#KNIGHT HOB

[quibvsposts]

Ser Robert Gadling

[joinmeinjoy]

knight hob knight hob knight hob

[alexxuun]

👑 King Morpheus and his knight🗡️

[delta-pavonis]

For the soft ask meme, how about 17 for 🗡️ Fantasy Knight!Hob/King Morpheus?

17. this is a very long hug now sort of hug

Nice! Thanks for the prompt! I think this fits nicely with elaborating a bit on their history prior to getting together. The original fic is here. Although I did approach it a little differently than I think the prompt intended. 😅

Hob wakes up to a room so dark it takes a moment for him to realize that his eyes are both open and working.

No moon, just the barest twinkle of stars comes in from the small open window. Other than that, the only source of illumination in the room is a candle that is almost burned down to its base, wax a puddle on the table beneath the holder.

But even with that little light Hob can see that he is not alone.

A person is sprawled in a simple wooden chair next to his bedside, legs stretched out in front of them, arms folded tight across their chest, chin tilted down so far that the person's profile is almost buried in said arms. But even with just that sliver of information, Hob knows who it is. Hob would know who it was in the pitch black of the depths of the underworld, just by the sound of his breathing.

"King Morpheus?" Hob whispers, unsure if they are actually alone.

His sworn sovereign is awake instantly, eyes finding Hob without error, as if they have memorized the path from being closed to looking down upon him on the bed. They stare at one another for a silent moment, the King's eyes startlingly bright given the lack of light, and then, suddenly, Hob finds himself enveloped in a hug. It is awkward - he is still laying down - but strong arms are around his shoulder and chest and there is rapid breathing in his ear.

Hob shivers. He is... he is in King Morpheus' arms.

The King is alive.

Hob succeeded.

The relief is palpable. It washes over him from head to toe, unclenching muscles he didn't even know could be tense. Except...

Oh fuck but does his shoulder hurt.

But he is being held by his King. Wrapped in arms he has dreamed about. Pressed into a warmth he dared not imagine.

Hob relaxes into it, bringing his hands up carefully to grip at King Morpheus' waist, and the King hums like he sounds happy about it and Hob might sublimate from the fierce joy that surges up in his chest.

"Sir Gadlen." King Morpheus whispers.

"Yes, my Lord?" And Hob thinks that this should end it and he even goes to pull away.

But the King does not. He holds firm, keeping Hob held to his chest, his chin on Hob's shoulder.

So Hob does the only thing he can think of to do, he closes his eyes and tries his damnedest to memorize every tiny dot of contact between them - how it moves when they breathe, how it feels in the stillness between breaths, how smooth King Morpheus' cheek is against his neck, how rough his own body feels from the battle.

Hob gets more time than he thinks he deserves in his King's embrace, but it does eventually end. King Morpheus grabs the sides of his shoulders and pulls away to look him right in the eyes to say, "Thank you. For saving my life."

His heart leaps into his throat, starts screaming: I would do it again in a heartbeat. Every day. From now until forever. If it would keep you safe. And happy.

Of course, he doesn't say any of that. Instead Hob just smiles, as bright as he can through the pain. "And I am very glad I am here to say you're welcome."

King Morpheus actually huffs a laugh at that. "As am I. And please, I think you have earned the right to call me Dream."

Hob cannot help but startle at the very idea. He... can't. How could he ever call his sovereign by a nickname? It is just... impossible. "I... that's generous of you, my Lord. But I do not think it proper for me to... I do not think it would reflect well on you to..." The light in the King's eyes dims ever so slightly and Hob just barely holds back from falling all over himself apologizing. Instead he blurts, "But you can call me Hob, if you'd like." And oh, Hob can feel the blush burn across his cheeks now and perhaps he can blame it on a fever?

But then King Morpheus smiles, a small, gentle thing, and Hob would take a hundred more bolts just to have that gift. "Alright... Hob." His hands slide from Hob's shoulders to hold his elbows. "How do you feel about joining the guards of my Inner Circle?"

