Like Real People Do | Chapter 9: Unexpected Guests
Dream of the Endless (Morpheus)/Hob Gadling | Part 2 of Stranger Ways | 6k
Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, Relationship Negotiation, Communication, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless|Morpheus, Tenderness, Food as a Metaphor for Love, The Dreaming Realm, Eldritch Dream of the Endless|Morpheus, Not comics or TV canon but a secret third thing
"Azazel was a right git who wanted to hurt you and figured your squishy human would be an easier target. As my students would say, he 'fucked around and found out.' And you did warn me, love. You spent all that time at the start trying to scare me away. It was more informed consent than I ever got for immortality and I haven't given up on that yet. I chose this. I chose you. On purpose. You are my love."
Me, sweating as I don't have a ton of fluff written 😅
So instead I shall gift you a little thing I wrote that's not quite fluffy, but I'm not sure if it's actually going to amount to anything, just some musings that I wrote down.
“You are. Pensive, Hob.”
Hob blinks, coming back to himself. “Yeah.” He sighs, takes a sip of his tea. Dream waits, with all the infinite patience of a geologic age. Hob tries to pull his scattered thoughts together.
“I, uh, taught about myself today. Wynkyn de Worde.” He smiles a little, at his past self. He’d been so young. “Old Billy died just two years after our meeting, and I took over. Had to figure out what kind of stuff was worth printing, since we’d started to get competition.”
Dream listens, clearly fascinated. It’s not just the hundred and thirty years that he missed; Hob is learning that the years immediately following their century meetings are of extra interest to Dream. The kind of things Hob would skip over during his recitation in favour of more recent events.
If he’d known then what he knows now, he never would have left the printing business, would’ve personally ensured as many stories made it out into the world as he could. If he’d recognized Dream’s interest for what it was, he would’ve chased stories in every lifetime.
It is, he reflects ruefully, exactly why Dream didn’t give him any such indication.
“One of the really popular ones was a version of an old French story. Valentine and Orson.” He hums, a little bit, the words coming back to him, slow and aching, like the turning of rusty gears, but they come. “Alas I was borne in an vnhappy houre for to suffre suche payne, and for to fall from so hye estate vnto suche pouerte, for of all the vnhappyes I am the moost vnhappyest. Now is al my ioyes transmued in to dystres, my laughynges chaunged in to wepynges, my songes conuerted in to syghes.” It had been one of the things his mind had latched onto, as he sat in misery, the chill of the cobble streets leaching into his backside.
Dream makes a sound; Hob shakes himself a bit, gives him a fleeting smile. “It’s all right, love,” he says, and it is. The cool fingers that curl around his when he reaches out makes it more so. “Anyway, I was just thinking. That story, it’s about twin brothers abandoned in the woods — that’s Romulus and Remus. They’re separated and Valentine grows up to be the emperor, while Orson becomes a wild man who is eventually tamed by Valentine and becomes his servant and companion — that’s Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Connections I couldn’t make at the time, but now…”
He takes a deep breath, trying to figure out how to word what he means. Dream just watches him, the way he’s watched everything since those ancient Sumerians were putting stylus to tablet and even before.
“It’s all just… stories, isn’t it?” The old stories will always return to their original forms, Dream had said, and Christ, Hob had thought he’d meant Shakespeare, meant his patronage, but it’s more than that, older, back and back throughout the ages, humanity making sense of the world, howling at the dark. “It’s all… you.”
“Yes,” Dream says simply, voice gone layered and resonant, and Hob wonders what it says about him, that his first instinct is to reach out and touch, to lay hands on the demiurge. Probably it’s something profound about the human experience, but Hob has Dream in his arms, on his sofa, drinking his tea, and finds that all the rest of it doesn’t much matter.
Like Real People Do | Chapter 8: The War between Heaven and Hell is over
Like Real People Do | Dream of the Endless (Morpheus)/Hob Gadling | Part 2 of Stranger Ways | 4k
Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, Relationship Negotiation, Communication, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless|Morpheus, Tenderness, Food as a Metaphor for Love, The Dreaming Realm, Eldritch Dream of the Endless|Morpheus, Not comics or TV canon but a secret third thing
"We have taken back the key," Remiel says, voice strong, but without its otherworldly resonance. "Hell will again be the abode of the demons. The damned will be returned to Hell; and there they will once again be punished." Duma holds the key as Remiel speaks. "The demons may once more take up residence in Hell, and will be expected to play their part in the rehabilitation of the damned. The War between Heaven and Hell is over."
Dream wonders what Hob would have said to that, were he here.
