#dream of the endless prompt

[just-some-random-blogger]

please please we need morpheus in that leather suit, and him finding out that reader loves

Wrapped Around You

Dream of the Endless x Fortune Teller!Reader

Summary: The King of Dreams walked in your shop needing a favor from you, except you couldn't hear a word he was saying when he looked like *that*.

Word Count: >600

Warnings: Thirsty af!reader (me), gender neutral!reader, brain empty only leather clad dream, typos, etc.

A/N: so this is a rewrite because i was LITERALLY about to post it, but them tumblr crashed, and i should have known better, ive played this rat ass game with this bitchy text box before, but i didnt know any better, i never do, because im a clown and i rage quit anyway here perhaps its better but we'll never know now will we? ANYWAY i am honored, nonnie, you came to me with your dream brain rot 🫶🫶🫶 and though im sure you probably did not mean '15th century dream leather' but 'dream vs lucifer leather' but i went gif hunting i FOUND THIS GIF AND [twitches] it doesn't matter, imagine his itty bitty tiny waist wrapped in whatever leather you want babe *wink, wink* also, this may not have what you wanted but its what youre gonna get LOLOLOL gif from pinterest

It was simultaneous, the bell ringing from the entrance, me looking up from my phone where I had been reading my daily horoscope, and the "hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-" that left my lips when I saw my goth ideal type walk in through the doors.

The King of Dreams strides over to the glass counter where I was stationed and nods to me in regard. Hearing my name spoken from his pouty lips makes me I lean back. I nearly fall, since it seems I forgot I was on a stool, "hi-" I choke as I jolt and bring myself to my feet.

I drop my phone onto the counter with an ungraceful sound.

I fix my gaze upon my Dream, gulping at the way sunshine from my window cascaded onto his taut, leather clad chest.

"How have you been, fortune teller?" he mutters. His stoic face ghosts the softest of smiles.

I choke on my saliva and squeeze my thighs as my mind races over how his eyeliner just puts the icing on the scrumptious cake that was him. I take in how his arms are sculpted beneath the fabric as well as how the leather deliciously it cinches his midriff. I wonder how hard it was to put that on. I slap my hand on my face, you absolute candlestick, he's literally an endless being, he magicked it on.

A loud squawk nearly gives me a heart attack.

My chest flies to my chest as my eyes turn to one of my shelves where, there, a black bird was perched. The winged creature speaks, "this is the person you were talking about?"

I don't have time to even find out that the tone was offensive as my eyes are drawn back to the Endless, who responds, turning to his companion and parting his pillowy lips, "it is a force of habit. I've learned not to think much of it, Matthew."

Matthew, the bird, cocks his head at me, "you must be really good at what you do."

I do not get to retort as Dream agrees for me.

I turn back to him. Goosebumps raise on my skin when he presses a hand on the glass. His long fingers and the veins drawn on his knuckles make my heart quicken. My eyes trace up his sleeve and rests at his wonderous face. It is there I see how his lips were uttering something so delicately. I frown when they stop moving.

I jolt again at the shrill call of Matthew, "well?"

I turn to him, then back to Dream, and blurt out involuntarily, "yes?"

"Yes?" Dream repeats, sadly withdrawing his palm.

I repeat, feeling blood rise up my neck, "yes."

"Are you agreeing, or asking?" Matthew clarifies, flying down to the counter between us.

"I..." I turn to the bird then to his master, "I... agree... to whatever my king just said."

If he could narrow his eyes, Matthew would have in this moment, "you don't sound very sure."

"It is no small task after all," Dream speaks with a nod, "I appreciate how the promptness of your agreement."

Before I could even have the chance to feel butterflies, my stomach drops upon hearing his next words, "I shall take you to the Dreaming to lend you a proper weapon."

My face twitches, "w- wa- wh- weapon? I do-" my voice runs dry when Dream extends his hand to me.

Of course I mindlessly take it, though my palms were unbelievably dampened with nervousness. I don't even have the chance to pull away and wipe it on my pants because he grips me and leads me towards him.

"Uhhhh," Matthew croaks, "boss... I don't think-"

"Perhaps I should give you a change of clothes as well," Dream mutters once I am stood before him. He withdraws his hand to barely pinch the fabric on my top, "something similar to mine would suffice."

I gasp, a matching set? My jaw drops and my eyes widen. With my lord?

Dream King knits his brows and clarifies, "you do not have to if you-"

"NO I WANT TO!" I scream, hands shooting up in protest.

Dream is as still as a statue as I heave.

"Yeah, this person has absolutely no idea what you just said," Matthew decides.

[designtheendless]

What about Meowpheus unplugging the Wi-Fi to finally secure Hobs ability to sleep without distractions?

“ I suppose it’s pure coincidence the WiFi goes out and I find you here…”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Gadling”

[kittynannygaming]

Sun & Moon's First Meeting

Sir Robert Gadling couldn't not look at the man who walked by him without a glance. Marquis Dream Of the Endless was cold, distant, pale and all Robert wanted was to give him his warmth.

[just-french-me-up]

If you'd still like Dreamling kiss prompts, how about 7 or 17?

@martybaker asked : Hello, your fics are so lovely! May I humbly request ‘A kiss to shut them up’ if you’re still taking prompts? 👉👈 @anonymous asked : Thoughts on dreamling 7 or 17 (to shut them up or to distract - maybe even both at once?) for the kiss prompts?

We're shutting him up, yall! This is a Retired!Dream one, in which Dream struggles with the human body and human condition, and can't see how he can measure up to his old self in Hob's eyes. Angsty you say? Deceivingly horny I raise you! I kept this sorta M rated but... hey if there's more to come *winkwink* who knows?

