Only Flags and Boats

Currently The Sandman, but also OFMD, The Terror, Black Sails, basically period dramas that seem to focus on sailing. Main over at @jim-jam-gem for the arts

[softest-punk]

could you write 13 or 23 for the uni au? i'm absolutely obsessed... (ignore this if you've already done those prompts haha)

Gonna go with 13: complimenting their appearance :D

---

"Do I look all right?"

Dream looks up from the books spread all over his and Hob's tiny kitchen table, and raises an eyebrow. He has never seen Hob in anything that could be remotely described as a suit before. He hadn't been aware Hob owned one.

Hob flushes from the collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears, as he always does when he's embarrassed.

"Are you going somewhere?" Dream asks.

Obviously, he is. He is not up and dressed in a suit at this hour for no reason.

Dream had not been entirely ignorant, of course, that Hob was an attractive man. There is something to be said, however, for the effect of formal wear—even an inexpensive, slightly ill-fitted business suit—on an attractive man.

"Hot date," Hob teases, grinning broadly.

It has also not escaped Dream's notice that in fact, Hob does not date. Despite frequent offers.

"Job interview," he corrects. "Is my tie straight?"

"No."

Hob makes a distressed sound, and fiddles aimlessly with the utterly incompetent knot at the base of his throat. Hob Gadling is a man of many talents, but tying a tie is evidently not one of them.

Dream takes pity on him, rising from the table and gently moving his hands away.

"I will tie it," he says, more a command than an offer, and takes charge of the tie. The deep wine red struck him instantly, but now that he has it in hand, the fabric strikes him even more strongly.

"This is silk," he says, rubbing it between his fingers. He imagines, for a moment, rubbing it against his face.

He imagines it knotted around his wrists, stark against pale skin, a demonstration that Hob can tie a competent knot if sufficiently motivated.

He swallows, and focuses on making his fingers untie it, and not on Hob's pleasantly rich, masculine aftershave.

"Is it?" Hob asks. "Found it in the Oxfam next to that little bookshop you like. The suit, too."

"You have an excellent eye," Dream says. "Job interview where?"

"The museum," Hob says with a pleased little smile. "Hoping they'll let me do tours."

"Do you especially need a job?" Dream asks. He does not, himself, have one. But Hob's life was not like his. Hob did not wear a tie to school, and now does not know how to tie one.

Without a friend like Dream, he would go to his interview with an ill-tied knot, and it would be immediately obvious he had not worn a tie to school. It should not matter. But it does.

His fingers brush against Hob's skin as he works, and he bites his lip.

"Well, got to keep you in books and chocolate biscuits somehow," he says, still smiling. Hob does do this. He is forever bringing Dream books, and all manner of chocolate treats.

The why of it is not a mystery. They have been dancing around each other for some time now, both frightened of rejection, of heartbreak. Of risking the wonderful thing they have even at the promise of something more wonderful still.

Dream threads the tie through the knot, and tightens it delicately, keeping a fingertip between the tie and Hob's collar so as not to choke him.

"And it'd be fun, I think," Hob says. "You know. Getting to ramble at people about history at length. Might save you having to listen to it so much."

"I enjoy your rambling," Dream says, pulling back to check his work. "It is not a hardship to listen to you speak of the things you care about."

Hob smiles a shy smile down at his newly-polished shoes.

"Do I look all right now?" he asks, biting his lip as he looks up again.

"Thoroughly employable," Dream says. "It would take a fool of the highest order to reject you."

[windsweptinred]

I don't care how it happens, Father Time sneezes and an upsy-daisy happens. The usual suspects are up to shinnanigans... Hob accidently breaks some magical macguffin. But I really want to see 1389 Hob and 2022 Hob get mixed up in time.

Just think of it, 1389 cocksure Hob with non of the hesitancy of his 2022 counterpart. Grabbing poor, unsure and touch starved 2022 Dream like, I don't know where I am, or what the f*ck that is...(Insert convenient modern appliance) But this pretty is mine and I'll personally rip a new one in anyone who tries to take him/hurt him/ makes him pull the sad, weepy eyes face...With zero moral fucks given.

And 2022 Hob with all that patience and wisdom he's built up over 600 years... Dealing with the petulant, man child of an Endless Dream was in 1389. Dream about to break into an indignant rant about who does this insignificant human peasant think he is! ? How very dare!! ... Only to immediately be put in his place by Hob in peak professor mode.

It can get put right eventually. But the potential scenarios are just to delicious. 😅

[moraggian]

cross-posting some stuff i like from my personal twitter / text from here

[monobuu]

find in me your rhythm by @delta-pavonis

I know Hob’s a drummer in the story but the tambourine was funnier.

[delta-pavonis]

THIS IS PERFECTION.

(Hob would totally play the tambourine if Dream asked.)

You have no idea how much I needed a smile right now and like EXCELLENT COSMIC TIMING. Thank you sooooo much.

