#dreamling recipes
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physical therapy, part 6.
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Hob's been wavering on things like timeline with Dream because, well, he doesn't want to push, but he does obviously want more. There's a lot that he wants, and he thinks Dream wants it too. But Hob can be patient. Definitely. For sure. He's the epitome of patience.
In any case, after a few more dates which are oh so very patient, and in which Dream seems to be gradually coming more and more out of his shell, Hob finally takes the plunge and texts him:
If you want, come over to my place this weekend and I'll cook for you, and adds his address.
He paces nervously while waiting for a response. Dream coming over... he doesn't know how that would end. Well, it would hopefully at least end in Dream eating a proper meal, but other than that...
It's really not so long before he gets a response, though it feels like an eternity.
Okay, writes Dream, with a smile. 🙂 Should I bring anything?
Just yourself, writes Hob.
A shame, for I was planning to arrive incorporeally.
Hob smiles to himself at the comment. Dream is so much brighter once he decides he’s allowed to be.
On the agreed-upon date, Hob spends a truly excessive amount of time getting ready. He’s not even cooking anything elaborate, as he felt convinced he’d wind up fucking it up out of nerves if he did. But really, the quality of his food isn’t the wild card. What he’s nervous about is Dream’s response to being in his home. To being alone. Whether he’ll be okay with it. He doesn’t want to make Dream nervous.
But Dream arrives on time, and he’s smiling when Hob opens the door. He’s also carrying a huge canvas.
Oh!” Hob says, distracted from even kissing him hello. “What have you got there?”
“It is for you,” Dream says, and turns the canvas around so Hob can see it.
It’s a large painting of a rather clever-looking cat, bright colors and bold swathes of paint. It reminds Hob of Dream’s finger paintings, actually, but far more precise in technique. It’s lovely. It’s so cute. And much more playful than Dream’s older art, the pieces he had shown Hob from before his injury.
“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” he says, and Dream smiles shyly. “I take it your grip’s been feeling steadier, then?”
“Somewhat,” Dream says, following Hob deeper into the flat, as Hob takes the painting and sets it on top of a low bookshelf, propped against the wall. Later he’ll have to hang it up properly. “I am. Enjoying painting again. I think.”
It’s so good to hear. Each time Hob sees Dream he seems incrementally better. Less frozen. More outgoing. And it always makes Hob realize that he’s only gotten to see a fraction of the life that truly exists inside of him.
“I’m so glad to hear that, darling,” he says.
It hurts to think of the version of Dream that might have been there before being hurt. But Hob likes the Dream that he gets to know now.
He leads Dream into the kitchen and bids him to sit down at the table while Hob serves their food, which is staying warm on the stove. Normally, when he invites someone over, he’d offer them wine, but he doesn’t want Dream to get the wrong idea. God, he’s probably massively overthinking things. He’s being totally paranoid, he knows it. But it feels so important that it be right. He’d never forgive himself if he made Dream feel unsafe around him, even if it was by accident.
“I am curious what you’ve prepared to attempt to persuade me to change my habits,” Dream says, after taking a sip of the water Hob’s handed him.
“Something with a lot of butter,” Hob says, and Dream laughs softly. Dream needs it, though. He needs something that’ll stick to his bones.
What he has is tarragon chicken—fried in, truly, an excessive amount of butter—served over rice with string beans. If this can’t encourage Dream to eat real meals, nothing can.
And, gratifyingly, he’s right. Dream devours it, and has seconds. As he eats his own serving more sedately Hob wonders when the last time was that somebody actually cooked for him.
They barely even talk, but Hob doesn’t mind. He just wants Dream to eat.
“You can cook,” Dream says, and Hob laughs.
“Was that in question?”
A light blush graces Dream’s cheeks. “When you first mentioned cooking for me, I had the thought that you were a catch. For that reason among others.”
Hob can’t help himself from smiling—and perhaps blushing a bit, too. “I’ll have to keep it up, and maybe you’ll keep me.”
Dream looks down at his food, but murmurs, “I would like to.”
So Hob takes his hand on the table and squeezes it.
Later in the evening, when they’ve been ensconced on the couch for a while watching mindless telly, Dream’s head on his shoulder, Hob says, “You can stay over if you want. No expectations. Just don’t want you walking home in the dark.”
He’ll walk Dream home if that’s what he really wants, but it’s already midnight and it really might be easier to just stay put.
“Am I allowed to stay over in your bed?” Dream asks, and Hob’s pulse jumps.
“That’s what you want?”
Dream nods.
So, heart still beating hard, Hob says, “Alright. Come on, then.”
And Dream takes his hand as Hob draws him up.
He gets Dream situated with some of his pajamas, which are far too large on him, and with a spare toothbrush and so on, and when they’re finally ready he tries not to be too awkward or nervous as he climbs into bed and gestures Dream to follow, saying, “Come on, love.”
He expects Dream might hesitate, but he doesn’t, just crawls into bed after him and presses himself all up against Hob’s body, laying his head on Hob’s chest. And— God. He’s really decided that he trusts Hob. It puts a lump in Hob’s throat.
He feels like a fucking teenager again, stomach all fluttery just at the feeling of Dream lying against him. In past relationships, Hob had mostly jumped in sex-first, questions-later. But maybe there are more benefits to taking things slow than he thought. It makes every tiny thing feel monumental.
“Comfortable?” he asks, and Dream nods, hair brushing Hob’s chin.
“Yes, thank you.”
Hob pulls the blankets up over them, pets his hair. Dream lets out a long, happy sigh, and snuggles closer.
I’m going to keep you, Hob thinks. “Goodnight, Dream,” he says.
#a nice moment before ANGST#you didn't think we were done with angst did you XD#physical therapy fic#dreamling#my writing#tarragon chicken is a family recipe--thin chicken cutlets breaded and fried in butter with white wine wash and tons of chopped tarragon#i recommend
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Dreamling Lemon Lavender Rosemary Biscuits!
These are SO delicious!
So first @softest-punk wrote a fic called Catching Up, where Hob bakes some lemon lavender rosemary biscuits for the New Inn, and newly-returned Dream greatly enjoys them. It was one of the first maybe dozen Dreamling fics I read, around Christmas time, and really helped to set my new obsession!
Then @carnelianmeluha baked the biscuits!
Then @tj-dragonblade wrote a fic called Love, Rain Down on Me for her Umbrella Boys series, where Hob bakes the same biscuits for Dream while they're apart.
And @carnelianmeluha baked the biscuits again!
And so, I was inspired. I used a slightly different recipe than @carnelianmeluha's because they are a surprise for @ladytian, my bestie and partner in crime, who dragged me into Dreamling with her enthusiasm, and she loves shortbread. The recipe I used didn't have lemon, so I added some lemon zest and lemon juice. More zest next time, I think, because I will definitely be making these again. They're so yummy!
Here's a few more process pics and pics of the finished goods!
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Willy Wonka but Dreamling.
Dream Endless has become a complete recluse in the years following people attempting to steal his candy recipes.
When Dream sends out the silver tickets (because gold isn't really his color) Robyn gets the final ticket.
Hob, Robyn's SINGLE father, accompanies Robyn to the factory. He's very surprised that the recluse candy maker is so HOT.
Meanwhile, Dream is delighted by Robyn, especially compared to the other kids, and his father certainly isn't bad either. They are very much alike, even, for though Hob may be grown, he is still very much a child at heart.
Maybe instead of giving away his factory... he can simply invite them to live with him? Surely, they'll both provide wonderful ideas.
