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cuubism · 2 months

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i went to physical therapy for my stupid broken arm so as is my legal obligation i HAD to make ship content about it. everything is ship content that's how it is

cw injury, referenced abusive relationships

Hob's had plenty of clients come to physical therapy who clearly don't want to be there. Plenty of others who are reasonably frustrated by the work and time involved in regaining functioning after an injury. But this is the first time he's just had someone be... quiet. Resigned.

Dream sits with his hand cradled to his chest, barely speaking, only answering when Hob asks a direct question. He's reluctant to give Hob his hand when Hob asks if he can look at it, like he thinks Hob's grip is a bear trap that will snap down and crush the bones like whatever had done so the first time. Hob still doesn't know what that was. All he knows is the bones have been realigned and healed over but the dexterity in his hand still isn't right. That was what Dream had said, in the first spark of passion Hob had heard from him. It's not right.

But he does eventually give his hand over. His bones are so fine and delicate, and each movement hesitant. Cautious. Hob tests the flexibility. The strength. Dream is right, it's not where it should be. He still doesn't know what happened.

"I won't make you tell me if you really don't want to," Hob says gently. "But it is important to know how it happened to make sure we rehab it the right way. Did you get it caught in something? I've seen guys come in with machine injuries like that."

Nothing about Dream suggests "person who works with heavy machinery." But who knows. Hob will try not to stereotype.

"No," Dream says quietly, looking down and away from his hand like he can't bear to see it. "I. I am an artist. My ex... he felt that I cared more about my art than about him. Perhaps I did. And he was... frustrated. I suppose."

Hob can put the rest of the pieces together in his mind. "Jesus," he breathes, and Dream flinches.

"I have an unfortunate ability to involve myself with such people," he says.

"No, it's not your fault," Hob says automatically.

Dream narrows his eyes. "You presume to know that?"

Hob raises his hands in surrender. "Never mind. I won't pry." He's not Dream's therapist. His job is to help him with his hand, not... whatever else is going on in his life.

He takes Dream's hand carefully between both of his own again. Presses down lightly on his knuckles. "So. Crushed. Like that?"

Dream nods. Hob still doesn't know all the details, but he's imagining a boot going down hard on the top of Dream's hand. The thought is sickening.

"Can you fix it?" Dream asks, like he doesn't dare to hope.

"Well, you already had it repaired surgically, yeah?" Hob says. This strikes him as a bit of good luck--hand fractures are not simple--but he doesn't want to undercut Dream's confidence even further by saying so. He's usually pretty good at reading his clients, and he's already sensing that Dream is holding onto his determination to be here at all by the barest thread. Best to build him up as much as possible. "So it's just a matter of strengthening the muscles again."

He's fairly confident he can get him back to a usual level of functioning with it. The question is whether he can return him to the specific level of dexterity he needs for his art. He doesn't say that. Not yet.

Finally, he gets the tiniest of smiles out of Dream. He's really lovely when he smiles.

(He's pretty when he doesn't smile, too. Hob would have to be blind not to notice it.)

"So," Hob says. "Let's look at the current range of motion, yeah?"

Dream tilts his head. "Did you not already do so?"

"For regular motion, yeah. But I want to see where it's impacting your drawing."

Dream draws his hand back, looking uncertain.

"Come on." Hob hands him a pen and paper. "Show me. I promise I know nothing about art. If it's not up to your usual standards, I'm not going to be able to tell."

Finally, Dream takes the pen, and starts sketching.

Hob watches, noting the way his hand trembles, his uneven grip on the pen. Notes how quickly he gets demoralized when it doesn't turn out the way he wants. Hob can make out what he's written and drawn, but it's clear from Dream's expression that it's far from how it's supposed to be.

"This is just a starting point," Hob reminds him. He has a feeling he's going to be doing a lot of those sorts of reminders with Dream; he does not seem to find optimism easy.

Then again, if someone who supposedly loved him had hurt him like that, Hob would probably find optimism a bit difficult, too.

Finally, Dream drops the pen, clearly frustrated. "I have tried to paint at home, too. It has not turned out any better. You should throw those away." He gestures to the sketches. "They are terrible."

"Nah, I'm gonna keep them," Hob says, and puts them in his folder. "For comparison later." It could also partially be because he finds Dream's drawings of cats, imperfect as they are, charming. Sue him.

"As you insist," Dream says.

Hob gives him documentation on some other exercises he can do at home. Tries to think through what might make him feel better with his art. It feels, somehow, so important to make him feel better.

"At home, go easy on trying to use a pen, or paintbrush or whatever, it's hard on your hand," he finally says. "But you probably want to get back to your art, so-- okay, don't make fun of me if this is stupid."

Dream just raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Maybe Hob should try to learn more about art before he gives advice. Nevertheless, he forges on. "Holding a pen is tough, but if you wanted to like, finger paint or something? That would probably be fine. Might be good for flexibility, even."

"Finger paint," Dream repeats, enunciating each word.

"I told you not to make fun of me if it was stupid."

Dream smiles, just a small thing, like he finds Hob ridiculous but in a charming way. Good enough, Hob figures.

"Very well," Dream says at last. "I will take your advice."

Dream simply walking out had felt like a distinct possibility, so Hob will take this as a win.

"Hey," he says later, catching Dream for a moment as he's checking him out. "It's going to get better, yeah? Trust me. Don't worry too hard, just give it time."

He really shouldn't make promises like that. But he can't seem to help it, with Dream.

Dream considers, then says. "I do trust you."

Hob finds that it means a lot. Now he's just going to have to earn it.

#i really am writing the most random indulgent shit this week XD #you know this was a missed opportunity to do 'forbidden romance between a physical therapist and a ballerina' like that ridiculous romance #novel that was going around XD #anyway don't take physical therapy advice from this #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing #cw abuse #long post #perhaps i'll write more after my next appointment XD #physical therapy fic

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teejaystumbles · 6 months

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Dream is the new addition to the goddess Calliope's collection of husbands - she has got over a dozen. Who needs that many husbands, right? But the city states and rulers of every realm just keep sending her more for her favour so she just puts them in a huge garden and house and mostly leaves them to their own devices. Her husbands are creatures of all kinds, fae and centaur, nymph and harpy, but only one of them Dream finds chained in the back of the garden, where it's the most sunny. He can't see it because it hides in a dark alcove and won't come out. The others tell him that this one can't speak their language because it was brought from a far away land over the sea, but Dream's gift is that he can speak with everything, be it animal or human. No matter the language, he can understand it. A gift from the gods, presumably, and a reason why he was chosen by his people to become the goddess' husband. He carefully makes introductions and tries to coax the strange creature out of it's hiding spot, without success. Only when Calliope comes to choose one of them to entertain her for the evening and she calls out "Hob", the creature stirs and reluctantly leaves its alcove when she pulls on its golden chains. Dream is immediately fascinated with the naga, golden scales glinting in the light and a diadem like the sun sitting on the man's dark-haired head. He looks unhappy despite the goddess being clearly very enamored with him and Dream decides that he'll find out more about this "Hob."

I hope I got most of the stuff we came up with in the server, i tried to remember but maybe I missed some of the ideas. Calliope isn't evil, but she can't let her "presents" go or there'll be trouble so she's in a bit of a pickle I suppose. There's room for a redemption arc if someone wants to write this. For the Monsterfucktober Bingo square "naga", the Sandtober prompt "celestial" and DN House of Horrors prompt "chains".

#dreamling #the sandman fanart #hob gadling #dream of the endless #naga!Hob #sandtober2023 #monsterfucktoberbingo #dnhouseofhorrors #teejaystumbles

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ralkana · 3 months

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Fluffbruary, Day 6

February 6: tie | embarrassment | dessert

Dream of the Endless / Hob Gadling

Rated G

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It's the middle of the afternoon when his stranger shows up at the New Inn, a smile on his face, naming Hob friend. Apologizing for his absence.

"Welcome," Hob says, shoving his marking into his satchel. "Let me get you a glass of wine."

His stranger sits silently as he asks Katie for another pint and orders a glass of Malbec.

"The good one," he clarifies, and she grins.

"Got it, Robbie," she says, with a curious glance at his companion, and then they're alone again.

His friend is still watching him, that smile on his face, and Hob can't help but take a moment simply to look. He thinks about asking why they didn't meet in 1989, why he was left adrift and alone, but it doesn't matter. Not really. He's here now.

"What were you working on when I arrived?" his friend asks, his gaze shifting briefly to Hob's satchel before anchoring firmly on Hob's face once more.

"Marking," he says, and his friend's brow furrows. "Checking my students' work," he adds. "I'm a professor now! Me, can you imagine?"

And then he's off, the familiar rhythm of their past meetings suddenly returning. He talks for so long that his voice falters. There is so much to tell his friend about. X-rays and the space race, vinyl records and the internet. With a word to Katie, he switches from beer to water, and keeps going.

