#fic idea: the sandman

[teecupangel]

I honestly adore your yew branch series on AO3 and saw your Tumblr just now.

Seeing as you also posted for other DC crossover stuff what is your opinion on AC x Sandman crossover? I think it would be pretty cool if Desmond either woke up as a citizen of the Dreaming or as one of Morpheus' ravens (maybe Matthew?)

What do you think?

Thank you! I’m happy to know you adore my Yew Branch series :)

Other DC crossover ideas:

Desmond gets adopted by Batman

Desmond becoming John Constantine Problem (1/2/3/4)

As for an AC x Sandman crossover, I was thinking if I should make this full on Sandman lore gets added to AC world or if I should make this Desmond gets sucked into DC verse and make it Sandman-centric.

Then I thought… let’s make it vague instead so you guys get to choose if this is Sandman lore added to AC world or not. (If it is, the idea is the Endless are not related to the Isus in any way, they predate them and are the personification of the core concepts of the universe. However, the Calculations are connected to them in some way)

Anyway!

So the idea is Desmond becomes ‘connected’ to the Endless after dying to save the world. And I know you want him to become a citizen of the Dreaming or one of Morpheus’ ravens but… see… there’s one Endless that would be more… ‘attracted’ to Desmond in a way:

Destiny.

Considering Desmond is the chosen one and his entire life has been one long intricate planning by the Isus to ensure that Desmond is born and raised in a specific way and no matter how long or far he ran, he still became an Assassin just like his parents wanted him to be, Desmond is pretty much the poster boy for Destiny.

One might even say that Desmond could be consider a ‘personification’ of Destiny.

But Desmond hates that. Destiny is the reason why he died. Destiny is the reason why his ancestors, the people he come to care for so much that he sometimes isn’t sure anymore if he cared for them because he saw and felt their memories or because he wished he could be them instead of being Desmond Miles, had to go through so much suffering.

Destiny is the very antithesis of what the Assassins try to protect: freewill.

So he ran away.

And he finds solace in Dream’s domain.

There is something peaceful in being one of Dream’s citizens. Of being in charge of providing sweet dreams.

Hopeful dreams.

But Dream is… well, Dream. Dream can provide nice dreams or nightmares. Dreams give people hope to continue living.

But Dream won’t go against the eldest of them, Destiny.

And it is during Desmond’s time as one of Dream’s citizen that he hears of another. An endless who abandoned his realm.

Destruction.

And so, Desmond sets out to find Destruction, hoping Destruction would give him a clue or perhaps even a way to get away from Destiny once and for all.

Unorganized Notes:

Destiny acts more like an aloof parental figure who thinks Desmond is having a rebellious phase. Destiny doesn’t hate Desmond and knows Desmond would come back. It is Desmond’s destiny after all. (What Desmond’s destiny though in relation to Destiny, no one knows, but Dream theorizes that Desmond is meant to be Destiny’s successor which horrifies Desmond)

Dream takes Desmond in and lets him give people hopeful dreams. Desmond finds solace in Dream’s domain while talking to Desmond makes Dream have a better understanding of what it means to be mortal. Dream usually appears to Desmond as an eerie pale man but Desmond is never frightened. He does like to joke that Dream needs to get some sleep. It does not make Dream laugh.

Death and Desmond have a friendly relationship and Death actually thinks of Desmond as an old friend because he has the memories of three other people. In Death’s eyes, Death has already met Desmond more than once. During the birth and the deaths of his ancestors and his own birth and death. However, Death is also on the side of Destiny, in the sense that there is nothing Desmond can do. For the sake of their friendship, they don’t talk about it.

Desire… well… Desmond hates Desire because, every time Desire visits, Desire always takes the appearance of one of his ancestors. Because they are Desmond’s greatest desire after all. The desire to give his ancestors a happier life. The desire to be like them. The desire to make their sacrifices mean something. The desire to meet them. The desire to… Desire knows all that and uses them. Desire has the greatest chance of pushing Desmond to do what they want but Desmond also has the shortest temper when dealing with them.

Despair makes Desmond feel uncomfortable because of how peaceful he feels whenever Despair is around. Despair finds Desmond beautiful because he holds so much despair inside him. The despair and grief of his ancestors and his own despair and grief. Desmond holds so much despair in him than any mortal should have. “But I’m still here. I still want to live.” “And that is what makes you beautiful, Desmond Miles.”

Delirium… Delirium gives Desmond a headache. Whenever Delirium speaks to Desmond, it’s always about random things and then there would be a sentence or even just a few words that makes Desmond believe that Delirium knows more about Desmond’s situation than Destiny does. On the other hand, Delirium loves Desmond because… well… Delirium is the absence of sanity and Desmond’s Bleeding Effect ‘delights’ her to no end.

Destruction… wellllll… Destruction is Desmond’s end goal so they wouldn’t interact until the very end of this plot. It actually took a while for Desmond to learn about Destruction because all the Endless prefer to call him “The Prodigal” or the “Lost Brother”. Honestly, Desmond wasn’t given any information about Destruction and the Endless believe that he had mistaken Destruction’s actual duties for something he thinks he can ‘use’ to escape Destiny. They believe (other than Destiny who remains quiet) that meeting and talking to Destruction would be the event that Destiny is waiting for so that Desmond would accept his… well… ‘destiny’.