Besides, Dream definitely wants to break some health and safety codes with Hob, everywhere 😉👀
- 🐺
So we did have a Wonka/Charlie and the Chocolate Factory au a little while back BUT since the Glasgow Wonka Experience went viral, I think we just have to do something with that 🤣
Here's Dream, who was hired to play Wonka at this fun immersive experience for kids! Unfortunately, its not going very well. The experience definitely isn't what was advertised, kids are crying, parents are fuming! Poor Dream, it's not his fault - he was just hired to be the entertainment.
Fortunately he finds an ally in single father Hob Gadling, who is extremely amused by the shenanigans. His kid, Robyn, is on the borderlines of being too old for this experience anyway, and he finds it pretty funny too. Hob joins in with Dream’s attempts at storytelling and Robyn laughs at his (awful) jokes, so that the mob of other angry parents calm down a tiny bit and don't come for Dream with their pitchforks. It's still a disaster, though. Dream is pretty sure that he'll never get another job after this - he'll be forever known as the Terrible Wonka Guy.
Hob gives him a friendly pat on the back and hands him a business card. He runs a small family pub and he's been looking for new entertainment for birthday parties and that kind of thing. He'll be happy to give Dream the gig if he wants it. Dream is so grateful, he kisses Hob on the cheek - and of course someone gets a picture. Gay Wonka Experience goes horribly viral, but Dream doesn't care. He's got a potential job, AND a date!
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Continuation of this fic
Who left the stove on?
Rating: G
Word count: 706
Tags: Dreamling, fluff, Orpheus (mentioned), human au
-> Ao3 Link <-
Hob stands in the doorway, grocery bags in hand, surveying the damage to his kitchen.
It looks like a battleground, containers of ingredients all over, a light dusting of flour and cocoa powder covering the counter. Whisks and spoons and mixing bowls are all cluttered in the sink.
Dream is standing in front of him, clad in a grey t-shirt and jeans, a pan of something next to him. He’s fidgeting a little, nervously plucking at the small spill of chocolate chips on the counter, popping one into his mouth whenever he thinks Hob isn't looking.
“What's all this, love?” He sets the bags down, stepping closer.
Dream flushes a little, eyes fluttering. Hob wants to kiss him badly, so he does. Dream sighs into his mouth, arms coming up to wrap around his neck.
Hob looks down at the pan, and stops in his tracks. He thinks they’re supposed to be brownies, but they look a little… sad.
Dream follows his gaze, “I made brownies for you. I don’t know what happened, they didn't rise like yours do.”
“They look amazing, love. Thank you.” Hob grabs the knife next to the pan and slices into it, picking up a piece and taking a bite.
Oh.
It makes a bit of an awful crunch sound as he bites in. They taste a bit burnt, and not very sweet, save for the chocolate chips.
They're not great. You honestly couldn't pay him to eat the rest of these.
But Dream’s eyes look so cautiously hopeful that it tugs at Hob’s heartstrings. So he swallows his bite mostly whole and says, “It tastes great, love!”
He doesn’t sell the act well enough. Dream narrows his eyes at him.
“I knew there was something wrong with them.” He reaches over as if to grab the pan, but Hob stops him.
“They could use some work,” Hob allows, ”but they’re really not that bad.”
Dream narrows his eyes, cutting one out. He takes a bite, eyes widening as the taste hits him. He immediately rushes over to the sink to spit it out.
Hob can't help it, he starts chuckling, covering his mouth to muffle it. Dream, still spitting into the sink, starts laughing too, his horrible, quiet laugh emanating through the kitchen. Dream balls up a dish towel and chucks it at Hob, who laughs harder.
“It's not funny!” Dream scolds.
Hob takes a couple deep sighing breaths, “It kind of is, duck.”
“Why do they taste like that?” Dream surveys the kitchen, spotting the recipe on the counter, walking over and grabbing it. “I followed the directions.”
Hob takes it from him. The paper is lightly dusted with cocoa powder, but not incomprehensibly so. He looks between it and the ingredients laid out, checking them off one by one. Flour? Yes, of course. Vanilla? Check. Salt? Impressively enough, yes.
He gets to ‘sugar’ when he has a horrible revelation. He looks around the kitchen somewhat helplessly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sugar container.
“Dream?”
“Yes?”
“Did you forget sugar, by any chance?”
Dream’s brows furrow. “I added powdered sugar.”
Yes, the recipe says powdered sugar as well as granulated, he'll give him that.
“Did you add the other kind of sugar?” Hob feels like he's going crazy.
“It seemed like a lot.”
It takes everything in Hob not to place his forehead directly onto the counter. This ridiculous man he's proud to call his.
“Is that why they turned out bad?” Dream looks so hopelessly confused, Hob just wants to wrap him up in a blanket.
“Yes, love. The sugar helps it rise and taste, y’know, sweet.”
Dream’s shoulders slump, eyes cast down. Hob grabs the knife and cuts another piece, popping it into his mouth. Dream looks up in surprise.
“Hob, you don't have to–”
“Hush, they're not inedible. You did a good job, darling. C’mere.” Dream moves forward, and Hob takes him into his arms, pressing a kiss onto his temple.
“This weekend, we will make brownies together. Orpheus will love them.”
He can almost physically feel Dream’s mood improve at those words, his body relaxing in his hold.
“Are you sure?” His voice is muffled into Hob’s shoulder.
“Absolutely. I'll make the list.”
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Got tagged by @notallsandmen for a WIP paragraph game, and I’m incredibly flattered, considering ... this doesn’t feel on the level of fic, this is fun little sketches of dialogue at most. But this is what I had, so here’s more of the mortal dreamling silliness (previous bits: modern day mortal dreamling and newlyweds with ravens)
How Hob asked Johanna to be his witness for his wedding:
He texted her asking if she was free that afternoon, because he needed her for something. Historically "something" has meant anything from "taste-testing 3 different scone recipe variations to figure out the best one" to "hustling drunk pricks at darts". Likewise, Hob has done her favors ranging from picking up tampons to providing an alibi. In theory there is a ledger of favors owed, but in reality there will never be a balancing of books (because they're best friends, even if Johanna is too prickly to admit it and Hob is too smart to).
Johanna texted back "yeah, what's up?", and practically broke a land speed record pressing "Call" when she got the response.
Johanna: what the fuck kind of text exchange is confirming I'm around and then sending "getting married today, hello, witness!" and a selfie of you and some goth twink?
Hob: it felt pretty self-explanatory
Johanna: last I'd checked, you weren't even seeing anybody!
Hob: things change?
Johanna: I got dinner with you 5 weeks ago, you bastard, and you were single then.
Hob: ... things change fast?
Johanna: how the fuck did you even meet him?
Hob: I was running back from class during that awful rainstorm last month, and he was just outside my tube station.
Johanna: Hob.
Hob: His umbrella'd broken and he was soaking wet, and he looked absolutely miserable, poor darling.
Johanna: ...
Hob: So I offered him towels and dry clothes, since my flat was just up the road. And by the time the rain stopped I knew I wanted to marry him, and he said yes.
Johanna: what lunatic just follows strange men home?
Hob: he was pretty suspicious until I gave him my phone so he could text my address to his sister.
Johanna: and she was somehow fine with it, like 'yeah, go on'?
Hob:
Hob: he got a bit distracted by my phone background and never actually texted her.
Johanna: the fuck
Hob: you know Julian of Norwich is gorgeous
Johanna: your cat is a lesser demon escaped from hell. I'm going to exorcise your cat someday
Hob: Jules is a sweetheart. She doesn't even hunt birds!
Johanna: That thing won't kill any of the bloody birds in your neighborhood because she's saving all her energy to someday murder me and you know it.
Hob: ... undeserved paranoia about my extremely photogenic cat aside --
Johanna: WELL-deserved!
