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cuubism · 8 months

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the better to see you with, my dear | spy hob/king dream au

canon-adjacent, spy!hob, post-character death, blood & violence, king & loyal knight dynamic, slow burn, developing relationship, loyalty devotion and sacrifice, power dynamics, hob gadling - royal spy of the dreaming

Hob escapes from Death and finds himself in the Dreaming. Instead of sending him back, the King of Dreams makes him an offer: will you be my spy?

[cover image from Arthur Rackham's illustration for Little Red Riding Hood]

The... person? creature? that dragged Hob from his hiding place in the forest had six arms, and three sets of eyes.

Though that seemed to be on the more normal end of things that went on around here, so Hob wasn’t too fazed.

It caught him by luck, followed him when Hob had made the—foolish in retrospect—decision to sneak into the nearby town to try to learn something about this strange realm he’d found himself in. Curiosity had done him in. His mum had always said it would, when he’d fallen in streams chasing minnows and gotten sick from eating berries picked in the woods. Touch with your eyes, Hob, not with your hands. Hob had never been very good at that.

Up ’til then, Hob had sequestered himself in the forest, keeping to himself and scavenging for plants to eat. He hadn’t seemed to need much food, didn’t get hungry often or lose weight when he didn’t eat, which he supposed made sense considering— well. Considering. But it kept him occupied. Kept him from thinking about it too much.

And he explored the fantastical forest. Its trees broader than he could wrap his arms around, reaching up into the sky higher than he could see. Its grassy dells, with wildflowers in detail and variety he’d never seen, its bird and insect life, its towering waterfalls and quiet brooks. Hob loved the forest. There was something truly ancient about it, something wilder than he could comprehend.

It was almost enough to distract him from why he was there.

But he got too curious. He wanted to know more, he wanted to understand the rest of this world, what realm he was in— so he’d gone searching for people.

And drawn something back with him.

Inevitable, really. Hob couldn’t hide in some place he didn’t belong forever.

The six-legged thing that had caught him was now dragging him across a wide, grassy field, traveling faster than Hob would have thought possible. Its claws dug into his arm, nearly drawing blood. Hob didn’t bother fighting back. He’d tried, once along the way, and gotten what felt like a sack of bricks to the face from the creature’s fist. No use trying to take it in a fight; better to keep his wits about him and look for a chance to escape. Nor did he bother asking it any questions. He’d tried that, too, and gotten only stony silence.

In any case, he was too preoccupied with taking in the scene around him.

Hob had been aware that this place, this… realm, he supposed, had a castle. He had seen the strange silhouette of it in the distance whenever he was at the forest’s edge, had heard occasional gossip by eavesdropping on actual denizens of the realm. But despite his curiosity, he’d steered far clear; the last thing he’d needed was to attract powerful attention.

Now, they were approaching said castle, and Hob let his curiosity run free, gaping up at the towering marble spires. The seemingly endless wings, the intricate carvings, hell, the elevated bridge that crossed the river to the front gates… he had never seen nor even heard of anything approaching its like back in his world. It was like something out of a children’s story, a fairy tale.

Was that where he was? The land of faerie? That couldn’t possibly be good.

Better than death, though, had to be. Hell, Hob would join ranks with the bloody fey if it kept him alive, what did he care where his loyalty lay?

The palace gates creaked open at their approach, and the creature pulled Hob through into the chill, shadowed rooms within. They stepped into a hall so massive Hob couldn’t see the ceiling or the end of it, but he had barely a moment to take any of it in before his captor was flinging him down onto the marble floor.��

Hob just barely managed to catch himself on his bound hands. He panted, trying to catch his breath from the forced uphill march to get there, hair hanging in his eyes.

"There is no need for the dramatics," said a voice. A voice that seemed to come from the sky above and the shadows beneath his body and from within his own chest, resounding like the perpetual hum of the heavens turning. “Leave him to me.”

In his peripheral vision, the creature bowed jerkily and scurried off, leaving Hob alone with the owner of that voice.

He wrenched his tired head up. He was in an immense throne room, grander than anything he could have imagined, pillars reaching up to a ceiling that faded away into starlight, massive stained-glass windows that cast triangles of red light down on Hob’s face. How there could be sunlight and a night sky up above at once, Hob didn't know, but then, he still didn’t know what this place was. What kingdom he had found himself in. He had been too preoccupied with not getting caught to risk asking.

The owner of that voice was seated at the top of a long, winding staircase, the windows at his back, sprawled on one of the top steps rather than on the throne that was presumably there for that purpose. From a distance, Hob could only really make out the shape of him – the sweeping black lines of his cloak, the sharp angles of his limbs, his dark hair, his unnaturally bright eyes.

