Gay Ppl - Tumblr Posts
Nowadays, people just don’t know how to go on a normal date.
PICK UP- PICK UP THE PHONE-- PICK UP- PICK UP THE PHONE. /lyr
funky roblox oc. take em. i hate him/j
big bad and the assassination team! (2/3)
- Risotto is based off the gift givers in the Best Gift Ever special
- Devil Darner does not have time powers, he’s just really really good at sneak attacks and throwing opponents off
- Devil communicates and gives orders to his underlings via magic scrolls (a la Celestia)
- i was gonna make a joke about how phones haven’t been invented yet so Dialtone is literally just making weird noises and talking to objects, but then i looked it up and turns out there ARE phones in equestria so. that’s out the window
- anyways some more bad italy puns: Shiredinia, Reinezia (or Reinice), Coatpri, Foalrence, Maneila, Marelan
Guys! I wrote a story based on my track coach being immortal because if you've met him... he most definitely is. Really proud of it so I'm posting it on here.
The Immortal Investigation
Or 3 times she suspects he's immortal and 1 time she finds out.
Tags: oc!character, teen!character, female!oc, detective work, middle schooler detective work, gay ppl (happy pride ya'll), neurodivergent MC, an immortal
Words: 3,383
Mr. Dahms always made Ira’s skin prickle. It's not that he was untoward or malicious… he just seemed out of place. When he was standing in the hallway greeting kids as they walked past, he looked odd. When he was talking to the other teachers, he looked stiff. Ira used to assume that he was only awkward - until she had him for 8th grade history.
In class, Mr. Dahms was in his element. He was lively, loud, and walked around the room with enthusiasm as he taught about the French Revolution and the Emancipation Proclamation. He talked about history as if he was there when it happened. As if he witnessed it.
Ira didn’t have a problem with Mr. Dahms. She had a problem with letting things go. This was one of the many instances where she couldn’t shake her suspicions. She couldn’t stop the constant wandering every time she walked into his class. She couldn’t stop thinking this man was older than he let on. Ira swore Mr. Dahms was immortal, but she couldn’t prove it.
So she did what she did best - she dug.
Observation #1
Subject has been seen coughing up unknown substances.
Ira didn’t want to be too obvious during this monitoring period. After all, if he caught on and he happened to be an average human with the average lifespan (which she doubted), he would take it the wrong way. Writing notes about your teacher that have absolutely nothing to do with the class would get her suspended. Well, she thought it would.
She wasn’t all that familiar with the discipline process at her school.
For complete privacy, Ira wrote all her notes in the back of a nondescript, spiral notebook. She believed that because she started writing at the back of the notebook, no one would find her super, secretive data.
All that being said, she was jotting things down like she usually did before class officially started. Ira was seated at the back of the classroom with her arms in the common “don’t cheat off of me” standard when she heard a cough. She thought nothing of it until it happened again… and again, and once more.
Finally, she looked up in concern for the poor individual that was hacking up a lung. Ira’s eyes widened when she saw it was, in fact, Mr. Dahms bent over the trash can holding his chest in both hands. From her angle, she could see that something dark and slimy was slowly slipping out of his mouth. She itched to jump out of her seat to get a closer look at what was going on before remembering she was trying to be discreet. Instead, she decided to wait for Mr. Dahms to finish his “Cocomelon Coughs” before she would casually go to the front of the class to “get a tissue”.
It took Mr. Dahms 64 seconds for his hacking to cease. It took him three seconds to stand up straight and face the handful of 13 year olds that were whispering to each other for the whole duration of his episode.
Mr. Dahms said, “I guess I brought something back from overseas.”
When, Ira thought, had Mr. Dahms gone overseas? He couldn’t have gone during Spring Break. Because of snow days, her school’s Spring Break had been more of a “Spring Breeze.” It would have been impractical for Mr. Dahms to take a plane to another country on Thursday and be back by the following Monday.
She deemed it impossible.
Ira’s peers were back on their phones soon after Mr. Dahms gave his flimsy excuse. No one suspected anything but her. She was the only one really paying attention. What did Mr. Dahms cough up, and where did it come from?
The tapping of her foot was the only thing keeping Ira sane. Class had now started, but it hadn’t been long enough for her to get a tissue without appearing shady. Plus, she had to set up the process of “getting a tissue” which included “getting the sniffles.” Ira was very serious about this part because if someone asked her why she needed a tissue, her plan would be ruined.
It took two minutes and seven seconds to finish the “getting a tissue” process. Mr. Dahms had not moved, and none of her classmates had moved, but when Ira went to thow her lightly used Kleenex in the trash, the dark, slimy substance was no longer there.
Subject’s bodily fluids look to have super absorbent abilities. More tests are required.
Substance = living dead Bubonic Plague (???)
Observation #2
Subject maintains homeostasis with only two hours of sleep.
Ira didn’t like the idea of using this bit of evidence. She didn’t think that hearing about Mr. Dahms being up in the demon hours was sound enough to be put into her notes… until she noticed that it was common knowledge. To everyone. Everyone but her.
After Ira got over the fact that she was so out of the loop even the teacher’s children looked at her weird, she started interviewing people. She knew that asking Mr. Dahms if he needed any sleep to stay sane was not going to blow over well. That was a breach of privacy.
Surely she would get suspended for it.