The human body was a curious thing. It required constant attention, fluids, fuel, maintenance, care. And yet it was so... limiting. Morpheus could still remember how it felt, to think of a place and feel the ground shift under his feet without ever having to move. There had been no hunger then. No thirst. No itching, for his skin had never had the notion that it could be too dry.

If he had ever felt those things, it had been because he had chosen to.

Now the world imposed itself to him, there wasn't much of a choice.

Urges baffled him the most. The dryness coating his mouth on a particularly hot day, his mind conjuring up images of cold, condensation-weeping bottles. The drowsiness taking hold of him after dinner, weighing on his eyelids. The burning, devouring heat flaring in his abdomen as Hob would step out of the shower, a towel lazily tied around his hips, the line of hair trailing down his navel guiding Morpheus' gaze downwards.

It was a strange thing, to be overcome by such sensations. An infuriating thing, really. He ought to be able to resist them. He had been able to resist them, once, to ignore them, dismiss them into nothing if he so chose. How vexing it was, to be a creature of wants and needs, when your existence had been nothing but careful control.

He would not tell Hob, but he could not help but feel... lesser. How clever could his mind be, now that he only had access to his own? How good could his hands be, he who had been able to breathe life into dream clay, fashion lands and castles with a single thought? How pleasing could his touch be, now that he was barred from his lover's unconscious? How could he compare to who and what he had been, once?

They had not made love ever since his encounter with the Kindly Ones. Hob had never pushed, reading Morpheus far better than Morpheus ever could, now. There had been times, here and there, when Morpheus had thought they would, with lingering kisses growing deeper, embraces in bed tighter, but something had held him back. Some bitter gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach. Yet another thing he could not seem to control.

Yet he wanted. Desperately, frustratingly so. The most mundane things would strike him as the most erotic sights he could fathom. Hob drinking his coffee in the morning, his Adam's apple bobbing as he'd swallow. Hob reading the day's papers, his gaze intent, focused. Hob reaching up to grab this or that from a cupboard, his shirt riding up and showing his navel, while his tired pajama bottoms hung from his hips, revealing the slight dips there, a hint of hair...

Morpheus' body would betray him often, subjecting him to fantasies and erections that, much like the rest, he held little control over. Unlike food, lust was a hunger he never seemed to satisfy. It only grew.

If Hob had ever caught him staring, he never said anything. Instead, he was highly skilled at noticing when Morpheus' mind would start spinning on itself, feeding the loop of existential dread looming over him. He had taken to giving Morpheus tasks, then, something to focus on. Although it would not quite clear the storm, it muffled it somewhat.

Perhaps he'd sensed another one of Morpheus' spirals that night, when his voice rose from the bedroom.

"Oh, bollocks! Love? Might need a hand here."

As he stepped inside the bedroom, Morpheus found Hob standing by the mirror, struggling with his button-up. He flashed a quick contrite smile at him, emphatically tugging at the fabric.

"Can't manage to button those buggers off," he explained.

"Allow me."

The human condition was one thing, but buttons he could handle. Morpheus' touch was methodical, surgical almost, as he focused on the task at hand, yet three buttons later, he could not help but feel his focus slip. He could feel Hob's warmth under his fingertips. His heartbeat. As he breathed in, Hob's scent filled his lungs, distracting him further. By the time he was done with the shirt, his mind had gone elsewhere.

Hob wore an undershirt, a thin, almost see-through thing. It required barely any effort to see his chest in spite of the fabric. Morpheus' eyes trailed down, heat flushing his cheeks. Mindlessly, his thumb traced the line of hair down Hob's abdomen, his mouth filled with want. He could feel hot breath against his lips. Humans were not meant to withstand such hunger.

They were kissing before Morpheus could articulate another thought, Hob's mouth warm and soft against his, the coarse brush of his stubble adding fuel to the fire overtaking him. No doubt Hob had meant for this to be tender, but Morpheus was famished, taking, and taking, and taking all that was offered until his lungs might explode. He found himself gasping against Hob, nose to nose, forehead to forehead.

"Hey," Hob whispered, gentle to a fault. "It's okay. There's no rush."

Morpheus swallowed hard, feverishly catching his breath. Hob's palm was invitingly cool against his cheek.

"I will keep," he continued. "We don't have to―"

"I want to," Morpheus rasped, weeks of frustration pushing the words out of him. "I want you. I just―"

"Just what?"

The patience in his voice was the lifeline Morpheus held onto as he sighed, embarrassment flooding through him.

"This form, it feels... finite. Flawed. Lacking."

Fallible, he did not say. He watched as Hob's eyes grew round, ridicule joining embarrassment.

"Duck―"

"I am not as I once was," he continued, overcome with the need to justify himself. "I am no longer suited to anticipate your every want. I can not satisfy you to the degree I once could. Everything I have to offer is bound to disappoint in comparison."

Hob's stare felt heavy, too heavy for Morpheus to hold, but as he looked away, Hob took his chin between his fingers, directing his gaze back to him.

"Love, I―. Sex is not about making some kind of... of ranking."

"Your unconscious would rank it, regardless."

"Fuck my unconscious. It's my conscious self who wants you, magic dick or not."

The corners of Hob's mouth twitched at his own joke, but seriousness soon took over.

"I love you," he said, prompting Morpheus to look away again. "I love you. I would love you Endless, I would love you human, I would love you if you were a tentacled monster and hell, you've been that before if you'd recall!"

Morpheus fought back the smile creeping up on his lips.