He didn't look like a king as Hob was used to seeing them depicted, with all their gold and finery. But he felt like one, in the way Hob stood at the altar of a church and felt the presence of the Lord.

The King stood, a slow, fluid motion like the rising of the moon. He strode down the steps toward Hob, cloak dragging at his ankles.

Hob could have run for it. There was nobody else in the room, nobody holding him captive, no guards, no retinue.

It was precisely because of that that he did not. No guards meant the King was absolutely confident in his ability to restrain Hob himself if need be, and more besides.

What the hell kind of kingdom was this?

“Robert Gadling.” The King stopped before Hob, close enough that Hob had to tilt his head up to look at him from where he was still kneeling on the floor. He had a beautiful face, a regal face, imperious tilt to it and all. Eyes like moonlight on winter’s first snowfall.

“Hob, if you please,” said Hob, because he had never known when to shut the fuck up.

The King’s lips twitched, and Hob had no way of knowing but he would have sworn it was amusement. “Hob, then.” Despite the stone walls, the empty space, his voice did not echo. It was simply there. Hob felt it inside his head, inside his heart. “Would you care to explain to me what you are doing in the Dreaming?”

“The Dreaming?” Hob asked.

The King raised an eyebrow. “You stand in the Kingdom of Dreams, my kingdom. You do not know this?”

“Uh.” Hob ducked his head, abashed. “No? I kind of just... found myself here,” he hedged.

Then there was a hand in his hair, tugging his head back. His grip was strong, and Hob winced. He met the King of Dreams’s eyes again and found the impression of very sharp teeth deep within them. The moment Hob presented as even somewhat of a real threat, he would find those teeth in his throat, he was sure.

He supposed he’d have to try not to be a real threat.

“Only living souls find themselves in the Dreaming,” said the King of Dreams, voice the rumbling growl of shifting ice. “Perhaps you would like to try for a different answer.”

“Alright, alright!” Hob relented, and the King's grip on his hair eased, just a smidge. “Alright. I escaped from Death.”

“Escaped,” repeated the King of Dreams. “From Death.”

“I swear,” said Hob. He would have raised his arms in surrender if they weren’t bound. “That’s the truth.”

“One cannot escape from Death’s grasp.”

"Guess I’m just really determined?”

The King's jaw clenched. “Very well. I will call her, then, and we shall see.”

Dread pitted Hob's stomach, but then the King of Dreams paused in thought, head tilting. He looked Hob up and down, calculating, cleverness spinning in those eyes.

“It takes quite a bit of skill to hide from me in my own realm,” he observed.

Hob didn't know what answer to this would prevent him getting chucked into the void, and for once in his life, wisely remained silent.

The King released him, and Hob swayed forward in the wake of his grip, nearly falling. “Walk with me,” he said, and turned and strode away across the throne room, leaving Hob scrambling to catch up.

He followed at the King’s side, just a step behind, as they turned into a side hall that seemed to unfold from nowhere as they walked. Hob looked at the man—being?—beside him. He was smaller than he seemed, slighter than Hob and almost delicate, but still Hob didn't fancy his chances in a fight. Not here, at the seat of his power. He'd be better off trying to wrestle the sun.

He just kept following.

“I have read the book of your life, Hob Gadling,” said the King of Dreams. It was said casually, like this was a usual occurrence, but a shiver ran up Hob’s spine nonetheless. Unnerving, to think his story was just accessible like that, and so easily summarized. “I did so as soon as my subject caught you to bring you before me. Your life was cut short by violence, but before that, it involved a rather interesting occupation.”

“I… suppose you could say so, my lord,” Hob agreed. The hall they strode down was infinitely long, lined by columns that let in streams of moonlight. Again, with the time of day shifting from room to room. Maybe this really was the land of dreams.

The King hummed. “Relations between the Dreaming and several other realms have been tense, of late,” he told Hob. “I would prefer to avoid war, but to do so requires inside knowledge that I am currently lacking.” He looked at Hob out of the corner of his eye. “For any man who could get me that information, perhaps making use of certain hidden talents—I could be persuaded to make an exception to my usual rule of sending stowaway souls back where they belong.”

Wait.

So Hob wasn’t going to be killed?

“You don’t—” his head was reeling— “you don’t already... have spies?”

The King sighed. “Dreams cannot leave the Dreaming. My ravens can, but they are known across the realms as my messengers, and I would not put them at such risk, besides.”

He did not have to say, I would easily put you at such risk, for it to be heard.

“I did, you know…” Hob said, though he wasn’t sure why he was arguing with salvation, “die in my role, you’re aware. I’m not sure you want a failed spy working for you.”

