seren. commonly known in various parts of the internet as BuckytheDucky. 18+, aka old enough to know better. sandman, marvel, supernatural, white collar. multishipper. writer. mother. baker. definitely not a candlestick maker, though.
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His name is Ash and he's my 14yo's ESA. My 14yo that keeps trying to kill himself. He's hanging on by a thread, making Ash here the most important cat in the world.
Ash was rushed to the vet this morning with a bladder obstruction. You should have seen the x-ray his poor bladder was so distended. They got the obstruction out and via catheter his bladder is now empty. Out came grit (urinary crystals) and blood including clots.
I can not let this cat die. I have a reasonable mother's fear I'll lose my human baby too if we do. This cat needs to live forever.
This cat also needs a few days of hospitalization to push fluids to help work everything through his bladder. His bloodwork is shit they need to get those numbers better. He needs IV and catheter for a few days.
I've already paid for today's 1000$ vet visit and getting the obstruction out. I have the first 24hrs of hospitalization covered. But it's another 1500$ to monitor and make sure he's ok. And it's the rest of it that i just....
I need help. I need charity. I need a miracle.
If you can't donate i fully understand but can you please i beg you pass this cry for help on and whatever you do be it prayer (to anyone) or light candles well wishes genie wishes my baby can't lose his ESA beyond we love our pet, my baby can't lose his ESA.
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You all seem to like these, so here is another batch of writer asks! These questions are a little more relaxed than the last two. Followers can send an ask with a number OR you can reblog and answer everything like a Q&A.
I always see a lot of âidk if iâm a writerâ in the tags for these so let me just say in advance, yes you are and you can play.
What is the crackiest* thing youâve ever written? (*I mean this with great affection)
Has writing a fic ever changed your opinion of a character?
Tell us about a headcanon you invented for a fic
Have you ever written a fic inspired by a tumblr post?
How do you know when youâre finished writing a fic? At what point do you call it done?
When do you title your fics? Before you write them? As you write them? While posting to AO3 and that âWork Titleâ field is staring at you?
Navigate to your complete list of works on AO3. What are your top 5 Additional Tags?
Tell us your shortest and longest titles of all time
The two fandoms youâve written the most have been suddenly crossed with each other! What AU are you writing?
Whatâs a phrase you catch yourself using in multiple fics, not necessarily on purpose?
Oh no! Youâre posting a fic to AO3 and completely forgot to write a summary. What is your summary-writing strategy?
Do you write in order, jump around the draft, or a mix? Something else?
Congratulations, youâve just finished the WIP youâve been working on for months! How are you going to celebrate?
Is there a word or phrase you intentionally use in every fic?
How many times has someone nodded in your current WIP? This is for posterity so be honest
Describe your current WIP with just emojis
When you get a new fic idea, what does that look like in your mind? Does it play out like a film? Do you imagine lines of dialogue or a certain moment? Does a character just sit there staring at you?
If you have noticed themes emerging in your writing, what are they? What broad themes and topics do you enjoy exploring?
Itâs a lovely morning in fandom land and a horrible goose is running rampant through your folders. How many WIPs is it going to step on?
Whatâs the story behind your pen name?
Without getting into any discourse, just thinking as a writer approaching characters, would you ever write about your NOTP? If you did, do you think that would change how you feel about it? (If youâve done this, how did it go?)
Do you have a fixed writing routine, or do you write when you have time? Is there a time of day when you prefer to write?
What is your #1 distraction when youâre trying to write? If itâs a pet, post a pic
What colors, sights, sounds, textures, etc. inspire you? Do certain environments make you feel more creative than others?
Someone you know outside of fandom has heard that youâre a writer. âIâd like to read something of yours!â they say with sincere enthusiasm. âWhere can I find it?â Whatâs your answer?
Do you have a routine you run through before you write?
Share a random sentence from a WIP. The less context, the better. Be confusing.
Youâre out and about, nowhere near your home, when a fantastic story idea pops into your head! What do you do?
Have you ever actually remembered one of those 3am âIâll remember it in the morningâ ideas?