Hob: --will you be my witness?
Johanna: Left it a bit late, if you're asking me today. Did everybody else say no?
Hob: Didn't ask anybody else. Been planning to ask you since Dream said yes, but I figured if I gave you too much notice you'd flee the country.
Johanna: [tearing up, because even if you're an independent badass, it's nice to hear you're somebody's person] you're fucking right I would.
(Johanna's custom ringtone on Hob's phone is from Sweeney Todd, the final verse in Johanna where you can hear the body drop ("Wake up, Johanna, another bright red day"), because Hob and Johanna are black-hearted bastards/absolutely in cahoots with each other and think it’s funny. Hob's ringtone is Being Alive from Company ("Somebody need me too much..."). Sondheim all the way, motherfuckers)
#dreamling#hob is a medievalist and he would name his cat after an anchoress#i don't make the rules except when i do#johanna: wtf do i even wear to be a witness#hob: idk nothing obviously bloody or stained?#johanna: mm. what are you wearing?#hob: khakis and a button up#johanna: not the high-waisted ones right?#hob: there is nothing wrong with them#johanna: you're going to look like the slutty professor wannabe you are#johanna: and i bet you're going to roll your sleeves up#hob mid-sleeve roll: can't i look nice for my future husband?#johanna: yeah nice. not Mr April from an Academia Gone Wild calendar#hob: ... how am i supposed to take that#johanna: as a suggestion to look like a respectable spousal candidate#hob: we got engaged on less than 24 hours' acquaintance#hob: there is no chance of respectability#johanna: jesus fucking christ#johanna: you're paying for all my drinks at the reception#hob: by reception do you mean at the pub afterwards#johanna: clearly you prick. and it's going to be decent liquor. none of that bottom shelf swill#hob: we are celebrating my marriage afterall#johanna: [groaning] text me the address and don't give me any shit when i show up with a flask#johanna: you absolute bastard#hob: <3#dream is 'sir not appearing in this sketch' because he had to go back to his flat and get his own appropriate clothing#and also provide proof of life and zero mental impairment to death#because she was still hoping it was a joke/she could talk him around to waiting longer
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I remember reading a dreamling fic where the only way Hob could get Dream to eat something was by telling him a story behind the recipe, (like where it originated from or who gave it to him, times he ate it etc)
And I remembered that scene from Way of the Househusband where he's trying to get the wee girl to eat her veg so w Dreamling, it's like:
Hob, an hour into his dinner, 3 costume changes, and so much improvisation it makes the Fates themselves cringe, all so Dream can try a bit of curry.
Dream, whose food has long since went cold: '...I am not hungry anymore."
#idk#way of the house husband#the sandman#dreamling#dream of the endless#hob gadling#ferdinand kingsley#wouldnt the stories make him not want to eat the food?#what if he gets too invested?#forces Hob into making telenovelas about pasta
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[The Sandman] Bound - Prologue
Title: Bound
Word count: 489
Fandom: The Sandman
Pairing: Dreamling, Desunity, Despoe, Hob/Eleanor, Corinthiel, Dream/Past relationships
Rated: T
Warning: NOTHING GRAPHIC BUT Mention of child’s death and adults’ death, mention of suicide, Desire’s schemings.
Summary:
When you’re 10 (for a human) or the equivalent (for not-human), you’re given (during your sleep) a pet, representation of your soulmate. Thing is, both soulmates need to be born for them to appear. Dream of the Endless thought he didn’t have a soulmate, until a puppy appear near to him while meditating. On Earth, at the same moment, it is the year 1356 and Robert ‘Hob’ Gadling is just born. When he’s 10, he got the poshest, biggest black kitten with a very mean streak. Of course, neither Dream nor Hob see themselves in the other’s pet.
Prologue: The (many) evolutions of Destiny of the Endless.
How Destiny changes with each of his siblings’ birth.
When Destiny of the Endless was born, the only thing who had a destiny was the young universe. So, a bunch of Matter (quarks and electrons and, way later, planets and stars). Destiny was, at the time, very much like his father. Cold. Distant. Dutiful. That why the former gave him everything. But Destiny, unlike Time, changed, a first time, with the birth of his sister: Death.
Death came to life when… well, life appeared. Matter just changed form (as Anaxagore and later, Lavoisier, would proclaim) but life… life died. And therefore, Destiny changed for the first time. He wasn’t linked to just a bunch of matter anymore, he was connected to life now. And life, even in the lowest form, has more potential, more self-awareness than Matter. He began to look at things. Little living things. And he saw potential.
The potential of life brought another change: Dream.
Dream was the one who would make him change the most. With dreams came hope and consciousness in a level that made Destiny alert of how disconnected their parents were. As Time and Space’s representation, they were not connected to Life. Just Matter. And if Destiny was the same at the beginning, he wasn’t anymore. He knew now how to imagine and to create. But the headaches…
After Dream came Destruction. Destruction was very friendly and joyous. They all loved him, even if his Realm was quite chaotic. The one who would be Olethros became even more loving and confident after the birth of his younger siblings. Things went faster and faster with Destruction in the picture. Death was busier. More paths opened. More dreams and nightmares were created. And Destiny discovered what patience really mean and the eye’s twitch.
Desire and Despair were a whole new thing. First, they were twins, so twice the headaches in one go. Despair was very cunning and Desire very wanting, so it was a recipe for disaster. But with them, he changed again. He wanted quite desperately for his siblings to be happy. He began to plot. Not quite extensively. He wasn’t Despair. But enough. This was when he learnt he could be a protective bastard when push came to shove.
Delight was the last of his siblings. She had Death’s love for life, Dream’s ability to create, Destruction’s friendliness, Desire’s beauty and Despair’s craftiness. He didn’t know what she got from him and Delight would never tell him that she got Destiny’s fierceness. The fierceness that would make her not submit to her aggressor and, as a result, would make her Delirium. She might not be the same as before. She might forget things. She might not be as joyous as before but the fierceness never left.
And then, something happened. Something wonderful. Something mysterious. Something that even Destiny didn’t see coming.
Companions and Soulmates were created.
He couldn’t wait to have his own. At least someone to share the headaches with.
Monk – Garden
Beta: In progress
For @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang
Masterlist
#KittyNanny Original Post#KittyNanny Original Work#The Sandman#Fanfiction#Title: Bound#Centennial Husbands Big Bang#Centennial Husbands 2023#Destiny of the Endless|Potmos#Dreamling
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Ok ok, I'm a huge dreamling shipper and I just-this story between the two of them can go so manny wayyyssss. For example-
-Dark hob!Idk mafia hob or some shit.Like dream holds himself at this high station and like commands respect and I bet seeing hob like that would give him de tingles~
-Sweet baby hob! (Almost cannon if not), like hob is just this sweet bean who wants the best for everybody and he takes care of his students and anyone else no questions asked
-Now combine the two and you have this sweet little recipe for a explosive feelings fic,dream falls in love with sweet baby hob and then sees dark hob!when a student gets kidnapped or something,and,and it's like a revelation to dream because yes he does want the killer sweet bean man.
Thank you for listining to my ted talk
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Dreamling and 18
18. …as encouragement.
Kiss asks here
"No, I can't give this presentation! I am so unprepared for the conference, Dream." He flops backward into the couch. "Besides, do you really think people will care about some recipe I found from the 14th century?"
Dream grasps his shoulder, encouraging Hob to look in his eyes.
"Hob, you have often impressed upon me the importance of knowing how common people lived. Would not you have this career if it were thought unimportant? Would you have been invited to speak?"
