of these! i just thought this one.

hob: did you read all of them??

dream:

dream: yes.

hob: what the fuck?

[martybaker]

Last Line Tag Game

Thank you for the tag @kydrogendragon !

This is a little snippet from an au where Johanna, Dream, Calliope and Hob have been friends since childhood. For now titled Rome wasn’t build in a day (idk yet if it will stick)

——

setting: Dream & Calliope’s wedding

——

Calliope taps Hob’s shoulder.

“May I have my husband back?”

The tone is just right for the request to come off innocuos, but there is an edge, a warning in her eyes as Hob stops the dance, his hands falling off of Dream.

“Ah, of course,” he says, stepping away.

The smile he gives to the both of them is forced, and Dream’s forehead creases, but then Calliope cups his cheek (her husband’s cheek, they are husband and wife now), turning Dream’s head to face her, and they smile at each other. She pulls Dream into a kiss, and when they part he only has eyes for her.

As he should.

….

After that, Hob leaves the party.

There’s nothing left for him to do or say.

He walks out into the street, taking off his suit and loosening his tie in the warm evening.

He takes a deep breath, stopping in front of the venue, looking up at the sky to stop the tears from falling.

He laughs at himself.

A man in his thirties. Crying over a lost love that was never really his. Beautiful and always out of reach, just like the stars.

Fuck.

——

Tagging @omgcinnamoncakes , @dsudis , @issylra , @zigzag-wanderer and @zencetera

if you’d like to play 😊

[theaceace]

Hob is woken, not by the shrill cacophony of his alarm or the sunlight hitting his face where they'd forgotten to pull the curtains last night, or even the warmth of Morpheus' hands and mouth, but by the sudden dip in the mattress as another person flops onto the bed with them.

Several lifetimes' worth of instincts see him jolting awake in an instant, heart racing and sweat already beading on his back and brow. Hob may not be able to die, but he's been ambushed in his sleep more than enough times to be getting on with, ta very much, and he's not keen to do it again. Suddenly he's twenty-five, and exhausted after days of marching on Troyes, feet sore and heart sorer, waiting on a battle that never came. He's twenty-eight, and the knife that flashes in the darkness misses his throat only because Herry has ears like a bat and enough blind-foolish loyalty to leap on their attacker's back. He's seventy-three, and lying barely-conscious among the dead that need burying or burning, and he knows that he needs to rouse himself even with the arrow still in his chest, or he'll be burnt or buried with them. He's two-hundred and sixty-four, and they've come to the home he'd made for his family, to drag him from the bed he had shared with his wife some thirty years before, and haul him away as a witch.

He's gripped now by the same fear, and it has him up and moving, one hand fumbling at the bedside table for anything with enough heft to dent a skull before he realises that none of his attackers have ever smelt like peaches.

Beside him, Morpheus shifts just enough to free his face from the clutches of his pillow.

“That key was given to you for use in emergencies, my sibling,” he says, voice thick with sleep and the cotton pillowcase.

Desire stretches luxuriously between them and smiles, fox-sharp, at Morpheus. They roll their head to look at him – beneath the perfume and sweat and wet pavement smell of them, Hob catches a sour waft of alcohol.

“Oh but my dear brother, this is an emergency,” they say, and – look, Hob has been drunk enough to recognise the exquisitely deliberate care at the edges of their words. He huffs a little, pushes himself up so that he can slap a hand on the bedside lamp and blink furiously against the sudden light. It takes a few seconds for his vision to clear, and he rubs his hands over his face in a vain effort to convince himself that this is some new nightmare that Daniel is testing out, before he gives in to the inevitable and turns to examine their guest.

"And what could possibly be so pressing at –" Morpheus snatches Desire's wrist up to stare blearily at their watch "– two thirty-seven in the morning? That could not be expressed in a phone call or wait until a reasonable hour?"

"Do you know, brother mine, how many partners I found to dance with? Whose desire for me, once so integral as to be a given, I had to simply guess at? To read in the curve of a smile or the enticing lull of a question? I didn't know them, not a one, and can you guess, sweet Dream, how many of them took me to their beds?"

And Hob has heard quite enough of that. He stretches and tosses back the sheets, while Morpheus shoots him a filthy glower that softens immediately into a plea for respite with his sole visible eye. Desire either doesn't notice this silent communication, or doesn't care.

“None!” They crow gleefully, clasping their hands, and Morpheus scowls as he's jostled in place.

It's not that Hob wants to leave him to fend for himself against his sibling, only that he doesn’t fancy being in the firing line when Morpheus inevitably snaps and thumps Desire with a pillow.