"I never cared how we'd fuck. Well, I did, but― I did because it was you. I wanted to be with you. I still do."

Hob sighed, and they stood in silence for a moment, looking at each other.

"At least now we know that mind of yours is well and truly yours and not a Dream of the Endless exclusive."

"An unfortunate discovery."

Hob's hand settled on Morpheus' waist, his thumb brushing the fabric of his shirt.

"I do want you," he said. "Whenever you're ready. If ever. But I don't want you holding back because you've convinced yourself I may not enjoy it well enough, according to some cosmic standard you've set for yourself."

Morpheus nodded slowly, his own thumb back to tracing the happy trail on Hob's stomach.

"I have always found you pleasing enough, after all," he dared, shooting a tentative look at Hob. "As human as you are."

Hob made a face, pulling him closer by the waist.

"Your compliments need work, duck. But I do think there's a silver lining to this whole human condition you are overlooking."

"Is that so?"

Hob smirked at him, fully conscious of how devilishly handsome that made him. He had had, after all, centuries to hone those skills. How long would it take him?

"You no longer have access to my unconscious, right?"

"I do not."

"Which means you can no longer anticipate my every want, as you said."

Now that was rubbing salt into the wound.

"Yes," he conceded with a frown.

"Well imagine how arousing it is, my love," Hob said, his eyes darker by the second, "to be able to surprise you."

A warm shiver went down Morpheus' spine, sending his pulse into a frantic race. He swallowed thickly, holding Hob's gaze.

"How arousing?"

"Very. Cock-achingly, one might say."

Morpheus glanced down, finding Hob's trousers tight, his hard cock pressing against the fabric, making his knees weak. The human body truly was weak in the most delicious way.

"I could dare you to surprise me," he teased back, his breathing loud in his ears.

"You could."

Gods, that mouth of his, Morpheus was quite certain he could be undone from that tone alone. But still.

"But should you find me displeasing, you ought to―"

The rest of his words were swallowed into a kiss, unheard and discarded, replaced by tender sighs and wanting hands, and after a while, Morpheus found he'd forgotten what they even were, his mind blissfully blank save for pleasure.

The human body was a curious thing. A highly pleasing thing, at times.

Send me a kissing prompt?

[kittttycakes]

Ooooh kiss on a scar for any pairing involving Hob because I know how you like your Hob with scars!

I HAVE OWED YOU THIS SINCE JUNE OF LAST YEAR  Please enjoy some retired Dream! (Very mildly NSFW at the end, more implied than anything else.)

It was only a matter of time before Hob realized. Morpheus was many things, but he was not subtle in his affections once he let them loose, and Hob had begun to fill in the rough shape of a pattern long before he fully knew quite how much of a thing it had become for him.

Morpheus rolled over in bed, his long limbs splayed half over Hob, taking up far more than his allotted share of the mattress. Hob never complained, although he would occasionally threaten to shove him out of bed; it was an entirely toothless threat, and they both knew it. He was facing Hob, now, affording Hob the perfect view of his face as he woke up in stages: the flutter of his eyelashes, the slight frown and scrunch of his nose that he would resolutely deny if confronted, the slow blink as he opened his eyes. 

“Beloved,” he said, his voice still as low and resonant as it had ever been, unchanged by circumstance. What a pleasure, what a privilege, to have his voice be the first sound he heard in the morning. It took Hob a moment to place the tone of it, the exact same that he had used successfully at least once per week for the past month.

“Absolutely not,” Hob replied, voice still sleep-rough, even as he tightened the grip of his arm around Morpheus, pulling him closer. “I am not popping out to buy you a sausage roll at—” 

Here, he paused, fumbling for his phone on the bedside table with his other hand and squinting at the lit screen. “Five in the bloody morning, why are you even awake?” 

Only half of this interrupted statement was a lie. It actually was just past five in the morning; Hob’s alarm would not sound for another twenty-eight minutes, and a better question was, perhaps, why he himself was awake. 

Rather than replying to anything Hob had said in any human capacity, Morpheus hummed, low in his throat, and pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw, directly over the pale, slightly raised scar that resided there. Hob hardly thought of it at all; it had been a part of his face for hundreds of years, and he barely saw it when looking at a mirror, but then, in bed with Morpheus, he realized just how often Morpheus had pressed a similar kiss to that exact spot, and began to wonder.

Twenty minutes later, hastily dressed and on the hunt for sausage rolls, Hob had forgotten all about it. 

-

Morpheus had a minor fascination with Hob’s hands, which Hob was more than happy to indulge him in. If that meant allowing him to map each ridge of them idly as they sat on the sofa, only half watching a documentary that Morpheus had chosen, he would allow it. More than allow it; he would encourage it, offering him his hand whenever he looked like he needed something to do with his own, watching the way the tension seemed to slip for him as he traced the familiar lines of Hob’s palm with his fingertips, his touch light, exploratory even after all this time. It was relaxing, in a way, the pressure never quite enough to be a massage, but soothing, nonetheless. 

He barely realized how intently Morpheus was studying his palm, finally having grown interested in the admittedly complex lives of the tropical fish displayed on the television screen, before his attention was drawn to the base of his thumb by the repetitive motion of Morpheus tracing the same line, over and over, against his skin.

“Taking up palmistry now?” Hob glanced towards Morpheus, smiling; he had no doubt that Morpheus would have Opinions on palmistry and its accuracy or lack thereof, and he looked forward to hearing them. 