Ira knew that only secondary sources were obtainable to her, but how obtainable was still in question. As observant as she was, Ira had never observed any techniques to acquire friends. She tried it when she was in 5th grade. The little girl she befriended, Dynasti, didn’t take well to her constant statements about how her outfits never quite matched.
All that being said, Ira was nervous how the student population would react to her asking questions. She didn’t want to be stuffed into a locker (even if she could easily get out. Just because she could pick a lock from the inside didn’t mean she wanted to).
Recording #1 - James Apricot (7th grade athlete)
Ira: You… the basketball team. You’re on it - am I correct?
James: Yeah, I am. That’s actually where I’m going right now-
Ira: This won’t take long. Plus, this is much more important than your trivial game.
[Recording ends]
James Apricot did not take kindly to the insult of his beloved ball game. Ira had tried to chase him down, but as much as she hated to admit it, James was extremely fast. No wonder he was on both the varsity basketball team as well as the varsity track and field team.
Ira learned two things from this recording, 1) Insulting sports teams would lead to the premature end of an interview and 2) James would have been the perfect interviewee because Mr. Dahms coaches the track team and is the assistant coach for the basketball team.
Recording #2 - Athena McCorvey (8th grade cheerleader)
Ira: You cheer for both the basketball team and the football team, am I correct?
Athena: Yep. Head cheerleader for both.
Ira: Um… good for you?
[Ira coughs]
Ira: Have you interacted with Mr. Dahms during your extracurriculars?
Athena: Uh… yeah, but he’s not my coach, he coaches the guys. Why? Are you thinking about trying out?
[Athena snickers]
Ira: Goodness no. I find the idea of a sport where women are to dance and look sexy only so men can do better at their sport, well, repulsing.
Athena: I get where you’re coming from, but I don’t cheer for that reason. I cheer so I’ll feel pretty.
Ira: You're kidding! You must know that you are one of the most physically attractive and emotionally attractive people in this school, right? Why would you find comfort in these judgmental oafs thinking you’re pretty when they hardly know the definition of the word?
[Recording ends]
Ira learned many things from her interview with Athena. Firstly, Ira should have befriended Athena rather than Dynasti all those years ago. Athena didn’t take offense to Ira’s blunt observations like most people and instead added onto them with something equally as insightful. Secondly, for the sake of the investigation, this interview wasn’t at all necessary. Athena knew of Mr. Dahms, but only in passing. There was nothing the cheerleader knew that Ira hadn’t already analyzed.
And lastly, the recording with Athena was, just like James’, prematurely stopped. This was because Athena had kissed Ira and Ira didn’t feel as if that would have been appropriate for her professional recording. It will be documented, however, that Ira was invited to Athena’s exclusive birthday party on the Wednesday coming.
Recording #3 - Nathan Tiddle (6th grade track runner)
Ira: Mr. Dahms is your direct coach, am I correct?
Nathan: Yep. Why are you asking? Is his birthday coming up or something? Do I need to get him-
Ira: No, no, no. This isn’t about his birthday. This is about Mr. Dahms’ circadian rhythms.
Nathan: His what?
Ira: His sleep schedule, Nathan. What do you know about it?
Nathan: I know he comes to school at 4 in the morning to set up the track the way he wants it.
Ira: How do you know this?
Nathan: It’s common knowledge on the track team. Coach Dahms also tells us about it everyday at the beginning and end of practice. I don’t know if he’s trying to guilt-trip us into running faster cause if that’s what he’s trying to do, it’s working.
Ira: Is Mr. Dahms irritable or moody when he cleans the track at 4 in the morning?
Nathan: No. He does it everyday and everyday he always acts the same. Cheerful, nice, and - you know - he’s a coach, so he’s gonna be a [redacted].
Ira: Do you know how much he sleeps each night specifically?
James: 1 to 2 hours.
Nathan: Hey, this was my interview!
James: Shut it, little baby.
James: Coach Dahms only sleeps 1 to 2 hours each night. Even on weekends. He’s always calling the school or being at the school at ungodly hours because he has nothing else to do and he’s never tired. Ever.
Nathan: …I could have said that.
Ira: Thank you for your input, Nathan. And James.
Nathan: Not a problem! This detective thing you’ve got going on is so cool!
[Nathan walks over to his friends]
Ira: James, I am sorry if I insulted your sport earlier today.
James: No biggie.
[James gives Ira a “noogie”]
[Recording ends]
This was the most informative interview yet. Ira confirmed not only that Mr. Dahms functions on 1 to 2 hours of sleep, but he is never tired. No one has seen him yawn or rub his eyes. No one has ever seen him sleep. It would have been amazing if Ira could get an interview with Mr. Dahms’ wife, but even Ira knew that would be extremely difficult. As well as creepy. Yes, the creepy part was the first thing that crossed her mind.
On top of more evidence for Mr. Dahms being immortal, Ira learned that James did not, in fact, want to shove her in a locker then go on to high five his friends. James thought Ira was “chill”. Ira found it comforting that James would be one of the people gathering for Athena’s birthday celebration.
Nathan was annoying, but after some intelligently placed redirectioning, he was telling Ira all she needed to know. Ira wasn’t the happiest when he used foul language in her tape but censoring his colorful adjective wasn’t the worst part of her day. Plus, Nathan was, as James put it, a baby. Ira would let his loose lips go unpunished. This time. Ira had already warned him what would happen if expletives were used in her recording again.
Subject continues to have peak cognitive function with minimal sleep.
Athletes are nicer than they seem.