Doing an admirable job of ignoring Morpheus' wounded expression, Hob groans and lurches himself in the vague direction of the kitchen. Might as well put the kettle on for this.

"Jasmine or apple tea, love?" He calls. No sense having any caffeine now. If they're lucky, Desire will wear themself out quickly and they'll be able to go back to sleep before the alarm goes off.

"Apple, if you would," Morpheus replies.

"Ooh, I'll have jasmine if you're making."

"Didn't ask you!" Hob shouts back, already adding a spoon of sugar to the third mug he'd fetched down for them. 

“Oh, so forceful! You know, if you ever get tired of my stick-in-the-mud brother here…” Desire trails off meaningfully, and Hob snorts, smiling a little to himself. They know full well it's not going to happen, however much or little they remember about his desires, and even if he were – impossibly – to change his mind about Morpheus, they'd get bored of him soon enough. 

He sets all three mugs on a tray, and grabs a pack of chocolate digestives while he's at it. Morpheus would never admit to being fond of them, but he doesn't need to. Hob's watched him absent-mindedly devour most of a packet while he pecks one-handed at the keyboard. Besides, Desire could probably do with something to line their stomach. 

“Is being human always this delightfully contradictory? So baffling and solid and… damp?” Desire asks, lifting their head just enough to peer at Hob as he re-enters the room. It's a moot question, of course. They've been human long enough now to know that the answer is, largely, yes. 

“Often. But do you know, my sibling, the very best part of being human?” Desire turns lazily to look at Morpheus, smiling wide. Their lipstick today is dark purple, and smudged at the corners of their mouth. 

“Mm, do tell. You know how much I crave your… wisdom,” they say, rolling the words indulgently over their tongue. Hob sighs and nudges Morpheus’ book to one side so he can set the tray down on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

“It is that it is no longer against the Old Laws for me to do this,” Morpheus says, planting one foot against their side and shoving hard enough that they topple off the bed with an outraged squawk and undignified thump. There's a blessed moment of stillness, the same kind of breathless anticipation that Hob remembers from the battlefield, before the charge and the mud and the pain. Then they pop back up over the side of the bed with a cry and launch themself at Morpheus. He'd be more worried if he couldn’t hear the laughter in their voice, nor see how their outstretched hands target Morpheus’ ribs and armpits, rather than his eyes.

Hob's sisters have been dead for centuries now, but he remembers this well enough.  Maybe if the Endless had ever been anything like children, they might have gotten all of the murderous posturing out of the way before they grew up enough for it to be a problem, he muses. Still. Better late than never.

He takes a sip of his own tea and grabs a biscuit. Lord knows he won't get a look in once Morpheus has finished trying to jam his elbow into Desire's stomach and realises they're there.

“It was never against the Old Laws for you to be a bastard, which is lucky because you always were one!” Desire gasps, writhing away from Morpheus’ pointy limbs. Hob's been at the receiving end of those elbows before, and even when Morpheus is being gentle, they're decently sharp. He wonders idly if either of them'll tire of this before their tea goes cold, and decides not to intervene either way. Serve them both right if they have to drink cold tea.

“You tried to kill me!”

“Don't tell me you're still hung up on that?”

“I am, because you tried to kill me!”

“Well it's not like it worked!”

Not really the point, Hob reckons, but then again he's had plenty of mates that have tried to kill him. 

“More by good fortune than good judgment,” Morpheus hisses.

“Oh, so you admit to your poor judgment?”

Hob snorts, and the wounded look Morpheus swings towards him would fell a lesser man. Hob takes another biscuit.

“Ha!” Desire takes advantage of his momentary distraction to lock their arms around his shoulders and blow a loud raspberry against his cheek. Hob doesn’t think he's entirely successful in hiding his smile. Morpheus doesn't even try to hide his look of disgust. 

Well, he had to learn the downsides of being an older brother at some point, Hob supposes. 

Judging that the worst of the scrapping is over, he perches on the edge of the bed and pats Morpheus’ flank idly. Desire, loose-limbed with alcohol and triumph, flops over him to reach for their tea. Morpheus magnanimously doesn't jab his fingers into their exposed side.

“Thank you, Robert darling,” Desire says, eyes half-lidded as they drink. It comes out far less coquettish than Hob imagines they intended; too genuinely content. Morpheus sighs, and frowns, and doesn't quite do a good enough job of hiding his own ease as he sits up and leans against Hob. 