“How did you get this?” Morpheus asked, a seeming non-sequitur until Hob realized that he was tracing the scar there. This mark he did remember: he had been awfully young, learning how to properly gut a fish, when his knife had slipped and buried itself in the skin of his palm, bright and sharp and quick as anything. 

Hob answered him, ending with a slight smile. “Nothing terribly interesting, I’m afraid.” 

Morpheus hummed again, a sound Hob had grown increasingly familiar with over time. This was his inquisitive hum, an indication that, perhaps, he had more to say on the subject, but would let it lie for the moment. Hob was nearly about to ask him what he was thinking when he raised Hob’s hand and pressed a kiss to the scar there, resuming his earlier posture afterwards as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary at all. He hadn’t, not really; the best part of living with Morpheus was just how many times a day he was allowed to kiss him, and to be kissed in return. 

Hob settled back into the worn cushions of the sofa, and thought again: Morpheus had not kissed the palm of his hand. He had kissed the scar.

-

Hob knew how lucky he was. His body could not be killed or destroyed—the latter an assumption that he was not terribly interested in testing out. This did not mean it was entirely unmarred by the ages; some marks had lingered longer than others, and any he had carried before 1389 never left at all. He rarely thought of it, but Morpheus seemed to have a renewed determination to catalogue each and every mark on him. This goal was not exactly new, but once Hob had noticed, it became impossible to ignore. 

He was running rather late, and needed to shower before he could turn up anywhere respectable people might be misfortunate enough to see him. Hob was often thankful for the size of the shower in the flat, but he was especially thankful that morning as he slipped in behind Morpheus, who was standing directly under the shower head in the near catatonic state that Hob now recognized as something that was not a cause for alarm, but merely the time Morpheus required to fully awaken and become human on some days. There were many ways this could happen, the shower being one of them, but they all shared two qualities in common: they allowed Morpheus a period of near silence in which he was not expected to speak unless he chose to, and they allowed him to stay still in whatever position he may have been in. 

“Don’t mind me, I’ll just be a minute,” Hob said, careful to keep his voice low and soft. He gently nudged Morpheus to one side, enough to share some of the spray. Morpheus did not appear to either notice or care. 

Hob was nearly finished with his important but perfunctory shower when Morpheus seemed at last to come alive. 

“Hob,” he said, just the one word, in yet another tone that Hob recognized, and reached for him, pulling him in to kiss him softly. He hadn’t yet, that morning, Hob realized. Maybe he had missed it. 

Kissing him a second time was Hob’s mistake, one that ended with him irrevocably running late, any time he had gained through the speed of his shower quickly lost. Morpheus had not stopped kissing him; had, in fact, pressed him rather insistently against the tiled wall of the shower and knelt in front of him in a way that Hob knew his knees would not thank him for later, and then promptly proceeded to put his mouth everywhere but where Hob wanted it most. 

He was rather thoroughly investigating a spot on Hob’s hip with lips and teeth and tongue when Hob realized what was underneath his mouth, and reached down, tangling his fingers gently in Morpheus’s hair, pulling in the way he liked, to tilt his head up towards him. 

“So,” Hob said, fighting to keep his tone light in the face of Morpheus on his knees in front of him. “Should we talk about the thing with the scars, or—”

“I do not have a thing,” Morpheus replied, derisive without any real bite. 

“You most certainly do have a thing. Come on, you can tell me. Is it just that it’s a bit of rough or—”

Morpheus looked up at him, long suffering. “It most certainly is not. It is—you are—you have lived through a great many things. Survived them. Outlived them. There is something somewhat—attractive—about this.” 

The look he was giving Hob was enough to make a lesser man give in, and Hob was only human, after all. “I knew it,” he said, breathless, as Morpheus descended on him again, knowing as he did that he had known no such thing. They were so different, and always had been, but nowhere was it more obvious than in their bodies, the smooth unmarked stretch of Morpheus’s now-human skin. He wondered what would mark it first, what minor accident would lay its claim on him; he did not want him to be hurt, but he did want to see how he would change, in time. They had plenty of it.

Send me a kiss prompt!

[rexwrendraws]

Dreamling Week 2023 — Day 1: Meowpheus (ref, under the cut!)

[x]

[haley-harrison]

human!AU where Morpheus is an edgy ao3 writer, and Hob draws fanart of his fics

[kydrogendragon]

Hey love :)!

If you're taking prompts, I would love to see number 6 from the Valentine prompts for Dreamling. Please.

This was a cute one to write. Thank you for the prompt!!! <3

Pairing: Dreamling Words: 1000 Warnings: None Ao3 Link Here

Hob has been acting... strange.

He has become more physical as of late. Dream finds he does not mind the gentle touch of his friend’s hand on his shoulder nor the way he will grab it and lead Dream where he wishes to go. He especially finds he does not mind the way it feels to have Hob’s arms wrap around him and pull him close before Dream leaves. Most recently, he finds he does not mind the way Hob’s fingers feel when they card through his hair after they ducked inside from the sudden downpour. Dream, of course, could fix his own hair with a single thought, but Hob, instead, flopped a towel atop his head and dried it himself. He even went through the effort of trying to fix the styling. Dream lets him. It is, perhaps, a selfish desire. But Hob does not seem to mind and Dream does not either.

Friends touch. This is a simple fact. Human friends, especially, as humans in general require such things. This is easy enough to explain away. The gifts are slightly harder to, however.

Hob, as Dream has come to learn, enjoys giving gifts. At least, he enjoys giving Dream gifts for each time he has come to visit, there has been something that Hob has left him with. First it was simple foods or drinks he’d bought with Dream in mind. Then it was a sweater — all black with hints of silver thread woven within — for Dream to have should he wish to wear something else while in the Waking. All of these, as Dream flipped through the collective unconscious, could easily be explained by friendship. Even the flowers that Hob had bought for him could be, though Dream would be lying if he did not wish they meant something more.