Finish this sentence with your fandomâs variation(s): No beta, we die like _________
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
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Ok, I really, REALLY hate to do this, especially when there are so many people in worse situations, but I'm in dire financial straits right now, and so is my sister (who is also my roommate). She's been staying with me for the last year, recovering from two broken ankles. She's been back at work for a couple months now, but barely part time. When she moved in with me, she was expecting to be able to get back to full-time work much sooner, and so she'd be able to contribute to rent and utilities. Unfortunately, her recovery is taking longer than her doctor initially thought, and she may end up needing yet another surgery (which means more missed work). She's barely making ends meet and therefore can't contribute to rent and utilities, which has put me in serious trouble. I already struggle to live in CA on a public school teacher's salary, even without adding on another person. As soon as I get paid, my entire paycheck goes to rent, car, and credit card payments. It's September 9 (I got paid on September 5) and already I'm $200 overdrawn. I don't qualify for any kind of emergency loan. As soon as I pay my credit card bills, I end up having to use that credit on food and gas. There is no end in sight. Which brings me to the part I really hate: asking for help. If you can spare ANYTHING, it would help SO MUCH to get us out of this hole we're in (and hopefully a little breathing room). Even if you can't, if you could reblog the link, I'd appreciate it SO MUCH. I can offer services as a proofreader/beta reader for any kind of writing as a thank you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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first fic in almost a year, and it's a birthday gift fic!
In his defenseâ
No, there is no defense. What he plans is absolutely pathetic, and he should feel shame proactively for his future actions.
But Dream doesnât feel shame.
in which dream needs touch more than he thinks.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
In his defenseâ
No, there is no defense. What he plans is absolutely pathetic, and he should feel shame proactively for his future actions.
But Dream doesnât feel shame. He merely sits on the garden wall and watches the man absentmindedly petting the cat in his lap as he reads a book in the warm sunshine. Dreamâs scrutiny goes unnoticed by the man but not the cat. The smoky-gray feline stares through narrowed eyes at Dream, ears twitching and a smug gleam in her orange eyes with each stroke of the hand against her back. Dream lifts his head, pointedly turns away, and steps off the wall to land with boots on concrete. Brushing a bit of black fur from his shoulder, he strides into the New Inn with a facade of far more confidence than he truly feels.
Seeing the easy affection Hob Gadling showed the stray cat has triggered something unknowable in Dream, drowning in the depths of his existence. He cannot parse what exactly it is, but it sits heavily, unsettling and discommoding, on his consciousness. He shoves aside the sensation and stops at the bar to order two drinksâone for himself, the other for the man heâs come to see. Janine smiles slightly and points him toward the door to the patio. Dream takes a step away from the bar then turns back, belatedly thanking the woman. She waves him off, but he sees the newfound looseness of her grin.
Hob looks up from the pages as Dream approaches; a small smile tugs at the immortal manâs lips while he sets his book aside. The catâs ears flatten for a second, then she slinks off of Hobâs lap and disappears into the bushes lining the garden. Dream watches the bottlebrush tail vanish in the bramble before he turns his attention to the man.
âHello, Hob.â
âSit, sit,â Hob says with a gesture to the place beside him on the bench. âWhat brings you by?â
Dream hesitates. He can no longer remember the exact reason for coming to the New Inn, though Hobâs company is usually reason enough. Since his escape and the rekindling of their rendezvous, albeit at a much more reasonable rate than once a century, Dream has slowly settled into the prospect of friendship with Hob. It shouldnât feel like such an impossibility, but Dream knows his other⌠âfriendshipsâ pale in comparison to the one he now holds with Hob Gadling. This one is true, steadfast, and not built upon what Dream can do for the other.
Hob accepts Dreamâs silence easily, shrugging it off as if it is normal to have innocuous questions go unanswered. He does as he has for centuries: He takes control of the conversation effortlessly. Hob tells Dream of the goings-on in his life, the students he teaches and the employees heâs hired for the New Inn. He speaks of new menu items and hobbies heâs picked up for this iteration of life as Gil Hadlen and the stray cat heâs come to love.
Something sharp bristles inside of Dream at the mention of the cat. He forces the stiffness to leave his muscles, leaning against the back of the bench as nonchalantly as possible, and stares at the expanse of brilliant white-blue overhead. Hob doesnât seem to notice Dreamâs reaction; he merely continues chattering on.
Dream lets the heat of the day seep into his skin, ground him to this moment. The bright sunshine and warmth remind him he is free. He will never be held captive again. No one will ever subject him to shortsighted, selfish demands or the cruelty of being on display as a specimen in a zoo. Dream now chooses who sees him and how, and he breathes in fresh air that tastes of an eternity of self-autonomy.