“I suppose you intend to stay the night?” Morpheus asks. There's nothing of the dignified dreamlord about him now, with his hair flattened on one side and just a little lank, and pillow creases on his cheek. He peers at Desire, half of his weight still supported by Hob, who takes another slurp of tea and polishes off the last of his biscuit. It's still unbelievable, sometimes, that he may see his dour and distant old stranger like this. Something tangible, something grounded, something he can hold. Unbelievable, too, after the way they had almost parted, after the way Morpheus had almost –

Well. Doesn't bear thinking about, really.

“Mm, yes, if you'll have me.” Do they have to work to make everything they say sound like a double entendre,  Hob wonders, or does it come naturally? He's not entirely sure they even notice they're doing it. 

“You're always welcome,” Hob says. “Guest room's all made up, and there's a spare toothbrush under the sink you can have.”

“How very kind. Dream, dear, isn't your man kind?”

“Unreasonably so.”

“Ta, love,” Hob says, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Desire rolls their eyes theatrically, as though that might mask how their expression softens. “Now drink your tea, I'd like to get a few more hours’ sleep before I need to get up.”

Morpheus grumbles but straightens up, plucking his mug from the nightstand and cradling it in one hand while he reaches for a biscuit with the other. 

“Should we expect any of our other siblings to join us tonight?” He asks, managing somehow not to spray crumbs everywhere as he does so, which is a bit unfair. Hob has centuries more experience talking through mouthfuls of crumbly biscuits, and he still can't do as good a job of it. “I take it you did not venture out alone this night.”

“No I didn't, but don't worry,” Desire says, tilting their head back as they drain their mug, a neat ring of purple left behind on the ceramic. “My sweet twin is unlikely to make an appearance. I certainly hope, at least – she went home with that little exorcist friend of yours. If she comes here, then something’s gone dreadfully wrong.”

They grin, cat with the cream pleased at the expression on Morpheus’ face, and flick their hand in something like a wave. “Well, goodnight brother! Robert.”

They flounce away towards the spare room, and Hob presses his smile into the curve of Morpheus’ shoulder.

“I hate them,” Morpheus grumbles. Hob kisses the bony jut of skin where his t-shirt has slipped, once, twice.

“No you don't,” he says. Morpheus sighs, sets his mug down, and returns to hold Hob's face still for a proper kiss. Not that Hob would try to get out of it. 

“No,” he agrees softly, pulling Hob down with him for a cuddle onto pillows that still smell a little of peaches. “No. I do not.”

[hardly-an-escape]

WIP tag game! @tryan-a-bex tagged me... hrrmmmm.... two days ago? three? thank you!

you didn't specify but I'm assuming this is the last line version, so here's the latest bit I've added to a Dreamling Bingo thing I'm working on!

The laundromat is quiet and warm. They’re entirely alone. There’s a desk in the back where an attendant is supposed to sit, but there’s no attendant in sight. Outside, the sun has just slipped below the horizon and the streetlights are starting to come on; the temperature has dropped enough that the warm, wet air inside is condensing just a bit on the big plate glass windows. “Snacks?” Hob waves toward an ancient Pepsi machine and Dream inclines his head. They buy a couple of packets of crisps and pretzels and an orange soda, which they pass back and forth, leaning against their machine as it hums and swishes. When all that’s left of the pretzels is salty dust, Dream hops up to sit on top of the washing machine and pulls Hob gently toward him by the collar of his shirt. The kiss they share is gentle and languorous. Hob spends a nice long time just nibbling very softly at Dream’s bottom lip until it’s plump and pink, before slowly and carefully getting his tongue inside Dream’s mouth.Dream tastes like orange soda and smells like cheap laundry soap. Hob runs one hand up the long, slim line of his thigh and slips his fingers under Dream’s sweater to get at the smooth skin of his waist and thinks, rather helplessly, Yes. Yes, yes.

tee hee that was a lot more than one line but whatcha gonna do? not cut things down, that's for sure!

not sure who's done this round already but I'll no-pressure tag @valeriianz @beatnikfreakiswriting and @cliophilyra

[seiya-starsniper]

For the gentle prompts! Dreamling, 1. "You're alright." <3

BELOVED I FINALLY FINISHED THIS 💖💖 Hope you enjoy this retired Dream omegaverse sweetness :3

Gentle Prompts Post Here || AO3 Link Here

------------------------ Dream paces obsessively around the tiny bedroom, feeling both claustrophobic and too exposed at once. There is a tension behind his teeth, a feeling that will not abate until his—his—until he is reunited with his beloved. His mate.