[densewentz]

Unnecessarily Complex Fit Inktober Day 3 is for Hope!Hob who made the mistake of letting his ridiculous stranger pick his Hope threads rip (look its unnecessarily complex for Hob, and also me, because I am a tired worm)

[kydrogendragon]

His attempts to win over his beloved knights affections have gotten to the point that even his sibling, Desire, has begun to take pity upon him. He's seen the eyerolls and grimaced tosses his way after each failed attempt to make his love known. It does not dissuade him, of course. Nothing could from this path he is forging. Sir Hob will be his in due time. He knows this with the same certainty that the sky knows the sun. He just needs to be patient.

Desire, however, has gotten rather tired to watching the long game Dream is playing. At least, that is the only reason he can think as to why his sibling would assist him in such fashions. Or perhaps there was some attempt at sabotage that failed (quite spectacularly, if so).

Dream was tasked with negotiating new treaties with the neighboring lords, and given his leave of Endless territory, a small troop of guards was assigned to him. Now Sir Hob would not have normally been apart of this troop—as much as Dream would wish—but it seems that Sir Matthew, his usual personal guard, had fallen ill the night before and requested Sir Hob take his place.

Of course, Dream was concerned for Sir Matthew, but he would be lying if he was not eager for his beloved knight to step in. And as his personal guard, Dream would get to enjoy seeing the man in more close quarters than would normally be allowed.

Their travels had gone smoothly, for the most part, save a single robbery attempt that was quickly snuffed out by the trio of guard. Dream knew his own dreams that night would feature the strong arm of Sir Hob reaching out to stop one of the attackers, his sword coming down with refined strength to those who sought them harm. Had they been alone, Dream was uncertain he would have the strength within him to not kiss the knight silly, perhaps even sink to his knees to properly thank him for his service.

They arrived in a small town, a day away from the Endless family borders. They would reach the local Lord's home by supper tomorrow, but in the meantime, they would stay themselves at the inn nearby. Lady Jessamy and Sir Corin, the other two knights, took to settling in their horses as Sir Hob acquired rooms for them all.

The inn itself is rather small, and thus, the three rooms they had, they claimed. Lady Jessamy and Sir Corin each have a room for themselves, and Sir Hob was instructed to stay with Dream. It was a wise choice regardless of the inn's capacity as all sorts of harm could befall a prince as he sleeps, especially this close to foreign lands. And if Dream was not mistaken, Sir Hob almost looked happy about the arrangement.

Night settled over the land, her dark skies and silver stars painted the sky. The pale beams of moonlight trailed through the single window in the room, coating the rough woolen blankets of the single bed.

Dream stripped himself of his riding attire, allowing himself to luxuriate in the lightweight black cotton sleepclothes he had been packed. Sir Hob, as dutiful a knight as ever, remained posed beside the door with what Dream suspects is a flush upon his cheeks.

"Do you plan to stand there the entire night?" Dream asks, voice low as he pads across the wooden floor to stand in front of Sir Hob.

"Yes, my prince," he replies with a smile. "I can rest once we arrive at Lord Constantine's manor. I've stayed awake longer, you need not be worried. I'll protect you."

"I do not doubt your skill in protecting me, my good knight. I never have." Dream lifts his hand and rests it on Sir Hob's leather clad chest. "However, I would not have you weary upon our ride in the morn. Sleep this night. I am certain you can fulfill your duties well enough from a bed, given your sword is in reach, yes?"

"I—" Sir Hob swallows, his eyes darting down to Dream's hand. His brows pull together. "Yes, of course, my lord. But forgive me for saying that I do not quite understand. There's only the one bed and I would not claim it from you."

"Then it is a good thing that the bed has plenty of room for two, should you not mind sharing." Dream let's his hand trail down, resting briefly atop the knight's stomach before falling back to his side. He looks up at Sir Hob through his lashes, bats them once, then gestures towards the bed.

In all honesty, the bed is rather small. I will technically fit two people, but with very little room between. And with Sir Hob's naturally larger build, it was almost a guarantee they would need to touch quite a lot in order to comfortably fit.

It was perfect.

All Dream's other attempts have failed. Perhaps this, in its blatantcy, will force the knight to confront the idea that his prince wants him.

"Come. Ready yourself for the night. I will await you in bed," Dream says, his voice low in the quiet room. He turns and climbs into the bed. His sleepclothes rides up as he settles in and he does not bother adjusting where the bottom hem has slid up to his mid-thigh. Resting his head upon one of thr provided pillows, Dream closes his eyes.