His friend is no more talkative about himself than usual, but he seems more engaged, less... dour. He asks questions, and is more expressive than Hob has ever seen him. Hob even thinks he tried the wine Hob chose for him, though the nearly full glass now sits on the table between them.

He is in the middle of explaining the miracle of organ transplants when his stomach growls, loud enough to be heard from across the table even in the busy pub, and he breaks off in embarrassment.

"Pardon me," he says with a laugh.

"I have kept you from your evening meal," his friend says, shifting in his seat, and Hob lunges, half-desperate, as it looks like he might rise. His friend stills, eyes widening a fraction.

"No, no! It's fine!" Hob says, lowering his hand from its aborted grasp. Please don't leave! He takes a moment to breathe, to calm himself.

"We have shared a meal before," he reasons, though of course, his friend has never eaten. He has remained while Hob has eaten, though, and that's what he's hoping for now. "We could do so again. If you'd like."

His friend nods his agreement, so quickly that Hob thinks he might not be the only one unready for the evening to end.

He orders a steak and ale pie, and when Katie asks his friend for his order and he declines, Hob asks for two forks. His friend raises an eyebrow at that, and Hob simply grins. One day, he'll find something that tempts his friend - his need to feed those he cares about is strong. Stronger still because his friend looks like he's missed a fair few meals recently.

If he even eats. Perhaps he lives on words. Heaven knows Hob has given him plenty of those.

His meal arrives, and he breaks the crust of the steaming pie, smiling as he inhales the aroma of the thick gravy that wafts out.

He has eaten a few bites in between his words when his friend shifts in his chair, reaching for the fork in front of him.

Hob watches, fascinated, as he scoops up a small bite of beef, a morsel of crust, and a tiny bit of gravy. Those petal pink lips part as he tastes it, head tilted like a bird's as he considers it.

"It is pleasingly savory," he pronounces as he sets the fork down again, and Hob grins.

"That it is, friend," he says in agreement, applying himself to his meal and his tale.

"Dessert then, Robbie?" Katie asks a few minutes later, as she brings him another glass of water and sees the remains of his meal.

Hob debates for approximately three seconds. "Yeah, go on then."

Katie laughs as she picks up his plate. "The usual?"

"Please, and two forks."

There's so much more to tell his friend about - there always is - but Hob feels mostly talked out. This is by far the longest his friend has ever lingered, and he can't ignore the ache of the knowledge that soon, their meeting must end.

Unwilling to prematurely give into the melancholy that always arrives after these evenings, Hob pushes it away and says, "The kitchen here is fantastic. In some ways, pub food is the same as it's always been, but some things are so different now..."

He's in the middle of explaining gastropubs and fusion cuisine when Katie approaches their table once more, and he breaks off.

"Ah, thanks, love," he says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as she sets down their dessert. "Butterscotch bread pudding with vanilla bean ice cream and housemade whiskey caramel sauce. It's absolutely the best thing on the menu. It's won awards."

Lifting the shot glass of caramel, he upends it, drizzling it over the pudding sizzling in its little cast iron pot. The ice cream is melting slowly into the top of the pudding, and the smell is divine.

Hob digs in and pops a bite in his mouth. It's too hot, burning his tongue, and it's absolutely worth it.

His friend picks up his fork and digs out a tiny bite to try, and Hob watches his eyes widen, his pleasure clear on his face in a way that has Hob shift in his seat. He's beautiful.

"Good, innit?"

He says nothing, but his fork dips again, lifts a larger bite this time.

Sweet tooth, then, Hob thinks. Got it.

He goes in for another bite as well, picking the thread of his words back up.

He's talking about the rise of the celebrity chef a few moments later, reaching for another bite, when his fork scrapes against iron, and he blinks and looks down. The little pot is empty, only a few drops of caramel sauce and a few smears of melted ice cream remaining. Hob has had maybe three bites.

He looks up, astonished. His friend looks back serenely, but there are spots of color, high on his pale cheeks. He sets his fork down.

Hob could not stop the smile breaking over his face for all the money in the world. His friend's lips twitch, the corner tucking into a tiny smile, and Hob notices there is the smallest drop of caramel sauce at the corner of his friend's mouth.

Hob entertains a very brief fantasy of leaning across the table and licking it off, tasting the sweetness of the caramel and his friend's perfect skin.

Clearing his throat and shoving the thought away, he sets his own fork down. They are not unfamiliar, these little moments of want that flash within him, whenever they share an evening. They are what sustain him in the long decades between their meetings.

His friend's gaze is sharp on his face, but those spots of color remain.

"I apologize for consuming your dessert."

"Our dessert, friend. Two forks, remember? I'm just glad you enjoyed it. Would you like another?"

His friend looks away, out the window long since gone dark.

"The hour grows late," he says, and Hob tries not to flinch. "And I have. Difficult work ahead of me. But. Perhaps we might meet again soon. To share this dish. Or perhaps another."

Hob's breath catches, his heart pounding. I will take you to every bakery and dessert shop in London, he thinks. England! The world!

"I would like that very much, my friend," he says.

"Dream," he says as he stands, looking down at Hob with the same smile he had when he first came in. "You may call me Dream."

"Good night, Dream, my friend," Hob says, trying not to choke on the emotion that swamps him. "I hope to see you soon."

"You shall, Hob Gadling. Good night, my friend."

Between one blink and the next, he's gone.

END

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Thanks to @fluffbruary for the prompt, and to the Morrison in Atwater Village for the best damn bread pudding I've had in my life.

#dreamling #centennial husbands #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #fluffbruary #fluffbruary 2024 #my fic #tumblr fic #fic challenges #my immortal sunshine boy #my sad wet king of cats

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gabessquishytum · 2 months

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Dream is ambivalent about A/B/O genders. He's seen enough shit in the universe in billion years, current human civilization doesn't even come close to his definition of 'strange.' Still, he tried on various genders like clothes (he feels most comfortable being an omega), and even hoped in secret that Calliope would be amenable to mating when they got married. He breached the subject very tentatively, found out she was not delighted by the prospect of being tied to an Endless at all, and they never touched upon it again. Their marriage crashed and burned soon anyway, so it must have been for the best. After their reunion with Hob post-fishbowl, Dream decides to take him up on his offer to meet more frequently and drops by. The timing is unfortunate (or fortunate, depends on the point of view!) as his human alpha friend turns out to be in the middle of his rut. And maybe Dream is not versed in human communication and rites, but even he understands that it's better to leave and return next week. Which he is about to do before Hob very enthusiastically jumps his bones. Dream is extremely confused and tries to talk Hob out of this endeavor - he believes Hob is not interested in him like THAT, but Hob is as single-minded as only an alpha in a rut can be and showers Dream with all the words of passion and praise his fevered brain can come with. When he drops the l-word, Dream melts and gives in. They spend Hob's rut together, and Dream is on cloud nine: he feels cherished, desired, and, above all, LOVED. So when Hob suddenly bites him, Dream is not opposed at all. Alright, it'd have been better etiquette if they had discussed it beforehand, but Dream currently is more occupied being happy because 1) his love is requited; 2) Hob wants him as his mate! The problem is, Hob'd have never dared to jump his Stranger like that, let alone do anything to him. He hoped that if he's lucky, maybe he can try to court him…in 500 years or so. To him, all that occurred was just a feverish rut dream. So when Hob comes to his senses once his rut is over, he finds a very fucked out Dream looking at him with heart eyes in his bed, sees a fresh mating bite on his neck…and panics. Dream immediately comes to the conclusion that Hob already regrets their mating and dissolves into sand, retreating to the Dreaming before he starts crying in the presence of this human - his mate - that humiliated him so. Chaos ensues!

Oh dear. These idiots! They're both as bad as each other, really.

Hob is just horrified that he'd done that to his stranger - to Dream! It's totally taboo to bite someone without even talking about it, and they certainly didn't do that. Hob doesn't even know if Dream wanted it! Wait - what if he started crying and disappeared because he didn't want it!? Hob ends up running to the bathroom and throwing up at the mere idea. How could he do such a heinous thing to the man he loves?!

Meanwhile Dream is flooding the dreaming with his tears (yes, literally) because he thinks that his mate regrets everything and probably hates him. How can he face Hob ever again? He'll have to, because they're mated... if Dream goes into heat, he'll need Hob. Being without him simply won't be an option.

Desire, Despair and Death are all sitting in the threshold and collectively groaning because the idiots are idioting. And Matthew has had enough of trying not to drown in the dreaming, so he makes an executive raven decision and heads to the waking world.

He immediately confronts Hob (who is still panick stricken and white as a sheet) about why he rejected the boss?? And Hob just gapes at him like "rejected??? i thought i assaulted him!!!" Matthew face-palms. Face-wings. Whatever. He tells Hob to go the fuck to sleep and fix things.

Easier said than done. But Hob eventually gets to the dreaming, swims through the tears, and finds his poor miserable mate curled up on his throne. Dream doesn't look up at all until Hob nuzzles his mating bite. The flood recedes a little bit. And Hob tries to explain as tenderly as he can, why he freaked out when he woke up.

Dream falls even more in love with him, honestly.