Hob falls silent beside him. Dream blinks at the sudden quiet, turning his head. Hob stares back with soft brown eyes. There is a tiny divot between his brows, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His lips are pulled ever so slightly downwards.
âAre you alright?â
âI am,â Dream answers with a nod.
Hob doesnât look convinced, but he lets it drop. Rising to his feet, he extends an invitation of lunch and heads inside without waiting for Dream to reply. Dream smiles. He appreciates the easy manner in which Hob treats him now, four months into their friendship. The first two months were filled with awkwardness and hesitance, as if Hob was afraid of somehow upsetting or offending Dream. Which is⌠a rather fair worry, Dream can admit. He had, after all, stormed away in 1889 because of something so trivial as a proclamation of friendship.
But Hob no longer acts as if the relationship is built of spun sugar. Dream finds this quite enjoyable, even if it means hearing Hob boast of superficial achievements on occasion. Humans do as humans are wont to do, Dream supposes.
Dream deigns to eat a meal with Hob then takes his leave. There are situations to handle in the Dreaming; his realm is still not quite what it was before 1916 happened. There is the Corinthian to remake and more Dreams and Nightmares to craft.
He makes his way to the Shores of Creation and stands, staring at the sands before him. His hands rise, curve into shape in preparation, and hang unmoving in the air. Water crashes onto the shore, but it goes unheard. Shaking his head, Dream forces himself to focus, to create as he has for billions of years.
Time passes with the ease of the warm ocean tide, ebbing and flowing. Seconds stretch to minutes to hours, rich threads connecting every moment that slips by. The edges of the Dreaming ripple with each dreamer that enters their dreamscapes.
A tuft of black fur hits the sand and rocks.
The cat is back in the garden of the New Inn. Dream barely spares a glance as the night air fills with a low rumble. She rises to her feet and trots away, tail twitching in agitation until she vanishes from view. He turns back toward the bench where Hob sat just this morning. The man is nowhere in sight, but Dream knows Hob enjoys watching stars appear in the expanse of deepening blue-black overhead. So Dream leaps up onto the wooden seat and waits.
True to his prediction, Hob appears moments later. A glass gleams in the dim glow of the street lamps in front of the building. A few drops of beer slosh over the rim and drip down the sides of the glass. Hob lets out a low chuckle then, whistling cheerfully, settles in on the bench. Dream waits a beat before slinking forward out of the shadows.
âWell, youâre a new one.â
Hobâs voice is soft, pleasant, warm. Dream doesnât make a sound as he inches forward. Hob holds out a steady hand; his expression softens at Dreamâs hesitance. He murmurs encouragement and wears a smile that grows when Dream presses the top of his head to Hobâs palm. The touch is tender, careful, and Dream struggles to maintain composure.
Life-rough fingers scratch gently behind Dreamâs ear, massage at a particular tense area behind his front shoulder. A low grumble escapes him; Hobâs face brightens at the eruption of purrs. Dream feels no shame as he presses closer.
His world narrows to this. This touch. This comfort. This affection given freely. He closes his eyes and curls up beside Hobâs thigh. Warmth rushes through his fur to soak into his skin, and Dream feels something loosen inside of him.
Hob yawns suddenly, and Dream snaps to awareness. The sun has set, leaving nothing but stars amongst the wisps scattered across the sky. The city is closing its eyes, settling in to enter his realm. Lucienne can handle it, he thinks only to let out a small grumble when Hob stretches. Dream freezes at the sound then darts away.
Hobâs voice fades as Dream steps into the Dreaming.
Dream listens with half an ear as Lucienne tells of the needs, the desires, of Dreamers and denizens alike. Matthew perches on the tall back of the throne, surprisingly quiet as the Librarian speaks. As much as Dream cares for his realm, his mind is elsewhere.
Itâs been nearly a week since he sat with Hob. Since he felt a touch that branded itself into his skin. Since he let himself sink into the reality of his needâ
Need.
Dream shifts in his seat. Need. A need for touch. As if heâs a child held at their motherâs breast, seeking comfort in her arms.
âSire?â
He blinks once, twice, Lucienne swimming into focus. Her dark eyes are narrowed behind her glasses, and her lips press tightly together. Matthew ruffles his wings before fluttering down to rest on Dreamâs knee. Dream frowns at the unmitigated concern etched in every facet of Lucienneâs face, in the way Matthew says âBoss?â
Dream rises to his feet, ignores his ravenâs indignant squawk, and vanishes.