The King made a dismissive noise. “Your skills were solid. Your commanders were reckless and wasteful. Sending you scurrying back and forth like a courier and wasting your better expertise. The Kingdom of Dreams is not like the kingdoms of men. I do not wage war on petty whims, and I do not waste my resources.”

Something in Hob coiled tight at the thought of being a resource, a tool of this man. Or entity. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves, or anticipation.

“Before you answer,” continued the King, “it is only fair that you know the risks. The realms that span this universe are myriad, with a variety of dangers. While you would not die, you could be hurt, captured, tortured, imprisoned. Especially if your purpose were to be found out.

“Should you be caught—” the King studied Hob’s face, “you would be utterly disavowed. You are not one of my creations, and I would risk nothing for you, nor claim you; I would deny any association between you and the Dreaming. You may find yourself trapped eternally in Hell. Or somewhere worse.”

There was somewhere worse? Hob thought.

Still, perhaps it was the reckless brigand in him, but he hadn’t yet heard anything that made him want to pick death instead. If anything, it was all sounding like a rather grand adventure.

“What say you, Hob Gadling?” asked the King of Dreams, with a tiny smirk. He clearly didn’t think Hob was going to say yes. “How far will you go to avoid death? Would you be my spy? My agent in the dark?”

Hob thought it might be worth being trapped eternally in Hell just to see the surprise on the King’s face when he said, “Oh, hell yes.”

#so much of this exists in my head but i've made so little progress on actually writing it #hoping that by sharing some it will kickstart that process #spy au #spy hob #expect slow updates on this one sorry #i say as if all my fics arent slow updates #hob gadling #dream of the endless #dreamling #my writing #my god this has been waiting in the wings for an ETERNITY #technically most of this first chapter is already floating around on tumblr from when i first posted it for a prompt #the spy au and spy hob tags contain tons of visual inspo too btw

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five-and-dimes · 1 year

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Endless. Not Everything

(AO3)

(This is an AU in the sense that I know, I know, that fem Dream is canon in the comics. We're ignoring that for this one. )

Dream is horny, but Hob seems reluctant to take the next step. So Dream jumps to conclusions and tries to be something he's not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s unsurprising in hindsight that the first to make the decision is Delight.

The Endless are still fairly young in the grand scheme of things, but they have watched humanity grow in leaps and bounds. And as they do, it is nigh impossible not to be shaped by them in some ways. The Endless exist because of humanity. They are a part of each other. Delight drifts among humans more than the others, watching and laughing and bringing delight and being delighted in turn.

“Oh, my siblings,” Delight announces one day when they are all gathered together, “call me sister.”

The most surprising part of the interaction is Destiny’s response.

The eldest Endless gives a rare small smile, “Dear sister. You may call me brother.”

Perhaps it had been written from the beginning, the way the Endless would come to take this part of humanity upon themselves. They are all still so young, have not yet learned the things that would separate them, and so they watch with warmth as Delight bursts into peals of laughter and throws her arms around her brother’s neck, embracing him the way she embraced everything.

Slowly, the rest follow suit. Desire curls their lips in disdain and firmly declares that they are a sibling, thank you very much, regardless of shape or form. (It is fitting, they all think, that Desire would be the most comfortable in their given, genderless state.)

Despair takes time, mulling over every option before sighing and announcing who she is as their sister. (None of them are quite sure if she chose the option because it caused her the least amount of despair or the most.)

Destruction wavers. There is violence and destruction in both genders among humans, though in very different ways, and it makes them both uniquely unappealing at times. (In the end, it is a brother that they lose.)

Ultimately, it is not until Death spends that first day as a human that a decision is made. Death had always been flexible, but during that day it just feels right to return as a sister. (It takes a long time for humans to catch up with this decision, but luckily Death is able to find humor in the misgendering.)

Dream takes the longest. Dream is a thing of fantasy and imagination, constantly shifting and fluid, and the forms taken often do not fully fit with humanity’s limited views on either gender. For a long time Dream is just… Dream. It is not until one of the times that Death has dragged Dream down to mingle with mortals that Dream recognizes a distinct discomfort when they walk together and are called ‘sisters’ by various travelers. Dream is called ‘lady’ and ‘lass’ and ‘she’ and wants to scream. (In the end, Dream doesn’t even need to say anything. Death smiles, and rests her hand on Dream’s shoulder soothingly and says “Ready to go home, little brother?” and Dream feels something uncurl in his chest.)

And so they carry on, the Endless family. Brothers and sisters and siblings, more than human but with humanity woven through them like tapestries. Their identities become something innate to them, until it is hard to tell whether it was something they chose or something they discovered. But it doesn’t matter. It just is.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Then Dream is captured.

He spends more than a century trapped in the Waking.

And it starts to matter.