Hob cocks his head. "Well, no, I suppose not. But it's hard for it to feel important when the other presenters are talking about tide-turning battles and royals." He sighs, leaning into Dream. "You're right, you always are. I'm sure I'll feel better about it when I get there."
Dream hums. "Perhaps I might offer some more encouragement?"
He leans in, pressing his lips to Hob's. He nibbles on his lower lip, earning himself a groan out of Hob, who pulls back and grins.
"That's exactly what I needed, love."
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Thoughts about Hobrintheus. A lot of thoughts about Hobrintheus.
With the disclaimer that I'm coming at this from the angle of a welded-on Dreamling shipper but I ALSO think Dreamling + the Corinthian is so, so interesting. I just really like the extra darkness the Corinthian brings into the dynamic; Dream and Hob are just so sweet with each other and I really enjoy looking at how they are with a Nightmare between them, the always-open question of monstrosity is so front and centre.
The Corinthian is a disaster, and paired with any single character that's a recipe for a short-burn, exciting dumpster fire relationship. But. Here's the thing about Hobrintheus. IF you start from a place where each of them have pre-existing one to one relationships with each other, and you bring them together, they re-contextualise each other. They each serve as a new lens to see through. And that's magical; it transforms each individual relationship and lets them all learn each other anew.
Now. I LOVE Hob and the Corinthian together. I think their stories have a lot of parallels, and I just really enjoy the way you can play up some of Hob's implied feralness with the Corinthian to bounce off. And that the Corinthian can become redeemable, if his needs are met in a way that isn't murder. I can't see it as endgame, though, because Dream is just too important to each of them, emotionally. Existentially, even. What makes the setup work is if Hob and the Corinthian met while Dream was imprisoned. I don't even think it matters exactly what their relationship IS, as long as they come to a place of respect for one reason or another. They tried to kill each other and it didn't take, and they backed away slowly. They tried to kill each other and they both had fun with someone to take out their violence on. They fucked, or they didn't. Hob clocked that the Corinthian is bad news, backed him down and kicked him out, and the Corinthian was impressed. They're friends now, because Hob's Power of Accepting the Eldritch with a Smile has won the Corinthian over. They're fuck buddies. They've never fucked but the Corinthian drops by regularly to chat. Hob has figured out how to manage the Corinthian through domming him gently into submission and praising him. The Corinthian sooths Hob's abandonment issues because he'll answer questions and there's nothing that could make him voluntarily leave now he's in this. They think each other are mortal. Hob has seen the Corinthian with his glasses off and the Corinthian knows Hob can't die. They're aware they both know Dream. They have no idea that the guy who fucked each of them up is the same dude. It can happen in so many different ways, but so long as the Corinthian is seeing Hob as a real person, and Hob is seeing the Corinthian as someone redeemable, we're good to go.
...that is, so long as Hob doesn't know that the Corinthian is any threat to Dream, because if he finds that out at any point before Dream gets out, I think this ship is dead in the water. Hob's loyalty to Dream is stronger than anything else that could possible arise at this point in his life.
Now, Dream and the Corinthian. For reasons that are partly my ongoing questions about the extent to which dreamcreatures are part of Dream himself, and partly my feeling that Dream needs a partner who can make consequences stick for him, I don't see them working as anything other than maybe, occasionally, fucked up fuckbuddies. Their story is about hunger, overwhelming, killing WANT that destroys as it consumes. The Corinthian hungers to please Dream, and Dream still thinks the Corinthian is magnificent, apparently even after his betrayal. But they can't communicate, they're not able to find any solid ground between them. (That is almost entirely on Dream, as usual.) The Corinthian is always on the edge of destruction, and how can there be a relationship of equals with the threat of unmaking on the table?
But if you give them a buffer. If you give them Hob.
Dream, watching Hob manage the Corinthian, whether it be lovingly, dommily, violently, as friends, or however else, sees Hob in a new light. The Hob Dream knows is so, so carefully curated. Dream's Hob is a painstakingly crafted thesis, one Hob works on for a hundred years, trimming and polishing and gathering new sources just to add that one extra angle he thinks will be a strong argument, and then presents for approval. He leaves so much out. Dream never reads the footnotes. Up until 2022, Dream only knows the Hob whose star revolves around him. Of course, this depends a bit on how much Dream has interacted with or observed Hob in the Dreaming over the years. He may know Hob a little better, but even then, Dream's Hob is still, ultimately, deeply reverent, deeply devoted to him. A friend, but a friend who exists primarily in his relationship to Dream.
The Hob Dream sees interacting with the Corinthian is a new man. One who's sure and strong and solid, maybe accepting, maybe loving, maybe violent, maybe with his sexuality central to those interactions. He's someone who exists entirely separately from Dream, a man living on his own terms. A man who has met and overcome his strongest, best Nightmare, one way or another. Who has accepted a monster and might also then accept Dream's own monstrosity. Who has done what Dream has not been able to do: bring the Corinthian willingly to heel. Has, therefore, spared Dream the grief of unmaking his favourite nightmare. Through the Corinthian, Dream can meet a Hob he admires not only for his potential - all that love for life, for what comes next - but for his actuality, for the way he has stepped into Dream's own world and held his own. A Hob who can love (or fight, or discipline, whatever the flavor) the Corinthian, who can make some boundaries stick for a headstrong, proud nightmare... that might be someone who could be a partner to Dream.
Hob, watching Dream with the Corinthian, gains more of an understanding of who Dream is, who he has been and what that means. Hob can no longer project his own assumptions onto Dream, which he's had no choice but to do so far in their relationship, because the Corinthian pushes Dream to react, over and over. To show Hob his real face, power and nightmare and wonder, not his own careful presentation that Hob in turn has seen over the years. Hob can see Dream as he is to his own realm. How he has stood alone, a monarch with a kingdom made to obey him. The loneliness of it, and the stifling, straightjacketed weight of Dream's function and role, how hard it must to be a person inside of that. How cruel it can make him, how rigid and unyielding, and yet how deeply he feels. How much the darkness in him needs to be celebrated and seen, just as his kindness does. Hob can understand, perhaps without it even being spoken, why Dream might not have wanted to share his name all those years. To be himself is to be a King, and perhaps to put that down for a night is a balm. Dream is exhausted, has been for thousands of years. He's beset by his pride, and in desperate need of someone to take care of him. Hob knows he can handle the Corinthian, so perhaps it will work on Dream as well. Perhaps Dream will be less likely to run, with two of them to bracket him.
Through Hob, the Corinthian gets to see a Dream who will bend, who would break around this human. Who will put aside his pride and distance and allow himself to be loved. Who can be so soft and loving and express his needs. Who is not a being entirely made up of his function. The Dream who loves Hob is devoted, interested, enthralled, swept up in Hob's excitement about life. He is something approaching happy.
And Hob would never allow Dream to unmake the Corinthian in anger, Hob will instead teach Dream more effective ways of handling the Corinthian and giving him what he needs to stay within his purview ie, don't be a murdering lunatic, just regular dream-murder okay?
They're both good for Dream. They're both sassy bastards who don't take Dream's shit, with the exception of both having abandonment issues with him, and I think those are soothed for Hob by the Corinthian, and for the Corinthian by Hob. If Dream storms off they'll have each other until they go and get him back. It feels better. It feels safer.
Aaaaand they have the most filthy sex okay, and that's what I want to justify. The Corinthian getting dommed and praise-kinked into submission, Hob getting all the eldritch monsterfucking AND all the sweet loving earthshaking dream-broadcasting sex he could want, and Dream being loved and fucked into some kind of emotional security and equilibrium. And god help anyone who tries to fuck with one of them now.