Like Real People Do | Dream of the Endless (Morpheus)/Hob Gadling | Part 2 of Stranger Ways | 4k
Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, Relationship Negotiation, Communication, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless|Morpheus, Tenderness, Food as a Metaphor for Love, The Dreaming Realm, Eldritch Dream of the Endless|Morpheus, Not comics or TV canon but a secret third thing
Hob can see the shape of it, in how uncharacteristically unprepared Dream is. In the austere, gothic throne, all alone on its spindly pedestal. His instinct is to stand, but then he thinks of Dream lounging across the steps and sits at the top by Dream's feet, off to the side. "Might as well look like I belong here, ey?"
The heated look Dream gives him could melt stone.
Dreamling | E | Caretaking, Porn with Plot | COMPLETE
--
“You’re surprised to see me,” Destruction says, once they’ve been ushered inside, cups of tea pressed into their hands. Hob thinks that’s a polite way to describe how Dream has not stopped staring at his brother like he’ll disappear if he looks away. “You weren’t looking for me?”
Hob answers, when it’s clear Dream isn’t going to. “We had no idea.” He’d been early in Dream’s service when Destruction had vanished, leaving behind only a note. Do not follow me. As he and Dream had become mired ever further in their duty, he’d thought uncharitably of Destruction. Now, he understands. “Dream had a vision.”
“My last.” Dream speaks up, abandoning contemplation of his tea to meet his brother’s eyes. “I am no longer the oracle.”
Destruction blinks, then pulls his brother into a rough, one-armed hug. “I’m proud of you,” he says. “I hoped you had it in you.”
“Hob was hurt,” Dream sniffs. Hob’s heart swoops at it being presented that way, like it was the only consideration.
“So that’s what happened,” Destruction says. Both of them look at him questioningly. “The Endless kingdom announced that Burgess took you.” Dream stiffens, and Hob doesn’t hesitate to pull him closer. “Burgess denies it, of course, but Destiny also held public funerals for the dead guards, and it’s extremely difficult to explain those any other way. Of course, Burgess can’t produce you, either, so all the realms are wondering what to believe. Some think Burgess killed you, others are thinking the Endless are hiding you to lend credence to their accusations, but the longer they go without registered prophecies, the harder the naysayers have to work to justify their position.”
Dream is staring at his tea again. Hob kisses his temple, unsure of what to say. It had been easier, out in the woods, to ignore the impact of what they’d done. If Dream regrets it now, they can hardly take it back.
“Burgess did capture me,” Dream says, sounding far away. “Hob was. Injured. Defending me. He came for me. And I found… I could not return. I will not return.”
Destruction smiles ruefully. “I can understand that.”
Dream still has a look of fierce determination. “I would like to… send a message. If I can. To our siblings. To let them know I am well.”
Destruction rubs the back of his neck, the barb clearly striking home. “I can probably help you with that. There’s a town about a day’s journey from here — the road goes the other way around the forest, so I get the seclusion but also the convenience. I’ve made some connections who might be able to get a letter through discreetly.”
“You might let them know how you fare, also,” Dream says mildly. “We did not know.”
Destruction spreads his hands in his lap, looking surprisingly small for such a large man. “At first, I didn’t know how I could without giving myself away. Then… I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me.”
“We did.”
“Well.” Destruction looks away, unable to quite hide the smile on his face. “Now I know.” He looks back, eyebrow raised. “I always thought it would be you who’d find me. For years I lived half-expecting you would somehow see where I was and send the soldiers after me.”
Dream scoffs, shaking his head. “Then you know little of how my visions worked,” he says. “And also. Little of me. To think that I would not respect your decision. Despite how little I understood it.”
Destruction blinks. Hob feels oddly comforted to know he’s not alone in having underestimated Dream.
“I thought the vision was leading us… to our home,” Dream continues. “That is what I saw. I knew direction, but no specifics.”
“Well, my home is your home,” Destruction says, rallying. “You can stay here as long as you like, until we can get you on your feet. I’ve picked up carpentry — built this house, in fact — so I’d be glad to help you with one of your own.”
“Destruction—” Hob begins.
“Call me Ollie, please.”
“Ollie. Thank you.” Hob hadn’t been sure how they were going to make a life, undercover, with a minimum of applicable skills. They would have figured it out, of that he has no doubt. But he’s suffused with relief at the thought that they won’t have to do it alone.
“Don’t thank me.” Ollie nods toward Dream. “I figure I owe him one.”