Burgess and his followers, with their narrow minds and greedy souls. Dream is dragged to their feet, bound by ancient magic and cruel hands. They strip him, expose his form to the cold and the pain, cage him in glass and shine a light on him to display all the parts of him that do not belong to them.

They call him ‘it’.

And oh, Dream burns, and burns, and burns. His fury is a fire with nowhere to go and it hurts. Dream is not human, he knows that, obviously, but that does not mean he is…

He is not…

He is not a thing, a tool, a toy-

…Is he?

He hates Roderick Burgess for putting that question in his mind.

He hates himself more for asking.

He wants to die when he realizes he’s not confident in the answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The discomfort, the shame, follows him even when he escapes, even when he recovers his tools and repairs his realm and regains his power. And he… he is trying to get it right this time, after so long getting it wrong (and isn’t that a tragedy, he thinks. Isn’t it a travesty, that for as long as Dream has been he has tried so very, very hard, and still managed to get it so very, very wrong).

Death says “Don’t be a stranger,” and Dream hears “Don’t go back. Don’t go back to before the pain. Don’t go back.”

Something about that hurts.

Then he goes to visit Hob.

And seeing the immortal, seeing the familiar face look up and smile at him, soothes something in him like a balm. Even without knowing all of Dream’s cosmic failures, Hob knows enough of the failures between just the two of them that Dream expects to be met with anger, or bitterness, or, he fears the most, perhaps not met at all. But instead he smiles, and lets Dream sit with him, lets him apologize and forgives him and chats about the time past as though nothing had changed.

Except, that’s not completely true, Dream realizes. Because things had changed. Dream changed. He had thought for the better, but Hob frowns softly across from him. Hob changed. His edges softened, his patience stronger, asking gently if Dream would like to talk about whatever happened. They have both changed. For the first time, Dream is the one who tells a story and Hob is the one who listens.

Many things have changed. Hob’s eyes water, and he reaches out and covers Dream’s hand with his own. Dream does not pull away. It is different, but it is still them, and Dream sighs at the warmth against his perpetually cold skin, turning his hand to curl his fingers around Hob’s and tucking away the image of Hob’s caring smile like a flower in the pocket of his mind.

When he leaves, Hob says “Don’t be a stranger,” and Dream hears “Come back. Please, please come back.”

It hurts a little less.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the grand scheme of things, it escalates rather quickly.

Dream and Hob meet more frequently, soon falling into a rhythm of seeing each other once a week, sometimes in the Waking (where Dream still felt an itch of discomfort, despite not being trapped or bound, not that he let Hob know) and sometimes in the Dreaming (where Dream felt like he could breathe).

With each meeting, Hob grows more bold. Twining their fingers together as they strolled through a dreamscape or pulling Dream in for a hug before they part outside the New Inn. Dream’s pulse beats needlessly, a little excited and a lot terrified at the way this human has wormed his way into Dream’s heart so effortlessly. Dream falls hard and fast, the only way he knows how, but he thinks Hob’s eyes reflect the same growing flame of fondness so maybe… maybe it’s not just him.

And so it happens fast, in a way. A mere few months after reuniting, Dream curls shaking hands into Hob’s jacket and pulls him into a kiss and Hob, like a miracle, kisses him back. They stand pressed together, smiling against each others’ mouths, arms wrapped in an embrace and it feels like the beginning of something.

It begins. But, Dream thinks, it never starts.

Time passes. They hold hands when they walk through the city streets. Hob pulls him down to rest his head on his shoulder, runs his fingers through Dream’s hair, wraps his arms around him and smiles the way he had before, when they were still calling each other friends. The only difference between then and now is that sometimes Hob kisses Dream on the forehead, and his cheeks, and his knuckles, and sometimes at the end of the night, if Dream leans in far enough, he will plant a chaste kiss against his lips, though never as deep or firm as the first one they shared.

Dream tries, occasionally. Holds an unneeded breath and reaches out to run a hand down Hob’s arm, presses forward to deepen a kiss, tries to be obvious in the way his gaze roams hungrily over the other man’s body. All he ever accomplishes is Hob looking away uncomfortably and finding an excuse to cut their time together short.

Hob has said that he loves him. And Dream… Dream believes him, he does, and Dream loves him back but…

But Dream also wants Hob. And evidence is pointing to Hob not wanting him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dream twists their interactions in his head like a puzzle. Plucks and pulls at them like a tangle of human Christmas lights.

Sifts through them like a landfill.

He has never ventured into Hob’s dreams, and he will not start now, but he recalls every story the man has ever told him, and it is not difficult to draw conclusions from those. He had already assumed the problem lay with himself, that much seemed obvious if only given his history, but turning over Hob’s words in his mind, he thinks he may find an answer. In his (relative) youth, Hob had not shied from telling his mysterious stranger of his various conquests, the young women in steadily rising social class that he managed to coax into bed with him. And there is, of course, his marriage in the 1500s. As time passed, Hob began to keep his exploits more private, something Dream was secretly grateful for, but even reflecting on the history he knew of, it seems obvious where Hob’s sexual preference lay.