#hobrintheus#dream x hob x corinthian#hob gadling#the sandman#the corinthian#dream of the endless#meta#nsft#long post#cher your words
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Gonna attempt this. Have posted my drabbles onto AO3 and the server, but let’s see if I can do tumblr too. 🤔 Day 1 of Smapril, with dreamling!! They’re all gonna be dreamling though, for me gfhgjjgjg
[AO3]
Day 1 - Tentacles
Everything is the usual, Dream kissing him so deeply it’s like he wants to be inside, white hands twined in his hair―
Then, a particular feeling, slick and wet and hot and he gasps, looking down to see a multitude of tentacles in the place of where Dream’s legs normally are, and he whines, feeling the tentacles wind up his legs, and there’s rounds of pressure, suckers sticking onto his skin.
After that, it gets all hazy, orgasm somehow staying there for ages as some of the tentacles go inside, pressing against his prostate unerringly, and at this point he could’ve come a million times, or it’s only the one orgasm, dragged out, but he can’t say, only scream, arching into Dream.
Eventually, the tentacles leave, and Hob’s scrambled mind calms, looking down to find his entire lower half covered with round red marks, and he shivers at the possibility of the same marks inside. “Dream?” He rasps, the entity’s hands stroking his arms.
“I did not mean to, I apologise if―”
“‘S okay,” he mumbles, holding Dream close, pale legs intertwining with his now that they’re there. “Was fine. Just need to. Process. Sleep,” he yawns, putting his face on pale collarbones, and Dream relaxes into his hold.
“You―you did not mind? Truly?” Dream asks, sounding awed.
“Nope. I’d recip―“ the word doesn’t want to get out but he gestures, “but that was a lot.”
“I will join you, in the Dreaming then,” Dream says quietly, and Hob moans happily. How lucky he is to have a partner who can visit his dreams.
#dc#the sandman#dreamling#dreamling smapril#dreamling fanfic#dream x hob#hob x morpheus#hob x dream#writing#not sfw
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2, 4 and 16 for the writers ask!
2. Go to your AO3 “Works” page, to the sidebar with all the filters, and click the drop-down arrow for “Additional Tags.” What are your top 3-5 most used tags? Do you think they accurately represent your writing habits?
Fluff
Mutual Pining
Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Sexual Tension
Angst
this is all very accurate lmao though im also not the most consistent in tagging, my favorite thing to write is and has always been AUs (especially in the modern setting). canon? we don't know her. we are scared of her. we will never write a serious fic in canon :')
4. What detail in [insert fic] are you really proud of?
i think you were supposed to choose a fic for me! lol but ahhh maybe not proud of but i like to sneak some real life tidbits into my fics (like, Dream's guitar in BitB is modeled after my first bass. he was a beautiful, sparkly thing, exactly as i described in the fic.)
and in scratch a little itch, the tiramisu that Dream makes is my own recipe. and yes, i burned the caramel my first try as well. (shout out to @carnelianmeluha for attempting to make it with very little guidance! im so very eager to see your results!)
16. What’s an AU you would love to read (or have read and loved)?
specifically for dreamling: SPY AU. ESPIONAGE. SPY-VS-SPY. i want enemies to lovers. i want rivalry. i want drama and fist fights and fucking and secret trysts-- NNG! violence and sneaking around, near-death where feelings finally come out. a grand climax that's oscar worthy, action movie shit. gimmie gimmie gimmie. (and of course if one does exist, please link me!)
bothering @aeon-of-neon to find that ask i sent a millennium ago where i asked for exactly this and they provided such cool headcanons but i cant find the post!
fic writer asks
#yaa thanks for the asks!#good lord going back into my fic catalogue...#i tend to write a spy au for every fandom im in#its only a matter of time before i attempt it for dreamling#beholdme#ask game
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Romantic Snippet Tag
I can't remember the last time I wrote something genuinely romantic, so @j-1173 you're getting an old snippet I've thrown together from somewhere and we're just going to see if it still stands the test of time.
If you happen to be a dreamling fan, this snippet is for you. Hob learning Dream's favorite things was one of my favorite things from the fandom experience~
An open tag to: @voxofthevoid, @words-after-midnight, @coffeeandcalligraphy, and any other writer who happens to stumble upon this.
---
Hob will learn his favorite drink is not a BenRiach, Lolita, Grey Goose, MonyMusk, Rothschild, or anything that claims it’s older than his father. But he will taste them, one by one, ordering the same one Hob is drinking. It’ll have permission to stain his mouth before his tongue could wet a question.
About The White Horse, how’s it keeping; demonstrations every Thursday, what performance is on the docket to paint a corner of Central London with all the colors of Britannia and the mythos of Albion; the latest argument that the Angles — That the Ængle, he’ll amend, to see him smile from across the table in a faraway glint of light that could replicate the flickering candles of a distant ‘89, and to catch the softest little breath Hob had been chasing for a while as he leans in, fills the table with the weight of him on a sleeve, and catch the barest hint of stars Dream will carry within his iris — were neither lost or “in the dark” as literature would suggest it.
They’re not the fools that contemporary would mistaken for just a puddle. They were a proud, and curious, and grains-of-the-toil sort of people who made do with what they had when the world had forgotten them.
That, and Hob is livid and someone stranger than Dream had known, but in such a way it made him listen and want to hear him above the crowd who knew little and next to nothing about the ages that could cut him down, to say these people were the worst lot — and were as backwards as they came — spoke moreso on those who believe it than the people they couldn’t name. And Hob meant it: he’s living proof of what some would argue isn’t history, only to shut up and be reminded that what’s in literature is made in spoils. That after a long time, between the joking and pretending that the books were right, in some way this would fill a chapter he couldn’t finish in that life. In some way it became the closure he’d been carrying for all this time.
About the rye bread he used to eat: his mother’s famous recipe and how neither him nor any of his siblings met Satan on any slice. The ale and mead he used to fashion near the rye yard and the chickens: sure he was plastered from the age of six and sought the world for its taste, but neither he nor his family met Pestilence in the summer months. And the socks, new shirts, stuffing in his boots that he used to wear every winter when he sheared the wool with his father: these were things that were built to last, yet this was somehow not in fashion when he looks at the socks, new shirts, and the shoes he’d buy for winter and find a something he had to patch for or else his closet would be half a burial. And remember all the faces and the names he had in bone, a tapestry of inanity breathing life into a grave.
Dream will ask him about the paper, if it’s a letter for the past as it’s a letter to the present from a once-illiterate man. And will say a copy does exist if one searches in The Dreaming, but he’ll rather read it when Hob is finished. Inside The New Inn, a pint to drink, and hear the telltale of the other’s heart when he waits for him to pass the papers. And Hob will measure he’s had a finger and maybe two-thirds of another while spreading thighs and looking, at just about anything other than Dream, and nursing down a porter that his friend will order for his nerves while his own’s a decoration to give the lecturer something to look at.
But it’ll taste good, and be creamy, and like Christmas in September after an hour of devoted reading. And about as warm as the papers are. Because anything that could wait a while will see a smile from behind his cup. Be it minutes, an hour, a year, a lifetime. And Hob’s a patient leaning man when he’ll ask him how he liked it.
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For new followers, and potential new followers
Things you will probably find on this blog, in at least some capacity:
Cherik
X-Men
Inception
Arthur/Eames
Narumitsu
Hannigram
Steddie
Dreamling
Thorki
Stony
Thanzag
Hades game
PlayChoices aka Choices: Stories You Play
Occasionally, games that are similar to Choices but far worse in overall quality
Plenty of fanart reblogs
Recipes/food porn
LGBTQ+ topics (especially genderfluid/non-binary, asexuality, and pansexual/panromantic stuff, because it me)
“Comedy”
Painful Puns that I will never apologize for
Sex positivity
A dash of various other fandoms that pop up in my radar every now and then
The occasional political discourse post
Random things that I saw and liked
RPF, rarely (main culprit is McFassy) but always appropriately tagged
Personal stuff
My writing, semi-rarely
Copious amounts of tags in roughly 50% of all posts. What can I say? I’m a wordy bitch and I refuse to change.