[designtheendless]

Frens :)

[virgo-dream]

Some Mornings 🌙

dreamling / fluff / all comfort / gen / 1.1k+ words

A little gift for my friend @softest-punk!!! set in the universe of their amazing a/b/o regency au fic, A Man Of Good Fortune. This has spoilers for that fic!!!! Wrote this really quickly before bed. I hope it’s okay!! No beta but we don’t die we ball 🙏

Some mornings are easier than others, when one finds themselves in the state Dream is currently in. He remembers how mornings were when he was pregnant with Orpheus; the bedroom always felt colder in the morning than it did at night, partly due to his bed chambers facing away from the afternoon sun, and partly due to the lack of his mate’s presence next to him in bed. The first few months were filled with a sort of dread, creeping up quicker every day that went by. Would all mornings be like this? The fear of knowing the answer was almost as bad as the realisation that he would not be proven wrong.

Things were definitely different now. Dream would usually wake up to the darling shape of Hob silhouetted by the gentle morning sun filtered through the curtains. He’d be kissed, gently, sweetly, every morning. Hob made sure to always wake up before Dream, to be the one to bring him breakfast, to help him through the nausea that would take over his stomach almost every morning. The bigger Dream’s belly got, the more admiration and awe he could see in Hob’s eyes. He found himself worshipped for the same reason he’d been previously discarded, and wasn’t that a blessing?

Some mornings were easier than others, for him. As winter slowly approached their home by the sea, some mornings became harder than most for Hob.

Dream could see it in the way Hob seemed to be hiding a slightly more intense limp than on a usual day. He noticed the tension on his husband’s jaw, the tautness of his shoulders, and how, by Hob’s standards, he seemed less cheerful than what Dream had grown accustomed to. Still, Hob insisted in waking up earlier than Dream, in bringing him breakfast in bed, in holding Dream’s belly to give his back a break; no matter that it would be on the expense of Hob’s poor knee and bad shoulder. Dream noticed the effort, as he noticed every new lovely grey hair and every beautiful line on the corner of his mate’s eyes when he smiled. He’d winced more times than Dream would have liked to, though.

———

That morning, Hob Gadling woke up to the silhouette of his very pregnant husband blocking the sunlight coming in from the window. He blinked his eyes slowly, being made aware, also, of the pain on his knee the moment his body decided to stir.

The sight of Dream’s belly was still a wonder to him. Hob remembered the moment he’d first laid eyes on Dream; he remembered how ethereal and otherworldly he looked. Hob also remembered the hollowness of Dream’s cheeks, his slightly chapped lips and the fragility in his gaze. Now, Dream housed a whole other being inside him, with fuller cheeks tinted rosy pink and eyes filled with newfound confidence. It was magical. It made Hob proud.

“Good morning, dearest.” Dream’s voice sounded like music to Hob’s ears. He watched as Dream leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Instinctively, Hob’s hand reached for his mate’s belly, almost in an effort to make sure Dream was real.

Hob had been trying to say some nicer things, more poetic, to honour Dream’s taste for endearments. He wasn’t sure if he was succeeding, but he was surely trying. “…do my eyes deceive me, or do I witness a solar eclipse?”

Dream raises a brow, and if it weren’t for the fondness in those blue eyes, Hob would have believed him to take offence. “Do you intend to say I am shaped like the moon now?”

“No! well, yes. But also in the poetic sense. There’s a celestial body shielding my eyes from the morning sun—“

Hob’s would have continued in his attempt to compare Dream to the moon, had it not been for the sharp pain travelling from his knee to his spine in his attempt to sit up in bed. Dream quickly comes to his aid, placing a hand on Hob’s upper back, the other clasping at Hob’s hand to help him sit up. “Dove, you shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I have noticed your discomfort in the past week, beloved. Not only I, but so has Lucienne. So has Orpheus.” Dream is careful not only in his aiding of Hob, but in the tone he chooses to deliver his words. “Do you intend to teach our son to hide his pain? To refuse care? How do you benefit from it? How do I, or our children?”

Our son. Our children.

Hob wasn’t planning to cry so early that day. He thinks of saying something, but Dream seems to have really thought out what he was about to say. There was a fierceness in the kindness of his tone, a gentleness to his fire.

“—I do not wish to chastise you, only to provide you with that which you’ve been so generous in giving me. I’ve not once felt the need to hide my discomfort from you. I would hope you allow yourself the same liberties.”

“Dove, I—“ Hob squeezes Dream’s hand. He’s unsure of how to deal with the emotions quickly bubbling up in his chest. “I’m your alpha. I’m here to take care of you. I’ve said it, I serve—“

“—at my pleasure, yes. And it will be my pleasure to care for you.”

Hob grins, and he can feel his nose getting stuffy from the tears now streaming down his cheeks. Dream is quick to wipe them away, coming closer to press kisses to Hob’s cheeks and to the tip of his nose. “Allow me this, dearest. There’s nothing that will bring me more joy than to see your pain relieved.”