[densewentz]

Take Your Kid to Work Day (with Dream's decidedly more alarming version of an artist rendering their kid's drawing)

[drjholtzmann]

this is dreamling more than dead boy detectives but it's been in my head since reading issue #25 after s1 of sandman. so, now feels like a good time to release it into the world. i just want them all to get in each others way

(season of mists spoilers)

------------

It’s not often that Hob smokes. It’s an expensive habit, and secondhand smoke and all that. But it’s hardly going to kill him, so he’s usually got an ancient pack on hand somewhere. Handy, especially in situations like this. Not that there’s ever been a situation like this before but, well. You live long enough. 

He slips out into the beer garden of the pub, lighting up almost absent mindedly, the action still muscle memory. 

“What the fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip, “what the fuck. Dream, if you have bloody anything to do with this, I swear to god, Morpheus. What the fucking fuck.” He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the brickwork. Despite it all he huffs an exhausted laugh. Because sure. Of course. Yeah, why not. Of course this would happen. “Jesus Christ, Morpheus. Even if this isn’t you, bloody… fucking wish I could just ask.” It’s all said barely above a whisper. Just in case. Always just in case. He blindly ashes his cigarette and heaves out a heavy breath, “Lord above,” he scoffs, raising the cigarette to his lips again. 

“Hob?”

Hob startles, eyes snapping open, head knocking back sharply against the brick. “Fuck – ow – Dream?” He raises his free hand to rub the back of his head, wincing slightly. “That, uh… that worked better than expected.” 

“You were calling for me?”

“Yeah… sorta. I didn’t… think it worked like that. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You did not. I had thought briefly of you.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Hob grins. “How come? You miss me already?”

Morpheus sends him a withering look. 

“I, um… dreamt of you. While ago. Was that – real?”

“It was.”

He nods, thumb nervously tapping the filter of his cigarette. “Uh huh. Figured. With the wine, and…” he trails off. The hollow feeling of that dream, or rather, of that waking coming back to him in full force. “You said some ominous shit. Then I said some ominous shit. Was that real, too?”

Morpheus nods solemnly. 

“Right. Don’t suppose you’ll explain that?” Morpheus remains silent. “Right. Course not. Things okay, though? Now? I mean,” he gestures to his friend, “you’re here. That must be good, yeah?”

“Yes. And no.”

“Great. Fab.”

“What I thought I was facing has… changed.”

“...’kay. Well, can I ask you a question?”

Morpheus pauses but, after a moment, nods.

“S’it got anything to do with the dead kids hanging out in my pub?”

“What?”

“Yeah, couple of boys who look like they should definitely be in school – about, oh, fifty years ago. At least.”

Morpheus’ eyes don’t actually widen in alarm, but there is something to that effect happening… not quite in his expression, but in his aura, perhaps. Hob gets the feeling that if he were a cat the fur along his spine would be standing on end. 

“So… it is related?” 

“Perhaps.”

“Definitely, then.” Hob takes a short puff of his cigarette. 

“Show me?” 

“Uh… I don’t know if they know that people can see them. I don’t know if people who aren’t me can see them, actually. So just, um…” the caution dies in his throat as he realises who it is he’s talking to. Morpheus will do what he will, Hob’s advice be damned. 

Dream draws close, peering in through the windowpane of the door back into the pub. “How do you know?”

“You get pretty good at feeling when things are off once you’ve been around the block six hundred years or so. Also, they walked in through the closed front door. As in, passed right through the solid wood and glass.”

“I see.”

“Why are they here?” 

“To sample your fine selection of craft beer, perhaps?”

“Oh, he’s joking,” Hob has joined his side in peering not-so-surreptitiously through the door. “‘Mortal plane’ here, not here-here.”

“Death must have been busy… It is not like her to leave a job unfinished without good reason.”

“Must’ve…? What the fuck could be so horrific that Death is being kept busy?”

Morpheus, beside him, is silent. Deadly still. And it tells Hob all he needs to know. 

“Dream,” he hisses, “what the fuck is this? What’s going on?”

There is a long pause. “I ought not to tell you.” Dream murmurs, still facing the glass panel of the door.

“And I ought not have two dead teenagers in my pub. All things relative.” 

“They are causing no harm.”

“I don’t doubt that. It’s you I’m worried about now.”

“Your concern is of no use. What I mean is that they are no poltergeists, not aggressive, there seems to be nothing demonic about them.”

“Which means… there are poltergeists and demons running about at the mo?”

“I told you, I ought not say. There are diplomatic proceedings to take place.”

“You get that that makes even less sense, yeah?”

Dream seems to, at last, with an almighty eye roll, give in. “Hell is closed,” he hisses, turning to face Hob directly. 

“Hell is closed.” Hob repeats back, dumbfounded. “And that means… The devils are all here?”

“Precisely.”

“But the boys… aren’t devils?”

“They are not.”

“Okay. That’s good news. And the devils?”

Dream shrugs, sharp and languid. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Great. Okay. Less good. Very much less good. So, uh. What… do I do? Am I supposed to exorcise them? Because, I have to be honest – would really rather not do that.” 