Athena likes penguins. *added to personal journal
Dahms has a continuous positive attitude. Is this because living longer makes you focus on the better things in life?
Observation #3
Subject taught my mother. And my grandmother.
The weekend had come, so Ira had decided to take 2 deserved days off from the Immortal Investigation. Ira believed strongly in caring for one’s mental health. She concluded it was because her mother did psych evaluations for the local fire and police departments. Many of the people who worked at those two places would have been better off if they took time to reflect on themselves.
Ira was in the middle of doing a deep clean for the lower level of her house when she found something quite interesting. For some reason, she’d never seen it before and Ira is the one and only cleaner of the Montgomery household.
She had found her grandmother’s highschool yearbook. To be honest, it almost made Ira tear up. Her grandmother had passed away just 3 years ago due to surgery complications. Her mother’s mom was where Ira got most of her detective-like qualities. When she was younger, she swore her grandmother worked for the CIA because of how attentive and observant she was. Her grandmother blamed it on motherhood which was a shame because Ira didn’t plan on ever having kids. She found people very confusing. Why would she add another person - that can’t talk - to the equation?
Ira was flipping through the pages looking for her grandmother’s maiden name when she caught a glimpse of a familiar face. She almost dropped the book in shock. The face was in the teachers section of the yearbook in between Mr. Daes and Ms. Didyoung. The face wore a white, fluffy beard and circular glasses. The face… was Mr. Dahms.
It wasn’t possible. How did her history teacher look the exact same as he did now than he did a good 60 years ago? Just how long had Mr. Dahms been teaching?
Adding onto the fact the Mr. Dahms had also taught her mother, this only confirmed Ira’s suspicions. Mr. Dahms was most definitely an immortal. He didn’t seem to age, he didn’t sleep, and he was a carrier to an identifiable amount of diseases. She knew what she had to do.
It was time to confront him.
Observation period has ended.
Confirmation of results will commence.
Conclusion
Ira sat in the back of her history class with an irremovable smile on her face. When the bell rang, her classmates would file out, but she would stay. She would stay and confront this immortal being. She would show him all the observations she collected thus far, and he would be speechless. He would be caught.
But what did Ira want to do after Mr. Dahms admitted to being immortal? She had no knowledge of him hurting anyone. If anything, he was using the fact that he was immortal to better society. He was teaching children, for goodness sake! As much as outing Mr. Dahms would be a trivial activity, Ira yearned to do it. This was her first real investigation that had actually gone somewhere. She had to see it through.
Plus, Athena was waiting for updates. Ira had gotten into the habit of texting the cheerleader and Athena would actually respond to her. It was great. Athena made sure Ira understood any of the pop culture references she made, and lended a listening ear to Ira’s scientific queries.
Ring!
It was finally time. Ira was shaking in excitement as she waited for her classmates to shuffle out the room. She gathered her super, secret notebook and walked to the front of the classroom were Mr. Dahms seemed to be waiting for her.
“Miss Montgomery! What can I do for you?”
Ira took a calming breath, “I have been observing you, Mr. Dahms and the notes I have made show some interesting results. Here.” Ira handed Mr. Dahms her notebook.
Subject has been seen coughing up unknown substances.
Subject’s bodily fluids look to have super absorbent abilities. More tests are required.
Substance = living dead Bubonic Plague (???)
Subject maintains homeostasis with only two hours of sleep.
Subject continues to have peak cognitive function with minimal sleep.
Dahms has a continuous positive attitude. Is this because living longer makes you focus on the better things in life?
Subject taught my mother. And my grandmother.
Observation period has ended.
Confirmation of results will commence.
Mr. Dahms read through the pages, his eyes widening with each line read. Ira couldn’t get rid of the smug smile on her face. She had got him.
“As you can see, my observations have led to one conclusion,” Ira straightened he blouse, “You, Mr. Dahms, are an immortal being.”
Ira didn’t think Mr. Dahms would burst out laughing. This was not how this was supposed to go.
Mr. Dahms eventually got himself under control, “Ira, you are an observant little girl, I’ll admit, but you only see what you want to see. This whole “Immortal Investigation” was under my control from the beginning.”
“N-no, that can’t be true-”
“It is, dear. I gave you this wild goose chase that you would find extremely interesting so you would get out of your own head. So that you would go and talk to other people your age. I just wanted you to make friends.”
“Mr. Dahms-” Ira was cut off once again.
“And you did, right? Athena says hi to you in the hallway and the track team can’t stop talking about you. You won, Ira, but not in the way you might have wanted to.”
Ira was speechless. This was not how this was supposed to go. Mr. Dahms was supposed to be speechless. Ira was supposed to feel victorious, but all she felt was the bittersweet end to a botched investigation. Maybe he was right. Maybe she only saw what she wanted to see.
“There’s no need to be upset. Your persistence was admirable.”
“Yes, but I was wrong,” Ira hung her head in shame.
“Everyone’s wrong once in a while. Learn from it. Chin up, detective.”
No. It didn’t matter what Mr. Dahms said. Ira was wrong. She was wrong and now she was extremely upset. She was so sure of herself that she’d dragged other people into her investigation and now they would know of her failure. This was horrible.
She skipped watching cheer practice that day. Ira went home with her head still hung.
He wiped sweat off of his brow and steadied his breathing. Mr. Dahms sat at his desk in shock at what had just happened. Ira Montgomery had figured it out all by herself. The only other person who had even come close to figuring out what he was was… Ira’s grandmother. Mary Ann didn’t have enough evidence to support her claim, so she gave up.