“God, how I love you. Yes, please. I need it.”

———

Some mornings are easier than others. Dream found that taking care of Hob made even his own discomfort easier to bear. He wondered, as he helped his husband to the bathroom to wash his face, if Hob found the same comfort in taking care of him. He already had his answer, and it filled him with joy as big as his belly had gotten.

There was something else entirely new and fulfilling about helping Hob sit back on the bed, fluffing up his pillows and bringing in a warm blanket to keep his knee away from the cold. Lucienne was incredible help with the things that were more physically taxing, and Orpheus was just as excited to spend the day in bed reading with and to his dads than he would have catching frogs outside by the pond. Hob would sometimes reach for Dream’s belly, rubbing it gently and making circles with the tip of his fingers. Dream was glad to be able to offer comfort, no matter how small. He was falling in love again, as he surely would in the next morning, and every morning after.

Some mornings were easier than others. That morning, Dream would cherish forever.

[softest-punk]

EMOTIONAL!!! ABOUT THIS!!

Gosh it's so soft and sweet. This IS what they're going to be like! So comfy and warm and there to take care of each other. This is it, forever, for them.

Love the bit about Dream being shaped like the moon (Hob would 100% get himself into that exact sort of trouble) and Orpheus!! Reading in bed with them!! Too precious. All of it is TOO precious, I love it so much and am v. comforted by it 🥰🥰🥰

[teejaystumbles]

The Dreamlord happens upon a strange sleeping man in the gardens of his castle. "How odd. Who dreams of sleep?"

I am a huge fan of art nouveau and tried to create an illustration reminiscent of Aubrey Beardsley. This is a traditional ink drawing combined with frame and stars done digitally.

[seiya-starsniper]

For the angst prompt list: “I’m sorry, have we met?”

Oh I absolutely ADORE this particular prompt, I'm so glad you've picked it. I'd previously done a fill for it [here], but this one's an entirely different premise all on its own, I hope you enjoy it!

angst prompts list

cw: memory loss -----

The man standing across the bar is dangerous.

Rob’s gained an appreciation for dangerous creatures, ever since he woke up in the middle of what was effectively the aftermath of a bloodbath, with no memory of who he was or how he got there. All he knew was that something bad had happened, and somehow, he’d survived it.

He’d fled London shortly after, when he’d discovered that while he didn’t know who he was, it seemed other more powerful and dangerous creatures did. Rob realized fairly quickly that if he had any hope of living a normal life, leaving the continent was probably the best course of action. He’d barely had time to investigate the life he’d had beforehand, only knowing that his captors had tracked him down under the name Robert Goldsmith.

That had been over 20 years ago. Rob hasn’t aged a day since then, and he’s also unfortunately never been able to fully shake attracting the supernatural. There’s something about him, the demons and the fae and the vampires tell him. Something old, something covetous. Rob knew he was older than he looked, he could feel his age in his bones, and one too many close calls with death all but proved he was some sort of immortal.

And now he’s caught the scent of something even older than him. The man (no, he’s not a man, he only wears the skin of a man) is stunningly beautiful, with wild dark hair and eyes bluer than the sky. If Rob didn’t know any better, he’d swear the man was an elf or some other type of fae, but no. He’s older than that. More powerful than that.

An angel, perhaps? He’s certainly beautiful enough to be one. Rob’s only heard rumors of their existence, but he’s also heard looking upon them would burn your eyeballs right out of their sockets. He tries not to appear wary and guarded as the creature locks eyes with him, but he can’t help but let out a small gasp, heart thundering in his chest, as the man-shaped being begins to approach his table. 

“Hob Gadling,” the creature addresses him. “I have been searching for you.”

The declaration hit Rob like a hammer to the face. Something inside him is howling, yes, that is me, I am Hob, and it’s almost as terrifying a feeling as when he first woke up in that bloodied basement, his memories wiped clean from his mind. Somehow this creature knows him, not in the way the others have known of him, but actually knows who he was before his memories were stolen.

“I’m sorry,” Rob (no, not Rob, he is Hob) says, trying hard to keep his voice as light as possible, even as he feels his entire world shift sideways. “Have we met before?”

The creature rears back as if Hob had slapped him across the face. His pained expression grips something in Hob’s heart, something old, something achingly familiar. Hob knows then, in this exact moment, that this creature is something precious to him. A companion. A friend. His heart yearns to reach out this beautiful being, to touch, to hold, anything to reassure him that finally, he is no longer alone in this world.

But then the man’s eyes narrow, pain now replaced by unmistakable fury, and it is Hob who rears back now, a deep seated fear he knows but does not remember rising to the surface. 

“A memory demon has taken your mind,” the man growls, his voice suddenly octaves deeper than it had been when he had first greeted Hob. He stands suddenly, and moves to leave the bar.