He listens as the silence breaks. There's a shuffle of clothes, of leather and metal, as they fall onto the floor. There's some further shuffling before Dream hears the sound of heavy metal clank as it rests somewhere to the left of him. Then, another body slides into bed with him.

Dream turns his head and opens his eyes to the sight of his beautiful knight, long brown hair spayed across the pillow, as he stares up at the ceiling. His muscles are tense and his limbs are all folded into himself as if to appear smaller.

"Sir Hob?"

"Yes, m'lord?"

Dream reaches out and pulls the knight's arm away from Sir Hob's body and hugs it close to his own chest. He hears Sir Hob's breath hitch.

"I give you permission to touch me."

Sir Hob's earthen eyes are upon him in an instant. They are wide and much darker than he's ever seen them before. The hand in Dream's hold twitches before the knight turns on his side. He reaches out with his free hand, hovering just above Dream's cheek.

"Please," he whispers.

Hob's lips are on his, his large hand pressing down upon his cheek. It's warm. Hob is warm. And he is finally, finally being kissed. It's hesitant, at least on Hob's end, but as Dream presses closer, any fear his knight seems to have vanishes. His strong hands pull him impossibly closer, gripping at his bedclothes.

It was heaven.

"Have—" Hob pants as they part "—you been flirting with me this entire time?"

"I'm simply glad you finally realized. I did not know what else to do had tonight not worked."

His knight shakes his head, all the while grinning like a fool. Dream wishes he had his paints and charcoal as to capture this moment permanently.

"More the fool, I, then to have wasted as much time to hold you in my arms." He leans down, pressing another kiss to Dream's lips. It is a feeling he does not know he will ever be able to live without again. Not after knowing such touch. "Heir Desire had insisted I step in for Sir Matthew on this journey. They had ensured that I would not regret it. I hardly doubt this is what they meant, but . . . They were certainly not wrong." Hob chuckled.

"Do not speak of my sibling while you are in bed with my, my knight," Dream grumbles as he tucks his face into the crook of Hob's neck. He can feel the muscles underneath shake as the laugh laughs.

"Yes, My Prince." There is a different tone, now, to how Hob says that phrase. It is one he has heard uttered from the man's lips many times over, ranging from formal to friendly. Even teasing, occasionally. This is the first time it has ever sounded so soft. So loved.

"Call me Dream," he whispers into the warmth of Hob's body. "When we are alone and it is just us. Call me Dream."

A hand curls around the back of his head. "How about my Dream?"

Dream smiles. "Even better."

Prince Dream who is completely enamored with Knight Hob and always watches his training. It started out more subtle, watching from somewhere up high with a good view of the training grounds, making excuses to oversee the knights' training. Now he just overtly watches from a porch nearby and he looks disturbingly like a cat watching birds out a window. Dream wants to devour this man whole.

Everybody knows. Everybody knows how Prince Dream feels about the knight, even his siblings have stopped teasing him about it once he stopped being embarrassed. Everybody knows except Hob. Hob who is completely oblivious. Hob who thinks Dream is just his good buddy ol' pal, Hob who accidentally friendzones Dream in practically every conversation they have. Hob has not picked up on the intense staring at all and probably wouldn't have noticed how often Dream had started coming to training if someone else hadn't pointed it out.

The thing is, Dream is a prince and Hob is a knight, so anything happening between them is just so far out of the realm of possibility to Hob that it genuinely doesn't occur to him to interpret anything from Dream as romantic or sexual. And it's not a low self esteem thing or an "unworthy" thing, it's just that in Hob's mind, princes and knights don't fall in love, and Dream is a prince and Hob is a knight, ergo they can't fall in love. Hob has had this thought process entirely subconsciously and has never stopped to reexamine this. So yeah, Dream only sees him as a friend, a comrade. And of course, Hob sees Dream the same way.

...right? (Yes, according to Hob who just tends to go with the flow and rarely unpacks deeper more complex feelings, and no, according to literally everyone else.) Dream will get his hands on this man someday, he just needs to be patient.

