#dream you fool you caused this man's mosnterfucker awakening

[calboniferous]

for @greenbeanssssss, pspspsps gome get ur dreamling Mer AU

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“Did I hear you say that you have no intention of ever dying?”

Hob starts upright, nearly falling from his perch on the end of the pier as a mellow voice rises from below.

And there, where his feet skim the waves, void-like eyes gleam up at him from a strange, handsome face framed by trailing raven locks—a man like night itself given form. That is, if night swims bare-chested by the pier of some lonely fishing outpost, pearlescent under the full moon and adorned with translucent fan-like structures—with fins.

He should probably flee. Every song he’s ever heard about such creatures of the deep point to Hob being eaten or drowned should he stay.

Yet he is transfixed. The buzz of alcohol warm in his limbs likely has something to do with it. His lowered inhibitions weaken him to this ethereal stranger but by god he is gladly a weak man tonight.

Perhaps he is dreaming. Night visions of mythos brought to life by drink and the darling illusions from the full moon pouring silver over the docks, through wisps of cloud masquerading as swirling horses and silk banners.

They look at him expectantly and he remembers their question.

“Uh, yeah,” he replies. Dreaming or not, it seems the polite thing to do. “Yeah, that’s right.”

A smile haunts their face.

“So sure,” they hum. Fishhook nails dig into the wooden planks by his knee and closer, he can make out fine pattern of scales like those of a whiting, green-blue-silver iridescence playing over their proud features. “Yet you do not lie.”

The moon’s soft rays shatter off their skin and scales, fractals dancing as they fold long, bony arms in front of them, bracing against the planks to lift themselves half out of the water and Hob stills at their closeness.

In his chest his heart flutters—with fear or something else he cannot tell. And he should be afraid, with the long, sinuous curve of their spine ending not in legs, but with a serpentine tail that winds back and forth, idly stirring eddies.

He swallows.

“Aye.”

They’re near enough to make out the individual strands of hair plastered wetly to their crystalline cheeks and shoulders, to feel the coolness radiating from their body.

“A curse none would wish for,” they tilt their head, “none save you.”

“All the more living for me, I suppose.”

That razor smile flashes again.

“Then you must tell me what it’s like, Robert Gadling.” A webbed hand comes to cup his cheek, their voice resonating in Hob’s own chest. “Let us meet here, again, ten years hence,”

He doesn’t dare move.

“Ten years’ time, on this day?”

They nod, amusement flickering in the dark pools of their eyes.

In return he gives his own silent vow, and the creature surges up and catches his lips with theirs, silencing his surprised cry.

Their hand is cold on the back of his neck, tangling in his hair, nails grazing his skin as they press closer, deeper, kissing him like the tide: salty and relentless, and Hob yields to it thoughtlessly, arm sweeping to cradle their back and finding scaled gills rippling under his palm.

He forgets to breathe.

The sea roars loud in his ears and he’s dragged impossibly closer, bowed toward the water. It is only by some miracle that he keeps his grip to the pier, tethered as he is by his solitary hold on a mooring.

Sharp teeth prick his lip and the sweet tang of copper blooms on his tongue as he bruises and drinks moonlight from their cool, cruel mouth like a man dying of thirst.

He burns, he freezes and is unmade, shivering under their touch—the sharp tug of their hand in his hair, the press of their chest to his, and the blinding force of their kiss.

For a moment, he thinks he dies.

Then they break away then and he gasps. The rush of his own pulse nearly deafens him to their murmured goodbye against his cheek.

“Ten years,” they say and it’s the hush of sea foam and sand washing against the shore—the soul-heavy pounding of waves against a headland, felt more than heard—and they draw back, silver pinpricks of stars glowing in the inky darkness of their eyes.

“Ten years.”

And they are gone, a spray of diamond droplets in their wake.

Shirt soaked through and breathless, Hob sits there until dawn.

#dreamling #the sandman #my writing #dreamling mer AU #aka sailor hob brags about intending to live forever on the seas. dream listening below the docks goes bet and then has a moonlight confront #ation to challenge him about it (and bestow Immortal Curse Kiss) #dream you fool you caused this man's mosnterfucker awakening #and just gave him the best motivation to come back in a decade #hob: what do u mean i only get 2 kiss u once a decade?