“You are under no obligations.”

“Oh.” 

“They could not be here without Death’s knowledge or her say-so. She will come for them in time.”

“Oh.” Inexplicably, Hob’s heart sinks a little.

“They are not alive, Hob.” Dream says, looking him in the eye. “They cannot live forever as the dead.” 

“Hm. Yeah. S’pose.” He looks through the windowpane at the two boys, chatting animatedly at a corner table out of the way. “They’re just kids, though. Barely got a normal life.”

“You cannot save them, Hob.”

“Why not?”

“You cannot. They may not be destined for Hell, but that doesn’t mean they can stay amongst the living.” 

“Says who?”

“The universe. Death, herself.”

Hob smirks, tilting his head down a fraction to look up at Dream from under a quirked brow. “You know what I think of Death.”

And Hob catches the tension at the corner of Dream’s mouth that he knows, whatever he might say to the contrary, is a suppressed smile. 

“C’mon, what if I just help ‘em live a little? While they’re here?”

“Hob.”

“What?! Can’t a guy be nice?”

“I have meetings to attend to.”

“That’s not a no.” 

“I think it a poor choice to flaunt immortality in front of two who have died so young. I would caution against it.”

“Okay. Fuck, fair point. But they don’t have to know about me. They wouldn’t somehow know, right?”

“I would caution against it, Hob Gadling.”

[thebitchesterbrothers]

What if Roderick Burgess wasn’t able to imprison Dream and instead kidnapped that mysterious man people in certain circles started talking about in hope of figuring out how to summon the lord of dreams?

Hob Gadling, the soldier who always seemed to know a bit too much about medieval history and who inexplicably survived fatal battle wounds. Who never even bat an eye when listening to stories of the occult or magic but started to rant when someone praised Shakespeares work. Who looked suspiciously like one of the men from an age old sketch talking in a tavern…every hundred years.

Hob Gadling, the king’s consort of the Dreaming.

Imagine the blinding fury of Dream when Roderick Burgess takes his husband away from him.

[five-and-dimes]

Here’s a headcanon I don’t know what to do with:

Once they get together, at the end of nights when Dream visits, Hob will take his hand and say, “Stay?” and Dream without fail will respond, “Yes.”

Now here’s the thing about this little routine. At no point is a full sentence spoken out loud.

So from Hob’s point of view, every night he is asking “Will you please stay?” and Dream is saying “Yes I will stay because you asked me to.” But from Dream’s point of view, Hob is asking “Do you want to stay?” and Dream is saying “Yes, please allow me to stay.”

Both think the other one is doing them a favor. Both think they are the one making a request and the other is the one fulfilling it. They’re both carrying around gratitude towards the other for being kind enough to “indulge” them and spend extra time together.

I don’t know how they would ever find out about this strange ongoing miscommunication or what the reaction would be. I just think it sounds like something that would happen to them. They're both emotionally compromised idiots.

[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?

[lemoneyshipz]

They are both stupid AU fic Idea

So we know Hob doesn't die so what if death literally doesn't come for him? And whenever Hob "dies" he isn't actually dead but unconscious or in coma so he ends up in the Dreaming instead.

At first both of them are surprised to find each other and Dream allows him to stay until he’s waking body recovers and stays to comfort him every time.

But being the cryptic asshole that he is he never bothered to tell Hob his name, and Hob as a result assumed Dream is Death because he just shows up in this realm every-time he “dies”, so this place must be afterlife.

And as they hangout more and more and of course starts to fall for each other. And finally on their 1889 meeting Hob tells Dream he is contemplating on dying, only contemplating because there is still so much to live for, but he might be in love with Death and wants to be with them.

And of course Dream does not take this well. He is like WTF AFTER ALL THAT WE HAD WHY WHOULD YOU? HOW COULD YOU ABANDON ME AND GIVE YOURSELF TO MY ELDER SISTER I WILL NOT FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS and hob is confused asf he is like wait a sec you’re not death? of FUCK i messed up but Dream has already stormed out of the door.

Death shows up a moment later infront of Hob and he panics a bit. But she reassures him that she is only here bc “MY brother called me for the first time in years and just started yelling at me, and then was willing to owe me a boon to try to talk you out of dying which was a first time ever. And the whole thing is weird because if you actually wanted to die i would know so I’m just here to check of you since he really likes you. “ and they managed to clear up the misunderstanding but Death doesn't tell hob who Dream is bc "That’s for him to tell you."

Hob plans to confess his feelings the next time he "dies" (in WW2 most likely) but when he did he finds the Dreaming decaying so he immediately knows something is wrong and set on to search for Dream.

He finds Lucienne and she told him he is at the waking world so that narrows it down a bit.

When he finally finds Dream and when Dream finally sees hob again he is like “YOU’RE ALIVE?!”

Hob very much resists an eye-roll and explains everything to Dream and that’s how they got their happily ever after.

in conclusion miscommunication at it’s peak and they’re both stupid but especially Dream

[avelera]

I definitely don't need more WIPs right not for Dreamling, but sometimes it is fun to brainstorm a total nonsense fanfic-y premise played totally straight, which is why I'm fondly remembering the Cinderella Dreamling AU I brainstormed on one of the servers.