Thick, humid air presses in on all sides. It smells of ozone and wet. Sticky grass clings, scratching, bowing beneath the weight. A bottlebrush tail vanishes with a sharp flicker. Leaves rustle in the gusts of heavy wind, and something thwucks. Dream looks around, sees nothing but half a body striding along the sidewalk, torso and above hidden by their umbrella.
Dream leaps on silent feet to pad across the bench seat. Hobâs hand lands between Dreamâs ears before the man looks down. An easy smile flickers on his lips, and his brown eyes sparkle. Dream gazes up at his friendâfriend. What a novel concept, still, this friendship. No want of his gifts, only his company. A camaraderie so freely given. A companionship once claimed to be built on twin loneliness but has grown to be so much more.
A soft âmrew?â escapes when Dream finds himself suddenly scooped up into arms that speak of past work but a softer present, held to a breastbone beneath which a six-hundred-year-old heart beats. Dream hesitates then relaxes; it seems to be what Hob was waiting for. He chuckles, runs a hand over Dreamâs back, and carries him inside.
For a full pub on a Friday night, itâs relatively quiet inside. Voices fill the air but none so loud as to be startling. Disarming. Hob speaks to nearly everyone he passes, but he doesnât stop. His boots land on the stairs with easy, steady thumps, then a lock squeals as it moves out of place. Dream swallows against the tightness rising in his chest. His ears flick, tail swishing side to side in staccato movements. But then Hob steps over the threshold, and Dreamâs apprehension fades.
âSilly one,â Hob croons softly, lowering Dream to the floor with ease. âYouâve chosen the wrong time for some scratches, havenât you? About to be the storm of the year, they say. We canât very well sit out in that, can we? Are you hungry?â
Hungry.
Hunger.
Dream is an anthropomorphic personification of a concept. Needs are nothing beyond his need for his realm. Hunger is nothing. Butâ
Dream is hungry. His stomach yearns not for sustenance, but he is. Starving. Needing. Craving.
For what, he knows not, but accepting the tin of tuna that Hob sets out is well enough.
The storm arrives with a rattle of windows and a thunderous crash through the heavens above. Dream sits with Hob on the sofa while the man watches the news then a gameshow. The hours wind away until Hob is stumbling down the short hall to his bedroom.
Dream waits until he hears snoring, until he feels the added presence in his realm, before he rises to his feet. Being within the walls of Hobâs flat had never once been an option for Dream. He would never impose like that. Even Hob, in all his affability and generosity, has limits. He deserves his own space on which no one encroaches.
Yet here stands Dream, hands folded together behind his back, as he examines the bookshelves lining one wall. The books are organized by no discernible patternâDream can make no sense of the sorting. Aged and newly-printed editions mingle amongst each other. He turns away at the gilded lettering on the spine of one book in particular:Â Metamorphoses. Acid dies, sharp, in the space between his ribs.
Innumerable plants sit on brightly-painted racks in front of the windows. Dream lets his finger run over the silken petals. Hob has done well, taken such care of these beauties. The love is shown in the flourishing. Frowning, Dream reaches out. Pale fingers pinch a misshapen yellowed leaf. It comes off easily, crumbles into nothingness on his palm. He brushes his hand on his jeans and moves on.
The living room is otherwise undecorated. It seems so unlike Hob to not show evidence of life, of his desire to greet each day and bid each night hello. There is nothing to prove that the man who resides here wishes to live. That he made a deal with Death in 1389 and both have abided by it since.
Dreamâs feet carry him along the same path Hob took only an hour before. The immortal man lies, sprawled and snoring, across his bed. There is no moonlight here, only the occasional flicker of lightning to illuminate, but Dream doesnât need it. He can see clearly enough what he hadnât seen in the other room.
What Dream had been shown so long ago now sits, larger and in a delicate wood frame, on the nightstand. Eleanor and little Robyn stare back from the painting. It is within reach; all Hob has to do is stretch out one arm, not even to its fullest, and his fingers will grasp the frame. Dream pauses at the thought then discards it. And with it, goes the jealousy.
The roll of thunder morphs into the crash of waves, and Dream closes his eyes as he settles into the Dreaming. His hands rise, he inhales, and the grains of sand move into place.