The bouquet of roses and chocolates from the shop they have visited previously — the one Dream had commented on enjoying the daydreams infused within — could also, theoretically, be gifts from a friend. It was harder to believe, however, given the day was currently Valentine’s Day; a day for lovers in the modern mortal world.

Dream stares down at the offering that rested on the kitchen table in Hob’s flat. Hob was not home. Not yet. He would be soon. And Dream should not assume that these were for him, either. It is more likely that Hob has purchased these for someone he wishes to pursue. Or perhaps these were given to him instead.

He trails a finger across the supple red petals and allows himself a sigh. Were they for him, though, Dream would in turn shower Hob with all the riches the Dreaming could provide. He would show him the love and affection he has wished to ever since his friend first laid a hand upon his own. These are foolish thoughts. They are unproductive and no nothing save harm Dream’s heart further. Hob is his friend. He would not jeopardize that for anything.

The front door opens and with it enters a smiling Hob. “Hello duck! You’re early! Saw your gift already then, did you?” He says, chuckling as he sets down his bag and shuffles off his coat onto the rack. Dream’s eyes trail back down to the offerings on the table.

“These are for me?”

“Yeah,” Hob says, kicking his shoes off and walking closer. He stuffs his hands in his back pockets as he approaches the table, a color rising to his cheeks. “Figured it was worth the final, classic attempt. Ya know? Given that it’s Valentine’s Day and all. Bit cheesy, I suppose.”

Dream blinks. “I... I do not understand.”

Hob stares up at him as he bites his lip. He is disappointed. Dream frowns. He does not like that Hob is disappointed. “Should I write you a fancy poem, instead? Maybe that’ll work since nothing else has yet.” He says, laughing with a sorrow tone as he turns his gaze to the flowers.

“Hob…”

“I just… I thought I’ve been really obvious about how I feel, but apparently not. This is me asking you out. This is me doing my damnedest to court you.” He looks back up to Dream, his eyes wide and also fearful.

Hob... wishes to court him. Perhaps he should have viewed his friend’s actions more critically. He has caused him undue suffering because of it.

Dream feels a myriad of things. Mainly elation, but also confusion and worry. His relationships do not have a good track record, as Matthew would put it. And he would not wish to lose Hob in his life, even if it meant the chance at having him as he wishes. He must have been silent for some time as Hob’s face has fallen by the time he next speaks.

“Just tell me, Dream. It’s fine if you don’t feel the same, God knows it was a long shot as is. You’re still my friend, that hasn’t changed. I just... I need to know if this is pointless for me. So I can start working on getting over it, you know?”

He finds his lips moving before he thinks. “It. Is... not. Pointless. I— I am not good at friendship. In truth, you are one of the few I have ever had. I did not want to make assumptions and drive you away from me.”

Hob’s brows shoot into his hairline. “You... you feel the same, then?”

Dream nods, slowly. “Well, that’s good news indeed.” Hob reaches out his hand and Dream sets his own in his hold. “We can take it slow, you know. We’ve all the time in the world. No need to rush. And if for whatever reason, we decide this isn’t working, I’ll still be your friend, yeah? You can’t shake me that easily.”

He huffs, a smile working its way onto his face. “No. No, I suppose I should not have expected anything less of you, Hob Gadling.”

“So you liked your gifts then?”

“Very much.”

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 165

Danny is rather bemused but honestly with how his life is, this might as well happen. Apparently he has seven more siblings now, and a whole second dysfunctional family. And apparently he, Ellie and Jordan are the babies of the family. So. 

Could Clockwork have mentioned that one of his variants had children before? Maybe, but this gets him out of becoming ghost king at the age of fourteen, which is a baby to the Realms anyway. 

Well, hopefully their new siblings will be fine with them… 

[landwriter]

hob gadling being so goddamn normal compared to his anthropomorphic husband, in-laws, and husband's social circle that he circles right back around to being the more sus/shady one OR hob gadling keeps accidentally derailing dream's attempts to be King of Nightmares by horny vibes/going "joke's on you, i'm into it"/"promise?" to any and all threats

Hob isn't normal, is the thing. He's not. He never was. He was smouldering with strangeness and hunger long before his future sister-in-law took one look at him and decided he'd be good for her little brother.

He asked her, once, bit drunk, if that was why she chose him: if she'd heard him forswearing her in the White Horse and looked at him, peered into the contents of his soul, and thought: well, there's one at least as stubborn as my brother - maybe they'll be good for each other. She'd just smiled and waited for Hob to take another sip before saying, "Good? I just thought it would be interesting," and twinkled at him when he sputtered. Hob said older sisters were terrors, and they'd toasted to that.

Whether she'd intended or not, they were good for each other, him and Dream. It took them a little bit to realize, a small handful of centuries holding one another at arm's length for fear of what would be seen any closer. Then they'd crashed together anyways, and it had turned out they were matched not just in that bloody-minded stubbornness to keep a decent thing going, but also in all the intensity they'd tried to smother to do so, the roaring hunger and devotion and need; the both of them strange creatures capable of giving so much and greedy enough to take just as much in kind.

On the outside, though, others see Dream, his distance, his power, the thunder of his voice, and don't see it as the armour it is, the necessary carapace protecting the sort of tender feelings that could scorch the entire earth, because he is a vessel for human emotions that are strong enough to live on in stories and dreams, because he is, in that respect, - and Hob gets choked up about this, if he allows himself to think about it too much - fundamentally more human than him, than all of them, the embodiment of every fantasy and fear and tall tale of men, tending to them each night, taking no rest for himself.