(Canon Divergence AU, because that's how I roll)

2022 rolls around and Hob and Dream are friends. Just... friends. Hob would love there to be more. He sometimes suspects, more like wishes really hard, that Dream would like more but, as usual, the guy isn't talking if he does. And Hob is too chicken to ruin the friendship they finally achieved to do something so uncouth as proposition his oldest friend.

He comes to the sad and perhaps inevitable conclusion that Dream has had all the chances in the world to say something so the only conclusion is that Hob's just not that interesting to him in that way. Stands to reason. The more Hob learns about the Dreaming and Dream's fantastical realm and all his adventures, the more Hob's almost single-minded dedication to living a normal life despite his immortality seems a bit... dull.

Enter Desire. Or Death. Or both. This is fanfic-y nonsense, after all, the point is there is a device and the device is our fairy god-person who is also sick to death of watching Dream pine from afar but is also a huge fan of chaos.

They (let's go with Desire for now, even if the trope is a bit overplayed, because it seems like their sort of thing) offer Hob a proposal. The chance to go into the Dreaming each night to woo Dream. Best of all, it will be with Desire's protection of his identity and a small amount of magic to create a persona for wooing Dream that won't be immediately obvious.

Oh, also, Dream is throwing a big fuck-off bash for Faerie or some other Dreaming ally so there's gonna be a party for weeks up there. Perfect place to slip in a new stranger. (Hob is a little charmed by the idea that he gets to be the stranger for once.)

Enter: the Knight of Roses.

Basically, Hob creates a persona into which he pours all of charm, wit, and courtier's polish from 600s years of life. If nothing else, he's having the time of his life at what is essentially a fancy magical masquerade ball where he gets to try his damndest to sweep Dream off his feet.

And it seems to be working. Hard to tell with Dream. But each night, Dream seems excited to see the Knight of Roses again.

(It is working. It's working very very well. The Dreaming is awash in flowers. Dream spends every waking moment he's not at the ball pacing his quarters, interrogating his subjects as to how in the world he can't get to the bottom of who this is, and every person who could nominally be considered his friend including his siblings and subjects are tearing their hair out with how sick they are of hearing about the Knight of Roses.

Hob doesn't hear about it though in the waking because Dream is in love with him and doesn't want to ruin any chance they might have together someday by agonizing over a mysterious guest who is probably some trick sent by Desire or Lucifer or someone to mess with Dream. He has no idea how right he is and how wrong he is not to bring it up to Hob.)

Secret Identity shenanigans ensue, of course, until we hit a breaking point with drama, tears, etc etc the usual for the trope because of course (gasp!) Hob is the Knight of Roses and there never was any need to create a separate persona because Dream was also agonizing over whether Hob was interested and Hob was so chill around him he assumed he was misreading all the signs. (Hob was working so, so hard to appear that chill around Dream.) Identities are unmasked and everyone lives happily ever after.

(But Hob is keeping the outfit once they're officially together, because Dream really, really liked the romance of the whole Knight of Roses identity but he likes it even more now that he knows it's Hob and not an evil trap laid by one of his enemies.)

[myidlehand]

I wanna write a fic where Dream, confused and weak from his time in isolation accidentally didn't go back to the Dreaming but ended up in Hob's appartement.

He didn't mean too but his powers are weak and crossing from the Waking to the Dreaming was too much so his unconscious mind took him to the next best place that was easier to reach.

So in the middle of the night Hob wakes up to a loud noise and find his Stranger naked, pale as death, thin like he's starving and eyes wild with fear. Dream, who hasn't been touch in over a century, completely freaks out when Hob touches his shoulder.

The rest of the fic would be Hob trying to take care of Dream, who's completely silent and freaked out. Hob doesn't really know what to do at first so for the next few days he just offer him little things. First a blanket and then food and water. He doesn't really know if his Stranger needs it but he looks like he's dying of starvation. Everyday he talks to Dream gently, trying to make the man he hasn't seen in over a hundred years talk to him. It takes times for Dream to not flinch every time Hob is near or making a loud sound but eventually he settles enough. Hob spends hours with him just keeping him company, reading out loud, telling him about his days, his life since 1889, until Dream feels better and better. Dream never speaks to Hob but Hob speaks a lot. It doesn't take long for Hob to understand Dream is okay with muffle sounds but isn't used to hearing anything too loud anymore (my headcannon is that Dream mostly was hearing his own heartbeat and breathing in the fishbowl, if he has a heartbeat, and that everything else was muffled which should render any human absolutely crazy). So Hob speaks very very gently. They kind of get into a routine for the next few days/weeks.

One day Hob wakes up and Dream his gone. There's just a note that says "Thank you Hob Gadling". Hob is heartbroken that his Stranger is gone again but happy to know Dream is well enough now.

Then the rest of the season happens up to episode 6 and they meet up again just like the end of the episode.

[adventures-in-a-world-of-fiction]

Dreamling and Desire Ficlet Idea

I'm picturing Desire deciding to have a bit of fun playing with the humans, setting up at a summer fete type event like a fortune teller with a sign promising, "I can tell you how to woo the one you most desire."

Hob has gone along to this thing with some friends and they decide to try out the fortune teller thing for a bit of a laugh.