So it was that Dream found himself in his chambers, standing in front of a full-length mirror, naked and uncomfortable, contemplating how to fix the problem.

While Dream’s given form is not quite the human-stereotype of masculinity, he is still undeniably masculine. And if that is what is keeping him from being closer to Hob, if that is why he is not allowed to pour his passion across Hob’s skin with his lips and fingertips, if his preferred physical form is the only thing keeping them from growing their intimacy…

Well. He is the Shaper of Forms.

It’s an easy fix.

Or, it should be, at least. Dream is aware of the modern human standard of beauty for women, not that he understands it. He also remembers the general shape of Eleanor, one of the most prominent lovers in Hob’s life. And yet, when Dream begins the arduous process of changing his shape into something more suited to Hob’s tastes, he finds that he simply… cannot bring himself to mold certain features.

He considers heaping flesh on certain areas of his bony figure, debates wide hips and heavy breasts, thinks about shrinking himself down until he would have to stand on his toes to reach Hob’s lips. He turns each option over in his mind, like rummaging through an unfamiliar closet, and finds that he just… can’t. In some ways.

It is childish, he knows it, but even if a woman’s form is what it takes for Hob to want him back, for Hob to be pleased by him, Dream finds he still wants to… look like himself. Wants to still be recognizable, with the sharp angles of his bones pressing under paper-white skin, the deep timber of his voice, the long length of his body. He wants, so badly, for Hob to take pleasure in at least some of the features that Dream has come to think of as his.

Dream hates himself for it.

Still, when he molds his form, he does so as minimally as possible. There is the obvious anatomical change, and his chest rounds with modest breasts. His hips do widen, but are no softer for it. He keeps his face angular, but less square, his chin more tapered and his jaw sloping towards his ears. After a moment of consideration, he allows a soft flush to color his cheeks, lets his lips become a deeper shade of red, and closes his eyes as his eyelashes lengthen. Dream is unbothered by extending his hair to fall by his collar bones- he has worn his hair longer throughout his life, as has Hob- but he does purse his lips in discomfort before deciding to add soft curls to the dark locks.

The end result is… obvious. There is no mistaking exactly what Dream has done. But there is still a familiarity that brings Dream a small comfort. He looks like, perhaps, the fraternal twin of his preferred shape.

Shaking his head, Dream internally chastises himself once more. Endless are genderless, beings and concepts that defy humanity’s boxes and labels. Dream is a multitude, in constant flux of shifting shapes. He is the King of Cats, has appeared before as fire and bone and light, has taken shapes far away from any human gender, and it is surely a failing of Dream that those forms should fit more comfortably than the one he wears now. It should not matter whether some mortals on the street might see Dream in this shape and use the word “she”.

It should not matter. If the choice is between his own comfort or Hob’s pleasure…

For Hob, Dream would become anything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Dream walks into the New Inn, Hob’s mouth goes so dry he is convinced the moisture in the air around him must have evaporated. If Dream’s ruby-red smirk is anything to go by, Hob is anything but subtle.

“Hello, Hob.”

Sliding into the seat across from Hob, Dream shakes off the last tendrils of doubt, because there is no misinterpreting the look on the immortal’s face, which means that Dream was right.

(It’s not as satisfying as he thought it would be. He shakes that off too.)

Hob clears his throat, “Dream, good to see you,” he smiles, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “Trying, ah… trying something different today?”

Dream leans forward, resting his head against a hand. In a similar way to wanting his form to be recognizable, his outfit is not overly changed either. In fact, he had merely copied Death’s outfit from their last meeting, though he added a fitted coat to the ensemble, keeping the skin of his arms covered while still emphasizing his new shape.

“I thought perhaps a change would be welcome,” Dream raised an eyebrow, “Is it not?”

“Well, I mean, everything’s welcome with you,” Hob stammers, still clearly floundering, “Always gorgeous, you know that.”

Dream did not, in fact, know that.

“Is that so?” He tilts his head, watching as Hob nods numbly and takes a long sip of his beer. “You seem distracted,” Dream taps a long, black fingernail against the table, focusing on keeping his voice steady, “Would you prefer to go someplace. Quieter?”

This is usually the point where Hob finds a reason to leave.

Hob swallows thickly. “Um. Sure.” He grins, a hint of excitement in his eyes, “I’ve got a new scotch upstairs. If you care for some.”

Dream grinned back, “I could be persuaded.”