Things I try to avoid:
Call out posts (specific ones anyway - I’ll vague post as the day is long, lol)
Rehashed fan discourse (like who tops vs who bottoms - girl, who cares?)
Negativity in general
Things you will not find:
Kinkshaming
Body shaming
Slut shaming
Shame of literally any kind
Seriously do not attempt to shame me for anything I enjoy - you are wasting time that could’ve been spent improving your own life.
I’ll add to this post if I think of other important things…
Also, very important note: everything is always tagged, so if you’ve got any of the aforementioned things (ships especially) in your blacklist, you shouldn’t need to worry.
If any of that appeals to you enough to follow, or stay following - Heyo! Welcome! Glad you’re here! If not, well then. Sorry to see you go, but I appreciate you stopping by ❤️
#introductions#hi there#just your friendly neighborhood Roosterbox here#this blog has no theme#other than life is too short for shame#so let people enjoy things#❤️#I’ve been in fandoms since I was 12 years old#i have seen it all and then some#lol
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The Dawn of Redeeming Grace (chapter 1)
(Hello Dreamling shippers, I come with an offering)
(Continuation of the Dreamling present time meeting)
next chapter
You can also read it here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/43003029/chapters/108048981
Chapter 1:
It was but another day on Earth, in the year of our Lord 2022. A human being was seated on a chair, relaxing after a long day teaching young minds at a university nearby. He was sipping on a beverage whose recipe had rippled across centuries, shifting through time but staying the same at its core, much like he himself had. As per his habit, stacks of homework crowded his table, and he was going through them at a rapid rate, red pencil scratching and underlying and crossing and leaving snarky comments in the margins.
He read, tapping the rhythm of an old, forgotten tune on the table: “Shakespeare was a man who knew how to use words to describe things well,” and snorted. Circling the sentence, he wrote: “a most eloquent description. Worthy of the man himself.” On another, with writing so dreadful it almost made his eyes bleed, he took the time to note: “Honest work, maybe do it with your glasses on next time, I know you think, I quote, that they “give you the look of a deceased ferret,” but one; however creative, it is not a fair analogy, give yourself more credit. Two; if you don’t start wearing them I’ll be the one in need of glasses soon, and three; seriously, it pains me to have to remove credit for this.”
Going through a peculiarly obscure work in which the student had obviously used Wikipedia blindly, he was frowning in disappointment when he suddenly felt eyes on him. He raised his own at the man in front of him, and it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing, and react accordingly.
Bloody hell, FINALLY, was the one resounding thought in his mind, blanking out any others. The blue eyes, the pouty lips, the modern look still dark and broody. His stranger, after all this time, here, now. An overwhelming joy grows steadily in his chest and the following words cross his lips, a playful, barely heated thing, like his eternal companion had just made him wait a few minutes at most:
“You’re late.”
This smile of his. He had never smiled this way before. Free, unbidden, genuine. A thing of ethereal beauty. Hob couldn't believe his eyes, the sight too good to be true.
“I apologise. I’ve always heard it is quite impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.”
He couldn't believe his ears either, turns out. If he had been less in control of his emotions, he would have been reduced to a sobbing mess right now.
His nameless stranger… No, his nameless friend sits across the table from him, and Hob is still trying to process the overwhelming relief and warmth he is flooded with as the mysterious man stands back in his chair, his posture relaxed, a warmth in his eyes that pushes him to once again question the reality of it all. It is not a dream, however, he can tell—this is too marvellously tangible and precise and it makes him feel as giddy as a child. In the golden hue of the light, his divine features glow, a relished, chiselled perfection. He had tried so often along the years to keep them from escaping memory through recollection, the occasional attempt at drawing and painting. Any such attempt feels foolish now. It was nothing like what he sees there, his imagination and memory paling significantly in face of the real thing. His friend seems… less pale, more human, in a way, in this century, in this light, with this fond expression warming his features… Hob can’t help but chuckle in disbelief, slightly shaking his head.
Oh, this moment is delicious, he absent-mindedly comments in his heart, tentatively leaning forward on the table, and resting his chin in his palm like a lovestruck fool.
In all his years, there have been a few moments of pure joy which he kept close to his heart, to hold on to in the grieviest hours. He can now add this moment to the list.
“I am glad you could make it this time, my friend.”, he says, beaming so wildly he feels his vision blurring with happy tears.
He should feel silly, and he does, to be letting himself feel so strongly after the deep hurt his friend's rebuke had imparted to him, but one hundred and thirty years is a long time to hold a grudge, and he is now more relieved, unquantifiably so, to see him than anything else. Yes. Maybe he will not have to face eternity as alone as he had thought he would be. Maybe they could share the tiniest bit of forever together, still.
“I hope you find this place to be a worthy replacement from our usual hang, I am afraid it got closed a little bit after, well, 1989…”
His mystical stranger’s expression dims slightly, and a melancholic cloud looms over his beautiful face. Hob’s smile dims in kind, a weed of worry crawling inside his chest, instinct whispering of hurt and doom. A group of young people enters the inn and he pays them no mind, their boisterous laughter does nothing to fill the silence between them. A few seconds pass before his friend carefully says in this low, velvety tone Hob has so dearly missed listening to:
“Believe that I would have made it to our appointment, had I not been…”
He stops there, at a loss for words, with a faraway look, and Hob furrows his eyebrows in concern. Definitely, a lot had changed since last they met, and clearly, there was something wrong about this whole thing. In a flash, his friend’s words make him recall the warning he’d heeded in the eighteenth century ‘You can still be hurt, or captured’.
“Something happened,” he guesses tentatively, afraid of setting the ire he knows him capable of since their last meeting.
Slowly, his friend nods. He does not look him in the eyes. Hob feels a heaviness grow and sit on his chest, weighing him down, turning his body to lead. He fears to know the truth of it, he fears to push too far. However, most importantly, he wishes nothing but to tend and care and this instinct wins out, for he manages to ask softly:
“Are you alright, my friend?”
“Dream. You can call me Dream.”
And that was… not the answer he expected. His immortal heart misses a bit. He stares in confusion. His friend has the gall to look amused, and after a beat in which he seems to delight in Hob’s dumbstruck expression, he adds mercifully:
“I go by many names. Some know me as Morpheus… My most truthful name would be Dream of the Endless.”
Morpheus… Like the Greek god of sleep? Was he talking to a god?... Dream. Dream… Dream, Dream, Dream. His excitement at finally knowing his friend’s name grows and surges in his chest with the overwhelming strength of a tsunami. Hob doesn’t have a clue what it all means, truly, but he nods, a puzzled, delighted expression probably showing on his face, torn between the sheer joy of finally having a name other than stranger, and now friend, for the one being who has been a constant in his immortal life, and the thorough concern he is feeling at the thought of… Dream coming to harm. Because this is all that it was, wasn’t it? An attempt at deflecting his question? And why else would he escape it so?
“Dream,” he tries, and it sounds so much like an endearment, and maybe it is, in his mouth. He watches the rapt attention his friend gives him at the call of his name, the sparkle in his blue eyes, uncanny, like the light isn’t reflected but instead is coming from within. It is terribly bare, vulnerable, to be but a human under this unfathomable gaze, he thinks. He feels holy reverence from centuries past trying to bring him down to his knees in a posture of worship. He isn’t sure this would fare very well with his friend, nor would it fare very well with who Hob’s grown to be. He settles back in his seat, breathes in, out, and continues:
“Dream… Thank you.”