And three weeks later, they spend Dream’s first heat with a mate together in Hob’s bed. It's everything he's ever wanted. And Dream gets to bite Hob, giving his alpha a perfect mating bite to match his own.

And yes, Matthew gets so many raven treats as a reward for his service to his King.

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw omegaverse

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zzoomacroom · 8 days

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Retired amnesia Dream + coma Hob for WIP ask game please 🥺🥺🥺

Thank you for the ask! @linzod asked about this one too, and I'm super excited about it! I only have it outlined so far, but I'm hoping to write it once I'm done with the mpreg fic.

So Murphy is just some guy, as far as he knows. He's an artist, and he's kind of a shut-in with no friends and no life to speak of. He starts having really vivid dreams that, unbeknownst to him, are showing him memories of his past life. He also keeps having these recurring dreams where he meets with this guy named Hob who seems really familiar and keeps telling Murphy that he's real, he's been looking for him, he's trapped in the Dreaming and he needs Murphy to find him in the waking world. Murphy doesn't believe any of it, thinks his unconscious mind made the whole thing up, and he's like, "great, I'm so lonely that my sleeping mind made me an imaginary friend." But then he keeps finding clues suggesting that Hob is telling the truth. He goes to the White Horse and, even though it's abandoned and boarded up, he recognizes it from his dreams. He also maybe finds mentions of Hob in historical texts, the drawing of them from the 1789 meeting, etc. So now he understands that it's all true, and he has to find Hob and hopefully regain his memories in the process.

Now I'm going to put what's happening from Hob's perspective under the cut, because it's a plot twist that would be revealed later in the story.

So how did they end up in this situation? Well, after the Wake, Hob became more unhinged than ever and couldn't accept that Dream was dead. So he planned to do a whole "Dream of a Thousand Cats" style thing and have a thousand people dream that Morpheus is alive again. But in order to organize and orchestrate this whole plan, Hob puts himself into a magically induced coma so he can stay in the Dreaming and make sure the plan works. But once it does, he finds himself stuck there. The mysterious and sketchy person he hired to put him into this coma has disappeared, and now he's trapped with no way to wake up. Morpheus keeps finding him when he dreams, so Hob is overjoyed about that but heartbroken that Morpheus doesn't remember him and doesn't believe any of his dreams are real. Eventually, Morpheus finds Hob in the waking world, wakes him up, gets his memories back, and they live happily ever after.

I don't want to give too much away, but I will say that this fic will also feature Death, Delirium, Daniel, Lucienne, Matthew, Johanna Constantine and Mad Hettie.

Hopefully I'll actually be able to get it written before too long 😭

#ask game #wip title game #the sandman #dreamling #dreamling fic #sort of #retired dream

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wordsinhaled · 1 year

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more domestic vacation 'verse because it's apparently all i can think about now

It has been... good, being here. Quieter. Easier. The clamor of billions of visitors to the Dreaming is muffled, in Hob's flat. The things that dream here are calm things. Thriving things. Old and cherished things.

Loved things.

Here, Morpheus too has felt like something that could perhaps be loved.

In the mornings, after Hob has left for work, Morpheus draws himself soundlessly up from the bed and pads on bare feet to the record rack that stands overfull with vinyls in the corner of Hob's living room. He touches each record there carefully, the faint visions of musicians and composers flitting ephemeral beneath his fingertips. He selects his musical accompaniment for the day by intuition alone.

This morning, he finds a little yellow note stuck to Hob's copy of The Cure's Disintegration:

"You'll like this one. Promise. —H"

Morpheus listens to it five times through in its entirety with a cathartic sort of anguish. Afterwards he perches on the couch wrapped up in the blanket Hob has slept beneath each night these two weeks. The cedar and vanilla notes in Hob's soap still linger in the fabric, like traces of an embrace Hob Gadling has never given him.

He has especially enjoyed sitting on the floor by the window in the warmest patch of sun, holding court with Hob's houseplants. A marble queen pothos hangs there, suspended near the ceiling, its cascading vines of happy heart-shaped leaves long enough to trail down around Morpheus' shoulders. A row of succulents and a purplish-red bromeliad in a brightly enameled pot live lined up on the sill.

Morpheus gathers them all in his awareness, greets their leaves gently with the backs of his knuckles, speaks to them the way he speaks to all growing things. They whisper their daydreams to him in return, telling him tales of jungle and desert, and of the loving voice that sings songs to them each time they are watered.

Morpheus wonders what Hob Gadling sings, what he hums under his breath.

I would be sung to thus, he thinks. But would you sing to me, my friend?

He sits for long hours in the companionable silence. Lulled by the rhythm of verdant stories, he relishes the sun-warmth banking in the soft black cotton of his shirt, and feels some unnamed tension deep within himself begin to unravel.

Morpheus had not expected this from his stay with Hob. This comfort. This easiness between them.

How it has sunk into him and become something he could, in some version of the universe, come to require.

So, when on the eve of his fourteenth day Hob says, "I don't want you to go," Morpheus is surprised to find that the wistful note Hob cannot quite keep out of his voice finds a sympathetic echo in his own thoughts.

"I—" Morpheus begins.

It is rare that he does not find the ending of a sentence already laid out for him. Yet what is its proper conclusion? I also do not wish to go away from you is futile. An impossibility. He has a kingdom. A realm. A responsibility.

"You feel it too," Hob says. "Don't you?"

Morpheus does not need to breathe in the waking world. He does not need a heartbeat. These are paltry mortal necessities; mortal vulnerabilities. And yet he knows, suddenly, the kick of the heart against the ribs and the catch of a gasp in the lungs of his recalcitrant body. It pinions him to the moment.

"Hob," he manages to say. For a brief second, he is unmade and remade again by the hope in Hob Gadling's face.

"Dream. My dearest friend. I've been wrong before." Hob's eyes are wide and earnest. His voice is honey-soft and strong. He is wiser than Morpheus can aspire to be. "If I'm wrong about this, tell me, please."

"You were not wrong before," Morpheus says. "And you are not wrong now."

#the sandman #dreamling #THEY NEED TO KISS THEY NEED TO KISS #AND THEN HOB'S BED BECOMES 'THEIR' BED LIKE HOB DREAMED OK OK OK #i'm normal asdlkfhgl #one word from you will silence me forever etc. etc.#i know this 'verse is fluff ok they just gotta...... get it together #THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I LISTEN TO 'THE SAME DEEP WATER AS YOU' WHILE WRITING fuck #dreamling domestic vacation

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cuubism · 4 months

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bookstore cryptid dream part 11 -- the kidnapping installment

“Whatever happened to that poetry book?” Hob asks one day, sitting with Dream in the living room. He’s not sure why it comes to him.

Dream looks up from his book on the history of chocolate, tilting his head in question.

“The cursed one,” Hob elaborates.

“Ah.” Dream closes his book, looking very serious now. “I locked it away, somewhere safe, suitable for books such as that.”

“Didn’t destroy it?”

“Releasing such magic can sometimes have… unintended consequences.” He shakes his head, as if remembering prior such instances. “Best to simply contain it.”

“How many books like that are out there?” Hob asks curiously. Every day, he learns some new thing about the world from Dream. And how dangerous some books can, apparently, be.

“There are a selection. They are rare. For most books, their power lies in the words themselves. No need for occult spells.”

“Huh.” Hob supposes that makes sense. “But you don’t lock those ones away?”

Dream shakes his head. “No. They can be dangerous, though.”

Hob is still wildly curious about these actually magic books. Not that he’d particularly enjoyed getting cursed, but still, he wonders if any such thing will ever cross his path again. He supposes he should hope not.

It is fascinating, though.

Dream is missing.

It isn’t like last time, when The Library itself had been gone. That had freaked Hob the fuck out at the time, but now, he knows what it meant — that Dream had felt The Library itself was under threat, and had locked it for safekeeping.

Now, The Library is still there. The door creaks open, unlocked, as Hob pushes on it, letting him into the tiny foyer and first winding halls of stacks. The selection changes periodically — today’s categories include HOPE & ITS DISCONTENTS, “Libraries” (rather meta, Hob thinks), Books of Emptiness (Hob takes one off the shelf out of curiosity and finds it, indeed, empty), and S P E L L S, most of which seem to be dictionaries, actually? Strange. But then, that is The Library.

This is the third day of Hob coming back to The Library in the hopes of finding Dream, and having those hopes dashed. Hope and its discontents, indeed.

Everything is in its place. But Dream is nowhere to be found. He hasn’t been coming home. His books are still on the nightstand, his cardigan forgotten on a chair in the cafe. His study is the same, too, cluttered with notes and journals, abandoned cups of coffee on desks and side tables.

It hurts Hob’s heart to look at, even more than finding The Library gone. The place feels empty without Dream there. As soon as Hob steps in the front door, he can tell Dream hasn’t returned, simply for how grey everything feels.