The sooner that Dream understands that Hob is just a sweet little himbo who can't even comprehend being able to attract the love of a Prince, the better. Then Dream can get to work on proving that his humble knight is very worthy indeed!

I'm imagining Dream doing all the "courtly love" things to woo his Knight. Flirting with him, composing sonnets for him and leaving them on Hob’s pillow, asking him to dance whenever there's an opportunity at court. Hob initially interprets all this as more declarations of comradeship/just Dream being nice to him... but then Dream gets hold of a lute, and sings a love-song underneath Hob’s window, and Hob is like "wait a second. this doesn't feel very platonic." He jumps right down from the balcony (nearly rolls his ankle in the progress), throws himself at the Prince's feet and begs to know the truth. DOES Dream love him???

Dream pats him gently on the head, smiling fondly at his himbo Knight. He's so proud of Hob for finally working it out, bless him <3

[teejaystumbles]

@watercubebee's latest sketches of Hob with a braid and a sword made me go brrrrrrrrrr

[cuubism]

Besieged

E | 5k

a sequel to Trade Secrets - aka knight Hob and slutty prince Dream

--

Hob has sat in besieged war camps for days waiting for the enemy to strike. He has knelt in forests, unmoving, muscles cramping, waiting hours for a chance to attack. He has laid in a medical cot for weeks while a wound slowly heals.

And yet the greatest test of patience in Hob’s entire life is this treaty negotiation. Not because the discussion is mind-numbingly dull, though it is. Hob would always rather be out killing something, but he can cope. And not because the foreign dignitaries are only barely respectable, casting veiled jibes their way every other sentence. Hob talks too much, but he can hold his tongue when he has to.

No, this is testing Hob’s patience because he’s here as Morpheus’s personal bodyguard, and Morpheus is currently draped over the arm of the foreign king, body pressed close, lips close to his jaw as he speaks directly in his ear.

He never behaves like this when he’s in his own palace. Among his own people he’s stoic and reserved, almost unknowable. And he had been very insistent that his stories about seducing foreign dignitaries had been just that: stories, that his words alone were sufficient to achieve his aims.

Which means he’s doing this just to get under Hob’s skin.

Hob shifts where he stands, back against the wall, surveying the room. He’s supposed to be concentrating on security, but he feels hot, itchy, aggravated. Jealous, he whispers to himself. Morpheus isn’t his to keep. But oh if Hob doesn’t want to slam that foreign king against a wall.

And then push Morpheus up against one for very different reasons.

Morpheus meets his eyes from across the table. His gaze is hot. Challenging. Then he looks away and says, “I must speak with the king in private for a moment.”

Hob takes a step forward, a protest on his tongue. Whatever game he’s playing aside, Morpheus can’t just go off with someone without a guard. Hob’s supposed to ensure his safety.

But Morpheus just flashes another glance at him. His gaze promises terrible things. Wonderful things. And he disappears into a side room, his starry cloak swishing behind him.

The king follows him like a sex-drunk fool. Hob knows the feeling. Perhaps it’s not Morpheus in danger if they go off alone.

Hob waits, chest tight. Jealous. Irritable. Worried. Fucking horny. Morpheus absolutely knows what he’s doing here. I’ll show you, you little slut, Hob thinks, then is immediately horrified by the thought. It’s not untrue, though. Hob’s feelings about Morpheus are… varied, but one of them is definitely the aggressive need to make Morpheus his. Even if he has no right to it.

He’d been able to keep those thoughts in the back of his head, once. But that was before Morpheus had crept into his tent in the middle of the night and told Hob to fuck him like a whore.

It isn’t overly long before Morpheus and the king emerge from their private conference. The king looks whiplashed. Morpheus looks quite pleased with himself indeed. His hair is mussed. His smirking lips are reddened. Looking at him makes Hob feel like he’s swallowed thorns.

“I believe we’ve come to an agreement,” says Morpheus, gaze flickering briefly over to Hob and going dark at whatever he sees on Hob’s face. “Let us sign the treaty. We need not tarry longer.”

Hob doesn’t pay a shred of attention as they review the document and sign it. His grip is flexing on the hilt of his sword, sheathed at his hip, for want of anything better to do with his hands. He forces himself not to fidget. He watches Morpheus, the haughty dignity of him, the close cut of his elegant robes. Hob wants to venerate him like a piece of the heavens. Hob wants to ruin him.