Absolute terror grips Hob then, and he shouts, “Wait, don’t leave!” before getting up himself to chase the man.

The stranger (his Stranger?) is fast, but Hob manages to catch him just outside the door. He grips the other man’s arm tightly, hoping and praying that somehow he won’t disappear in a puff of smoke.

“Please don’t leave me again,” Hob begs. Again? Hob thinks to himself. Has the stranger left him before?

The man’s expression softens instantly.

“Had my hubris not gotten the better of me,” the Stranger says, all righteous fury gone from his voice, “I would not have allowed this to happen. My imprisonment has taken far more from me than I ever feared.”

Imprisonment?

“You were captured?” Hob breathes, shocked.

“I was,” the Stranger replies. “I did not miss our appointment in 1989 intentionally.”

“I wish I knew what you were talking about,” Hob says, practically in hysterics. “Will you tell me? Everything I’m missing? I…I haven’t been back to London since…”

“I had planned,” the Stranger interrupts him, “to seek the demon who stole your mind.”

“I’ve been without my memories for 20 years now,” Hob replies. “I can go on for a few more days. Just. Stay. Please.”

Something in his tone must appeal to the Stranger, because he sighs and then nods his agreement. 

“Have you a place where we may speak in private?” he asks, and Hob nods. 

“Not too far of a walk from here,” Hob replies, before he realizes he still has a death grip on the Stranger’s arm. He releases it, slowly, still not totally convinced the other won’t disappear if he lets go. When he does not, Hob jerks his head in the direction of his apartment, and then they begin to walk. 

“I guess we could start with names then?” Hob asks. “You, uh, you seemed to know mine. My true name anyways. I’m sorry that I’ve forgotten yours.”

The stranger huffs, and shakes his head, as if recalling a particularly humorous memory. Hob wonders if he’ll hear what it is in their talk tonight.

 “My name,” the man says, voice lowered to almost a purr, “is Dream.”

[thevelvetgoldmine]

THE SANDMAN VHS covers | part 1

[insp]

[softest-punk]

I would ask 8 for Dreamling, if that's ok

Oooh yes. 8: discovering common interests

---

Hob Gadling's flat is, as promised, much quieter than the pub below, and Dream is grateful for the respite from the growing crowd as afternoon turns to evening.

"Make yourself at home," Hob offers cheerfully. He has had no explanation of Dream's absence. It has taken only the word friends, uttered softly, just once, to turn the whole of Hob's attention and affection on him.

And Dream wants. Aches with the desire to unfurl before Hob, to allow him finally to close the distance between them. To reveal all his most tender places and have Hob touch them with his hard-won gentleness.

Instead he does as bid, wandering the flat, gravitating, inevitably, to the bookcases.

What he finds there comes as a surprise. There are volumes on history, yes, and a smattering of classics, a Complete Works of Shakespeare, well-read, which makes Dream's imaginary stomach twist. But in addition to that, and in far greater numbers than he understands to be usual, are books on dreams. Dictionaries of interpretation. Guides to lucid dreaming. Serious tomes on the psychology and biology of dreams, a self-contained library on symbolism. A collection of careworn notebooks, which Dream need only reach the barest tendril of intention towards to identify them as dream journals, documents not wholly unlike those in the Dreaming library with Hob's name on them.

He does not know. Cannot know. Could not possibly have guessed. Few consider the possibility of his existence at all, and fewer still have confirmation of it. And yet.

Hob appears beside him, interrupting his tactile study of the cover of a particularly cracked interpretive dictionary, and offers him, as promised, a mug of tea.

"I s'pose this makes me look like some kind of New Age nutter," Hob says. It is true that many of these books were authored by people who might be uncharitably described as such.

"You have a particular interest in dreams?" Dream asks, curling his fingers around the mug. His chest feels tight as he awaits his answer. Hob cannot and does not know. He would be incapable of hiding such knowledge, had he come by it. It is simply not in his nature—and he has no reason to do so.

Hob shrugs. "Always have. Even way back before we met, I always wondered what they were. What they meant. What they were for. If maybe I could control them, a bit. I've tried it," he says, gesturing to the volumes on lucid dreaming. "But never quite managed it. S'pose it's silly to you. I just. I don't know. One of the wonders of life, I suppose. A mystery I'd like to unravel someday."

Unravel me, then, Dream doesn't say, though the thing inside him, the tender, needy, fragile thing which has not been treated kindly in longer than the century of his captivity reaches out, grasping, desperate.

He takes a breath to speak, and only then decides on what to say. "And if I could tell you? Things about them no mortal knows?"

Hob's eyes light up with interest. "I'd listen to anything you wanted to tell me," he says, "my friend."

[cuubism]

I’m BEGGING for more “retired!Dream opens up a weird magic fey bookshop” au. Its so intriguing!

you are in luck. i wrote more

--

"So," Hob says, leaning in the doorway of Dream's study-of-sorts, "much as I love the recommendations, do you mind if I browse?"