He hopes nothing’s happened, that Dream was just called away on some urgent errand in the middle of the day, when Hob was busy, and it’s taking him longer than expected to resolve it. Dream is criminally bad at using his phone, to the extent that Hob sometimes isn’t convinced he owns one, and might just have forgotten texting is something he can do. They’ll have to have a talk about that, because he’s giving Hob a heart attack, but still it’s the best case scenario.

But it’s the worst case scenario that’s swirling in Hob’s head.

Dream has disgruntled customers at times. He’d gotten into a fistfight with one, back when they’d first met. What if someone took their ire even further? Hell, what if the owner of that cursed poetry book came back for it?

Hob sighs, slumping into Dream’s desk chair. Even if something terrible has happened, he hasn’t the first clue how to go about finding Dream. He’s kept an eye out, while exploring The Library, for any indication of what could have happened, but to no avail. He’s well and truly starting to panic. The Library has doors everywhere. Dream could be anywhere.

His eyes land on Dream’s journals, still laid open on the desk. Normally Hob doesn’t pry into Dream’s notes. But these are dire circumstances. Hob’s going to lose it if he doesn’t do something.

He picks up the top notebook and reads the entry it’s open to:

— MG thought destroyed ack. lost 1916? JC report OAM magic picked up Sussex summoning what??

Hob groans. “Dream, could your notes be any more fucking unintelligible?” Apparently, his mind works too fast to write in full words, instead of just shorthand.

He flips through a few more pages of notes, skimming them, but not getting much. Then a few pages in, he finds a letter tucked into the journal. In someone else’s handwriting, it reads:

Dream—

You never use your goddamn fucking phone so here’s a note. You know I wouldn’t have to be so obscure if we could just use encrypted texts? Fucking luddite. Anyway. I found the damn thing. R.B. + Co. Pretty sure we’d know if they succeeded in using it so we still have time. I think I have a way in. If I retrieve can you neutralize it? AND FUCKING CALL ME WE’RE SHORT ON TIME!

—JC

In case you forgot how phones work: 020 9281 5555

Well, that’s something. The same JC from the notes? What exactly are the two of them trying to neutralize?

Hob has no idea. But at least he has a clue now.

Hob paces back and forth in his living room as he calls the number for “JC”, absolutely no idea who he’s going to get on the other end. But hopefully, they might know what’s happened to Dream.

“Hello?” A gruff woman’s voice answers the line.

“Hi, I’m looking for…” he doesn’t actually know her name. “…J?”

“What?”

“Look, I’m looking for Dream,” Hob says in a rush. Might as well lay it all out. “I’m his boyfriend. He’s been missing for three days.” Maybe “missing” is overstating it. But maybe it’s understating it. “I found your phone number in his notes and wanted to know if you’d seen him.”

“Likely story, pal,” she says with a scoff. “Dream keeps his boyfriend out of all the occult shit. And good thing, too. I wish I could keep myself out of it. What do you really want with him?”

It’s sort of gratifying that other people in Dream’s circle are also protective of his secrets, even if it’s frustrating in the moment. But, ‘keeps him out of the occult shit’? Exactly how much ‘occult shit’ is Dream dealing with on a regular basis?

“Exactly what I said,” Hob says. “He doesn’t usually disappear like this. His notes said you two were looking for something? Something dangerous?” Did Dream go after it? Is that what happened?

“MOTHERFUCKER!” she screams, and Hob pulls the phone from his ear with a wince. “I am going to KILL HIM!”

“Don’t hang up!” Hob yells before she can do just that. “Will you come meet me? I’ll give you my own address, if it helps. You know where The Library is?”

“The Library’s got multiple doors, mate,” she says, sounding marginally calmer now.

Right. Fuck. He gives her the actual street name this time, and she says—

“Be there in a mo’. Your idiot boyfriend’s got himself in a right mess I expect. Because he’s a fucking idiot.”

Just as Hob feared, then. “Tell me about it when you get here,” he says, and then, when she’s hung up, goes to gather Dream’s journals.

A smart, tough-looking woman greets him at the door to the cafe, which Hob’s closed for the time being, an hour or so later. “Johanna Constantine,” she says, sticking out a hand, which Hob shakes. “So you really are the boyfriend. Huh. Hob, right?”

“Yeah.” Hob isn’t sure whether to be touched or alarmed that Dream talks about him with his random occult acquaintances.

“He has a photo of you two on his phone,” Johanna explains. “Not that he uses it, the rat bastard. God I’m going to murder him when I find him.”

“Let’s sit down,” Hob suggests. He has coffee ready, more for something to do to still his restless hands while waiting than anything.

“Right,” Johanna says, as she sits down at a table. She gratefully takes the coffee he offers. “So, I’m choosing to trust you. If you fuck me over we will have a serious problem. Okay?”

Hob raises his hands in surrender. “I literally just want to find Dream. I’m worried sick about him.”

Johanna takes a long sip of her coffee. “Right. So. My business is managing occult stuff, yeah? Exorcisms and the like. Stopping it before it hurts anyone. I’ve been trying to track down this particular book. Spell book. Dangerous stuff. What it can do—doesn’t matter. It was thought lost for ages, or destroyed—wouldn’t that have been great. But Dream and I both wanted to get it off the streets, once it popped up again. There’s no good hands for that book to be in.”

“You two friends?” Hob asks.

“Eh,” says Johanna, “sorta. Mostly work friends, I guess. I first got Dream’s help with a spell book a few years back. He’s the best one to go to for that sort of thing, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Yeah,” Hob agrees, mulling over this whole side of Dream’s business he didn’t know about. It makes sense, though. Dream, the expert on all books. Even this book, whatever it is, must ultimately belong to The Library.

“And now he’s gone after this book,” Hob guesses. “By himself.”

“I told him I would retrieve it,” Johanna says, gritting her teeth. “All I wanted was his help locking the thing away after. But no. Had to do it all himself.” She sighs.

“It must have really concerned him,” Hob says.

“It concerned me!” Johanna exclaims. “All the more reason not to go alone! Idiot.” It’s said with fondness, though.

“So, what are we going to do?” Hob asks.

“We?” says Johanna, raising an eyebrow.

“Listen, I don’t care about the book—”

“You should,” Johanna says seriously.

“—Well, I don’t. But I do care about Dream. If he’s in trouble, then I’m not just going to sit here.”

Johanna looks at him appraisingly, then nods, satisfied. “Good,” she says. “I know who has the Grimoire, so I know where he’ll most likely have gone. How good are you with a cricket bat?”

“How about a knife?” Hob says.

She startles. “Christ. Alright, then. I won’t ask, but good.”

“Just tell me where to go, and I’ll be there,” Hob says seriously, and for the first time, she gives him a smile.

“I’ve been hoping for an excuse to give Roderick Burgess a good thrashing. Guy’s a prick. Alright, Dream’s boyfriend—let’s go get the stupid librarian."

It’s decided Hob should be the initial decoy because, according to Johanna, “people always think I mean trouble, and you have this sort of wholesome coffee shop owner thing going on. Knife skills aside.”

Hob’s not sure if it’s a compliment or not.

“He’ll definitely think he can scam you,” Johanna adds. That one’s definitely not a compliment.

So Hob goes to an event Roderick Burgess is hosting, showing off all his antiques. He brings with him an old book from The Library, ostensibly to “sell”. Forgive me, Dream, he thinks, as he pulls Magicks of the World off the shelf. Promise I won’t let him keep it.

It’ll get him in, he hopes. It’ll get Roderick Burgess’s attention, at least enough to let Johanna slip past. The book is proper old, nearly falling apart, and while it may not be actually magic, it at least is about magic. He hopes it’s enough.

“Remember,” Johanna says, as they’re stepping up to the door, “just keep his attention. I’ll search the house to see if I can find Dream, or the Grimoire.”

“You really think he’s keeping Dream hostage in this house?” Hob asks incredulously.

Johanna snorts. “If he thinks Dream can help him decode the thing? Yeah, absolutely. I told you. Guy’s a selfish prick.”

That seemed to be putting it lightly.

Hob isn’t sure he’ll be content with being the distraction if he finds out Roderick actually has Dream captive. But he calms himself for the time being.

Hob absolutely hates Roderick Burgess the second he lays eyes on him.

He’s managed to corner Burgess in the sitting room of the old manor house. His book in one hand, drink in the other. The man is fucking seedy. Hob could tell immediately, even if Burgess pretended at gentility.

Hob’s already decided that Roderick does have Dream locked in a room somewhere. Call it instinct.

Roderick gives Magicks of the World a look of cool disinterest as Hob hands it to him, but it shifts to grudging surprise. “This is actually old,” he says. “Unlike the fake crap people keep trying to pawn off on me.”

“I was told you had a discerning eye,” Hob says with false admiration. “1612. Genuine article.”

“Hm. This is of some interest,” says Roderick. “Come to my office.”

Hob follows him, hoping Johanna is having some success finding Dream.

Roderick’s office is much neater than Dream’s study. it feels like the affected study of someone trying to come acrossas a studious gentleman. Hob hates it.