Three months later…
Hob opens his eyes slowly. Nothing has woken him; he is well rested. Sun streams gently through the curtains they’d saved for weeks to afford the fabric for. He takes a moment to breathe, to savour the quiet of the moment, of their little house, of the bed he shares with Dream. The soft susurrus of the sea on the cliffs below meld with Dream’s breathing. Dream, who rests in his arms, safe and warm and at peace.
He presses a kiss to Dream’s riotous dark hair. Dream’s brow scrunches adorably and he shifts, but does not stir. They both sleep deeply nowadays, and Hob would never begrudge him his rest. The dark circles under Dream’s eyes, once such a permanent feature that Hob could scarce remember his face without them, are now hardly to be seen.
Outside, birds chirp in their little garden. He can smile, now, to remember the rush to get seeds in the ground as soon as possible. Destruction — Ollie — had assured them that he would be more than happy to provide them with whatever they needed, but Dream was determined that they should have a garden, starting themselves on the path to self-sufficiency, and thus a cavalcade of parsnips, sprouts, lettuce, carrots and turnips await harvest at the first frost. He cherishes the memory of Dream with dirt under his nails and a sparkle in his eyes beaming up at him from the ground, envisioning salads and soups. The pottery, whose byproducts and miscasts fill the rooms around them, is Dream’s main contribution to their subsistence, but Hob could not have predicted how much Dream would take to gardening.
“The people needed me,” Dream told him once, as he gazed out the window upon their field of tiny shoots, cup of tea in hand. Hob notices his wording now: ‘the’ people, like he no longer feels a claim to them. “I told myself it was all worth it, no matter what, for them. But these plants? They need me. Without me, they wouldn’t be here.”
Hob understood that. Doing something with your own hands and seeing the results. He’d had that, with his training. Had it now, with the odd jobs he and Ollie do for the town and crofters in the area. Dream hadn’t, really. “I love you,” he said, the words slipping out of him at the slightest provocation. “...And. You're happy?”
Dream turned that tiny smile on him, then. “I am,” he said. “Happy.”
Paradoxically Hob felt ready to burst into tears. He pushed trembling fingers into Dream's hair, and Dream leaned into the caress.
“I'm so glad, love,” he managed. “That's all I've ever wanted for you, you know.”
“That is well,” Dream hummed. “Since you are such a large part of it.”
Hob could do nothing else about that but kiss him, and his tea and honey flavoured mouth was the taste of happiness.
Now, in the present, Hob is able to roll over in bed, drawing his beloved close to his body. He is able to kiss the slight, sweetly-growing swell of Dream’s belly with every ounce of tenderness and devotion he is capable of, before slipping between his thighs. He feels so full of love and light that it’s a wonder he doesn’t burst.
Dream sighs as Hob sets his mouth to work, rousing just enough to let his legs fall open, allowing Hob better access. A hand descends on Hob’s head, clumsy encouragement. Hob smiles against Dream’s skin. They have had many mornings that started just like this, slow, lazy, peaceful. Hob knows he will never take a single one for granted.
He luxuriates between Dream’s thighs, in what is honestly his favourite activity. There’s something special about the way they’re able to recontextualize what used to be something so fraught between them into nothing more than simple joy and pleasure. Hob can almost lose himself, whiling away the time until he brings Dream to climax, or would, were it not for—
“Hob,” Dream whines, awake now and demanding. Hob lifts his head and grins, his beard soaked.
“Yes, darling?” he prompts innocently. He knows what Dream wants, but he will never lose the thrill of hearing him say it.
“Your cock,” Dream says, his furious blush doing nothing to curb his imperious tone. “Inside. Now, please.”
“Of course, love.” Hob doesn’t tease any further. Not about this. He’s inside Dream in short order, brought low, as he always is, by how easily Dream takes him now.
“Good morning, beloved,” he says sweetly, as Dream pulls him closer still, ankles behind his thighs. He will tease him now, though, just a little bit. “Never would’ve thought it, but you’ve turned into a proper little cockslut now, haven’t you, love?” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust of his hips and Dream moans, panting up at the ceiling. “You just can’t get enough of being filled up, can you?”
“Hob,” Dream keens, hair and eyes wild. “Please, more.”
Hob obliges, setting a deep, rolling rhythm that has them both clutching each other.
“Gods—fuck love, I love it too, you feel so good around me, sweetheart, I’m so fucking lucky—” Even months ago, he could never have imagined it, this wanton, writhing thing in his bed, taking everything Hob can give, raising himself into Hob’s thrusts, legs and arms wrapped around him.