By the time they make their way back to their guest quarters in the palace, he feels like he’s buzzing. Walking at his side with utter nonchalance, Morpheus says, “I do believe that was—”

Hob doesn’t let him finish. He grabs Morpheus’s arm and pulls him through the door to their rooms, then pushes him up against it, fisting a hand in the collar of his robes.

“You,” he growls, and watches Morpheus’s gaze darken, his throat bob as he swallows, “little whore. Is that how you conduct your diplomacy? Sucking off anyone you need a yes from?”

“Did I not tell you those were only stories, my knight?” says Morpheus, each word carefully spoken, but starting to waver.

Instead of answering, Hob kisses him hard.

Morpheus’s head knocks against the door and he moans. Hob bites his lower lip, then swipes his tongue into Morpheus’s mouth. He has no idea if Morpheus actually kissed that foreign dignitary or if it was all another one of his stories, but either way he chases away the taste. Kisses him deep, not letting him breathe. Makes Morpheus’s mouth his.

When he pulls back, Morpheus sucks in a huge breath. Chases his mouth, but Hob presses him back against the door with a hand around his throat, hard enough that Morpheus will be able to feel it when he swallows.

“Did you kneel for him?” Hob asks. He feels quiet now. Alight in the fire of Morpheus’s presence. His prince is so beautiful. His lips are even redder now, and he looks at Hob like Hob could do anything to him and he would like it.

And Hob can never forget that he’s hardly had anything done to him at all.

“I am a prince,” says Morpheus. “I don’t kneel.”

“You want to, though,” Hob murmurs. He frames Morpheus’s face in his hands, thumbs hooked under his jaw. Keeps him still. Tips his head back. Morpheus is breathing hard. His hands find Hob’s belt and he tucks his fingers in, holding on.

Hob kisses his sharp jaw, nips at the skin. “Have you fantasized about it, my prince? The way you fantasized about getting fucked?”

“Yes,” breathes Morpheus. “I—” he breaks off as Hob slips a hand inside his robes to cup him through his— oh. He’s not even wearing anything under those robes.

“You pretty little whore,” Hob breathes, and Morpheus whines. “Go on. Talk.”

“I—” It’s so unusual for Morpheus to struggle with his words. Hob loves it. He takes Morpheus’s hard cock in his grip and tugs him off, slow, teasing. “I never. Could. With anyone. But I thought of you. When I pleasured myself. I—” he shivers— “even before you rescued me. I would see you at court and I wanted.”

“And you always get what you want, don’t you?”

“Not this,” says Morpheus. “You hold the fulfillment of my desires in your hands, Hob.”

“Sure fucking do,” says Hob, and twists his grip around Morpheus so he shudders and moans. “Did you think about kneeling for me?”

He manages to say it casually but he’s so hard in his breeches. Morpheus meets his eyes, and while usually his looks are clever, conniving, now he looks almost innocent. Hob has the upper hand here, and the greater experience. It’s so heady. Fuck him but the thought of being Morpheus’s first still makes Hob feel possessed.

“Yes,” says Morpheus, rutting into Hob’s grip. He braces himself with a hand on Hob’s shoulder for balance and Hob lets him.

“Did you think about how it would feel, choking on my cock? Did you want to be used, darling?”

Morpheus’s pretty face is flushed. His eyes fall shut, lashes fluttering. “Yes. Yes. I wanted to know how it tasted. I do not kneel. I wanted you to make me.”

Sweet Mother Mary. “I think that’s what you deserve after that display tonight.”

Morpheus is shivering against him, still thrusting into his grip. He’s close to coming, Hob can tell. And that’s why he pulls his hand back.

Morpheus collapses against him with a violent whine. “Hob.”

Hob looks down at him, eyebrow raised. “Did you want something?”

Morpheus glares up at him. Hob just smiles sweetly. It’s so fun to rile him up. He steps backward, further in the room, and Morpheus follows as if tied to him. And isn’t that a thought.

“Do you need someone to put you in your place, Morpheus?” Hob asks. No title attached to his name.