On the outside, others see Hob, his banal humanness, and other humans assume the rest of him is the same, and so do most non-humans, except they're baffled by it, baffled by why he is Dream's husband. So he plays it up, because it's funny, and if they're too incurious or gullible to figure out what lays beneath, then that's alright, because his husband figured it out, and loves him for it, and that's all he needs.

Dream didn't understand at first why Hob acted extra human whenever they mingled with other capital-e Entities and inhuman sorts, but now he finds it so amusing as well that Hob wonders how the gig isn't up from the moment anyone sees his twitching smirk. His husband has a terrible poker face, Hob thinks.

He's much better at pretending. In fact, he's so good at performing the petty normality expected of him that it goes full circle and becomes, somehow, magnetically strange to all the fantastical creatures in his husband's social circle.

He had not realized the heady effect of normal human upon non-humans until the time he had gone to a Samhain 'do in the Underhill, in his formal role as Prince Consort to the Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, first of his name, et cetera, and, rather comfortable with those sort of events by then, which were really not that dissimilar to interdepartmental faculty parties, with all the posturing and alcohol, only far better outfits, had, a bit soused on the fantastic elphin mead, accidentally started talking with a member of the faerie delegation about the football tables. At first he thought he'd committed a faux pas when the faerie just stared at him, slack-jawed, but later that night, he'd found himself surrounded by a cluster of wide-eyed dryads and undine and fae, gratifyingly holding court on why Billy Wright had been such a shite Arsenal manager. Apparently, it was the highlight of the evening.

It also helps grease the wheels of immortal statecraft, which Hob thinks of as something of a secondary benefit to making his husband smile. He would be a fierce bodyguard and soldier for Dream, in a heartbeat, he would curry favour on his behalf with pretty words and eager gladhanding, but what works out best, he's realized, is when important folk approach them to talk shop with Dream, to head it off with warm conversation about things like Tube construction, ABBA, and sausage rolls, until they look thoroughly disconcerted, before gracefully handing them off to his husband.

Whenever the occasion allows it, he'll skip on the finery too (another thing, he thinks, that he only cares about his husband seeing). Once, a baku ambassador, himself arrayed in glorious golden robes that matched his sharp gilt claws, had been so baffled by Hob's appearance on the arm of Dream, in his ratty old jeans and a United jersey he got as a gag gift once (and, on principle, refuses to wear in the Waking) that the chimera had absently agreed with Dream's suggestion for revised quotas on devouring nightmares.

Dream had been so delighted by that victory that he'd pressed Hob up against the front door of their flat in Islington, the moment they got back in, and laid kisses all over the hideous jersey, murmuring that Hob was a fearsome diplomat, and Hob had laughed and said he was only a distraction, then let Dream drag him to the bedroom anyways to thank him for his contribution.

Some see what's underneath, of course, and Hob's just as glad for that too.

The second time they'd had dinner with Crowley and Aziraphale, well past the food and making excellent headway on the rest of the wine, Dream had been called away on urgent business. Hob thought the night would end there, but the moment Dream left, Crowley had leveled an unsober finger of accusation at Hob and said, "Don't think I can't tell what you're doing."

Hob hadn't needed to try and look confused, but then Crowley leaned in and said, conspiratorially and only accidentally hissing a little, "This 'regular bloke' thing, but you're worssse than him, aren't you? Bet you are. Bet anything," and Aziraphale had genuinely emitted a tiny gasp of affront on Hob's behalf, and Hob was too busy laughing to say that he wasn't wrong at all, while Crowley gleefully swiveled around and said "I told you so, angel. S'obvious. Humansss. Not a normal one among 'em."

It was a lovely thing to say, actually, and all too easy for Hob to forget sometimes, being a particularly abnormal human leading a particularly abnormal life. But Crowley knew what he was talking about. He spent far more time with humanity compared to most of the inhuman lot. When Hob had made him promise to keep his secret from the rest of them - humanity's secret, really - and explained why, Crowley had laughed and laughed and laughed. He thinks it's the moment they became proper friends.

Hob isn't normal, is the thing.

But it's fun to don it like ceremonial garb and be an ambassador of humanity twice over: in truth and performance both. It's fun to be exactly what's expected and still disconcert.

And most of all, it's fun to go back home with his husband, to their terribly normal human flat, and curl up together in their terribly normal human bed, and watch Dream's face flush with pride or amusement as he debriefs Hob on what chaos he's wrought this time, intentionally or otherwise, with his terribly normal human presence, and Hob just laughs, then smiles until his face hurts, because Dream is his husband, wholly apart from humanity and still the most human creature Hob has met, and he knows all the ways that Hob feels like both, too.

[chaosheadspace]

Hi there! For the Valentine asks: 35 but make it in the Dreaming and we get Dream pilfering snacks for Hob from his Dreamers?

(We were absolute robbed of the 'naked Dream razes the buffet' scene from the comics 🤭)

Hi, thank you for sending an ask! So here is the actual fill for the prompt, not what I first understood lol (not beta-read.)

Dream wills a temperate breeze to gently flow through the open windows of the balcony and into his chambers, gently cooling Hob's dreamscape body, flushed and sweaty with exertion, his limbs intertwined with Dream's, his breath just now calming down.

He adores Hob, how he smiles, how he always draws Dream closer, how he narrows his focus onto Dream's pleasure when they lay together, body and mind both. He feels as if he can let go, to some extent, when he is with Hob; his experience of perceiving everything that is his realm at once filtered through the lens of Hob's body, of his easy laughter and gentle touch.