Ira… he hadn’t even suspected her. She was quiet and didn’t have many friends. She did what she was supposed to do and never asked for any extra help. She was practically invisible to him. Not even the track team had spoken a peep about her interviewing his athletes.
He was blindsighted.
Mr. Dahms was lucky he had plenty of experience thinking on his feet or he would have fumbled right in her trap.
It wasn’t like his life would be in danger if people found out he was immortal. It just wasn’t something he told people. Well, besides his wives. He didn’t think it was fair for them to be left in the dark about something like that. They were partners after all.
How he became immortal was unclear. He was born during the days of horse and buggy, diseases, and slavery. He was relatively normal. Nothing happened to him that would have said otherwise, but when the time came where his family started dying and he didn’t… he began to grow suspicious.
Mr. Dahms could catch illnesses, but he wouldn’t be affected by them. He would simply be a carrier, just like Ira had hypothesized. Sometimes he would cough them up, but that wasn’t a common occurrence. No, he didn’t need that much sleep. This phenomenon only started happening after he reached the age of 150. He didn’t know why.
Mr. Dahms thought maybe it was time to move on from this town. 2 people suspecting him in under 100 years? It made him uncomfortable. But, then again, it could be fine. He preferred to experience as little change as possible.
He’d wait another 200 years.
Guys, I just have to say it... I fucking love the gays. I mean, gay people in general. The whole alphabet mafia. They are the coolest fuckers ever. Also, gay fanfics are better that straight ones. AND, hot take, polyamorous gay fanfics are on top frfr.
Currently reading Steve x Eddie. Previously reading Steve x Bucky. PREVIOUSLY previously reading Steve x Tony x Bucky. Always reading Spideypool.
Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.
My deepest apologies I'm a high gay menace to society no rly I'm high fr so sorry if I say stupid shit tonight lmao
acid hues is the best off the hook song argue with the wall
Heheheha.
HAHAHAHA THE WAY YOU FLIRTED AND THREE SECONDS LATER POMNI WAS LIKE “I girlfailed” HAHAHA I JUST SAW THIS IN REAL TIME-
-ADHD
“ ahahaha! yes, i'm very proud of myself. ”
helping with the lecture work
there are so many little commonalities in dreamling fics that will hit so hard no matter how many fics you read them in, but one that just always always gets me is them at their reunion meeting at the new inn, hob, with the grace and generosity of a saint if we're being honest, being like yeah you stormed out on me last time and then ghosted me for three decades but it's okay i love you i'd wait for you forever.
and dream just being like oh sorry about that. i was in a cage at the time.
hob like: 😨😨😨😨😨😨😨😨 ..... a cage?
dream: yeah sorry the cage kind of impeded my ability to meet for drinks :/
hob: WAIT A CAGE????
dream: obviously i got out tho
hob: when did you get out?
dream: tuesday 👍
Safe in the Palm of Your Hand
Morpheus, King of Dreams and Nightmares, Dream of the Endless.
Lord Shaper.
For Dream, his body is not always a fixed thing. He would even go so far as to say that most of the time it is not a fixed thing. He is sand, so many countless pieces shifting under the lightest winds and the softest touches. His form changes based on how others see him, on how he sees himself, on how those two expectations interact, on whether one is stronger than the other or if a reasonable middle can be found.
Sometimes, though, he is sand in an hourglass (impenetrable glass, no wind, no air, no gentle touch to guide his form, motionless, frozen in his helplessness) and he doesn’t feel solid, he feels fragile. Breakable. Like the same soft touch and gentle wind will shatter him. In those moments, his expectations of himself will always outweigh anybody else’s.
And it is such today. His status as an Endless does not protect him from his own nightmares, not when they are his own memories, and on this day his body feels wrong. He does not feel like an Endless. He does not feel like a king, or a lord, or a person. Even months after escaping the Burgess Mansion, after regaining his power and repairing his realm, even now, he finds himself feeling… small. His form shudders and shivers and he feels weak, he feels like a vermin to be caught, a prey to be hunted and devoured, he feels dirty, unwanted, unloved, unsafe, small, small, small-
There is a mouse in Hob’s apartment.
He almost didn’t see it, was only alerted to something being amiss by the soft, frightened squeak when he opened his front door. Turning his head, he caught just a glimpse of a small shadow darting behind the old armchair in the corner. Closing the door behind him, Hob hums in surprise. Living above a pub, he’s never dealt with mice or other creatures in his home, most being more attracted to the kitchen and trash cans on the first floor before stumbling into the catch-and-release traps set around the property.
Sighing, he lets his bag fall from his shoulder onto the floor, resigned to his new task for the night. He can finish grading in the morning, once he’s dealt with his unexpected guest. Over the centuries he’s managed to overcome the instinctual disgust and fear at the sight of rodents, but that doesn’t mean he wants one running around his apartment. For a moment, he considers going back downstairs to get one of the traps from the kitchen, but he doesn’t want to give the small creature a chance to hide deeper in the apartment. Besides, he’s wily- he’s certain he can herd the mouse into a box and get it outside himself no problem.
There is a box next to the coffee table in the center of the room, full of papers and documents he’s been procrastinating on organizing, and he casually dumps the contents onto the floor as he approaches the armchair. He keeps his footsteps soft and slow, hoping not to spook the mouse into bolting. So far though, Hob hasn’t seen it since it darted into the corner. Kneeling carefully, he positions the box on its side in front of him, reaching out to move the chair to one side in an attempt to give the mouse only one direction to run.