He's taken, recently, to meeting Dream on the upper floor of the shop, bringing coffee and watching Dream label and sort his new books in incomprehensible categories. He usually gets some interesting book facts out of it, too, or strange little stories -- "this book washed up on the Sardinian shore some years ago", "this was signed by a long-dead author, I've been curious to see how long it will take for a collector to find it," "an old man bestowed this upon me on the eve of his death, it's the only copy in existence" and so on -- not to mention the pleasure of Dream's company. He is so odd, and so engaging.

Dream looks up at him now with a tiny smile that crinkles the corner of his eyes. "Of course. Find whatever you wish."

Hob has been wondering if Dream's serendipitous knack with books will extend to browsing, to random finds. Only one way to know.

He leaves Dream to his labeling and goes to wander the shop.

This time, he does get swallowed in Oneiromancy, where he finds Sleeping Worlds, a book about dream travel. Then he wanders deeper into the shop, passes categories like, "Cat Training," CLOCKS, "Mathematics: Easy -> Impossible", and, "♾". Of course he goes into Infinity, and picks up The Birth of Numbers, a book whose text starts in the center of the page and spirals outwards, font growing larger as the book goes on, and in another section called "Romance: DIFFICULT LEVEL" -- whatever the hell difficult means -- he picks up a tiny book that's just one line, one syllable on each page.

I

on

ly

want

ed

you

to

see.

God, Dream's shop is weird.

Dream finds him there some time later, deep in Sleeping Worlds. "I see you've had a productive day."

"Yeah, sorry, lost track of time."

Dream keeps looking at him with a little smirk.

Worry darts through Hob's stomach. "Wait, what time is it?"

"Midnight," says Dream, with satisfaction. "I've absorbed you."

Yeah, no kidding. Hob scrambles to his feet. "Jesus, Dream, sorry. I'll get out of your hair."

"No matter. This is what The Library is for."

Hob goes to hand him the books, and he waves a hand. "Keep them, I will get them back eventually."

Ominous. Great.

"Gonna break into my house and retrieve them?" Hob asks. He probably wouldn't even mind, to be honest.

"Nothing so alarming." He gestures Hob forward, and Hob follows, lets Dream walk him out.

It is, indeed, pitch dark outside on their shared street. Hob's supposed to open the cafe at 6. Whoops.

"Thanks for the books, Dream," he says. "And for. Ten hours of distraction, apparently."

Dream leans in the narrow doorway of his shop. "Of course. Come browse... anytime."

And he melts back into the shadows as Hob steps down onto the street.

--

Hob wonders if he's an idiot for wanting to ask Dream out. Dream is clearly some kind of other thing, and hanging around him did kind of get Hob cursed. But the way he bites his lip when he's making notes in books is so cute. His unerring ability to make perfect book selections is both strange and endearing -- even the books Hob had picked up on his own had been exactly what he hadn't known he was looking for. Hob's heart picks up every time he steps into the cafe.

But if he's to ask out Dream, his own personal weird bookshop creature, he has to do it right.

And he knows how.

The next time Dream comes in for coffee, Hob sits down across from him and hands him a book. Dream looks at it in surprise, and Hob has the sudden thought that as the all-powerful selector of tomes, he probably isn't gifted books himself.

The book is called, Broken Hands. Hob had pulled it off his own shelf. Dream doesn't ask him what it is, instead he flips open the cover and reads, as Hob had hoped he would.

The first page of Broken Hands has the following paragraph:

Kissing her hand, he came to know himself. Kissing her mouth, he came to know them both. When they went onward, for now only in his mind, he kissed more of her, and more, and more, and then, he knew her. He wanted to know her.

Dream reads it, and looks back up at him. Offers a tiny smile. Yes, Hob knew he would get it.

"You have something you would like to ask me, Hob Gadling?" he says softly.

"You have something you want to answer?"

Dream takes a long sip of his coffee, but looks at Hob over the rim of the mug, a smile in his eyes. Then he swipes away the milk foam from his upper lip with his tongue and says, "I'd say that you are very foolish, to still wish to associate with someone who did, in a sense, get you cursed. But that I find myself grateful for this foolishness. People do often come back to the library, once they find it-- but they don't often come back for me."

It makes Hob sad to imagine--Dream the perennial custodian of The Library, shepherd of its patrons, gifting small touches of coincidence and magic, but always in the background, a bridge and not a destination. Meanwhile, Hob likes the strange books, but it's Dream he keeps wanting to hover around, to lure back into his own space.

He dares to take Dream's hand and squeezes. "...So?"

"I'd say that I'd like to get coffee with you, if you know a place."