Morpheus’s breath catches. “What is my place, then?”

Hob takes him by the shoulders and pushes. Morpheus falls to his knees, breath gushing out of his lungs. He looks up at Hob, eyes hooded, lips parted. Fucking hell. He is a vision.

Hob drags a hand through his hair, pulling his head back. Morpheus goes easily, neck craning. God, he’s desperate for it. Poor thing, closed up in his palace. “You were made for this, weren’t you? You’ve just been waiting for someone to make you kneel.”

“For you,” says Morpheus, breathless. That innocent look again on his face. Waiting for Hob’s direction. Christ, he’s never done this for anyone. More privilege to Hob. He’s done nothing to deserve it, but that’ll hardly stop him from seizing it.

Hob caresses his cheek, swipes his thumb over his bottom lip, over his tongue. “You’re so beautiful, you know?”

“It’s been said,” says Morpheus. Hob chucks him on the cheek. Cheeky little thing.

“Can’t believe no one’s done anything about it,” Hob muses, just to watch Morpheus’s eyes dilate. “The way you walk around the palace in your flimsy robes. How’d they stop themselves?”

“Fear, I expect,” says Morpheus. “Are you not afraid of the consequences of defiling your prince, ser knight?”

“It’s worth the punishment to have you,” says Hob. Is it ever. To have Morpheus on his knees, looking up at him like that? It’d be worth anything.

“Have me then, and don’t tarry,” Morpheus challenges.

Hob seizes his hair again, yanking a gasp from him. With his other hand he undoes his belt, lets it fall to the floor, sword dropping without care, then unties the front of his breeches and takes his hard cock in his hand. Morpheus swallows visibly upon seeing it, going lax in Hob’s grip.

Hob doesn’t say anything else, just gives his cock a few strokes, then nudges the tip past Morpheus’s lips. Morpheus obediently opens his mouth, and Hob draws him forward by his hair, feeding it to him. He struggles to keep steady as the heat of Morpheus’s mouth envelopes him, but he manages.

“Good boy,” he praises, as Morpheus laves at him with the flat of his tongue. Morpheus moans, and Hob pulls him off long enough for him to take a breath, then pushes in again.

This time he goes deep enough that he bumps against the back of Morpheus’s throat, and Morpheus chokes, but doesn’t pull away. He tries to relax his throat, wanting to take all of it, and then Hob himself nearly chokes. “Christ, Morpheus,” he sighs, “you feel incredible.”

Morpheus hums, a pleased, heady sound, bobbing his head on Hob’s cock, pressing the flat of his tongue to the shaft. He’s taking it so well, so hungry for it even in his inexperience. Hob should probably go easy on him. He doesn’t want to go easy on him.

“Still can't believe you've never done this before,” he says. It’s painfully arousing to think of. And Morpheus may not actually know what exactly to do with his mouth, but it’s more than made up for by the fact that he’s letting Hob use him, letting Hob teach him.

“That’s alright,” Hob continues. “You’re so gorgeous like this. I’ll show you how to use that lovely mouth.” He directs Morpheus with a hand in his hair, presses his nose to his pelvis, bids him to close his lips, bob his head, swirl his tongue—like that.

He’s perfect, even in his imperfections. Hob could have him like this forever—but he has other ideas too.

He indulges himself for some time, swimming in the heat of his own arousal, but before Morpheus’s blessed mouth can pull him over the edge, Hob carefully pulls him off. Morpheus looks up at him, a line of spit trailing from his lower lip to the tip of Hob’s cock. He looks hazy and pleased, his eyes half-lidded, hair sticking up from the drag of Hob’s fingers. Morpheus is so serious and put together for outsiders that it’s a blessing to get to see him like this. Unraveled. Losing himself in something he wants, rather than stuck only in something he must do. And for Hob to be that thing he wants is something indeed.

“Come, sweet thing,” Hob says, drawing him to his feet with a careful hand. “You’ve been so, so good. My good boy.”

Morpheus whines, following him on unsteady legs. Hob helps him shuck off his shoes and lays him down on the bed, finally steps out of his own boots and strips off his tunic and shirt so he’s only in his breeches, and follows him, bracketing Morpheus with his body. Morpheus reaches for him, tangles his hands in his hair, and Hob thinks that he must not get much softness like this, if any. Always he is the icy and untouchable prince.