The mouse doesn’t run.
Hob can’t help but furrow his brows sadly once he’s able to see it, huddled as far in the corner as it can get. For a moment he feels his heart clench in a way he doesn’t fully understand, something more than just general compassion for a small creature, and then he gasps as he realizes what he is looking at.
Two bright points of light emit from the mouse’s eyes.
“…Dream?” The name is less than a whisper on Hob’s breath.
He doesn’t receive an answer, but he doesn’t need one.
Since the stranger’s delayed return, he and Hob had seen each other several times, a surprising change in their relationship that Hob welcomed with open arms. After so many years, Hob was finally given answers to some of his countless questions, including a name, and a summary of what exactly his friend is. Dream had even been generous enough to visit Hob in his dreams once, and Hob still gets flutters in his stomach when he thinks of the bright stars of Dream’s eyes.
The box is quickly tossed aside and he crouches down farther. Dream had explained to him during one of their recent meetings that he was able to shapeshift (his explanation was far more detailed and complicated than that, but shapeshifting was the closest Hob’s human mind could get to understanding) and his heart cracks in his chest as he takes in the sight of his friend in a form he has never seen before; has never even imagined in relation to the Endless being.
Pitch black fur contrasts the bright white of his eyes, but the fur looks matted and thin, tiny ribs peeking under the skin, and he doesn’t know if mice can cry, but the fur looks wet and clumped around the eyes. A long thin tail is sickly pale, and Hob can see him trembling even through the rapid rise and fall of the tiny chest.
Dream is always so strong and untouchable in Hob’s mind, it’s jarring to see him so small and clearly frightened. He doesn’t know what happened- why Dream is in this form, why he’s here, but Hob doesn’t think there’s a force on Earth or off it that could stop him from reaching out to comfort.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he keeps his voice soft and gentle, afraid of frightening him further. Afraid of hurting the small, fragile ears. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you, you’re alright,” slowly, so slowly, Hob cups his hands and lowers them to the ground before his friend, “you’re safe here, can you come out? I just want to help.”
Still no response, unless you count Hob’s heart breaking more each moment he watches the mouse shake and shiver in the corner. Part of him wonders if he should leave Dream alone, but it feels too cruel, and Hob has always been one to trust his instincts when it comes to matters of the heart. And so, taking a deep, steadying breath, he cautiously moves to gently scoop the mouse into his palms.
It hurts more than he expected to actually feel tiny trembling paws against his skin, but Dream doesn’t run. In fact, he turns jerkily and tucks his little face against Hob’s fingers, curling into a ball as if trying to hide. He lets out a soft shushing sound, bringing his hands to his chest, cradling the mouse against his chest and making a shelter with his hands.
Dream isn’t sure how he got here either.
He had been feeling off kilter for days now, the weight that lived in his chest feeling more unbearable than usual. More and more he found his surroundings reacting to him; walls closing in and curving, clothes growing thinner and thinner, air becoming frigid and still. His lungs felt tight, desperate for breath he didn’t need, and then he caught his reflection and the glass shattered in response and he heard someone yell, maybe worried, maybe angry, angry, angry, and then he was gone.
When he lands, he knows he’s in a new form, but he can’t focus on it, too scared in a primal way he can’t identify. All he wants is to hide, it’s all his mind can hold on to, so when he hears a door open he runs. If he can just stay hidden, if he just avoids capture, maybe he’ll be able to pull himself together. But when he is found, his terror and sorrow are so great he freezes. He thinks he recognizes the man in front of him, even if he looks different being so much larger than him, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t ease his fear, his grief, his hopelessness. Dirty, unwanted, unloved, unsafe.
Dream feels small. Dream is small. So small and easy to hurt. He thinks maybe he always has been.
But…
But the hands don’t crush him. He is lifted slowly and then he finds himself… held. Not held down, not trapped, not caged. Even as one hand folds above him, there is no tension, and Dream feels certain he could escape if he wished too.
He does not wish to.
Hob’s hands are warm, so warm, and soft, and nothing like the cold hard glass of his memories. Dream finds himself curling up as he is cradled against his chest, soft fabric covering a strong chest that doesn’t scare him as much as it did a minute ago. Cupped against him like this, he feels ensconced in a gentle cave, the shadows beneath his hands a welcome peace against the thought of a hundred years of harsh light keeping him on display.
Slowly, his trembling body stills, curling up tighter and soaking in the warmth.
“There you are,” Hob coos, sitting on the couch, ever careful of his precious cargo. It is a great honor, he thinks, to hold an Endless in the palm of your hands. To be tasked with protecting something so valuable. Cautiously, he lays down, smiling as he sees the mouse curl deeper into his sweater, resting right over his heart. Hob keeps one hand cradling him, and brings the other up to pillow his own head against the arm of the couch. “Sorry if I scared you earlier,” he keeps his voice low, “wasn’t expecting company. But I meant it when I said you’re always welcome. I’m glad you came to me.”
Hesitantly, he moves one thumb to carefully stroke the matted black fur of Dream’s back. It almost looks like the mouse sighs, relaxing even further, and Hob grins.
Continuing his gentle petting, Hob does what he does best.
He talks.