When Hob takes Dream’s hand, eager and wanting, it only hurts a little.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They never make it to the scotch.

Once inside the apartment, Dream leans forward, pushes into Hob’s space, lets his eyes linger on his lips. Only this time, Hob doesn’t kiss him chastely and change the subject. This time, he pushes right back, their lips crashing together, and when Dream sighs at the feeling of calloused fingers twisting in the hair at his nape Hob groans, their tongues tangling together.

It’s perfect. It’s everything Dream wanted.

(Or. Maybe not everything.)

(But he ignores that.)

Neither notice when they move. Dream is focusing on sliding his hand beneath Hob’s shirt, scratching his fingers through the hair he feels across the broad chest, and Hob is focusing on sliding Dream’s coat off, letting it fall to the floor as he runs his hands over smooth, white skin. So neither of them are focused on when exactly their legs started moving them towards Hob’s bedroom, barely paying attention when they fumble through the door frame. It’s not until they are tumbling onto the bed, limbs twining together as they fall onto the mattress, that they pause.

Hob lands on top of Dream, his cheeks flushed as he pushes himself onto his elbows, putting just enough space between them to look down at Dream’s flushed face. “Is…” he swallows, his voice wrecked, despite barely doing anything, and Dream feels a surge of pride, “Is this alright?”

Dream answers by gripping the back of Hob’s neck, gentle but firm, and pulling him down until their bodies are pressed together again, kissing along his lips and jaw. Hob let out a huff of laughter that turned into a gasp as Dream dragged his teeth down the skin of his neck.

None of Dream’s fantasies compare to the reality of Hob’s rapid heartbeat under his mouth, the feeling of coarse hair and flexing muscles under his fingers. It’s almost enough to distract from the way Hob’s hands slip under his shirt, touching curves that didn’t exist in Dream’s fantasies.

Almost.

Hob asks again, “Is this alright?” before slipping Dream’s shirt over his head, his own following quickly, and Dream only has a moment to appreciate the vision that Hob makes above him before Hob is kissing down Dream’s chest. It feels… good. The scratch of Hob’s scruff against his skin, the weight of his body pressing down on him as he settles between his legs, the dedicated way he licks and bites at Dream’s nipples.

It feels good. But it also feels… wrong. In a way that is getting harder and harder to ignore, even as the last of their clothes are discarded and he is gifted the vision of Hob, naked and gorgeous and clearly wanting. It doesn’t distract from the fact that Dream is naked now too, that Hob is moaning and wanting for a body that isn’t truly Dream. Slowly, it begins to feel like he is drifting farther and farther from Hob’s bed, like he is watching his lover put his hands on a stranger. Like a stranger is putting their hands on him.

Somewhere along the way, Dream is realizing, his motivations have gotten twisted. It occurs to him that he should not have to remind himself that he wants Hob, should not have to repeat a mantra of I want this, I want this, I want this, when Hob runs his hands over Dream’s skin.

Because before, he had wanted this, wanted Hob to touch him and kiss him and bury himself in Dream’s body, had fantasized about it and craved it deeply. But now, it is the wrong skin. The wrong body. He thinks that maybe it stopped being about what he wanted the second he stood in front of that mirror to change himself. Hob is kissing along a slender neck and caressing a breast with one hand and dipping between legs with the other and Dream shudders and adjusts the mantra in his head.

Hob wants this. Hob wants this. Hob wants this.

All Dream can want now is just to make Hob happy.

It does not prevent what happens next.

Hob is murmuring sweet praises against the skin behind Dream’s ear, and then his fingers are pressing between Dream’s legs, stroking, pushing, entering, and Dream gasps, body tensing, and then there is a soft tearing sound between their bodies.

They both jerk in surprise, Hob pulling his fingers away immediately, eyes wide with concern, barely managing to blurt out, “Shit, did I hurt you?” before they are both looking down and freezing.

The skin of Dream’s chest is splitting slowly, like a torn seam, stretching and tearing down his center from the hollow of his throat, between his breasts, and down to the base of his belly. Thin, gossamer strands of skin criss-cross like threads, pulling taut, and beneath is an empty blackness. No blood or flesh, just a void, an absence which grows and presses against the shell of him until he is bursting at the seams with nothingness.

“Oh my god, Dream-”

Dream snaps to sit up, pushing Hob back and crossing his arms across his chest, trying to pull his skin back together like a robe that’s slipped open. But the seam only splits farther, threads snapping as the gaping maw of his body widens. He curls in on himself, trying to force the edges back together, and he feels the skin of his shoulders split, feels a tearing down his spine like a broken zipper, his entire body an ill-fitting dress that he is spilling out of.