A woman smiles back at him. He sees the familiar softness of the face, the gentle light in her eyes. He feels the home in her hand as she cups his cheek tenderly. The Dream, not quite but so very close to Eleanor, turns on her heel and walks away. She leaves the ghosts of forever love in her wake.
Dream watches her go, until she enters the Dreamscapes beyond the Shores.
âSire?â Lucienne moves closer, her steps sure even on the rocks. âIs everything alright?â
âQuite.â
Hob canât hide his alarm when Dream tells him, only days later, that the Corinthian has been remade. That the Nightmareâthe mirror of humanityâs darkestâexists once again. Hob asks if Dream is certain he made the right decision.
To his surprise, Dream doesnât walk away from the offense. He merely assures Hob that he knows what he is doingânow. Heâs taken counsel from those closest to him, those whose wisdom he trusts. Lucienne, Merv, Matthew, even Rose Walker have given him plenty to think about. Theyâve taught him more than he thought he needed to learn. Hob may not look totally convinced by the time Dream takes his leave, but he at least no longer argues against the decision.
So it goes. Dream divides his time as equally as possible, between the Dreaming where he creates but never unmakes, walking amongst the dreamscapes of his Dreamersâbecause they are his, arenât they, after all?âand in Hobâs arms with a gentle hand stroking over his fur. Itâs an easy way to exist, Dream has to admit.
The need grows ever larger despite Dreamâs best attempts of allaying it. His existence is calm; his realm is operating smoothly. He has learned to listen and heed advice. He has friendships beyond the ones forced to be within his presence.
Dream has changed, become better in his flaws.
He still craves.
Dream glares at the man who has his elbows on the bar, an effortlessly charming smile on his handsome face. Yes, this is a face many would dream of, would wish to see more often. Many, but not Dream. The man ducks his head, laughing at something Hob has said.
Dream cares for Hob, there is no denying that. But funny, Hob is not. Not in the âguffaw until your lungs acheâ sense of the word. A small smile, maybe a huff of laughter, a Good one, Hobsie.
And HobâŚ
Dream hasnât seen this sort of expression on Hobâs face since 1789, when Hob asked if they should take their chat to another location after Lady Joanna interruptedâthis interested, hopeful thing, a baby bird at the edge of its nest, wings lifted and fragile body poised.
The skin splits beneath the sharp tips of his teeth. The man yanks his hand back with a shout, and Hob lunges for napkins. Dream clings to Hobâs thighs with his claws, with everything in him.
âIâm so sorry,â Hob says, dabbing at the blood on the manâs hand. âI donât know whatâs gotten into him. Heâs never bitten anyone before, that I know of.â
Dream purrsâperhaps a bit smuglyâwhen Hob refuses to toss him outside like the man suggests. The man scoffs and shoves his way to the door. Hob watches him go then lets out a heavy sigh. His finger scratches behind Dreamâs ear even as he swallows a mouthful of ale with his free hand.
Once Hob has slipped off to sleep, to his own dreamscape, Dream settles in on his throne. He rests his chin against his knuckles and inhales shakily. The touch lingers on his skin, muted but warm, Hobâs hand just this side of felt through the thick fur. Dream suppresses a shudder, a shiver, the electricity that threatens to run down his spine.
He still craves.
The craving, the unadulterated need, swells. It rushes ever closer. And Dream can fight it all he wants, but he will drown in the weight crashing over him. He will suffocate in the desire to be touchedâreally touched.
âBoss? Mind, uh, shutting off the waterworks?â
Dreamâs eyes snap open at the first droplets of water splattering against his cheeks. Matthew shakes his feathers once more, though it does no good: Rain still falls from the thundering black cloud overhead. Dream scowls, and the rain doesnât stop.
Fingers, ghostly and nonexistent, brush across the back of his hands. Down his back. Along the shell of his ear. He swallows.
âI have made a grievous error,â he admits hoarsely.
Matthew hops closer, flutters upward to rest on Dreamâs knee. The rain seems to not bother him now; heâs too intrigued by the confession. âHow so?â
Dream hesitatesâwill this vulnerability prove disastrous? A mistake? But no, Matthew has had his chances to double-cross Dream. He could have allowed Lucifer to win the Oldest Game by not fomenting Dream into his last play. He could have led Dream astray at any point. Instead, Matthew has been as much a confidant and guidance as Lucienne and Merv.