And there on the desk is a thick, leather-bound volume that Hob knows instantly is the book Dream and Johanna have been looking for. He isn’t sure exactly how he knows. He isn’t at all magical. But he just knows. He can feel the eerie energy of the thing.

“I’ll give you six hundred pounds for it,” Roderick says, laying Magicks on the desk.

Hob startles. That’s actually a lot of money for a single book. Sorry, Dream, he thinks.

“Where did you get it?” Roderick asks.

“Old bookshop,” Hob says. “Don’t think they knew what they had.”

“They never do,” Roderick muses.

He hands Hob six hundred pounds, cash. Hob takes it, dumbfounded.

“Tell me,” he says, pretending hesitance. “I only know how to tell the age. How to know if it’s genuine. The magic stuff—that’s beyond me. How do you make sense of it?”

“I have my sources,” says Roderick. He seems to delight in being enigmatic. “There are… certain experts. If one knows where to look.”

Certain experts. Hob grits his teeth. “You willing to share a name? I have a few books myself I’d love to get better appraised.”

“I’m keeping that to myself for now. Trade secrets, you know.” He smiles to himself, meanly. “Valuable sources, those, in this business.”

Hob decides two things. One: he can definitely take down an old man. Two: he doesn’t care if he goes to prison.

He picks up a heavy statue from the desk and, before Roderick can react, cracks him across the head with it.

Roderick drops like a stone, and Hob snatches up both Magicks and the Grimoire, and flees.

Shit. That might have been ill-advised. What if Dream isn’t in the house, and Hob just caused permanent brain damage to the one person who might know where he is? Shit.

Nothing for it now. He hurries through the halls, books under his arm. He turns a corner, then another, and where the bloody hell is he? Then—

He nearly runs directly into Johanna and Dream.

Hob thrusts the books at Johanna, and takes Dream in his arms instead, pulling him into a tight hug. Dream hugs him back, pressing his face into Hob’s neck with a soft little sound.

He looks rough. His hair is a disaster—more than usual—and he’s wearing the same clothes Hob vaguely remembers him putting on that morning several days ago, before he disappeared.

“Hey,” Hob whispers, “I was really worried about you.”

“‘m sorry,” Dream murmurs, clutching at him.

“This was extremely fucking stupid, Dream,” Johanna says, in a tone that suggests she’s said so already. There’s worry there too, though.

“Yes, point taken,” Dream says.

“I love you,” Hob murmurs against his cheek, before pulling away to look at him properly.

There’s a bruise on Dream’s cheek that makes Hob very glad he smacked Roderick upside the head with a statue. More than that, he looks a bit… haunted. Hob will have to get more details later. Right now, they need to get out of here.

“Where the fuck is Roderick?” Johanna demands.

“I might have killed him,” Hob says, not feeling very bad about it. “Not totally sure.”

“No loss,” says Johanna, holding the books tightly.

Hob keeps Dream close. Dream is looking at him in wonder. Like Hob is the last possible thing he had expected to see. Freedom itself.

Hob kisses his forehead. And then they get the fuck out of there.

“You should really rest, Dream,” Hob says.

Dream is currently doing something to the Grimoire. Binding the pages. He doesn’t seem willing to let it go until he’s made the thing safe.

He sighs. “In a moment.”

“Dream…”

Dream finally puts the book away in a drawer in his desk, kneels before the desk, and draws some complicated symbol on the wood. Perhaps he had done the same with the poetry book, Hob thinks.

Though Hob suspects that the Grimoire is significantly more dangerous.

Finally Dream stands. He seems… a bit listless, now, having finished with the book. Even in the soft lighting of the Library study, the awful bruise on his face is stark, a deep plum mark. He looks at Hob, hands twisting together, expression vulnerable.

Hob’s heart hurts. He hopes he did kill Roderick. But now, he holds out his hands to Dream.

Dream steps over to him, and Hob brings him into an embrace. Holds him tight. Whatever determination had kept Dream going thus far seems to evaporate, then, and he sags against Hob, trembling slightly.

“Let’s go home, yeah?” Hob murmurs against his hair.

“Yes,” Dream sighs.

He locks up the study, which Hob has never seen him do before, and then, once they’re downstairs, locks The Library’s front door as well. He leaves a sign that says, “Closed for the time being.”

Hob leads him across the street, back upstairs to his flat above the cafe, and steers him to the bathroom. He perches him on the edge of the tub as he turns on the tap and lets the hot water fill up.

Dream is still shivering a little. The poor thing is probably desperate for a bath, not to mention food, Christ.

“What did he want with you?” Hob asks, helping Dream out of his jumper. Dream winces as he pulls it off over his head, and Hob grits his teeth. “Did he hurt you?”

“He had been trying to use the Grimoire,” Dream says, as Hob kneels to help him with his slacks. “But there was a symbol he could not decode. My… approach… to try to take the book back was… not as clever as I had hoped, and I was intercepted. He demanded I translate it. When I refused…” he trails off. He’s naked now, and Hob can see a dark bruise stretching up his thigh, another working its way up his back and over his shoulder. “Well, he did not take well to being told ‘no.’”

“Bastard,” Hob swears, and Dream’s lips quirk up.

“Quite.”

Hob kisses the bruise on Dream’s thigh—if only that would do more to actually heal it—and Dream smiles faintly.

“What’s that book do anyway?” Hob asks.

“It’s meant to summon Death,” says Dream, and Hob feels a chill, like the universe itself is protesting that possibility. “I do not think it has ever been successfully used. But the magic is certainly potent enough.”

“Good thing you got it back, then,” says Hob. He helps Dream up, then supports him as he steps into the tub, sinking down into the warm water with a sigh.

Hob strips off his own clothes and follows him, slipping behind Dream and pulling him back to his chest. Dream leans his head against Hob’s shoulder.

“That was all very silly, you know,” Hob says against his cheek, arms wrapped around Dream’s middle. “I was very worried about you.”

“I am sorry,” murmurs Dream. “It was… poorly thought out.”

“Just a bit.”

“But,” says Dream, a hint of wonder in his voice, “you came to rescue me.”

Hob kisses his cheek. “Of course.”

“Hob…” starts Dream. “How may I say this… you are not exactly a rough type I would expect to be performing heists.”

“Hey, you don’t know everything about me,” Hob says indignantly. “Second, you’re a librarian, and you tried to break into the man’s damn house first. Thirdly—”

“And yet,” Dream interrupts, “you still came to help me. Roderick Burgess is a dangerous man. That was ill-advised.”

“Didn’t seem very dangerous when I smacked him in the head.”

“I am saying I appreciate it,” says Dream, with a little chuckle. “All the more so for the danger you put yourself in.”

“You’re my boyfriend,” Hob says. “I love you. Of course I came after you. Don’t be silly.”

He wishes he had gotten there sooner. He chokes up, thinking of Dream stuck in some room, uncertain of any rescue. He tucks his face into Dream’s shoulder, tears beading along his lashes. “Poor darling.”

Dream reaches up and strokes his hair. “I’d be curious to hear about your criminal past sometime,” he murmurs, which has Hob chuckling. “Did you really kill Roderick Burgess?”

“Dunno,” says Hob. “Hope so.”

“My boyfriend is more dangerous than I thought,” Dream observes, lips tugging up. He sounds quite satisfied about it, and Hob kisses the corner of his lips.

“If he comes back I’ll kill him again,” he says.

Dream shivers, leaning more heavily against him. “You’ve unlocked the two keys to my heart,” he whispers, and it’s only partly joking.

“Oh yeah?” Hob says, lips still brushing his cheek. “Violence committed on your behalf is one?”

Dream nods.

“What’s the other, then?”

Dream’s lips twitch. “Scones.”

“I’ll have to fulfill that one in a few minutes then, too,” Hob says, grinning.

“So you shall.”

“Would it make you doubly horny if I killed somebody with a scone?” Hob asks. “Or—?”

Dream turns around in his lap to kiss him, wrapping his hands around the back of Hob’s neck. Hob rocks back with the force of the kiss, leaning back against the tub. “Yes,” Dream declares, and gives Hob another peck on the lips.

“I’ll find someone to kill,” Hob promises. “You have anyone in mind?”

Dream giggles. Joy looks good on him, after everything. He tucks his nose in against Hob’s shoulder again, and Hob holds him close, runs a hand up and down over his back, careful of the bruises.

“I will think of something,” Dream promises.

Hob kisses his temple, and resolves to keep a closer eye on his boyfriend’s supernatural activities in the future.

And to buy Johanna Constantine a drink some time, too.

#dreamling #bookstore cryptid dream #even dream the cryptid librarian isn't immune to getting put in the bowl. so to speak #dream of the endless #hob gadling #the sandman #my writing #i've read through this many times hopefully there are no more typos XD

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teejaystumbles · 1 month

Text

Against all odds (part 4)

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Hob is woken by his alarm and instead of snoozing the damn thing like he usually does, he is sitting up in bed and looking over at the desk in barely a second.

His journal is not there.