Dream hungrily nuzzles closer to him, carefully brushes back some strands of sweat-damp hair from his forehead, places a long kiss to the side of his neck. The night in Hob's part of the world is close to waning, and he is loath to let him go.

“Don't tell me you want to go again?” Hob chuckles, the deep tremble of it resonating from his throat into Dream's lips. “You need to give a man a breather, dove.”

“Technically, you do not need one. This is the Dreaming. You are as ready as you think yourself to be,” Dream speaks against Hob's Adams apple, moving to straddle him, to cover Hob's body with his own, craving closeness still. 

“Well, technically I also don't need to eat while dreaming, but my stomach seems to disagree,” Hob ponders. Well, they simply can't have that, can they? At least Dream cannot. Hob should not need to want for anything while he is here. 

He sinks into his own consciousness, part of him racing down the arborescent paths of his self, touching, tasting, searching—there.

He gently brushes the dream of a lightly slumbering mother, picking up a dark green artisanal bowl from her breakfast table. She dreams of mundane peace, one of her kids is eating, the other quietly scribbling away on a piece of the morning paper she is reading. It is quiet, and her coffee is hot. Dream’s small smile caresses her sleeping mind and her waking body stills, subconscious easing deeper into the fantasy.

He steps from her kitchen into the dream of a young boy, who has vowed mere hours ago that he will become the best pastry chef in the entire universe. Dream steps up to the table, where the flaxen-haired child is kneading dough next to a row of trays with finished delicacies, all of them unseen and unheard of in the Waking. “May I have one of these?” Dream asks. The boy nods, absorbed in his task.

The final dream he visits is also that of a child. They are imagining for themself the ability to fly, or to be more precise, they imagine the air to be as water and for themself to swim. It is filled with bubbles and bird-like fish, with sun-bright starfish and the slow current of a breeze. Dream conjures up a blue glass flagon and fills it, careful not to spill or take too much.

Then he draws himself up through the roots of his realm, back to Hob’s side, and sets down before him the bowl, containing warm porridge with golden honey and soft raspberries and cream; the tall pastry, filled with berries and vanilla and fervent aspirations; and the flagon, heavy with pearly laughter and liquid air.

“Oh,” Hob breathes in wonder, the image of his dreaming self deliciously close to his waking body. “What's all this?”

Dream touches him, still, again, a shining thread weaving together that which mortals perceive as lesser, unreal, and that which Dream can never truly, fully touch; the roots of Hob's mind tying together Dreaming and Waking under Dream's fingertips, against his body.

“This is a small sample of the finest things the Dreaming has to offer,” Dream purrs. “You will never be left wanting here.”

“Yes, but there is a difference between sating a need and spoiling someone rotten, isn't there,” Hob says fondly.

Dream raises one eyebrow. “Is there a rule that forbids me to achieve both?”

“No,” Hob says with a soft smile, craning his neck to kiss him on the forehead, “absolutely not.”

[cuubism]

pls do make angst out of it

I need no impetus to make angst about Dream + clothing choices.

--

"Dream."

Dream did not mean to flinch. Perhaps one never meant to flinch. It was an involuntary reaction, one that he should have been above in this form. He should have absolute control over how he manifested.

Except Hob's hand had landed on the back of his neck as he tried to pull Dream from his distant musings. Dream should be above such physical sensations. But he was composed of all fears. All thoughts and memories. The snapping grip of a lion's jaws on the neck of a gazelle. The vulnerability of an unprotected back.

So many dreams, now, and in the still-recent aftermath of his escape, they swirled and spilled within him like floodwaters.

His flinch away broke Hob's touch halfway through grazing a hand along Dream's jaw as he came around the back of the armchair where Dream was sitting. "Did I startle you?"

"Yes," said Dream. He settled deeper into his chair, into his soft sweater, no coat in Hob's flat, not when he did not wish to leave. But he wished he could manifest a higher neckline without it being obvious. "Yes, I was lost in thought."

Hob cupped his chin and tilted his head up and kissed him, and Dream did not flinch.

--

Dream loved Hob very much. The feeling had caught him by the throat not long after their reunion, when Hob had met him again shortly after Dream had resolved the vortex. Hob had taken his hand and looked with worry at the gash still gracing his palm, courtesy of the Corinthian's betrayal.

Dream was made of incorporeal thoughts, not flesh, and Hob had known this by then and still asked, "Can I bandage it for you?"

Dream had acquiesced more out of shock than need. Hob had held his hand, and wrapped it with experienced movements. He couldn't have known that the very act of bandaging sealed the cut in Dream's skin. Such was the power of dreams.

Dream fell quick and perilously with his hand pressed between Hob's, with Hob's kind eyes upon him.

He loved Hob with the pain of a knife stuck through his hand. He loved Hob and he knew that love was a bared throat. And he would bare it. For he wanted love. And he was not supposed to flinch.

--

He loved Hob, sitting in the safety of Hob's bed. Bare legs tangled up together, scratchy hair and strong muscle, and still the high-necked long-sleeved shirt Dream had taken to wearing. Hob kissing under his jaw, and slipping gentle hands under his shirt to brace his hips. The resonant dreams were loud--the exploration of youth and a first time together, the familiar bodies of a long-awaited reunion, the peace of an entangled old age--and for a while these layered memories distracted him from the fact that Hob still hadn't stripped his shirt off.

Perhaps. Hob saw more than Dream thought he did.