So Dream tells the raven about the last month and three weeks, of slipping into the Waking to lie as a cat on Hobâs lap. Of the need threatening to overwhelm him.
âSounds like youâre touch-starved,â Matthew supplies helpfully, and Dream pauses. Matthew cocks his head. âWhenâs the last time youâve been touched like that as yourself, not a cat?â
Only one moment stands outâLucienne clutching his hand upon his initial return to the Dreaming, when he was weak and grateful for escape. Heâd clung back just as hard, desperate for the touch, near tears at the relief of contact.
âWhat should I do?â
Matthew shrugs as much as a raven can. âTalk to Hob, Iâd say.â
Matthew flaps his wings, launching off of Dreamâs knee, in time for Dream to rise and disappear in a swirl of fine sand.
Water drips from his clothes as he stands outside of Hobâs flat. His hair is plastered against his forehead, and he allows himself a slight shiver at the chill. Accepting the humanity in himself has had wondrous if unfamiliar effects. Dream watches his hand rise as if of its own volition. The knock echoes in the silence of the upstairs.
Thunder cracks outside, but Dream is more focused on the face that appears when the door swings open. Hob blinks a couple of times, gaze sweeping over Dreamâs drenched form, then he steps back. Dream crosses the threshold; memories assault him as he looks around.
A book sits on the coffee table. Metamorphoses. Dream swallows thickly then averts his gaze. The flat smells of roasted meat and potatoes, and rain patters against the windows. Hob clears his throat.
âYouâre soaked through. Letâs see if I can find some dry clothes for you.â
Dream makes to protest, but the words die on his tongue. He waits while Hob enters the bedroom, waits for the man to return. Return he does with a bundle of fabric in his hands. He shows Dream to the bathroom then closes the door.
The outfit is too large for Dream, but Dream doesnât mind. In fact, he finds he enjoys how the shirt hangs on his frameâand how it smells of Hob. He breathes in the scent clinging to the fabric before emerging.
âSo what brings you by?â Hob asks as Dream steps into the kitchen. Two teacups are on the table. Steam rises from the liquid inside in delicate swirls.
âIâŚâ Dream closes his eyes, draws in a breath that trembles. He has never been so nervous as to struggle this way. He is the crafter of Dreams and stories. He has always known words. âI have not been touched in over a century.â
âTouched?â
Exhaling slowly, Dream closes his eyes. The expression on Hobâs face is too much. âTouched. As you would a cat. With gentleness and kindness. I have not known such things since before my capture. I felt myself above them. After all, how would a ruler benefit from vulnerability?â
âOh, love.â
âI was wrong.â
The admission hovers in the air, almost palpable in its weight and sincerity. Hob blinks owlishly, and it is only through immense willpower that Dream doesnât squirm. How odd, this so human urge to show discomfort. How strange to feel discomfort.
âIs this why you came to me as a cat?â
This time, itâs Dreamâs turn to blink. âYou knew?â
Hob chuckles, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. âOf course I did. Cats donât have stars in their eyes.â
âWhy did you never say anything?â
âWhy didnât you?â Hob counters before shrugging. âTo be fair, it took me three visits to realize. Couldnât believe it for another couple times you came.â He pauses. âMay I⌠May I touch you?â
Dream nods.
He squeezes his eyes closed as strong arms come up to wrap around his shoulders. Hob carefully, so gingerly, pulls Dream closer. The wet in his eyes surprises Dreamâanother human reaction. But one so expected after such a desperate wish come true.
âCome, love,â Hob murmurs, and Dream follows where he leads. The bedroom.
The mattress dips, molds around his body, as he lies down at Hobâs gesture. There is no hesitation before Hob stretches out beside him. A rough hand brushes a tear from Dreamâs cheek; warm lips press to his forehead.
Dream breaks into a million galaxies.
This is everything he never before dared ask for.
âRest. Iâve got you.â
Dream trusts Hob.
Dream needs no sleep, but it is easy to pretend he does. Here in Hobâs arms, tucked against his chest, no longer an ancient concept but something made mortal in action. Hob cards fingers through Dreamâs hair, whispers gentle nothings, and just holds him.
âThank you,â Dream murmurs, voice soft and small.
âAlways.â Thereâs a beat of silence, then: âDid you really have to bite that man?â