One of the friends goes first and Desire tells them that the object of their desire secretly loves old, cheesy romance films and that if they try to win them by using an idea from [insert classic romcon here] and invite them to a movie night, they will be open to love.

The friends have a bit of a smile because this is generic and the sort of advice they might have said about anyone, so another friend goes next. This person is already in a committed relationship and thinks they can catch Desire out. Desire looks into their eyes and says, "On your first date, you ate chocolate cake together under the stars in an outdoor cafe. If you make them chocolate cake and eat it under the stars together, they will remember how it felt when they first fell in love with you and it will strengthen the desire that's already there."

And now the friends are freaking out slightly because that was super specific and how did they know all that?

But then it's Hob's turn. Desire takes one look at Hob and is just like, "Him?! He's the one you desire most? Seriously?"

[dragon-kazansky]

You are his lover. When Morpheus was captured, you fell into the deep sleep. He has no idea until he returns to his realm where Lucienne tells him what happened. Unable to help you until he gets his tools back, he is more determined than ever to get his full power back.

[magnusbae]

I mean, I can't NOT prompt "Emotions are a luxury I don't have time for." with Dreamling 👀

🤘 five-and-dimes

OKAY ADMITTEDLY it does fit Dreamling very well doesn't it—? I was going to give half an hour per piece and accidently digressed way too much with this one..... whoops...? Thank you for the prompt dear 🥰💖

Dreamling || 1,174w || lowkey hurt/comfort but with ~hope

▾▾▾

“Don’t you feel anythi— fuck.” Hob stops, forcing the words back down with a thick swallow. He cannot afford himself to speak in anger, no matter how badly it burns in his veins, no matter how scourged by Dream’s aloofness he is. It doesn’t matter that he should have the right for anger. Dream is simply not a being you could, or should, be angry with if you hope to keep him in your life.

Angry or not, justified or not. Hob wants him in his life, very much.

“Dream, listen.” Hob starts, running a hand over his own face, nails scratching uncomfortably over the side of his cheek. “I get it, okay.” He really doesn’t but this is not the point “but seriously, you do have feelings, I know that you have…” his voice wavers and he gestures at the space between them, unable to voice it lest Dream would flee again. “Please.” his voice strains with the burden of it all. Wanting so much, needing so much—being forbidden from even voicing it, let alone having it.

"Emotions are a luxury I don't have time for.” Dream’s voice is deep, booming, as aloof as it could possibly get. He sounds like he’s reading a ready-made script, like he’s following the lines long since prepared.

Hob recoils, physically takes a step back, wants a distance between himself and Dream’s rejection. He should have expected it, in fact, he assumed he might get worse and yet— “Bulshit.” The short silence that follows is pregnant with tension, both momentarily silenced by Hob’s boldness. Hob is as surprised by it as Dream, apparently is.

Dream comes around first, eyebrows knotting, storms cracking in the depths of his eyes. His lips thin, the corners tug down and then he opens his mouth to deliver what Hob is sure would be either a really bad reprimand or his final words to him.

He cannot have it. If only for the simple fact that he doesn’t only want Dream in his life, but factually needs him. He doesn’t know what’s life would be worth without knowing that in the end of every story there will be Dream to share it with, a confidant, a keeper of his journey.

“I think that you’re afraid—” the words rush out without a thought, he steps forward, hurrying to finish before this would blow out of proportion “—because I know that I am petrified.” The words burn true on his tongue, there’s a dull ache in his chest, his lungs feel too full and empty of air. “I am horrified that you might leave, I am terrified that you might not lo— accept this, I am…” he swallows, his throat is closing with the emotion of it all. He cannot stop, not now that he had finally started. “I get it Dream, I know that you are, that we are… different but…. “ His hand falls by his side, no amount of gesturing would express what he feels.

He runs out of words. He was so certain he had them all when this conversation started, now he can hardly even remember what brought it about. He didn’t prepare for it as well as he thought, he doesn’t know how to word it, how to phrase it in a way that would convince Dream to give this, them, a chance. Damn.

His chin drops and he stares at the ground, burning disappointment makes his hand tremor. He closes his fist.

He is no poet, no storyteller, no writer. He is no Dream to pick and choose the right words. He’s only a man. Only a man who loves a being beyond his comprehension, very, very much.

Fuck, fuck it all. Fuck. He is about to lose him, isn’t he?

The pain in his gut is a twisting thing, like a knife slicing through the guts. Shitty death, he’d know. He dares to glance up when Dream doesn’t speak, half expecting to see him gone. Instead, there’s something softer in Dream’s eyes when he meets them. For the first time, Hob’s attention is drawn to the unnatural void in those eyes, the glint of distant stats. This is…

“Am I…” his mind struggles through the spell of dizziness, his consciousness readjusting its grasp of the surroundings. The shadows are longer, the shapes are bent a little too far, the colors are not quite right.

“I am dreaming.” He understands when he finally sees the landscape for what it is, Dream, for who he is. “Oh shit.” His cheeks color red, he is aware of the incredibly uncomfortable material of the shirt he used to wear some few hundreds years ago.

“I yanked you into my dream, haven’t I.” This is, even more than before, not how he had hoped to confess. Not even close.