Hob is wide-eyed and horrified, “Dream,” his voice cracks with panic, his hands held out, desperate to do something but afraid to touch, “Dream, tell me what to do, tell me how to help-”

But Dream can only shake his head, “I’m sorry,” he rasps, “I can’t.”

And then he is gone.

~~~

When he lands in the Dreaming, Dream is in his own body.

Or rather, he is in the familiar shape that he has come to think of as his. There is still a residual ache, though not wholly unpleasant, radiating through his bones.

He thinks, absently, that it is not dissimilar to the first time he stood up straight when escaping Fawney Rig. Like stretching his spine after a century curled too tight.

A painful relief.

“Woah, you alright Boss?”

Matthew’s voice startles him into awareness of his surroundings. His raven lands in front of where Dream is crumpled at the base of the throne room stairs. Pushing himself up on shaking arms, he finds himself wrapped in his longest cloak, buttoned up to his chin. Despite knowing intrinsically what form he is in, he finds himself running his hands over his face, neck, and chest, as if needing to feel for certain that everything is in its proper place, that nothing is swelling or splitting apart or breaking breaking breaking.

“Boss?”

Matthew hopped forward, concerned, and Dream let out a shaky sigh. “Yes, Matthew, I am alright.”

“Uh-huh…” Matthew tilted his head skeptically, “No offense boss, but I’ve seen you more ‘alright’ than this.” He paused, “At least I think I have.”

“I am fine, Matthew,” A hint of frustration seeps into Dream’s tone as he straightens himself, standing and pulling himself to his full height as if that could erase the shame clinging to his skin. How pathetic, how disgraceful. It was bad enough to lose control, to be held at the mercy of his own body, but to once more flee and leave Hob alone in the shadow of Dream’s weakness was nigh unforgivable. How many times would he crumple and run away from Hob before the immortal decided he wasn’t worth it? Dream could hardly believe he had stuck around this long.

As he glanced around the throne room, Dream thought he could see the echoes of broken glass.

Sighing, Dream turned tired eyes back to his raven, “I am fine,” he repeated, “but I would appreciate some privacy this evening. Please let Lucienne know that I am not to be disturbed except for emergencies.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Matthew still looked worried when he flew off, but Dream didn’t have the energy to be annoyed by it. As soon as he was alone again, he let himself sag onto the bottom step of the staircase, drawing his knees up and resting his forearms across them.

He wishes he could be surprised at his ability to ruin his relationship with Hob so swiftly and thoroughly, but all he feels is resignation. He had hoped he could bask in the joy of this relationship a little longer, but there was nothing to be done now, not after such a blatant failure. The least he could do was not hide. He owed Hob that much.

It didn’t take long, but then, Dream didn’t expect it to. Barely an hour had passed before he could feel the familiar warmth of Hob entering the Dreaming. He couldn’t help the small, fond smile at Hob’s ability to force himself to sleep when he wanted to.

A part of him still wanted to hide, wanted to dissolve into sand and cower in the cracks and crevices of the palace until Hob was forced to wake. But Hob deserved better than that. And a small, traitorous shred of optimism wondered if he might be forgiven.

So, with a soft breath of willpower, he opened the throne room to Hob’s searching subconscious. He practically fell through the palace doors, as though he had been sprinting before being brought here. Dream stood, stiff and waiting for chastisement, and for a moment they simply stared at each other, Hob still reeling slightly from the change in location.

“Dream,” Hob’s voice is not angry. In fact, it is heavy with relief, and Dream feels his breath catch in his throat as Hob rushes forward and rambles, “Thank God, I was so worried. I’m so, so sorry, are you alright? Are you hurt? Can I hug you?”

Dream blinks as Hob comes to stand before him, hands held out but waiting for permission. Hob’s eyes are searching Dream’s body, looking for any wounds or signs of distress. He does not mention Dream’s changed form.

He’s not angry.

Everything is not ruined, and Dream feels like crying with relief, and without thinking he throws his arms around Hob’s chest, curling his fingers in the back of his shirt and burying his face in Hob’s neck. A huff of breath is knocked from Hob’s lungs as they collide together, but he doesn’t hesitate to return the hold, one hand carding through Dream’s hair as the other strokes his back.

“I’m sorry,” Dream whispers into his skin.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Hob responds immediately.

But Dream shakes his head, pulling away reluctantly, “I should not have…”

Should not have what? Gotten Hob’s hopes up? Promised something only to fail to deliver? Wanted more than he deserved?

Hob frowned, cupping Dream’s cheek in one hand to try to meet his eyes, “Dove… what happened? I… I was afraid that I hurt you-”

“No,” Dream reassured him immediately, “you did nothing wrong, I just…”