His friend smiles at him, a small thing which warms his heart and brings him back to his original concern. He must know for sure, cannot take a cowardly path out of heavier topics. At least, not until he’s been well and truly rebuked. He has to make sure Dream knows he can speak to him. This is what friends are for. This is what Hob is for.
“Do you wish to talk of… what it is that kept you away?”
“No.”
Dream answers too quickly, his voice harsher and louder, removed from its usual whispery quality, but then instantly recoils, and seems ashamed of his outburst, looking down at the table, hands clenched together in a tight grip, an all too human gesture Hob has never seen in him before. He feels a lump in his throat at the sight. His centennial companion has this faraway, haunted look he has seen on many others before, especially during and after the horrors of the world wars. Something bad happened to his friend, this he knows to be true, and a part of him screams in anger and despair. He doesn’t show it though, and simply leans in very slowly, very gently, and places his hand on the table not too far from the pale hands, not daring to touch them but trying to convey a sense of comfort with their proximity anyway. Dream finally seems to notice, for his eyes focus back on him, and the lingering redness and shine slightly dissolves from his eyes.
“Not yet,” he says with more softness, and adds in a murmur, glancing towards the window, the afternoon light and the chirping birds: “Later, perhaps.”
An instant passes, contemplative, and then, his face relaxes again as he, in turn, leans forward and crowds the space separating them, saying with a small, damning smirk:
“I am here to hear about you, Hob Gadling. How did these last one hundred and thirty years treat you, my friend?”
Hob is feeling all sorts of things at the way Dream says his name, and calls him his friend, and looks at him with those starry eyes of his, of which he sees every individual eyelashes with their new found closeness, and the delight of it so pure and strong he feels dizzy with it.
With the aplomb only one with such a long life experience could muster in such a feet sweeping situation, he takes a shaky breath and asks the waiter over to bring them drinks.If his friend, Dream, wants to get his mind off things, he shall indulge him and regale him with tales. He draws nearer as he answers conspiratorially, with a sure smile and a bit of mischief glinting in his eyes:
“Well, my friend, be ready for the story of the century —and yes, this was an easy play on words, and really not good at all, but his friend’s mouth curls up every so slightly and he feels like he’s standing at the top of the world.
He goes through it all. The wonders, the horrors, the enterprising spirit of mankind in both its benevolent and malevolent endeavours, navigating a stormy sea filled with wonders and despair. Through it all, he speaks grandly, animated with gestures, silly anecdotes, a few wriggle of eyebrows and, at one time, a wink, which earns him a god to honest chuckle, and he decides here and there that he must find a way to make his friend laugh again, for this is the sweetest sound he has ever had the chance to hear. His friend interjects a few times, asking for clarifications or musing some mystical truth from his retailing, and Hob delights in his attention, in his viewpoint on the stories he tells. A few times, he even makes a few cynical comments, only the twinkle in his eyes revealing his jest, and Hob responds with a boisterous laughter, absolutely stricken by his friend’s strange, certainly dark and entirely damning sense of humour.
After what seems to have been minutes pass, which actually might have been hours as it is now dark and the influx of people coming to eat dinner spikes up, his great retelling is now reduced to a more mellow tone. He is sitting back with a fond smile, as he breaches the topic of his new job, and that of his students, how some of those young minds are a marvel to him, in how they allow themselves to be more freely with each generation, and how he learns more of the world and himself everyday through the lens of their bolstering youth. He stops, catching a depth of fondness in Dream’s eyes that simply steals away his words, and they simply look at each other for a time, simply relishing each other’s presence. It is a peaceful and content affair, so comfortable and pure, and Hob feels like his rightful place in the world can be found in this moment, like something just clicked into place, like a void he had forgotten was there has suddenly been filled to the brim with complete satisfaction, and— A glass falls to the ground, shatters, and Dream jumps on his chair, eyes wild.
“Dream!” comes his surprised gasp.
In reflex, he brought his hand on his friend’s forearm. The latter freezes, incredibly tensed, staring at the offending appenage with an unreadable expression, and quickly Hob takes it back, and circles the rim of his glass instead, to occupy his hand and pacify himself.
“... Are you… are you alright, my friend?”
This question again, he realises after it has crossed his lips. They have come full circle, it would seem. A long silence. He clenches his fingers nervously around his drink. He finds himself almost wishing for his friend not to answer, to go back to these joyful moments shared, to remain in blissful ignorance, or better, for his friend to admit that, yes, he had simply been brooding and trying to make his point clear, back then in 1989, and his absence was very much of his own fault, thank you very much. All quarrels pass in time, however, and he was just passing by and thought “What is becoming of this old cogger?” and simply went, which, ah, Hob can forgive, easily, selfishly, because in this anxious moment, he would have taken any reality other than the one in which the cruel truth takes form, inescapable, cemented in spoken words.
“... I was locked away in a cage for a hundred years,”
Dream admits with a voice so incredibly soft it breaks Hob’s heart in a million pieces. It is like angel tears, both beautiful and unfathomably sad, it is like a beautifully welded knife, searing through his flesh. Images of prisons in wartime flood his mind. He suddenly notices how much thinner his friend appears behind this coat of his, how emaciated his cheeks, how sunken his eyes, and at that, his blood slowly starts to boil.
“There was neither air nor sustenance in my captivity.”
Hob sees the memories choking his friend, pulling him under, and he reaches out on instinct, taking both of his hands in his, to try and anchor him. The blue eyes snap at him, and Hob starts pulling away again when his friend takes them back, keeping them both pinned on the table, jealously guarded by his own. As if to procure an explanation for this desperate hold, he adds, almost sheepish, with eyes filled with unshed tears:
“No kind company.”
His hands are soft, and cold, their press is strong and unyielding, and Hob fears the moment Dream will let go. Words do not come easily. Not when tears well up in his eyes, mirroring his friend’s. He wishes with all that he is to wipe away his pain, to hold him and protect him against the world. “You need not have come to my defence.” And yet…
“I'm sorry, my friend… had I known-”
“No. I would not have endangered you so.” Hob opens his mouth in protest but he’s quickly cut by the mellifluous yet intransigeant voice of his friend;
“One of my subjects, my faithful raven Jessamy…she tried to free me. She perished for her loyalty. I would not have you meet a similar fate. You may have survived, but you can sti-”
“Still be hurt, or captured.”
A shadow of a smile, a sad, small thing, as he nods in recognition. It is this inopportune moment Jen, the waitress, choses to interrupt, coming up to their table with an apologetic smile.
“Hey Robbie, sorry to interrupt your date-”
He tries to interject and reestablish the truth of the matter, which, in his head, would be something akin to “ah, I wish it were one, but it is not”, and stutters:
“Uh it’s, it’s not-”
His rebuke is rather weak and she plainly ignores him as she keeps saying her piece:
“-but are you guys going to order something? There are a lot of people here tonight, and I don’t want to have to turn down any customers.”
Dream retrieves his hands- and Hob feels terribly bereft-, then looks around him like he’s noticing for the first time how packed the place has become, and from the sour turn of his lips and increasing tension in his shoulders, Hob wagers he doesn’t like the chaotic, rambunctious crowd very much.
“It’s quite alright, Jen, we —do you want to come upstairs?”, he asks his friend, adding with a knowing smile “There’ll be less noise.”
A beat in consideration, then he answers with too much solemnity and intensity for such a casual offer:
“I shall follow where you lead.”