He tells the little dream mouse about the annoying staff meeting he had, and his favorite and least favorite coworkers, and one of his friends who wanted Hob to start a karaoke night at the New Inn, and how he thinks in his next life he wants to buy a fixer-upper and do as much as he can with his own hands. He tells Dream the little mundane things that have made Hob think of him, and how he wants Dream to get a phone but he thinks his head would explode if Dream ever sent an emoji.
He talks, and the mouse relaxes more and more, no longer curled desperately tight, but burrowing comfortably into him, and Dream thinks that maybe being small isn’t as scary anymore if it means he can feel Hob’s heartbeat drum against his entire body.
Eventually, Hob’s hand goes limp above him, draped over Dream’s form like a weighted blanket, as Hob talks himself to sleep.
Dream is still small. Still fragile. But he is surrounded by Hob Gadling, by his warmth and his compassion and his love, and he realizes that all he wanted was to feel safe, and Hob managed to give him that and so much more.
When Hob awakes, it is to the sun shining through his living room window and Dream, his familiar, gangly, human-shaped Dream, laying across him with his head on his chest. Hob’s hand is resting on his wild black hair, as gentle with him now as he was the night before.
“Hi,” Hob’s voice cracks lightly as he wakes, but his grin is wide and bright when Dream turns to look at him.
“Hello.”
They’ll talk about it, later, after Hob has stretched the kinks out of his neck and has used his puppy eyes to convince Dream to eat some breakfast. Later, Hob will hold his hand and let Dream tell him fragmented details of where he’s been this past century, of what was done to him. He’ll stroke Dream’s back when he seems to shrink, stuttering and stumbling over words about how who he wants to be and who he’s supposed to be and who he’s been turned into all cut into who he is like broken glass. Dream will speak a lot about broken glass. Dream will speak a lot about being broken. Later, Hob will hold him and tell him that being hurt is not the same as being broken.
Later.
For now, Hob just smiles and gathers Dream in his arms, letting him rest his head back down to listen to his immortal heartbeat, happy for the heavy weight against his chest.
and in the waking world we wait and want by @qqueenofhades is over now and i’m not okay
Imagine this: Dream very much enjoys physical touch. His whole being is such an out of the waking world's concept that he finds being touched quite grounding.
He likes when Lucienne hands him a book and doesn't mind their hands touching. He always enjoyed when one of his ravens would sit on his shoulder and bury a beak in his hair. And it's most welcome when death hangs on his arm, leaning into him with her whole being.
But Dream also knows about all the people out there who merely dislike or maybe even hate being touched. So he's never the first to do it. He assumes that nobody wants to be touched by him until they do it first.
Now, this is how his trouble with Hob Gadling starts. Hob is an affectionate person. He's quick with a smile, he invites people in and certainly doesn't mind a pat on the back or even a hug. Just not with Dream.
Hob might not know who and what his stranger is, but he's definitely not human, and he's not exactly the cuddly type. Hell, he doesn't even tell his name, he certainly doesn't want to be touched. So Hob being extra careful, doesn't touch Dream. No bump on the shoulder, no handshake, nothing.
So at each meeting, they sit there, both practically vibrating out of their skin, because they long for the physical affection that they deliberately withhold from each other. Until one of them fucks up.
Hob always knew that he'd mess it up one day. It's just too damn hard not to touch, especially when you like somebody.
After they found each other again in "The New Inn," Hob was over the moon. He saw his stranger again who admitted to them being friends. And that's not all. He's also the one who said that a hundred years is quite a long time and many things could happen, so it might be wise to meet more often.
Hob was ecstatic, imagining another meeting in about fifty years time. He almost fell out of his chair when his stranger showed up two weeks after their last meeting. Two weeks!
They didn't really have that much to talk about, but Hob would be content to simply look at his stranger for an hour. After all, he seems to get prettier by the century. Another four weeks pass before his stranger comes back, and this time, he has another surprise. He tells Hob his name.
Morpheus.
It's not Mark or Murphy, obviously, but considering what his stranger could be and how long he might have been wandering the earth, Morpheus seems like an easy enough name. It also suits him. It's a little mysterious, a hint of strange, but flows so nicely when Hob says it. He loves to greet his stranger with it, watching his lips curl up just slightly.
It makes them more familiar than they've ever been before, and that warms Hob's heart. Maybe that's also what made him careless.
"You seem quite fond of these today," Morpheus says, nodding at Hob's drink before fishing a tiny umbrella out of the glass.
Hob watches him rolling the little wooden pick along his slender fingers, wondering what they might feel like. Pale as Morpheus looks, Hob always imagines his skin to be cold, but maybe he's just comfortably warm at all times. What he wouldn't give to find out.
"Hob?" Morpheus asks, lighting a fire in Hob's chest.
There's just something so intriguing about how he says the name, aside from the fact that nobody else uses it anymore. Hob pretty much goes by Robert these days, but Morpheus is sticking to his guns. He only calls him Robert when he uses his full name. Robert Gadling. It's a dare or a reprimand, depending on the situation, but it usually happens with the tiniest of smiles, elisiting shivers to run down Hob's spine.
"I can afford it today," Hob finally says before his friend can think he's ignoring him.
Morpheus raises a brow at him. "I never took you as a man without means."
"No, I mean, I can indulge a little today," Hob explains. "It's going to be the weekend and I don't have any papers to grade or lessons to prepare for next week."
"I see. You're free of responsibilities for now."
Morpheus sounds a little envious and the hairs on Hob's neck stand up. It's one of those rare moments when he might gain some insight on his friend without forcing it right out of him.