He feels a weird mixture of elation and disappointment - elation because last night was not just a dream! His stranger was really here! And disappointment because there seems to be no answering journal entry yet, or the book would be there.

Hob wipes both hands over his face with a groan and finally stops his annoying alarm.

“Right. Might as well get up and make a cuppa.”

While he putters around his kitchen, Hob recaps the last night.

After writing his reply to his stranger Hob had gone to bed, feeling restless and tossing and turning for at least an hour before finally falling asleep. He had dreamed something unsettling about riding his Porsche down a lane that got narrower and narrower, and being unable to stop the car while the sides were being pressed in against him as the car was being squeezed between invisible walls. Hob had seen a mushroom cloud in the rearview mirror and suddenly a crackle like thunder in the distance had sounded - then he had woken up. And found his stranger leaning over his desk.

Despite having his back to Hob, he would have known him instantly even if there hadn't been a sliver of light from a street lamp illuminating the marvel cheek of his friend. (To be fair, there weren’t many black-clad figures Hob expected-slash-hoped to appear in his bedroom at night.)

Apparently his stranger had come to read Hob’s reply to his own entry, and Hob had surprised him when he woke up. Getting him to stay had instantly been Hob’s primary objective, because his friend had been ready to flee, that had been glaringly obvious.

Hob pours water over his tea and sighs, recalling the almost timid voice of his stranger.

“It is not you, Hob.”

“Your rooms are not uncomfortable to me.”

It’s not him. Hob is so fucking glad it’s not him. He believes his friend, he doesn’t think he’d lie about something like this. No, after 1889 it’s clear that his stranger wouldn’t have stayed if he felt any sort of discomfort or anger in Hob’s presence. It had cost him to say the words, to tell Hob the truth, but Hob is sure his stranger wouldn’t lie to him outright. Obviously the “I don’t need your companionship”-line had been a lie, but one his stranger had been telling himself as well, so Hob can forgive it. It can be hard to accept certain truths about oneself, he knows, and not being human might make his stranger even more liable to not accept any sort of weakness he might have. A hundred years ago he considered Hob, and their friendship, a weakness. What has changed since then, Hob wonders.

He picks up his tea and moves to his small living room, flopping down on the old Chesterfield sofa that he has lovingly kept in shape since the beginning of the 20th century.

The 80s have been wild and Hob is happy that his tendency to accumulate stuff from his past, like antique furniture and loads of tidbits, is part of the current interior design trend. All the posh flats in London look like his right now, jumbled messes of times long past. People are looking for warmth and comfort, for colour and modern form mixed with a certain nostalgia. He thinks it's going to turn around soon, though. It always does. Trends come and go and then are revived a few decades later.

Not that Hob has many visitors these days who would care about his flat’s interior. When he hooks up with someone he takes them to a hotel when he’s feeling generous and enamoured, to the back alley or toilets when all they both care about is getting off quickly. Hob hasn’t been in a long-term relationship in two years. He’s telling himself he’s taking a break, moving on quickly to spare himself and others the loss, after so many years of losing so many friends and lovers. Deep down he knows it’s because he knew which year was coming up, and he couldn’t help but want to be free and available for- anything, really, if his stranger decided to show up.

Now that he has, Hob has no idea what to make of his friend. It’s clear he has been through something traumatic, or he wouldn’t have mentioned claustrophobia as a new condition he’s dealing with. Hob hopes he’ll tell him, or write to him, rather. It’s fine, he thinks. If his stranger wants to continue writing to each other for a few hundred years then Hob will accept that. He’ll be happy to have an immortal pen pal. It would be more contact than he ever had with his stranger. He’s sure - he nods to himself and takes a drink of his tea - yes, he’s sure, his friend will one day want to meet him again face to face. Hob can wait. He’s got practice.

The journal shows up a week later.

Hob has surreptitiously checked his bedroom desk every hour when he’s at home and every time he comes back from work. Now, when he steps into his flat, glances into the open bedroom and finds the journal returned he immediately drops his jacket and bag carelessly to the floor. He rushes over to the desk and takes the book in his hands, flipping through it with his heart beating faster in excitement.

Two pages have been ripped out in between Hob’s last entry and the new one. Curious, Hob thinks and bites his lip, sitting down to read the new words his stranger has left him.

My friend,

I have struggled with deciding what to put down on these pages and I ask your forgiveness for vandalising your book. Nothing I wrote seemed to encompass what I wanted to tell you. I could not put into words the relief I felt at reading your words, at hearing you speak to me so gently the last time I visited. If you knew who I am this would seem laughable to you, as it does to me - to not find the words! It is unheard of for one such as I, and for me in particular. I have to put it as bluntly as I can then: I was afraid you would not forgive my rudeness, would not understand my need for distance and lack of enthusiasm to stay and talk with you face to face. I did you a disservice, dear Hob, believing you would hold a grudge like I would. I thank you most sincerely, for your patience, your understanding. It has lifted a big concern from my chest and I find myself looking forward to seeing you again. Still, these matters I have to tell you, they are not easy for me to talk about. I would rather write them down for you so you can digest them quietly and think about them for a bit before we see each other again.

In 1916, a man named Roderick Burgess tried to summon my sister, Death. His attempt failed, but he was still not wholly unsuccessful - he summoned me instead.

With the help of one of my own subjects who betrayed me he managed to imprison me. He and his son held me for 75 years. I was trapped, naked, robbed of my insignia and therefore powerless, inside a sphere of glass, barely large enough for me to stand in.

Roderick Burgess thought he could force me to give him back his dead son, and when he realised I held no power over such things he asked for immortality, riches, power.

There is a smudge in the ink at this point, as if his friend had been pressing the pen he wrote with too tightly to the paper so that the ink had left a blot.

There is so much in these few lines Hob needs to think about, he can’t start right now or he’ll spiral before he has even read half of his friend’s entry. Hob puts a hand over his mouth and reads on, the pages in his hand shaking as he trembles with horror.

I did not give him anything, of course. I did not acknowledge my captor, did not want to give him the satisfaction. In the beginning, Burgess’ youngest son Alex seemed amenable to help me, but he ultimately could not disobey his father and betrayed that fragile piece of hope I had put in him most viciously. I lost a dear friend, my raven Jessamy, to Alex’ cowardice. I can never forgive him for that, or for holding me even after his father had died, and I have punished him adequately - although nothing I or anyone can do will ever make the memory of the senseless death of my dear raven bearable.

A pale stain on the paper makes Hob wonder if his friend had been crying when he was writing these words. He would not be surprised, his stranger had sometimes seemed so close to shedding tears, him crying over a terrible memory like this is far too easy to imagine. Hob feels his own eyes water at his stranger’s tale. Imprisoned for so long, under such horrible conditions! Betrayed by one of his own! And losing a close friend!

Hob is actually glad that his friend chose to write this down for him instead of telling it to him in person. He isn’t sure what he would have done in the face of his friend’s misery and trauma. He isn’t sure he would have been strong enough to hold back from touching his stranger, from hugging him close and pulling his head onto his shoulder, isn’t sure he wouldn’t have taken liberties where it is clear now that doing so would be disastrous.His friend must be severely traumatised, having been stuck in an enclosed, far too small space for almost 80 years! Hob has been in prison before, back in the 17th century, and a few times after. The tower, a madhouse or war prison camps, none of these detentions had lasted nearly as long as what his friend had to endure, and still Hob had felt close to going truly mad every time, especially when he got stuck in solitary confinement. Even if his stranger is not human he seems not immune to such strains on the psyche, if his mention of claustrophobia is anything to go on. Hob will have to invite him to meet somewhere outdoors, at the park or the river. Maybe his friend will agree to that.

#there's more that will continue straight after this but it's too long and not finished yet #dreamling #the sandman fanfiction #1989 au #teejay writes

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gabessquishytum · 6 months

Note

Hob mistaken for a prostitute by Dream.

Hob is just sitting in this hotel bar getting a drink when this blazingly hot man walks up to him and starts talking.

Hob's leaving tomorrow and had been in dumb meetings all day selling his tech company for more money than he thought existed for an idea he came up with his late wife; He and Robyn will be set for life (2 or 3 lives). Hob just wanted a drink to decompress (and quietly freak out). Somehow, this hot guy, who didn't share his name, talked Hob up to his room and blew his back out/they blew each others' backs out (Hob honestly stopped tracking when they front'ed against the room door to a fast 1st one each).

When Hob wakes up the next morning to a pile of cash and a note on hotel stationary saying 'thanks and hope this covers it + tip', he's gobsmacked. 1. It was a lot of money - at least he's a good whore; and 2. Hob didn't think they connected for a long term thing or anything, but he certainly didn't think his stranger thought he was on the job!

Well, life is weird and full, and this will be a great story for his friends at the pub -- Joanna is going to give him so much sh*t. Hob certainly doesn't expect to see his stranger again, now.

This is my new favourite thing. I’m actually so tempted to throw this in my wip pile because omg. I LOVE sex worker Hob, but not-actually-a-sex-worker Hob is so fucking funny and weirdly hot.