“Hob,” Dream’s voice bleeds to every fiber of the dream-scape, infusing it with power, making it feel tangible, more clear, in focus. “You dream very loudly.” There’s an odd note to his voice, if Hob was to attempt and pinpoint it, he’d have to admit it sounds like astonishment.

“Sorry,” he answers, abashed. “I, uh, suppose you can’t just…” he gestures at his own head with a motion that resembles wiping chalk off of a board. “Maybe…?” he adds, hopefully.

He doesn’t regrets his feelings. He would, though, like to at least be awake when Dream rejects him, It feels only proper.

The idea of simply not raising it up at all is one that had crossed his mind frequently, and yet he knows that sooner or later he’d slip again, that he wouldn’t be able to to continue pretending like this isn’t an integral part of who he is, like this isn’t something that he feels.

Sooner or later, he’d tell Dream of The Endless that he is helplessly, hopelessly, truly and deeply— in lov…

A finger again his lips distracts him from his thoughts. “Very loudly.” Dream scolds quietly, wistfully. He sighs then, the weight of it almost buckles Hob’s knees. Dream seems to ready himself, like he is expecting a great deal of suffering and is braving himself for it. He looks exhausted. Worn down. Won over.

Hob immediately dislikes that look, it speaks too much of Dream’s past. Too much of what had made Dream as closed off as he is. Too much of what hurt him so badly. Hob wants him to be…

“Very well, Hob Gadling.” Dream’s words distract Hob from his thoughts again “We shall speak of it further in the waking world, according to your wishes.” Dream looks away into the distance, his finger lingering on Hob’s lower lip, it’s cool. “I must go now, so long.”

He does not sat farewell. Hob’s mind centers around it. Between one eye blink and another, Dream is gone, golden sand scattering behind.

“What…?” Hob’s mind is already fuzzing into an incoherent haze of shapes and shadows, only distantly concerned with what just transpired.

Only vaguely he wonders if he should feel loss, or…not?

[lostelfwriting]

Hob: "So, uh, I met one of yours today." Dream: "One of mine?" *frowns* Hob: "Well, I guess three of yours?" Dream: "Three of my siblings?!" *confusion intensifies* Hob: "No, I don't think they were your siblings… Like, your grandma, your ma, and your younger sister? Three ladies; gave me a quest." Dream: *faints* Hob: "Not family, then." Hob: "..." Hob: "Three evil exes?"

[thebitchesterbrothers]

Dream of the Endless is the prince of a small but wealthy and beautiful country. He’s not the oldest child so the crown will go to his oldest sister Death when his parents are going to die or abdicate one day.

He’s not important enough to rule one day but still too known to live an ordinary life. He grew up sheltered in a golden cage with certain expectations from his parents to live by. So he’s not surprised when one day his parents invite possible suitors for a lucrative wedding.

From Dreams perspective they leave him no choice but to flee from his own birthday party where he’s supposed to be sold off to the highest bidder.

And while his furious parents are busy firing his bodyguards Dream wanders through parts of the capital he’s never seen before.

He’s so high on the feeling of finally feeling free and unobserved for the first time in his entire life that he doesn’t pay close attention to his surroundings when he turns the corner.

Stumbling right into the arms of Hob Gadling.

Hob, who had spent the last ten years traveling and living abroad before returning home to finally settle down, maybe start a family of his own.

Hob, who never really kept track of the drama and scandals of the royal family.

Who doesn’t know that the beautiful - but slightly socially awkward and uptight - man in his arms is the most desired bachelor of his native country. And his prince.

But what he knows is that love at first sight most definitely exists because there’s no way in hell he won’t marry this dream of a man.

Needless to say that Dream spends the next week in Hobs tiny and barely renovated flat above the Inn Hob had recently bought. Half of that time he spends in Hobs embrace, the other half in his lap. Dream refuses to let his new love out of sight, clings to him, afraid Hob might find out about his family heritage and will try to get rid of him, trying not to get in trouble for hiding - and deflowering - the prince.

But eventually, on the eighth day Dream confesses he’s the prince everyone is so desperately looking for. The prince who’s supposed to be married off to a proper and, most importantly, rich spouse.

So on the ninth day Hob and Dream say yes to each other in an old chapel by the river, the only witnesses the priest and a tiny black cat who Dream takes home afterwards.

On the tenth day the royal family finds them and Hob finds out what he’s got himself into.

But looking at his gorgeous husband next to him he decides it’s all worth it if he gets to live the rest of his life side by side with him.

[five-and-dimes]

Sleeping Beauty-esque au where Dream wants to Stop Living but doesn’t want to go through making someone be his replacement (being Dream of the Endless is so hard, how cruel would it be to subject that role to someone else?) and it occurs to him that he is the Dreaming and the Dreaming is him so what if he just… took one of those out of the equation? As long as there is a Dreaming then technically there is a Dream even if he’s not human-shaped anymore and so one day he goes into one of the gardens and he lays down and closes his eyes and lets Dream the Person sink into Dream the Place. 