"I guess you don't have that?"
"Rarely," Morpheus says.
"That's not a no," Hob says with a smile and shoves his untouched drink over to Morpheus. "Come on, allow yourself a break."
Morpheus watches the drink but only puts down the little umbrella next to it, making no motion to actually drink. Hob has to admit that he wondered about this for a while now. Their meetings are never so long that Morpheus would have to sustain himself, but it still seems off to never eat or drink anything.
"You can drink something, right?" Hob asks, unable to hold it in.
This time Morpheus raises both brows in amusement. "Why wouldn't I be able to drink?"
"How would I know? Vampires don't eat human food for example."
"Vampires aren't real," Morpheus says matter-of-factly, answering a question that many humans might be quite interested in.
"But you are," Hob says.
The reaction he gets is exquisite. Morpheus smiles. A full on smile that lights up his whole face. It's rare but powerful, making Hob feel tingly all over even when he knows that Morpheus is enjoying a private joke that Hob doesn't get.
"Glad I can still amuse you after all these years," Hob huffs, acting affronted.
"I'm sorry," Morpheus says although he still sounds very much amused. "To answer your question…"
He picks up the glass and Hob can't help but stare. His eyes are fixed on the spot where Morpheus' pink lips meet the glass. Morpheus tilts his head back a fraction and Hob watches his throat when he swallows, almost feeling naughty when he does so.
Morpheus sits the glass back down on the table and runs his tongue over his upper lip. "I know all these ingredients, but I don't think I've ever tasted them together."
Hob smiles. "Well, that's mine. I made it up myself."
"You made up a drink?"
"Yeah, well, I worked as a bartender for a bit before they closed down the old inn. I was never particularly good at it but I enjoyed mixing things people didn't want me to mix. You like it?"
"Yes," Morpheus says, taking another sip as if to make sure. "Yes, I do."
With pride swelling in his chest, Hob's smile grows even wider. "Great. I call it Summer Dream."
Morpheus furrows his brows, shifting his full focus to Hob, a glimmer in his eyes. He has done so a few times in their time together, usually when he asks Hob if he still wants to live.
"Summer Dream?" he asks, emphasizing the word dream. "Why?"
"Because that's what comes to mind when I taste it," Hob says, but he can tell from Morpheus' face that he's not satisfied with the answer, so he keeps going. "It's like being on the beach when there are birds in the sky with the waves crashing against the rocks somewhere and the sun is already low in the sky. It's loud and full of life, but then you push your bare feet into the warm sand and everything goes quiet. It's calm, you know, and nice."
Morpheus keeps watching Hop to the point where Hob almost feels uncomfortable, something that rarely happens. Then, he turns back to the drink, looking at it as if he sees it for the first time.
"It's fascinating how you humans go about perceiving the waking world."
"The waking world?" Hob says, ignoring the fact that Morpheus just excluded himself when he mentioned humans. "I just told you that it's called 'Summer Dream.' It's so good, it can't be real."
"Who's to say that dreams aren't real?" Morpheus asks and there's something in his voice that makes Hob shiver.
It feels like they're on the verge of something and Hob doesn't want to mess up. "Well, if you say so, I'm happy to accept that dreams are real. We established that you're real and you're a dream of a man if there ever was one, so … that all makes perfect sense."
Morpheus' gaze becomes even more intense, however that is possible. "You think I'm a dream?"
Hob laughs. "Well, have you looked at yourself lately? I can see men fall asleep, desperately conjuring up your image in their minds."
He omits that he might be one of them, especially when Morpheus purses his lips. "Robert Gadling, are you flirting with me?"
It's one of those things Hob never dreamed his friend would say, and it could be an opening to something more, but Hob is careful these days. He doesn't want to ruin what they have over a joke.
"Little old me?" he asks, trying to bring the two of them back into perspective. "Nah, I'm just joshing ya."
Morpheus smiles at the familiar words and Hob is quite pleased that his friend remembers their meetings in as much detail as he does.
"I'll get us more drinks," he says and gets up while Morpheus points at his drink.
"I'm still enjoying this one."
"Doesn't mean that one has to stay the only one."
Since Morpheus seems to be in an agreeable mood, Hob takes full advantage of it. He doesn't let their conversation get to a point where there might be nothing left to talk about, and he makes sure to get two more drinks into his friend. The evening only ends when Hob comes to the limits of his human body, immortal or not.
"You should go to bed," Morpheus says with a tone as if he's the sole authority on sleep. "Or I'll make you."
Hob might be a little bit drunk, so his judgment isn't the best. He leans over the table with a smile. "You would, wouldn't you? With force?"
"Sleep, Hob," Morpheus says. "You need it."
That's the first time he's lecturing him without using Hob's full name first, so maybe Morpheus is a little drunk, too. Hob should count that as a win and not push his luck.
"See you soon?" he asks, the question alone making him tingly all over.
"See you soon," Morpheus says with a slight nod.
With butterflies dancing in his belly, Hob gets to his feet. "Sleep well then, my friend."
He walks past Morpheus, and - only the gods might know why - puts his hand on Morpheus' shoulder. Hob lets it rest there for a second, giving a soft squeeze, before running his fingers down Morpheus' arm.
Hob keeps walking as if nothing happened. Only when he's outside and the cold night air hits him, does he understand his horrid mistake. He stumbles back into the inn without thinking, but Morpheus is already gone.
