Chapter Text
The first time Hob sees Dream is when the latter has the audacity to enter the Morningstar's realm. He watches as the Dream King intimidates Squatterbloat into bringing him to the Palace. The demon is stupid and gullible, easily swayed, and Hob has a mind to bury his morningstar in the moron's fleshy head, but he would rather observe the visitor and his raven from the shadows.
Hob trails them, the straps of his armor expanding and morphing to cover his body with the mottled charcoals and midnights that are the palette of Hell. Squatterbloat leads the King in a circuitous route to their destination, passing a cell whose occupant not only commands the attention of the sovereign of the Dreaming, but whose pleading pains him. Curious.
He follows the King and the raven to the end of their guided tour and beyond, all the way into Lucifer's Hall. Hob easily slides unnoticed through the crack in the main doors; he is good at his job. He hadn't been successful at being a bandit and cutthroat in life for nothing.
Hob takes up a place in the long shadows of one of the pillars and observes.
Apparently the Lord of Dreams and Nightmares is here in Hell to retrieve his helm, one of his important symbols of office. And of course it is some overly ripe idiot like Choronzon who has it. Sometimes Hob just wants to kill them all and promote new individuals to the positions of power, sometimes the house can't be cleaned, it needs to be razed and rebuilt.
But what happens next is truly awe-inspiring: watching the battle between Dream and the Morningstar themself. The Dream King wins, although not handily, which makes the victory even more impressive. Hope. Of fucking course. Hob is quite sure that he has never seen the Lord of Hell so visibly angry in all his 600 plus years in the underworld.
Helm secured and confidence restored, the Lord of the Dreaming is proud and... well, he is incredibly beautiful. He is sharp angles in soft greys and blacks, luminous white skin draped in flowing ink, spikes of hair wafting against gravity.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Hob follows Lord Morpheus and his raven back outside. They walk slowly through the barren, twisted landscape, calculated and careful. Imperious.
Hunger ripples down Hob's spine. He wants. Greed and lust in equal measure.
The Lord stops, body going more still than death. He turns his head to give the barest glance over his shoulder. "I am here in my official capacity as King of Dreams and Nightmares. You have followed me for long enough. Show yourself, fiend."
The Dream King's voice is so much deeper and darker than Hob expected and now it is directed at him and it goes directly to his cock. He decides to drop any pretense all at once.
Hob has no shame as he steps out from hiding, the shadow-plates sliding back and leaving him in what really amounts to a series of leather straps and a loincloth, arranged to accentuate the triangle of his torso and the strength in his chest, with sleeves from biceps to palms. The Knights of Hell need no metal protection - they shield themselves in darkness and guile - and so Lucifer Morningstar has given them intangible weapons: the ability to inspire lust and envy as much as wrath. Hob drops his physical weapon and holds his hands out to his sides.
"Dream King," Hob inclines his head. "I am not here to harm, nor am I here at the behest of my Lord, the Lightbringer." He meets the King's piercing blue eyes and has to grit his teeth to hold in a gasp at how sharply they cut into his chest.
That look trails from Hob's head to his toes slowly, scouring, then back up. Judging. Assessing. "So why do you dog my steps, Hellknight?"
Hob shrugs and takes a step forward. There is no reason for him to not be bold. He has long been dead. He has been a resident of Hell and served the Devil themself, has lived that fate worse than death, for almost seven centuries. He has, quite literally, nothing to lose.
So Hob nudges the bit of Hell’s magic at his disposal into the cant of his hips, the tilt of his head, the purse of his lips. He lowers his eyelids and takes another step towards the luminous being of black and white before him. "I merely wish to look my fill before I can no longer."
"Bossss..." The raven flies a nervously tight circle above them. The bird is summarily ignored.
"You wish to more than look, Hellknight, for I can taste your daydreams." The Lord of Nightmares snarls as he takes multiple steps to get into Hob's personal space. "You dare-"
Hob laughs loud enough to interrupt and those ice shards narrow to restrain the King’s anger. "Oh, yes. I dare." He steps up once more and now their faces are within inches of each other. "How do you think the Morningstar trains their knights? Do you think there is anything you could do to me that would be worse than 700 years of this?"
The resonant chuckle that curls across Hob's skin should probably worry him, but he cannot muster such sense when he is watching the pupils of the Dream King's eyes bleed black outwards, eclipsing his eyes entirely, and wholly captivating Hob. "Lucifer Morningstar's sins often get in the way of their... creativity."
A pale hand shoots towards him and Hob braces for impact, for pain.
He gets nothing of the sort.
Fingers that are the coolness of a lake in summer skate with hedonistic gentleness across Hob's cheek. The delicate palm cups Hob's jaw sweetly. Honeyed breath caresses Hob’s lips before they are pressed together. Then he is being kissed with the fondness and warmth of a dear lover.
In that moment Hob realizes that he has vastly miscalculated.
Against his better judgment, he becomes lost to the tide of it. The faintest touch of tongues morphs into lazy familiar licks, mapping Hob's mouth as if to memorize, immortalize. When the King of Dreams pulls away Hob is left panting and hazy.
"I touch you, I kiss you, as I would a lover, as my beloved." The King whispers it like a benediction. Hob does gasp now, at the horror that settles into the marrow of his bones. Oh no. "And never will you feel it again."
And then he is gone.
Hob watches, frozen, as each stride the King takes covers miles. It is only when they have disappeared over the horizon, both Lord and raven, that Hob realizes tears are streaming down his face.
But he does not wipe them away. He stands, staring forward, and considers.
Time passes differently in Hell; there are no celestial bodies to mark days, weeks, months, or years and so one must depend on the rituals, the annual rites, to measure eternity. But that is not a tool of fine resolution, and so Hob does not know how long he stands there, gazing out to the very outer limit of this realm, his morningstar buried in the dust at his feet.
It is long enough for his tears to dry.
It is also long enough for his will to resolve into something pointed and streamlined, ready to be nocked and shot into its intended target at the next opportunity.
For the Dream King was wrong in his assessment: Hob, Knight of Hell, will have that kiss again. No matter what it takes, Hob will taste those lips once more. He will steal, he will maim, he will fuck, and he will kill to bridge the gap between this moment and that future.
It is not a matter of if Hob makes it to the Realm of Dreams, it is when.