When the Fates had come for his life, Hob had stood in their way and called Dream his true mate. As soon as he’d spoken the words, Dream knew them to be true, and he’d stared in wonder, as Hob, his mate, had told the fates they could not have Dream. The Fates had been torn, as killing one’s true mate would kill both partners, and yet Hob Gadling was protected by Death herself, and thus not allowed to die. 

Dream had looked at his sister then, and all she’d given him was a tiny little knowing smile. Somehow, she had known everything, as she knew and Destiny knew all things. 

Dream had wanted to be angry at her, but he couldn’t. Not when she had led him to his mate, all those centuries ago. He had thought that Endless did not have mates, for they did not hold secondary genders the way humans had. And yet, here Hob Gadling was, declaring what everyone except Dream seemed to already know.

The Fates decided instead to take something of equal value to Dream’s life. They took from him his function, his purpose, the very essence of his power as Endless. It had hurt. They reshaped him into something else, something vulnerable and soft, something human. To Dream, the separation from his power had made him feel as though he were dying anyways. His very being had been changed, his soul was no longer what it once was, nor was his mind.

But when he woke up and looked his mate in the eyes, Dream knew everything was going to be okay. Not today, nor the next day, but eventually.  Though he was no longer Dream of the Endless, he was still Dream, and he was not going to spend the rest of his days alone. He had Hob, his oldest friend, his protector, his mate, to help him move through his new life, his new purpose, as a human being.

A knock sounds on the other side of the door, interrupting Dream from his musings of the past.  Dream whips his head so fast towards the source of the noise that he feels his neck pop. That was another new sensation of being human too. Dream had bones now. 

“Dream?” Hob asks, his voice soft and quiet and perfect in Dream’s ears. “I’m done with work now so—”

Dream pulls open the door so hard it crashes into the wall. Hob laughs as he’s forcefully yanked into the room and then pressed to the bed, Dream nuzzling and scenting him the entire time. He wants to drown Hob in his pheromones, wants to bury himself deep inside his beloved’s body, wants to be closer, closer, until he doesn’t know where one of them ends and the other begins. 

“Hey it’s alright, you’re all right, I’m here,” Hob coos, peppering Dream’s face with kisses and nosing along the alpha’s face. He returns the scenting gesture, releasing a calming pheromone that Dream inhales deeply, desperate to fill his lungs with it. He purrs happily with each inhale, and with every exhale, he feels the tension start to dissipate from his body. His muscles relax, and then he is content.

Hob senses the change in him immediately and laughs, clutching Dream even closer.

“So how’s your first rut been going?” Hob asks, and Dream groans in frustration. 

“I do not like this,” he complains, flopping onto Hob’s chest and then rolling over so as not to crush the omega. “Everything is just—so much.” Being human, in general, was a lot, and more unpleasant than good on some days. Especially today at the start of his rut. Dream had always carried the collective unconsciousness within him, he had known what human emotions felt like. And yet, having his own human emotions to contend with was an entirely different thing altogether.

Hob chuckles, and rolls on his side so that he and Dream are face to face, cupping a hand to his lover’s face.

“First one’s always a bit rough, I’m afraid,” Hob says sympathetically. “Though I can only speak for myself as an omega,” he adds. “Gets easier though, I promise.”

Dream sighs, then nuzzles into Hob’ palm. “I suppose it is a small price to pay to be your mate,” he replies.

“That’s the spirit,” Hob says, before he leans in and places a kiss at the tip of Dream’s nose. “I will say you’re one of the most polite alphas in rut I’ve ever met.”

Dream growls, suddenly jealous at the mention of Hob knowing other alphas. It is unreasonable, illogical even, to expect that his mate not be at the very least casual acquaintances with some. Hob has lived for centuries, has loved others besides Dream even. It does not bother Dream to know these things normally. But there is no logic in ruts or heats, and all Dream can think of, in this moment with his hormones running wild, is to claim. 

Hob yelps as Dream pushes him down into the mattress, then grins up at his mate as Dream’s pheromones scream mine mine mine. 

“Well, hello there,” Hob purrs when Dream dips his head down and licks along the mating bite he had given his lover just a month earlier. Hob had gone into heat within days of Dream becoming human and their lovemaking had lasted the entire week. Dream feels the same urge now as he did back then, the urge to be one with his mate. 

“I’ve got you,” Hob croons. “I’m here, whatever you need, love.”

Love.

Such a simple word, and yet it carried so much weight, so much gravitas between the two of them. Hob loved Dream, had always loved Dream. And now, they had the rest of eternity to love one another back.