Anyway, it keeps Hob from moping as he starts his new life with Robyn. Whenever he’s sad he has a little chuckle about that night. He’ll mutter “chin up, you’re a good whore remember?” whenever he’s having a crisis. He’s moved to this smallish village with a school for Robyn and a nice little pub where Hob has taken on a few shifts that he doesn’t need but hey, they were short staffed. He’s made a small circle of friends and Robyn’s grandparents are just down the road. It’s a very comfortable life.

And then one night he’s hanging out with his friends at the pub, and someone new comes in. Hob doesn’t get a glimpse until Joanna waves the stranger over and introduces him as an old uni mate.

It’s the guy. The hot guy who paid him £4000 cash for sex. Holy shit.

Their eyes meet and Hob feels his face turn bright red. The stranger introduces himself as Morpheus and sits down awkwardly next to Hob, while the rest of the group dissolves back into chatter. Which would be fine, except — Morpheus starts whisper-asking polite questions about Hob’s job. Do his friends know? Should Morpheus be discreet about their encounter? Is Hob being safe? Hob nearly dies there at the table. How’s he supposed to tell the guy that he’s a millionaire, not a rent boy?!

The worst part is, Morpheus is so fucking hot. Hob wants him all over again. And because he’s a fucking idiot, he lets Morpheus take him back to the little B&B he’s staying at nearby. Once again Hob is fucked into sweet oblivion in several different rooms, and when he’s too sore to go any more he takes over and finally fucks Morpheus on the actual bed. Morpheus gives him permission to stay the night and Hob thinks that he really, REALLY needs to come clean but. They both fall asleep.

In the morning over coffee in the kitchen, Morpheus says “I am afraid I only have £500 in cash. Do you have a PayPal account?” Just as Joanna pops in through the back door (it’s her girlfriend’s b&b, she has a key).

“Oh my GOD, Hob.” She says. “This is why EVERYONE assumes that you’re a whore!”

…and from there onwards, chaos reigns.

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw sex work

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dragon-kazansky · 2 months

Text

Veil of the dreamless

Morpheus x Reader

A cursed Morpheus holds your father prisoner when he enters The Dreaming without permission. You, also able to enter the realm, take his place. Now a prionser to the Dream Lord, you do all you can to learn about the curse and hopefully break it.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Chapter Nine - Sibling rivalry

☆☆☆

Hob leads you to the tavern. He opens the door and lets you go inside first. He keeps a hand on your back, gently guiding you to where he wants you to go. He leads you to the back.

At the very back sits a woman alone. She is sitting facing you, a smile on her face as you approach. You've seen this woman before. She was stood outside the tavern before it was even open before you entered The Dreaming.

"You."

Her smile widens. "Yes."

"This is Death. She is the older sister of our dear Dream." Hob explains.

"You're his sister?"

Death nods her head. "I am. Hob has told me you had taken your father's place in The Dreaming. That was very brave of you. How is my brother?"

"He's... been better. He needs help." You tell her.

"I know, but only you can help him."

"How? He wouldn't tell me how."

"Of course he didn't." Death chuckles. "My brother is an idiot."

"Please." You lean forward. "Tell me how I can help him."

"Do you love him?" She asks.

You state at her. She is waiting for you to answer. Your heart races. You know the answer to that question.

"Yes."

She smiles. "He deserves to be loved. You must tell him before the last petal cracks."

"What?"

"That's how you break the spell."

Hob looks at you gently. "If Morpheus could get someone to love him as he is now, the spell would break. However, all he does is push people away. He sent you back, I believe, because he was falling for you."

"But..."

"I shall send you back to him, but you must he careful. Desire plays games. Do not let your guard down." Death says.

"Okay... Send me back."

☆☆☆

Morpheus sunk down on the stairs to his throne. He buried his face in his claw like hands and sighed quietly.

The silence of the palace was haunting him. When you were here, there was life in these walls. Now that life was gone.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, but they did not belong to Lucienne. He knew her footsteps.

"My my, big brother. How the mighty fall."

Dream lifted his head to see Desire walking toward him. He glared at his sibling. He knew his time was almost up. The rose had barely any petals left. In fact, he was certain it was down to the last one.

"Came to gloat?"

"I won't deny, I'm here to see me win." Desire smiles. "I really got you this time, didn't I? The price is steep."

"Death would be more welcome." Dream says.

"Oh? Shall I request our sister join us then? Will she put you out of your misery?" Desire teases.

"If I ask."

Desire scoffs. "You're no fun like this. Where is the rose? I'd like to see it."

Morpheus sighs and stands. He leads Desire uo to his room where the rose sits. The last petal was already cracked. Once it shattered, that would be it.

"You let them go knowing the curse wouldn't be broken without them?" Desire grins. "Foolish brother."

"I let them go because they deserve better than anything I can give them."

"Fool."

Dream turns to his sibling. "This will be the last game you ever play."

Desire chuckles. "Oh, exciting~"

Morpheus prepares for a fight. If he goes, Desire goes with him.

☆☆☆

You find yourself standing on the bridge to the palace. Death is holding your hand. She has brought you back. Hob promised he would go back to your father and tell him everything.

You let go of Death's hand and ran across the bridge. All you could think about was getting to Morpheus and telling him how you felt. You just hoped you had enough time.

You ran through the grand doors and wondered which way to go. Where was he?

Matthew came flying in and looked relieved to see you. "You're back! Come quick! I think they might kill each other!" He flew up the stairs.

You felt fear set in and chased after him. Matthew led you to Dream's room. It was even messier than before. You eyes catch sight of the rose. The last petal was barely together.

"This way!" Lucienne calls. "Hurry!"

You ran after her, following her up some stairs you hadn't seen before. They go up and up and up. Matthew flies right over you. You reach the top of the tower to find Dream and Desire fighting each other.

"Morpheus!" You gasp.

He turns and looks at you. You shouldn't have called out. Desire takes the chance to push him down to the ground and stand over him.

"No use trying. Your time is nearly up." Desire grins.

"Don't hurt him!" You call out, stepping a little closer.

"Don't!" Morpheus says, looking at you.

"Please don't hurt, Morpheus." You plead.

Desire chuckles. "You came back for him? That's a first." Desire looks back down at their brother. "Your time is up."

"No! I love him!" You yell.

Morpheus looks up at you. His eyes are wide.

Desire looks at you and then down at Dream.

"I love him," you repeat.

The last petal on the rose crumbles. There is nothing left. You look at Morpheus.

Desire watches. Nothing happens. Desire laughs. You feel tears brimming as you rush over to Morpheus. Desire back away and let's you get close.

"You came back?" Morpheus asks softly.

You cradle his face. "I came back to tell you I love you..."

He smiles softly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You did nothing wrong. I spoke to my father. I spoke to Hob. I even met your sister. She allowed me to come back here so I could see you again."

Morpheus leans into your touch. "I love you too."

You smile and lean in. He leans in, too. The kiss is the most magical feeling ever. His lips are so soft.

Before you know it, a gust of wind picks up, and Morpheus is surrounded by feathers. You have to let go of him as they explode everywhere. You're left looking a pile of the black feathers.

"Morpheus?"

He sits up. Feather falls away from around him. You can see his face. His actual face. Black fluffy hair sticks up from his head and his bright blue eyes have never been clearer.

"Morpheus." You smile.

He smiles at you.

Desire no longer smiles.

You have done it. You've broken the curse.

Morpheus stands up and reaches for your hands. You take hold of his with a bright smile on your face. He leans in and kisses your forehead softly.

Death enters the tower and looks at Desire. "You should go."

Desire chuckles and then leaves. Maybe next time.

Death turns to her brother and smiles at the sight. He's in love, and someone loves him. She's happy for him. She takes her leave.

Morpheus does not let go of your hand. He never wants to let go again.

☆☆☆

@littleblackcatinwonderland - @kpopgirlbtssvt - @missdreamofendless - @intothesoul -

#veil of the dreamless #morpheus x reader #the sandman #beauty and the beast au #au #dragon writes

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orionsangel86 · 1 year

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I'm sorry but why do you ship them so hard? They just have 1 episode together.. I watched the sandman expecting destiel and it was literally almost nothing there. 1 episode. Idk how you guys got so much ship content out of that.

Ah nonny, I'm sorry but if you go into anything expecting Destiel you are gonna be dissappointed. Destiel is a behemouth of 12 years worth of gradually escalating gay subtext, queer coding, and romantic tropes. Destiel is the ship that people go into expecting that Tumblr exaggerated only to be blown away by how ridiculously gay it is even when it tries so hard not to be.

But remember, once upon a time people shipped Destiel after only a few moments of interaction. The first Destiel fic was written 30 minutes after Lazarus Rising aired...everything has its time.

When I joked that Dreamling was the "Destiel of Sandman fandom" I meant in terms of popularity compared to everything else about the show. The ships share some similar traits when compared on a grand scale - think ancient cosmic entity that has very strict rules slowly changes and starts to become more "human" thanks to their friendship with one dude who just so happens to be a hedonistic stubborn ass who refuses to die - but are otherwise very different.