Cheeky thing. "Yeah, there's a Starbucks a couple blocks down," Hob says, gesturing, and Dream chuckles. Hob's still holding his hand, and brings it to his lips for a light kiss, and gets to watch as Dream's cheeks tint pink. His heart lifts in his chest. So easy and light.

"You're gorgeous," he says, and that blush deepens. "I'd suffer even Starbucks for you."

"You would suffer much, then," says Dream.

"We'll get our Starbucks and wander around WHSmith and have a fabulous date," Hob says, and Dream's face goes through the most exquisite journey of horror.

"You demand too much," he says, faint. "You enjoy my suffering."

"Little bit, yeah." Hob's certainly enjoying the reaction.

Then Dream looks at him in challenge. "Very well," he declares. "You've set the date. Now you must follow through."

Hob can't even spare a thought to the distasteful activities he's now gotten himself into--he has a date with Dream. "So that's a yes?"

Dream smiles again, a tiny, pleased thing. "It is a yes, Hob Gadling."

--

They do go to Starbucks. Hob is treated to the glorious sight of Dream sipping a pink drink out of a long straw, which is so worth dealing with the coffee. Then he indeed drags Dream to WHSmith, where Dream stands in the middle of the brightly-lit store, spins in a circle staring at carefully lined book displays with wide eyes, says, "Hell would be more merciful," and bolts away. Hob follows him, laughing.

Outside, he finds Dream leaning in the shade of a tree, looking vaguely shell-shocked. Hob really shouldn't keep laughing at him, but he can't help it. "Were you traumatized permanently by the big chain store?"

"Yes," says Dream, but, despite the perilous adventure, smiles. "You are a cruel man, Hob Gadling."

"Nah. Just harnessed the fluorescent lighting to chase you back into the safety of my arms."

"Oh?" Dream pushes off the tree and steps closer, until he's standing just before Hob, close enough to touch. "Was that the goal?"

Hob takes the leap that's offered and touches Dream's cheek with a light hand. "Did it work?"

This close, in the midday light, Dream's eyes are almost grey. The shade of the tree dapples his skin. It's still odd to see him out of the contained space of his bookshop, of Hob's cafe, but it does make this feel more real. A part of the world beyond the spun-sugar story of their orbiting binary stars.

Dream rests a feather light hand on Hob's chest. Studies Hob from under his eyelashes. And instead of answering, he leans up and, with that same light touch, presses his lips to Hob's.

Hob revels in the mere touch of him for a moment, but doesn't let it stand at light for long. He takes Dream's face between his hands and deepens the kiss, sweeping his tongue into Dream's mouth, swallowing Dream's hum of pleasure. If only he could put into the kiss what he had felt when Dream had handed him Nightingales. A sudden finding of something long lost that was always meant to be rooted in his heart.

When they part, he makes good on a promise and does pull Dream into his arms. It feels like a great indulgence. It also feels right.

"Make me a solemn promise, Hob Gadling," Dream says against Hob's cheek, arms wrapped around his back.

"Anything."

"Never take me here ever again."

Hob laughs into his hair, squeezing him tight. "What could one possibly want from here when The Library exists?"

This seems to greatly gratify Dream, who preens in Hob's arms. Hob kisses the shell of his ear, then his cheek, then they part again, and he takes Dream's hand. "I'm glad you expanded your horizons with me for a day."

"And now I will shrink them again," says Dream. "Except for one." To which he runs his thumb along Hob's lower lip, a touch Hob sways forward to follow almost drunkenly as Dream smirks. "Come."

He starts leading Hob back in the direction of their quiet street, and far far away from any fluorescent lighting, and Hob follows, touching his lips fondly. And lets himself be cautiously, tentatively hopeful that this will continue spiraling up into something real, because he wants it so bad. Curses and all.

[softest-punk]

I'd love if you could do 27 with Dream and Hob 💗💗💗

OOh I CAN :D

27: sharing an umbrella in the rain, or a coat/blanket in the cold

---

After six hundred-odd years of living mostly in London, the rain ought not to come as a surprise to Hob Gadling.

Unfortunately, it somehow does. Perhaps because the day had started out with open blue skies—an actual surprise, considering the location—and the promise of warm, sunny weather.

By mid-afternoon it'd been spitting, the faintest pit-pat-pit-pat against his office window, and now, as he stands uneasily on the threshold between nice dry university building and partially-underwater footpath, it's bucketing down.

The day itself had been as miserable as the weather is now, too. There'd been a departmental meeting that'd run over by nearly an hour first thing, and he'd had to run—in oxfords, on shiny polished floors—to make it to his lecture in something like reasonable time. Then he'd had to take a student aside to talk about serious plagiarism, and he hates it, he knows people don't cheat for no reason, and he's gotten through plenty of his life cheating and stealing and it feels hypocritical but also, he likes his job and he doesn't want anyone else to catch it first because other people get inordinately upset about it.

All that had been before he'd managed to spill coffee all over his shirt. He keeps a spare in his office for just such an eventuality on account of knowing that his level of dexterity is permanently fixed at middling, but he still feels vaguely sticky under it.