"You see much," Dream said, voice just edging on rough, and Hob paused, pulling away to look at him. Tilted his head in question, and Dream took Hob's hand, laid it along the collar of his shirt, below the jut of his throat.

Hob kept his hand there, a loose half-collar of Dream's neck, and said, "You always flinch when I come up behind you."

Dream looked somewhere around Hob's jaw, avoiding his eyes, and so had to rely on Hob's voice to imagine his expression. And Hob's voice was very gentle indeed.

"Do you know," he started, taking Dream's cheek in his other hand, "once upon a time--well, not so long ago, really, considering--I would jump at every loud noise? War gets in your head like that."

Dream knew of this, from the nightmares that were within him. He hurt to think of Hob like that. He laid a hand on Hob's thigh, though he was unsure if he was attempting to comfort Hob or merely grounding himself. "But no longer?"

"Not so much. It doesn't have to last forever." He stroked his thumb back and forth over Dream's cheek. "Helps that it's pretty rare for a loud noise going off in London nowadays to be a gunshot."

"But not impossible."

"In my experience, vanishingly few things are impossible, love."

Dream's capture should have been impossible. He had thought himself invulnerable. He had not seen the summoning coming. Had not seen a century of imprisonment coming, or Corinthian's betrayal, or Desire's. They had crawled silently up his back. Sunk their teeth into his spinal cord hard enough to snap.

"Do you feel like I'm going to hurt you, when you can't see me coming?" Hob asked.

He had failed indeed, if Hob thought so. "I do not think you will harm me."

"But do you feel it?"

Dream went to deny it, then thought. Of the prickling feeling that crept up his neck when he had his back to a room. To a doorway. The cold air on his shoulders before he pulled on one of Hob's sweaters, used it as a shield. "I do not like. To feel exposed."

Hob ran a hand through his hair. Dragged down to the nape of his neck and held him there. Not a threat, but a brace; stay close to me. Dream followed the touch and tucked his face in against Hob's shoulder. "Don't, then. I'll cover you."

"With shield and sword," Dream murmured, and Hob hummed in agreement. His hand was warm on the back of Dream's neck. Always, Hob was banishing the cold.

"I do not," Dream repeated, for it felt imperative that Hob know this, "think that you will hurt me."

Hob kissed his hair. "I know."

--

Love was showing one's back. Dream shivered as Hob slid into place behind him, thighs bracketing Dream's hips. As he wrapped his arms around Dream's torso, bare chest to Dream's bare back. He was so warm. His breath ruffled Dream's hair. Hob's arms caged him where he might have wanted to run. He could have disappeared to the Dreaming. But didn't.

Hob kissed the base of his neck. Kissed the bump of each vertebra. The vulnerable spot under his ear. Splayed his hands over Dream's belly. Another soft place.

This form was made of soft places. Outside, Dream swept his coat around himself to shield them. Fabric made for weak protection, but the less he was seen, the better. Dreams suffered in daylight.

Here, the soft places felt Hob's touch the most. Dream did not want to be soft, was not meant to be. But he did want Hob's hands, and the kisses placed along his throat. Always a conundrum, with Hob.

Dream did not reconcile it now. Instead he turned his head, pressed his lips to Hob's over his shoulder. Took Hob's hand and put it in his hair, encouraged Hob to tangle his fingers and pull, so that Dream's throat was bared, his balance thrown, so Hob could kiss and bite up his neck and hold him there.

He trembled against Hob's lips. Shook in his grasp. Dream knew the nightmare of a rabbit caught in a fox's teeth, and the dream of a fox with blood on its lips. But he was no rabbit, and no fox either. He could decide for himself if he wanted Hob to touch him, to pull the collar down.

Hob's teeth grazed his pulse. Dream whimpered, the sound loud in the quiet bedroom, and Hob shushed him. Stroked a hand along his throat. Dream loved him, and that he held him, and that he let Dream live on this boundary of discomfort so he might decide which way he wanted to fall, pain or pleasure. Love was risk-taking.

Dream leaned into Hob's palm, felt the pressure on his throat. His back to Hob's chest. Their bodies in alignment. Teeth to spine. Hob's body as a shield.

"How are you doing?" Hob whispered. His lips brushed Dream's ear, hair tickled his temple.

Dream let his limbs go loose that Hob might catch him. Love was a net.

"Good," he sighed, and tipped his head back.

[thebitchesterbrothers]

Is there by any chance a fic where Hob opens the new inn and hires Dream as a bartender? If not, can somebody please write it so I don’t have to?

Of course Dream is a little shit and constantly drives his boss mad by turning up late without any explanation and doing whatever the hell he wants…but the college girls, and some of the boys too, spend a good amount of money while trying to talk Dream into their beds so Hob is fine with it.

And he’s not jealous at all…why would he? Dream never would be interested in a college professor/owner of the inn. Or would he….?

————————————————————————-

Hey psst… I couldn’t wait, so I wrote it!

[designtheendless]

For Meowpheus Monday, could you do one where Dream is licking an injured kitten that he had rescued from a mean owner who was going to throw it into the river.

Mmmmmmmondayyyyyyy.

[wysteria-clad]

Y/n: I can fit the whole world in my hands

Dream: That's impossible

Y/n: *moves closer to him, and cups his face slowly and gently*

Dream: *eyes widens slightly, blushes*

Lucienne: My Lord- *stops herself witnessing the scene* I'll come back later *walks away with a knowing, small smile*

Dream: I-I..*clears throat* Get off me, I have a reputation

[cosmic--static]

the sand for the sandman, the sand chosen especially for the sandman, the sandman's sand.