“Hob, Hob,” Dream cries, reduced to that single syllable, as ever, and Hob is afire with it.
“So perfect, so beautiful, I love you so much, Dream, fuck—” he pants, kissing every inch of him he can reach, both of them trembling so hard against each other it’s like they’re one creature. Being allowed to make love to Dream will never feel anything other than transcendental.
“Fill me, Hob, oh please—” Dream sobs as he shudders and comes and Hob is gone, in a rush of light and sound, pressed as close to Dream as possible, all he can hear, smell, touch, taste… It’s exactly where he wants to be.
He rolls over so as not to crush Dream, lying next to him and just breathing, one hand protectively on Dream’s belly. His first, inane thought is that they are going to have to look into contraceptive methods sometime in the near future, or else Dream is going to spend half his life pregnant. He huffs a laugh.
Dream hums questioningly, and Hob shakes his head, pulling him closer. It’s a problem for another time. He just basks in the moment.
It might be minutes or hours that Hob lies there, holding and being held by the centre of his existence, but eventually Dream shifts against him.
“Hob,” he whines, needy. Hob huffs a laugh.
“Already, sweetheart?” he says, desperately fond. Dream pouts and squirms, colour high on his cheeks.
“Please, Hob,” he wheedles, as though those words wouldn’t already induce Hob to do absolutely anything he wished. As though Hob hadn’t promised never to leave him wanting. He kisses Dream’s blushing cheek, and then returns to his spot between his thighs, to what he has always considered his rightful place.
His beloved begs so sweetly, and it is Hob’s greatest delight to give in.
Here's a snip from something that I may not publish.
But as he wakes in the night and notes with concern the cold space in the bed next to him, padding out to the kitchen in search of a snack, and finds Dream sitting in the shadows, coiled on himself like the creature he once was, he forces himself to look the gift horse in the mouth.
Dream looks terrible, the lamp over the stove doing him no favours, his skin sickly and pale, dark pits of circles under his eyes.
"I do not sleep, Hob," Dream says dully.
"But you're human now," Hob says, uncomprehending. Not wanting to comprehend. "You have to."
Dream shakes his head.
"It's been three days!" Hob exclaims, horrified. Dream has been having mood swings, screaming and crying at the drop of a hat. Hob had thought it a reasonable reaction to sudden humanity. If only.
"She'll throw me in the black hole again," Dream sobs, almost incoherent. Hob has never had to try to understand Dream before, each word measured and clear. "And then Burgess--"
His mouth clicks shut, but Hob doesn't need to hear any more. He thinks of what little Dream has told him about his captivity. Summoned and bound.
If something about the process of falling asleep is triggering Dream, then that makes all of this very simple.
"That's not going to happen to you," Hob says, with all of the certainty with which he'd said he wasn't going to die. Dream looks up at him with wide, wet eyes. He's no longer a pretty crier, but he's still the most beautiful thing Hob's ever seen. "I'll watch over you. I'll keep you safe."
You need not come to my defense, Dream had once said. Well, Dream needs someone now. Hob's pulled lots of all-nighters in his long life, most of them for worse reasons. To do it for Dream is nothing.
Dream is still staring at him. "Do you trust me?" Hob asks. Normally he wouldn't. But none of this is normal.
"As no other." Dream's answer is unhesitating, and oh Hob wishes the situation were less dire so he could properly enjoy it.
"Come on then, love," Hob says, coaxing Dream to lie down, resting his head in his lap.
Like Real People Do | Chapter 6: The Ruler of Hell
Like Real People Do | Dream of the Endless (Morpheus)/Hob Gadling | Part 2 of Stranger Ways | 6k
Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, Relationship Negotiation, Communication, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless|Morpheus, Tenderness, Food as a Metaphor for Love, The Dreaming Realm, Eldritch Dream of the Endless|Morpheus
Hob gulps. "When you say every deity and demiurge…"
"Oh yeah, everything's real, dude," Matthew squawks.
Like Real People Do | Chapter 5: In which the dead return
Like Real People Do | Dream of the Endless (Morpheus)/Hob Gadling | Part 2 of Stranger Ways | 4k
Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, Relationship Negotiation, Communication, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless|Morpheus, Tenderness, Food as a Metaphor for Love, The Dreaming Realm, Eldritch Dream of the Endless|Morpheus
Another plane, another train, another bottle in the brain, the boys cry, distorted as Hob yanks the headset off his head.
He opens his mouth and closes it several times, trying to regain the power of speech. To dig out the name buried under six hundred years of memories.
"C…Crispin?"