He's had worse, of course. Much worse. He's being a baby about it. A huddle of three students hurries past under the same umbrella, and for a moment he fantasises about being one of them. Mostly dry, relatively warm, and in good company, judging by the laughter. He envies them. There's something wonderfully intimate about sharing an umbrella, heads bent together, safe in your own personal shelter. Even with a kind stranger heading your way, but it's so much better with a friend.

He sighs, and focuses on the footpath again, only to find himself looking at a pair of familiar boots.

"Dream?" he asks, blinking as he takes in, firstly, a surprise visit from his friend, but also vastly more surprising, the umbrella he's carrying. Black, naturally.

"You were daydreaming," he says.

Hob supposes he had been. "And you keep an eye on my daydreams, do you?" Hob teases.

"I have been waiting for an appropriate moment to visit you all day," Dream says. It might be Hob's imagination—as he understands it, Dream is always his imagination, sort of—but there's a faint blush staining his cheeks as he says it.

Hob decides that, on his mental scale of possible Dream behaviour, this is incredibly sweet.

He steps under the offered umbrella, forced to brush shoulders with Dream to keep them both dry.

"Something on your mind, then?" Hob asks, the misery of the day rolling off his shoulders as he walks next to Dream. From his sanctuary under the umbrella, the rain smells fresh and renewing, washes away the misery instead of contributing to it.

"Yes," Dream says after a moment. "You."

[martybaker]

Dreamling week Day 7 - AU

A Knight’s Tale screencap redraws because i cannot stop thinking about this au, it fits them too well

Hob pretending to be a knight, Dream aksing him to lose to prove his feelings, then asking him to win 🙃

Also, I tried drawing Matthew as a human but it didn’t feel right, so for the purposes of this au let’s say he’s a shapeshifter?? 😅

idk we’re sprinkling in a little magic i guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also please do zoom in or check out the close ups under read more, the horizontal format makes them so small on the app 🥹

Versions without bg

[densewentz]

more dreamling dad au bc thats just what i do now apparently i like lazy afternoon naps and so do our boys

[mimisempai]

That's literally how it happened…

[cuubism]

At first Hob isn't even sure the shop is open. The tiny door inset above a few steps, the utter lack of welcoming signage, the windows packed with unlabelled stacks of books--it doesn't exactly scream come in and buy something. As Hob steps up to the door, he really expects it to be locked, or for a sign to fall from the ceiling reading, abandon all hope here, mortal.

But the door to the bookshop--the name of which he's yet to determine, again with the utter lack of signage thing--just swings open at his touch, and he steps into a narrow hallway made entirely of--of course!--books.

Dust rises from the rug as he carefully makes his way deeper into the meandering corridors. The lightbulbs overhead are dim and in desperate need of replacement. The stacks are teetering and untouched. If he learned the place had been sitting here on this winding side street, exactly the same, for the past seven hundred years, he wouldn't be at all surprised.

And now Hob's marring its mysterious mausoleum aura by opening a jaunty modern coffee shop across the street.

Whoops.

Hence why he's bringing a peace offering before he accidentally starts a war over noise or crowds or god knows what else. Most places would probably be happy about increased foot traffic, but that's not the sense he's getting here.

This is all, of course, assuming he does find an owner, and not just a skeleton manning a till somewhere in this place long gone dark.

Hob doesn't find any customers. He does find several interesting-looking side hallways labelled things like, ~ the occult ~ , Oneiromancy, and "falconry -- advanced" and has to drag himself back into focus because the only thing worse than starting a turf war with a mysterious bookstore owner on his cafe's opening day is accidentally spilling the coffee he's brought--as a peace offering!--all over some ancient magical text.

"Hello?" he calls, finally giving up on the creeping about. "Anyone there?"

No answer. All Hob finds is a rickety set of stairs leading up the next level. So he ascends.

At the top is an even more cluttered room of books. This time in disorganized, unlabelled stacks on every surface. Waiting to be shelved, maybe? And in the center of it all, sitting cross-legged on the floor with several of these books spread out in a confusing array before him, is who Hob can only presume to be the owner.

An owner who is not dead, nor ancient and decrepit as Hob had kind of been picturing. Definitely not decrepit at all. Oohhhh dear.

The lithe, dark-haired, fey thing that is the owner tapes a note inside another book and says, in a distracted tone, "Can I help you?"

"Uh," says Hob, because he came here on a mission but he's gotten really turned around, "do you drink coffee?"

This gets him a raised eyebrow, but the shop owner does turn to look at him, staring up from his position on the floor. Christ he's pretty, spectacles and all. If there is a battle over street noise levels, Hob's going to lose by dint of caving automatically to those eyes. Pathetic.

The bookstore owner looks at the coffee in Hob's hand, then back at Hob's face. "Why?"