Stepping away from Hob’s hands, he slumped back to sit on the bottom step. Hob quickly joined him, sitting beside him and waiting patiently for Dream to find some way to explain himself.

“I am. Endless. But… there are still. Things that I am Not.”

‘Lovable’ is at the top of the list, he thinks, though ‘wanted’ isn’t far behind.

‘Woman’ is on there somewhere, too, apparently.

When he looks, Hob’s brow is furrowed in confusion, so he continues, “I have many forms that come easily to me. That feel… natural. But. The one I wore for you is not one of them.” Hob’s eyes widen, but Dream doesn’t give him a chance to interrupt, needing to get everything out before he loses his fragile courage, “I do not know why. Endless are… we were made genderless. It is a human thing. It should not feel so. So wrong to shape myself in a way that pleases you. And yet you saw what happened when I tried. I could not…” Dream’s voice cracks, and he has to clench his eyes shut and swallow thickly.

“Dream…” Hob sounds heartbroken, and Dream hates himself for always getting it wrong wrong wrong.

“I know that you love me, as I love you,” Dream pulls the words out through gritted teeth, “But I… I am greedy, and selfish, and I want you. And I. Wanted you to want me as well.”

“But I do want you.” Hob blurts the words out, loud and desperate, unable to bite them back any longer.

Dream glances up, blinking slowly, uncomprehending, “…What?”

Hob’s eyes are wide, his hands coming up to grip his own hair as his voice takes on a note of something like hysteria, “I do want you. Fuck, Dream, I want you so fucking much I thought it was a problem!”

“What?”

His hands flail as the words spill out, tripping over himself to get out months worth of feelings, “Dream, Dove, I’ve been taking two cold showers a day. Sometimes I have to sit on my hands to keep from pawing at you when you’re in arms reach. Fuck, I’ve bitten through the inside of my cheek more times than I can count just trying not to jump you!”

There is a long moment where they simply stare at each other, Hob with wide eyes and his hands in the air, Dream with his mouth slightly agape and eyes glistening with disbelief.

“Then why didn’t you?” Dream’s voice is soft, skeptical, insecure.

A pain lances through Hob’s chest, and a watery laugh escapes him, “I’m such an idiot,” he whispers, mostly to himself, before looking up at Dream with sad, guilt-ridden eyes, “I didn’t want to push you. You’ve had… a bit of a rough century. I didn’t want you to feel pressured into anything too fast. And then you showed up like…” he waved a hand ambiguously, “like that, and I thought you were, y’know, trying to hint at something.”

Burying his face in his hands, his voice raises with self-deprecation, “And I guess you were, I just didn’t think… fuck. I just didn’t think,” he finishes softly. When he lifts his head he looks so very sad, but he doesn’t hesitate to reach out and take Dream’s hand, “I’m so sorry, Love. For all I nag you to communicate more, I didn’t tell you what was going through my head either. I should have just asked from the beginning instead of assuming. Fuck, I should have asked as soon as you showed up so different. I should have realized something was wrong. I’m sorry.”

For a long moment, Dream’s eyes drift between the earnestness on Hob’s face and the soft grip of their clasped hands. He doesn’t not meet Hob’s eyes when he confesses, “Is it wrong of me to take comfort in the fact that I am not alone in my misstep?”

This time when Hob laughs, it is a bark of surprised delight, and his free hand ruffles Dream’s hair, drawing an annoyed huff from the Endless, “No, no dear, I understand.”

Dream isn’t sure that’s true. Isn’t sure Hob fully understands that in the scant handful of relationships Dream has had he has always been the only one fumbling, the only one struggling and struggling to catch up with his partner, to understand the things they seemed to know intrinsically, to find the balance between too much and not enough that everyone else seems to find with ease. He doesn’t think Hob truly understands, the way Dream does now if not before, that in his past relationships every fault had been his and his alone, and so the very idea that perhaps the weight of this one does not need to rest solely on his own shoulders, that for the first time they are, perhaps, equals in their fumbling, is such a heavy, heady relief that he feels faint with it.

He opens his mouth to explain all of this, but before he can speak Hob is pulling him in for a soft, gentle kiss. “We’re in this together, yeah?” He rests their foreheads together, smiling, “So we’ll figure it out together, too.”

That is all Dream has wanted, for a very long time.

He smiles against Hob’s lips, bringing a hand up to play with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. “Well. You need not sit on your hands anymore.”

Hob laughs, “And you need not be anything other than yourself.”

It is still hard to believe that anyone might be happy with Dream being himself.

But.

Hob can be very convincing when he wants to be.

#my writing #the sandman #dreamling #dreamling fic #why are endings HARD I HATE #alas #at least it's out of my system now #local transmasc projects onto shapeshifter more at 11 #dream of the endless #hob gadling #more shapeshifting fuckery #body horror #kinda?#tagging anyway cause better safe than sorry #yeet

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