"Fuck."
Hob falls back on his chair, hoping against hope that soon didn't just become never.
Before the "BTW I love you"
Midnight escapade
Thinking about how we, as a fandom, seemed to have forgotten the ridiculousness of the mistletoe tradition. Oh, to be kissed by a stranger under a parasitic plant in public! Why yes, sign Dream up.
Thinking about Hob decorating the New Inn for Christmas. Dream drops in unexpectedly (but certainly not unwelcome) as usual, curious to see Hob draping multicolored lights along the open shelves of liquor behind the bar.
“What are you doing, Hob?”
“What does it look like I'm doing?” and Hob would turn back to his work, and Dream would watch, fascinated. Listening to the cheery music playing through the speakers, listening to Hob speak of the centuries past, how the celebration of the Christmas holiday had been pretty steadily thus since the mid 1800’s.
“The pagan holiday?” Dream would inquire, dragging his fingers along the taped up holiday cards along the backsplash of the bar, like moth’s wings stuck out and on display. Some even transferring soft glitter on Dream’s fingers, making him rub them together curiously.
“Well,” Hob would shrug with a grin. “The Christian bastardization of it.”
“Hardly,” Dream mused. “The Romans celebrated Saturnalia in this time, honoring the god with a feast and gifts.”
“No foolin’, eh?”
And, since it was late and Hob was feeling good about the work he’d done, he’d pour Dream a glass of red and offer him a seat, both of them sitting at the bar and admiring the twinkling lights, the smell of pine from the fresh garland, the garish oversized stockings tacked to the walls, and– Dream noticed with puzzlement, a single bunch of berries and leathery leaves hanging from the ceiling in the middle of an archway.
“I do not recognize this.”
Hob followed his friend’s gaze and, “oh,” he’d laugh. But it sounds… off-kilter, nervous or embarrassed.
“It’s mistletoe. Just this– parasitic plant–”
“Why does it have a bow on it?”
“For fun.” Hob would level Dream with a look like, lighten up. Get into the spirit.
“Elaborate.”
And Hob would hmm and haa about this relatively silly tradition about kissing under a mistletoe, how the “rule” had kind of faded away in the past decade or so, but it was still a fun little thing and Hob, ever the purveyor of all things dreadfully human, wants to keep the tradition alive, even if no one really follows along anymore.
And Dream, knowing full well he doesn’t need an excuse to kiss his immortal, very human partner, decides to humor Hob.
He slips from his seat, hearing Hob snicker from behind him, probably knowing full well what he’s about to do, and Dream walks to stand directly under the plant.
The bar is closed, no one else is in the building, but Hob looks around anyway, like there would be anyone else who would take advantage of this opportunity. Dream has to physically bite down a delighted smile as Hob shrugs– well if no one else will– and all but jumps from his stool, slowly walking toward Dream with his hands in his jeans’ pockets.
Without even touching Dream, Hob leans in and pecks him on the mouth.
Dream’s brows rise up to his hairline. “Is that it?”
“I’m afraid so, duck.” He points up to the plant above them. "They don’t hang these in public places for full blown make out sessions, you know.”
“Hm…” Dream considers this, and decides if the tradition of kissing under the mistletoe only yields one chaste thing, then he’d have to start collecting them enough to make something substantial out of it.
Cue the ridiculous montage of Hob finding Dream in various locales, venues, anywhere he’s at (even at a holiday staff party) and in all manner of positions, under a mistletoe.
“Was that even there before?” Hob would ask, a red solo cup in his hand and smirking like a fool at the sight of Dream slouching against the wall, a– quite large actually– mistletoe dangling from the ceiling above his head.
“Does it matter?” Dream would counter and Hob would shrug, fair enough, and acquiesce to the plant’s demands. It was a Christmas tradition, after all.
Or Hob entering his office at work and finding Dream draped across his desk, holding a plastic mistletoe that looked like it was bought at a drug store high above his head.
Hob would take a few moments to stand and stare, enamored by this ridiculous creature.
“You know how much I love you?” It’s not what Hob meant to say, he was going to quip something about dramatic Endless and their need for attention, but he’s so gone over Dream that his mouth barely cooperates with his brain in these situations.
Dream would preen, stretching his long legs down so they dangle off the edge of the desk, like a cat sunning himself, shaking the plastic plant for emphasis.
“You could show me.”
This is their new tradition, every Christmas season. Hob finds Dream everywhere in the waking world, distracting Hob, raising eyebrows, and starting up strange rumor mills. But it’s in the privacy of his own home, coming back from work, and finding Dream wailing desperately against the foyer of his kitchen, a planted mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, as usual.
“Oh, Hob Gadling,” Dream would cast an arm over his eyes. “How I’ve waited for you to come back and free me from the spell these dreadful berries have put me under.”
“Okay,” Hob would grin, biting back a laugh. “Would a kiss suffice?”
Dream would be hanging off the wall, his long, rail thin limbs bent at every angle under faux duress.
“Oh! It might do. I feel shackled under this strange power this greenery emanates.”
“Dream of the Endless,” Hob would tease, dropping his bag and taking off his coat as he walks to his impossible lover. “Brought down by a common earthly sprout.”
“Yes, yes, now will you get over here?”
And once Hob is within arms reach, laughing hard enough to wheeze, Dream would grab him by the shoulders and pull him in.
not to be TOO stereotypically gay but the list of things i’d do to get hoizer on vinyl exists