He turns his head to Jen in an attempt to avoid the intense look in his friend’s eyes, and sees as Jen slack jawed snaps out of her surprise and raises her eyebrows suggestively at him. Hob considers an instant the possibility of once again trying to dispel her assumptions. He ends up shrugging mentally. He’ll see about that later. The rumour mill will run crazily in the meantime, he knows, but, frankly, a part of him is preening at the idea people would think them a couple. A man can dream. Hopefully, his friend isn’t privy to those peculiar dreams. … As the, what, probable god of dreams, he very well might? Now that’s a distracting, life threatening thought if there ever was one, ha. He picks up his stack of half graded homeworks (he hasn’t made much of a dent in them, he knows he’ll come to suffer from it when he’ll have to sacrifice his sleep and his peace to get them done in time, but he can’t be bothered at all right now, his happiness full and impervious to regret). As he closes the locks of his briefcase Dream comments, watching him intently like he is resolving a puzzle:
“You know the staff quite well.” Ah, there it goes. He cannot quite escape this much longer, he guesses. Especially now Dream has agreed on his offer to come upstairs. Where he might have assumed the rest of the inn lies, but where his apartment lies also.
“Well, I do own this place, so, it comes with its perks.”
He shrugs like it is no big deal, avoiding his friend’s eyes, and stands, coming at Dream’s sides to guide him through the crowd by the small of his back (not quite touching, simply gesturing). He brings them upstairs, feeling the heavy stares of his employees (and a few regulars). Rumour mill shall run, indeed. A silly anticipation rises in his gut, a buzz singing in his blood. He feels a little lightheaded. He rarely lets people come up to his apartment, but the sense memory of it mixes with his current circumstance anyway, and makes for a very combustible cocktail. He fumbles for his keys. It takes more time than usual to find the right one from the set.
“You live here.”
Dream's voice, much too close for peace of mind, vibrates through his body and leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
“Well sussed.”, he laughs without looking back, feeling how his friend crowds his personal space, and not daring to verify the fact, else his heart explodes in his chest. Hob breathes out. Opens his door. Bends in a silly and outdated courteous gesture:
“Welcome to my humble abode, my friend.”
#dreamling#fanfiction#the sandman#the sandman fanfic#morpheus x hob#hob gadling#morpheus#dream of the endless
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Sooo. Here's my first Dreamling fic. (It's a translation bc I wroted first in spanish, thanks to DianOfTheCity_County for his help).
Murphy's jealousy has get him trouble... for the last time?
A Different Approach
By: Haru.
Going to the faculty party had ended up not being a good idea. Usually, he would not had even consider it, but being Hob’s plus one was, indeed, a tempting idea. To imagine himself and Hob being out overtly as a couple for the first time—not having to pretend that theirs was merely an academic dalliance—made him feel effervescent. He had been fantasizing with the possibility for two weeks before the date, to the point of forgetting about the endless reasons there were against it.
His social phobia—which only got worse if he had been at least two glasses into drinking—the capability of saying just the wrong phrase at the worst possible moment, together with his incapability to cover his jealousy was a recipe for disaster.
Hob did not say a word during the trip back to the apartment. That made his mood even worse than it already was. It had been a recurring theme of their arguments since they have entered their relationship. This time around, though, Hob seemed to have changed the strategy in favour of giving him the cold shoulder, instead of confronting him verbally.
He was pissed, his social battery utterly spent, he only wished to get home, put his favourite pyjamas on go straight to bed.
Murphy didn’t consider himself the chronic jealous type but getting into a jealous fit had already caused some problems between him and Hob. Sometimes, he thought that perhaps the academic would be better off with someone who didn’t have such emotional baggage, which more often than not came into confrontation with their day to day.
o0o0o0o0o
Once they were home Hob immediately turned around and pressed him against the back of the door. Murphy didn’t even had time to take his Doc Martens out. He could see a determined expression on Hob’s face, an expression he was quite well acquainted with. Still not saying a single word, the other used his entire body to trap him against the door.
For a moment of panic, he thought that perhaps the moment he had been fearing all this time was about to take place. The jealous fit had been the last strand, Hob’s infinite patience had finally run dry.
He closed his eyes and his eyes already burning with unshed tears. He didn’t want Hob to see him like this. Great, he thought, his mother was right when she said that he was nothing but a wary child incapable of becoming a functional adult.
Hob’s strong hands on his hips snapped him out of his reverie. His eyes widened; Hob was on his knees before him. He gave him a wink and a small smile as he undid his belt and slid his zipper down.
Alright then, perhaps if it was not going to be a break up, it was just only going to be a rigorous punishment. He breathed unevenly, with resignation, there was an entire night ahead carrying the lock, it was not an encouraging picture but the alternative was much worse.
“Dream, duck, look at me” It was the first thing Hob had said for about an hour, strangely enough his tone of voice did not denote any hint of annoyance.
He obeyed, it wasn’t the right time to test the waters even less so with his jeans down to his knees and his member out in the cold.
He opened his mouth to apologise but Hob talked over him before he could get anything out.
“Given that the approach I employed last time did nothing to placate the green eyed monster today I’m up to try something else, something…different”
Murphy discretely pinched his own arm, incredulous. It seemed an absurd, impossible dream. Hob didn’t look upset, on the contrary, he seemed amused with the present situation.
“Love, I know what happens inside that bird's nest of yours every time someone flirts with me, no matter how many times I repeat the reasons why I chose you as my lover, your insecurities always take over. I am going to give you something to think about the next time conditioned thoughts overwhelm you.”
Murphy's breath quickened, anticipation replacing fear. Was Hob really hinting at what he believed? Perhaps his brain was not working properly from the amount of blood that had suddenly flowed into his member, but that conclusion was inevitable given the teasing way Hob's thumbs caressed his crotch.
Hob took one of his hands and guided it to his nape, in an eloquent gesture. He loved those little gestures with which his partner gave him control. Murphy ran his fingers through the strands of his hair with delight, combing it through a few times before giving it a firm tug.
“If this is what I'm going to get every time I make a jealous scene... I don't think I have any incentive to punish myself” He mumbled, swallowing hard, making an effort so that his voice didn't sound shaky.
Without removing the bravado smile from his lips, Hob gave him a lick from the base to the tip, which finished awakening his cock.
“I want you to engrave this image on your mind. Remember me on my knees, worshipping you. Every time you may doubt that I am yours and you are mine, you will remember this moment. When you see me talking to someone else you will remember what is waiting for you once we get home”
Overwhelmed by the sensations, Murphy felt the need to lean his head against the door and close his eyes, but Hob's orders were peremptory and he always followed them to the letter.
When his partner finished the admonition, he went to his task with relish. Without breaking eye contact. One hand on his hips, the other under his shirt, slowly ascending to his sternum. Hob winked at him again, which was the only warning he got before receiving a gentle pinch on his left nipple.
Murphy wouldn't last long; Hob knew how to keep him on edge and stimulate him for hours without making him come; in the same way he could take him to the limit in a few minutes if he wanted and this seemed to be the goal this night.
A couple of strong sucks on the head of his cock as well as Hob’s tongue playing in his slit was all it took to bring him close to climax.
“Hob, please!” Murphy complained, already trembling. A firm hand clutched his base, preventing him from coming. Wasn’t this also a punishment? Wondered Murphy.
With some difficulty but without letting go of the captive prey in his hand, his partner got up and kissed him intensely on the lips while finishing it off with an energetic movement of his hand.
Overwhelmed by the sensations, Murphy clung to Hob's shoulders with both arms, risking his legs giving out at any moment. Any thoughts about the bad time spent at the college party were relegated to the back of his mind.
~0~0~0~
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