Hob thrusts the cup in his direction. "Here."

The owner looks alarmed now, but takes the cup, gingerly, peering at it as if he thinks Hob might have given him pureed nightshade instead. "Why?" he repeats, and then, because apparently his level of self-preservation doesn't extend to things like not drinking random shit thrust at him by strangers, takes a sip, and hums in appreciation.

"I-- fuck, sorry--" Hob sits down on the floor, which only makes him look more like a maniac to be honest-- "I just-- I just opened across the street? The cafe? So I just wanted to say hi and-- holy shit, is your name actually Dream? Were you a stripper in another life or something?"

This because he's finally spotted a tiny nametag pin on the bookstore owner's cardigan-- a cat curled around a book where the cover reads, I am Dream.

"Yes," says Dream, and Hob has no idea if that's in response to the first question, the second, or both. Both is terrifying to think about. As is the fact that Hob even asked that. "The cafe, you said?"

"Mmhmm," Hob agrees, cheeks burning. Oh, he's making a right mess of this, all right.

"Hmm," says Dream, peering at him over the coffee cup. This indicates nothing to Hob about how he feels about the cafe situation.

"I just worried that more noise and stuff might bother you," Hob rushes to explain. "You seem. To. You know. Like your quiet. Is all."

"It is my understanding that cafes and bookstores frequently have symbiotic relationships," says Dream evenly, though he's still watching Hob with unnerving intensity.

Well. That was easy. Maybe Hob was just worrying over nothing. Wanting to be liked when it wouldn't have been an issue.

"Alright," he says, letting out a breath. "Well. Good!"

"Good," echoes Dream, with a tiny, wry smile.

"What is this place anyway? I've seen no signage whatsoever."

"It's called The Library," Dream says.

Hob waits for him to explain. He doesn't. "Um, but... isn't it a shop?"

Dream raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "And?"

"So..." Hob says, "it's not a library."

"Purchasing something is but extended borrowing from the universe," says Dream, like that makes any sense at all.

But Hob decides there's other things he'd rather do with a pretty goth bookstore/library/whatever owner than argue semantics. "What do you carry, then?"

Now Dream preens like a cat. "The Library contains every book in print."

Now it's Hob's turn to raise an eyebrow. "That seems... unlikely? Impossible?"

Dream's self-satisfied little smile doesn't fade. "You are welcome to browse the stacks and let me know if there is anything you cannot find."

And, well, it's true that Hob didn't really get a sense of just how far back this place goes. It looks small from the street, but he's already wandered pretty far in just to find Dream, and has yet to reach a back wall.

"I will definitely have to come back," he agrees. And get lost. Definitely get lost. He's not even sure he can find his way out. He'll probably get swallowed up in Oneiromancy.

"In return I will be sure to visit your cafe," says Dream. He says it so strangely, like crossing into a foreign land. I will be sure to visit your court. "Are you open late?"

"On Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, yup," says Hob.

"Excellent." Dream inclines his head imperiously to Hob. "Thank you. For the coffee."

Hob figures he should let him get back to his labeling. He has plenty of his own work, too.

"Yeah, sure, any time. Good to meet you, Dream."

And then he scurries away before he can make it any weirder, makes his meandering way out of "The Library," and doesn't get lost in Oneiromancy.

This time.

--

The following night, Hob looks up from the till to find Dream standing across the counter from him. He looks much the same as before, with the addition of a long dark coat over his clothes, and no reading glasses this time. He offers Hob a tiny smile. "Hob Gadling."

Gosh, he looks, if possible, even prettier in the warm lighting of the cafe than in the darkness of his shop. Though to be honest, Hob had half-convinced himself he'd hallucinated Dream's existence. He hasn't seen anyone go in or out of the shop since.

"Dream," he greets, with a smile. "Anything I can get for you?"

"It is I who have something for you." He hands Hob what must be a book, though it's wrapped in brown paper. "Consider it a return gift. Or perhaps. A welcome."

And before Hob can even ask if he wants coffee or something, if he wants to sit down, he slips back out through the crowd and onto the street like a vapor, and then he's gone.

Hob tears open the paper. And then stares at the book in astonishment.

It's the book. Everyone has one. The book once read but since forgotten in the shuffle of time; title, author, too vague in recollection to pin down. Unsearchable. Never found, for all that the heart of the story might have lodged its way in somewhere deep.

It's one of those books that he remembers in blistering detail now that it's in his hands, that he read in uni but couldn't have found for the life of him on his own, and Dream's just handed it to him over the counter of his cafe.

He runs his fingertip over the midnight blue cover, the embossed lettering. In Search of Nightingales. And it's only as he looks up again at the hidden shop across the street, that he realizes he never told Dream his name, either.

[ryuutales]

2x04 | 4x08

Love is clockworks and cold steel, fingers too numb to feel. Squeeze the handle, blow out the candle, love is blindness. (x)