Matthew comes looking for him and gets lost because his magic-raven-senses, which are supposed to always know where Dream is, are telling him he’s everywhere?? And finally he stumbles upon a body, still breathing but with moss and ivy and briars slowly growing around him, a living body being reclaimed by nature and Matther naturally freaks the fuck out, clawing at the plants and pecking at Dream’s hands and pulling his hair to try to wake him but all it does is make the ivy grow faster and he’s pushed back by a gust of wind that feels like a sigh. 

Cursing as loud as a raven is capable of, he books it back to Lucienne, and it takes a few minutes for her to make sense of his panicked cawing but then she is dropping the book in her hands and rushing to call anyone she can think of, which includes both the rest of the Endless and also one particular immortal human because that’s how desperate she feels. 

And then it’s a line of people taking turns sitting next to Dream the Body, gently pushing back the greenery around him, some of them sobbing when they see how the plants are starting to grow through him, and the body is still breathing but it’s decomposing, sinking deeper into the landscape, and it’s hard to tell but they think Fiddler’s Green is crying, pleading with the Dreaming itself to walk on two legs again. 

I think eventually Hob, who has been coming and speaking every night in his sleep, trying to bribe and barter and goad his friend to come back to them, finally snaps when he comes and sees Dream’s body completely covered by moss and vines, looking for all the world like just an uneven patch of field, and he thrusts his hands into the earth and physically tears Dream out, standing and dragging him away from the plants that reach to take him back, and he starts sobbing and screaming about how Dream isn’t getting rid of him that easily, Hob is immortal by stubbornness alone, if Dream thinks he won’t fall in love with a goddamn patch of grass he’s got another thing coming, he wants Dream to walk with him and live with him, but if he has to marry Dream the Place then that’s what he’ll do, he will make the realm itself his husband and spend eternity nurturing it, give whole new meaning to the term “husbandry”. And the ivy is crawling up Dream’s body, trying to pull him out of Hob’s arms, but before it can cover Dream’s face Hob is kissing him for all he’s worth. 

And then the ivy slows, and the wind seems to shudder, and the land is still but Hob thinks he feels a separating within it, like the red sea parting beneath a blessed hand, and it takes a moment, because so much of Dream has spread like roots throughout the Dreaming and it’s hard in so many different ways to pull it all back into himself, but Hob holds him through it, peppering his face with kisses as the earth falls away from his withered body and being a person again hurts, but Hob’s love soothes it like a balm. 

And then he awakens, opening his eyes for the first time in months, cradled in Hob’s arms, with soft memories of everyone who had tried to bring him back because they wanted him back, and he is still so tired, but. But maybe, he thinks, being awake, being here, is not so bad if there is someone to hold him like this.

Hob kisses him again.

[gourmet-trash]

Okay so hear me out but Rose working on some creative writing assignment or short story that involves a character getting stabbed or cut or whatever. And Corinthian proofreading like, "The lead up is good, but I'm telling you, Rosebud, this just isn't what it's like." "I can't write it the way you described it!" "Well why not? I'm the authority here, aren't I?" Rose throws her hands up. "Because you like stabbing things, and the protagonist doesn't like getting stabbed."

Corinthian clicks all three of his tongues and flips to the next page. "That doesn't excuse a poor description of handling the knife."

"I'm sorry, all right? I just understand better when I'm seeing stuff rather than just hearing about it," Rose says, sighing. She shouldn't have waited so long to start this project. And it's not like her creative writing professor is going to spend this much time fussing over the scene, but now that she's aware it's wrong, it's going to eat at her until she gets a pass from the Corinthian.

Corinthian who, after a moment, lifts his head from the pages he's reviewing. And even with his sunglasses on, Rose has learned to recognize that particular look on his face. This can't be good.

"You know," he says, drawing his words out the way he usually does when he's leading into the kind of suggestion he knows doesn't align with "human moral values" as he's put it on more than one occassion. "If you need a visual and a more first hand account of what getting stabbed feels like..."

"No," Rose says immediately.

"Why not? It's a perfect solution!" Corinthian insists.

"I'm not gonna watch you kill somebody!" Rose says. "...Again."

There's a soft click-click of unseen teeth that Rose associates with Corinthian's version of "rolling your eyes." "I'm not suggesting we kill somebody," he says, "Couldn't if I tried anyway!"

"No," Rose repeats when she realizes what, exactly the Corinthian is suggesting.

"Oh, come on," Corinthian says, waving the heavily marked pages of her story between them. "We could at least ask, right? And he could definitely give you some pointers on writing about being stabbed."

"....Well...that part's probably true," Rose admits slowly. Being able to ask specific questions would also be more useful than a bunch of questionable Google searches.

"So....?" She sighs and gets up from her desk, rolling her eyes at the wide grin Corinthian flashes for it. "Just to ask if he can give me some advice! That's it," she says, pulling in the same firm voice she uses to tell Jed that they absolutely are not having chicken fingers for dinner again.

"You want to stab me for a creative writing assignment?" Professor Gadling repeats slowly.

"No!" Rose says at the same time Corinthian says, "Yeah, that sums it up."

Rose shifts on Professor Gadling's couch so she can kick Corinthian's ankle beside her, feeling vindicated by the echoing hiss of air between teeth. "Well that was uncalled for," he grouses, pointedly proping that ankle up on his knee away from her. Like she can't reach the other one if she wants.

