#endlcssdreamiing

hob isn't sure when, truly, he'd had that dream. dream, he says now, though he knows better than to know that it is merely that. it was, in fact, his longest friend's funeral that he attended — and it was harrowing, and devastating, and hob thinks about all the losses he's ever faced, all the bodies he's ever had to bury, all the grief that comes with knowing and loving anyone; he then thinks about the security he once naively had that maybe his dearest friend, @endlcssdreamiing, would be an exception, damn the other's insistent of having refused to tell hob anything.

keep his secrets, then. keep it – as long as there is someone to see, a hundred years to come.

until it all fell apart in that dream, that last goodbye. hob wasn't sure, truthfully, if he was ever genuinely present throughout the procession. he'd remembered being angry, yes, and in perpetual shock, and what felt like endless mourning, even till now. he wouldn't... he wouldn't have wagered he'd see his friend like this again, right now — alive, but clearly displaced. is he still dream of the endless, or has his death meant ... ?

❛⠀i — ❜ hob blinks; isn't sure, here, what he means to say. what he could say. what if his dearest friend, his morpheus, would have a better life not recalling ? is he happy now ? is he glad to not be so burdened by his duty ? ❛⠀— i'm sorry. perhaps i'm the wrong person, 'fter all, to see you. ❜

The other’s question just barely made it through her ears. A sigh, fished from the deep sea of her chest, escapes past her lips. Her fingertip trails the rim of her glass. Perhaps she’ll entertain him.

The Nightmare's expression is one of dumbfounded reverence, laced with an underlying spark of hunger. His breaths have hitched in his throats. Spurred on by the shrinking distance between his and his Creator's lips.

Dream's eyes are even more unfathomably beautiful up close. The Corinthian swears he can see stars dying and rebirthed in the depths of those galaxies.

"And how will you do that, My Lord?" The Corinthian asks softly. In breathless prayer. His hands itch to sink into the fabric of Dream's midnight robes. To coax him closer and finally crush the distance between them. He refreigns from indulging in that particular desire. Not until Dream permits it.

It was humiliating, having to stand there like an idiot automaton while his creator examined his damaged eye socket. The Corinthian’s vision was half-obscured by the intrusion, but that wasn’t the problem: the problem was trying to keep his tongue firmly held back and his teeth from closing on Dream’s finger. Nothing about this jogged a memory, so whether or not the first Corinthian had ever bitten its master and gotten away with it, he didn’t know—but he didn’t like his chances.

“She said I was ‘hovering’,” he said sullenly with his true mouth. “I didn’t hurt her.” Dream’s finger pressed into the gap where a tooth had been and the Corinthian’s other eye clenched shut hard enough to make an audible click, but he didn’t bite. He wouldn’t bite.

No matter how much the tiny fragment of his predecessor inside him screamed at him that he should.

@endlcssdreamiing sent: [ TO THE THREAT ]: " i'm sure there's a rational explanation behind you upsetting this person? " | why dream is in the waking is beyond me but yolo.

Meme: Heroic intervention prompt list

Just because she hadn’t been the one to start it, it didn’t mean she wasn’t ready to finish it. Was getting into a fist fight the best way to deal with the situation? No. Would it make her any less mortified by the attention his yelling was bringing their way? Also no. And yet there Tyler was, her temper rapidly rising, and her hands already balled into fists. She was about thirty seconds away from swinging at him when an unfamiliar voice spoke up.

Not expecting anybody else to confront him, the man fell into confused silence for a beat. For her part, Ty didn’t look away for even a moment, too busy staring daggers at him to cast a glance at the stranger who had interrupted.

“This really isn’t any of your—” “Oh my god, still? Seriously? Will you stop making a scene, and just go already?”

"I am as you've made me, dreamlord."

An unsubtle way of deflecting responsibility for his behaviour, as always, but the Corinthian shows no signs of feeling ashamed of itself. It watches him with wide, eager eyemouths, teeth parted and gleaming in their sockets, savouring the sight and the feel of their creator this close. One thing he has learned over the centuries is that the things he holds close can always be taken away from him: he must covet and devour them where he can, and take nothing for granted.

Like this moment, kneeling by the throne with his arms folded on the armrest, gazing up at his creator in an unabashed bid for attention - a bid that is succeeding, so far.

Carefully, he lets his hand dangle just far enough over the arm of the throne that his fingertips brush the back of Dream's hand. The Corinthian swallows, watching him intently. There is danger here. Danger, and--he hesitates to think the word Desire directly--unyielding want.

There are moments when the anger gets too heavy to bear. When the weight of sin digs into his shoulders, flattening him beneath it. When the loneliness, the sadness, and the grief rise up and threaten to drown him.

In those moments, Dream is always nearby. Silent but comforting. Always knowing what approach to give to soothe the prickly Morningstar. It's a brief reprieve in their relationship - A pause from the bickering.

Shoulders slump as the jacket surrounds him, Lucifer closing his eyes as he's once more nestled amongst the warmth of his stars. Home. The ache in his chest lessens, the weight easing as a tear escapes. It's a reminder of the person he once was. A bright light in the universe that had hopes and dreams, who wasn't twisted beyond recognition. Someone who had light in his eyes instead of hellfire.

really, hob misses 1920s france. it just doesn't smell the same anymore, even if the lot's still a bunch of pricks to 'im. regardless—

❛⠀you look unaffected. expected so – still blown away though. by the way, do you, er... how do i say this delicately, not eat ? or drink ? at all ? 'cause i've seen the way you've never touched any meal in all of our hundred of years together, my friend, but i am about to whip out the best fruit cocktail of anyone's life and i'd be honoured to serve you one. really, i insist.  ❜ and maybe he just wants his stranger to stay longer, sue him.