But if you are wondering why people ship Dream and Hob so hard, well, this post goes some ways to explaining it.

But basically, look this may only be a half hour of television, but it doesn't equate in universe to half an hour of interaction. This half hour of television spans the course of 6 centuries for these two characters. There is a totally untapped potential hidden in the gaps between centuries to explore, and on top of that, the final meeting is left completely up to the imagination of the audience. Its a sandbox ship. Its a dozen fanfiction gaps laid on top of each other. It's at least 20 different prompts for fans to sink their teeth into. Its the potential. It's the what if.

Then on top of that, if you follow the comics, you know that the future Dream x Hob meetings also have a hell of a lot of potential to turn romantic. Dream going out of his way to hunt down a specific bottle of wine that doesn't exist on Earth anymore to gift it to Hob in his dreams, the very fact that he visits Hob in his dreams (hello common Destiel trope right there). They don't meet too many more times in the comics, but each time the tension is palpable. The meeting in the Kindly Ones is heartbreaking, because you can tell desperately how much they need each other at that moment, but they are both too distracted or consumed by grief and depression to truly reach out to one another. The comics never reveal why Dream sought Hob out at that point, but given everything happening to him at the time, its not hard to assume that Dream was seeking comfort from his friend - the only person he could really turn to for comfort at that point.

Then we have Hob's dream. One of the final stories in The Sandman original comic run. After everything else has happened, after the climax and all that takes place, after the smoke has cleared and you think everyone else has moved on and you are certain the ending is set in stone, you get to Hob's dream, and your mind is once again blown, and suddenly you have a thousand more questions. So many fans hopes and dreams rely on Hob's dream right now I can't even begin to express how important that particular comic issue is to me.

It's all about the potential. There is so much potential.

Plus the 30 minute scene we got was loaded full of subtext, romantic tropes, and queer coding. I dunno if you picked up on it, but I have an extremely long meta essay still in the works that goes through everything that 30 minute sequence gives us in terms of shipping fodder (I really need to finish that). Its not just the romantic tropes, the break up and make up, its the acting choices, the eye fucking, the freaking song choices in 1989 holy fuck could they be more on the nose.

Also, consider this thought experiment: Crowley and Aziraphale in Good Omens are a hugely popular ship, where their creator Neil Gaiman has confirmed that theirs is a love story. Whatever else you may believe about Crowley and Aziraphale, their story is a love story. Creator confirmed love story.

Now, Crowley and Aziraphale are the leads of Good Omens and interact throughout the entire 6 episode show. But consider the first half of episode 3. Imagine a version of Good Omens where Crowley and Aziraphale don't really interact outside of that 30 minute opening sequence. That the story was much more focused on the Them, the Horsemen, and the other characters. Imagine then seeing that 30 minute sequence which shows Crowley and Aziraphale slowly warming to each other and becoming friends over the centuries, shows them getting to know each other, do each other favours, come to each others defence, get into fights and break up with each other, only to make up later...

Would you still ship them? Even if that 30 minute sequence was all you got? I guarantee if I asked any Ineffable Husbands fan that question they would say yes. Because THAT 30 minute sequence is what solidifies the importance of their relationship and its what MAKES IT a love story.

Guess where Neil Gaiman got the idea for that 30 minute sequence in Good Omens from? Ah Neil, plagiarising his own work all these years later!

If Neil Gaiman thought that Men of Good Fortune would work well for a canonical love story in Good Omens, I wonder what he was thinking when he then adapted Men of Good Fortune for television?

THE POTENTIAL.

I ship Dreamling that hard because it has more potential than any other ship I have come across. It has 6 centuries and all the future of the Sandman show for me to explore, to tweak, to play with. Besides they just suit each other ya know? Like Dream is notoriously bad at relationships, but Hob is literally perfect for him. The more my mind dwells on how perfect Hob is for Dream the more I want to scream about it. Give the sad wet cat man a boyfriend who is literally his opposite in every way. Dream is a character looking for a reason to keep living, and Hob is a character who refuses to die. Dream is a pessimist, Hob is an optimist. Dream is afraid of change, Hob literally changes constantly with the times. Dream is desperate for love and someone to stay by his side, Hob just wants to love someone he doesn't have to eventually leave.

Let them meet in the middle.

#dreamling #destiel #the sandman #there is a destiel quote in there somewhere #they met in the middle #lol #sandman comic spoilers #dream of the endless #hob gadling #sandman meta #dreamling meta #asks

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pansexualhousecat · 1 year

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this is how I think Morpheus and Hob felt about each other (and themselves a bit) throughout the centuries

Morpheus:

1389 - Wants a plaything and goes to get it. Excited to see a human begging for Death. (Sadistic motherfucker)

1489 - Finds him interesting, likes the love Hob has for human inventions and wants to see how he lives further.

1589 - Disappointed and bored, he expected more from him so he went to find someone more interesting and with more passion than current Hob.

1689 - Scared of losing him but then seeing how Hob still has love and hope for life has him falling in love fast.

1789 - Fully in love and wants to share more of himself with Hob, but they get interrupted. Flirty af. But also was disappointed in what Hob did with the slave trade.

1889 - Is happy and content to see Hob again, wants to hear him talk all day long. Proud of Hob for being a better person, but also understanding of his mistakes. Gets called out being fond of Hob and gets overwhelmed and storms out like a drama queen. He could've evaporated into sand but preferred to go out in the rain because he's so fucking dramatic.

1989 - Wet sad cat imprisoned. Release him. Sad that he was forced to miss meeting Hob especially after their fight.

2021 - He finally gets to meet Hob again after too many years. He's so fucking happy and also so relieved to see that Hob is right there, just waiting for him even after all this time. He smiles easily at him now, happy and completely in love with this foolish human who waited for him and even marked around the old inn to show him where he was. Morpheus is a fucking simp at this point but honestly after all of his romantic life being fucking terrible, he just settles for friendship for now.

—

Hob:

1389 - Definitely finds Dream super strange but also hot. Believes him even if not fully.

1489 - You can count him on being scared and horny. The man doesn't know what he got himself into but is very enthusiastic to tell Dream all about his life and what he finds interesting and cool.

1589 - Wants to make Dream proud. He's living like this thanks to Dream so he must do something amazing of his life so that he continues living, right? So why is his stranger looking the other way and leaving him alone even after all the cool things he spoke about himself? He feels angry with himself but there's also some jealousy there that he doesn't understand very well.

1689 - He's fucking miserable at this point. Though is fucking nice to finally see someone who actually talks to him like he's a real person and not a pile of shit on the road. He also missed Dream very much and wondered why he hadn't saved him, but after stopping the want to die he understood that that life was Hob's to live alone and not Dream to interfere. He misses Dream even more when they part ways this time.

1789 - Finally got his life back around and is presentable to see his stranger. I'm 100% sure he finds Dream super hot right now I don't care. Definitely figured out his feelings after the last meeting in 1689 and was super excited to meet Dream again and show his worth. Is annoyed at Dream for trying to interfere in his life because he has never done that before, even when he was at hos worst. He understands after the explanation and feels shame. The fight ensues and he knows, he knows that Dream most probably doesn't need his help but he's going on 50% instinct to protect who he loves and 50% on showing off to Dream lol. Flirty motherfucker. They should've fucked this year istg.

1889 - Hob has reflected on his terrible mistakes and got better, helping instead of harming. His mistakes still haunt him, though, so he still feels shame for the horrible things he did. He's happy that Dream interfered at the time. A bit depressed. Reflected even more about his feelings for Dream and wanted to suggest for them to meet more, to make this more intimate and not like it's a business transaction. He's not stupid either, he knows that Dream at least sees him as a friend at least, he wouldn't care so much about him if he didn't. He tried to explain about it but it went terribly wrong. Hates himself for opening his big mouth but at the same time doesn't regret a thing. He trusts and loves Dream, even if the guy is a total drama queen.

1989 - He knows he said he trusted Dream and all that but he's actually so fucking nervous. What the fuck will he do if Dream doesn't show up? And then Dream actually doesn't show up. He waits all day for him, hoping to see the tall man clad in all black. But to no avail. He gets super stressed after knowing that the inn is going to shut down, so he obviously does the most rational decision... buys a new fucking inn and names it The New Inn so he can hopefully see his stranger again next century! Fucking simp.

2021 - He's a teacher now and every afternoon after his morning classes he goes to The New Inn to wait. Hob's hope never faded, so he couldn't do anything more than just wait for his stranger every day for all these years. He even continued in the same city without leaving, afraid of being discovered again after the witch trials... But he needed to stay there for his stranger. And then he finally came to him. Hob is simply and completely in love with this man, even after being made to wait so many years for him.

#i have more thoughts i guess but im sleepy #also i love them very much #dream learned to love and cherish humanity more because of hob for sure #dreamling #the sandman #dreamling headcanon #dream of the endless #hob gadling #hob x dream #morpheus x hob #queer

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