They spend a few moments glowering at each other - Rose trying to decide if she wants to kick him again and Corinthian trying to predict said kick so he can avoid it. They're both interrupted by Professor Gadling setting mugs in front of them and lowering himself into an arm chair.

"Thank you, Professor," Rose insists, reaching out to take hers. "What Corinthian meant to say is that I'm working on a story for class and he doesn't think my action scenes are...authentic enough. I was wondering if you might be willing to proofread a bit? Or give me some advice to make it sound more realistic?"

"On account of you having been stabbed so many of times," Corinthian helpfully adds over the top of his mug. Rose doesn't know a lot about British tea, but she knows there's an absurd amount of milk (and probably sugar) in his judging by the color.

Professor Gadling, thank god, looks more amused than anything else. Rose suspects he's used to a lot of this on account of whatever is going on between him and Corinthian and Uncle Morpheus, but she keeps that particular thought to herself. That's a topic better left for gossping with Matthew.

"That is, unfortunately, true," Professor Gadling agrees. "I'm happy to answer any questions you have."

"Now, Rose, didn't you tell me earlier that you have a hard time understanding something that's just said out loud to you, though?" Corinthian drawls.

"Maybe it's just the way you describe things that's hard," she argues, rolling her eyes again when he lays his fingertips against his chest like a stricken southern belle.

Professor Gadling chuckles into his own tea while he watches them bicker, and after a moment he shrugs and rocks back onto his feet. "All right, come on. We're not doing this so close to the rug and the furniture."

"What?" Rose says, but Professor Gadling is already carrying his tea towards the kitchen, and Corinthian wastes no time abandoning his own mug on the coffee table to follow. Rose curses softly and moves Corinthian's mug onto a coaster before hurrying after them.

"Professor, you really don't have to do this," she insists.

But by then, Professor Gadling has already shrugged out of his cardigan and is considering the shirt underneath. "Probably more helpful to see the blood spread on the fabric, right?"

"Yeah, that would fit the scene better," Corinthian agrees, flipping a knife over his fingers and looking her way. "Right, Rosebud?"

When she doesn't immediately answer, Professor Gadling looks over, and something in her expression must read as more than concerned for his safety, because he walks over and puts a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. If it'll help what you're writing, I really don't mind, Rose. And frankly, if I don't let him stab something now, he's probably going to find something to stab," he jokes with a pointed glance at Corinthian.

Corinthian does not correct him, so he's probably right about that.

Even so, Professor Gadling's expression is soft when he turns back to her." But if it's not something you're going to be comfortable seeing, we also don't have to do this. We can go back to the couch and you can ask questions. I'll try to describe things better than Cor does."

She makes a small, amused sound, but she still feels her brows knitting in together. Was she comfortable seeing this? She hadn't even stopped to consider that, so set as she'd been that this wouldn't be a possibility in the first place. And now that it was, she didn't know if she wanted it to be.

Corinthian leans his hip against the counter beside them and tilts his head. "You like horror movies, Rose?"

She blinks, turning from Professor Gadling's concerned expression to Corinthian's considerably more mild one. "Um...yeah, I do."

"Cause in a horror movie, even if people are getting hurt, you know they're actually okay, right?" he reasons. "The actors walk away right as rain after the credits start rolling."

She frowns slightly but nods.

"Hob does that too. You know he's actually okay and he'll walk away right as rain after all this. Not that different from watching a real good horror movie."

Professor Gadling makes a soft, amused sound, and when Rose glances back at him, he has a wry, affectionate look on his face. "That's...not a bad way of putting it," he agrees. "Even though none of those actors are actually getting stabbed."

"Details," Corinthian scoffs.

"And you're sure you're okay with this Professor?" Rose asks, relaxing a bit when he nods.

"I wouldn't have said yes otherwise. And stab wounds don't take that long to heal. I can even show you when it's healed up if that'll help."

Rose glances between them, Professor Gadling waiting patiently for her to decide what she'd like to do and Corinthian looking like he might jump in and start stabbing at a moment's notice regardless.

Something about the scenario feels a little too familiar. Not for her, of course. But between the two of them. She's starting to think this isn't the first time Professor Gadling has let himself get stabbed, and she's starting to think she doesn't want to look too closely into that.

"....Uncle Morpheus isn't going to like this," she points out, watching the two of them exchange a quiet, but communicative glance.

"Well your Uncle Morpheus doesn't have to know if we hurry up," Corinthian insists, lifting a wrist to check his watch. "We still got some time before he gets back with Jed."

Professor Gadling snorts softly. "We'll worry about Morpheus," he says. "So?"

"....Okay. Okay, yeah, let me just grab my notebook!"

"Attagirl!" Corinthian crows, shaking his knife a bit like one might a trophy they've won. And as soon as she's back, he waves her over to show her the grip he has on the handle so she can jot down notes.

And that's how Rose spends the afternoon in Professor Gadling's kitchen being shown precise knife handling techniques, blood spatter behavior, and getting a first hand account of what being stabbed feels like in real time. All of it turn out to be tremendously helpful in her story edits - she gets Corinthian and Professor Gadling's approval before turning it in. (The former insists she should consider writing more action like this in the future and he's, of course, happy to help with additional research.)

She gets an A. [ next → ]