Hob draws open his robes, finally gets a proper look at Morpheus’s body. He’s as beautiful as last time, as beautiful as Hob has remembered and imagined since then. Unmarred, un-used, and waiting for him.

“Do you want to be mine, darling?” Hob asks. Being with Morpheus again has made him bolder. He wants Morpheus for himself. To hold him close. To keep him safe. To be his. Whatever that looks like, when Morpheus is his prince, and Hob is his knight.

“Yes,” Morpheus breathes, shivering as Hob runs his hands up and down his thighs, over his hips. “Yes. I will make you my knight. Mine. I want you with me, I do not care if it is proper.”

He’s breathing hard, worked up, hard and straining. He’s beautiful, Hob wants to give him everything.

“Good,” he says, and kisses Morpheus’s belly. Then his hip, then the crease of his thigh, then the tip of his cock.

Morpheus whines, arching against the sheets. “I want. I want you to fuck me again.”

“In good time.”

“Please,” Morpheus gasps. “Please. I have wanted, feverishly. I tried to replicate it. With toys. But it was not the same. See what you have reduced me to? Begging?”

“You thought of me?” The thought is thrilling. He wishes he could have seen it, watched Morpheus opening himself up, dreaming of Hob’s cock filling him.

“Every night.”

Heady. Hob drags a fingertip between Morpheus’s cheeks. Teasing. “Don’t have to beg. You could have come to me any time.”

“Desperate,” Morpheus groans. “You will think less of me.”

“Never. I just want you. Always.” There’s a problem, though. “I don’t have any oil or anything with me.”

“I do,” says Morpheus. “You will find it among my things.”

Hob laughs, startled and fond. “Came prepared?”

“Came hopeful.”

Hob rolls off the bed and finds the mentioned bottle of oil after digging around in Morpheus’s trunk. His things are terribly disorganized for a prince, which Hob finds unexpectedly charming. He brings it back, finds Morpheus watching him, eyes heavy, gorgeous body sprawled like an offering on the bed.

Hob climbs on top of him, kisses him, gripping his hair. “I want to see your face this time.”

“Yes,” Morpheus breathes. His hands trail over Hob’s face, the scruffy edges of his beard. “My Hob.”

“I told you last time that if I’d known it was your first time I’d have made sure it was right, didn’t I?” Hob says, and waits until Morpheus nods. “Well, that’s what I’m going to do now.”

“Do not be gentle with me,” Morpheus orders.

Hob kisses him, just once, on the lips, and is indeed gentle about it. “It can be rough and right,” he says.

With that he pushes one of the lavish bed’s many pillows under Morpheus’s hips, bends one of his legs up so it’s hooked over Hob’s shoulder, holding him open. Morpheus watches with wide eyes, breath coming quick, his heart pattering when Hob places his hand along his throat to feel his pulse. Everything is still new to him. So many missing pieces to fill in.

Hob dips his fingers in the oil and starts rubbing them over Morpheus’s hole and the soft skin behind his balls. He circles Morpheus’s entrance with a fingertip, and then, caught by Morpheus’s rapt expression and held breath, pushes slowly in.

Morpheus lets out a rough breath, body tensing and then giving to Hob. Hob works him, in and out, and Morpheus shivers and squirms, but can only move so far when Hob is holding him down with Morpheus’s leg over his shoulder. Morpheus had wanted rough, so Hob doesn’t wait long before pushing in a second finger, which has Morpheus crying out and tensing. Hob soothes him, kissing his jaw, his throat, his sternum, murmurs, “I know you can do it. I know you can take me,” until Morpheus subsides again.

“Your hands,” he whispers. “It— oh! Is so much better than when I do it.”

“That’s the idea,” Hob says. “Going to take care of you, darling.”

Morpheus whines, nodding. “Please.”

“Don’t think of anything else,” Hob says as he works a third finger into him—God he’s tight but so wanting—“I know you’ve always got so much on your mind. Just let it all go. Think about me.”

“I am. Always,” Morpheus pants, back arching. “Always. Thinking of you.”

Every time Morpheus says he’s thinking of him goes straight to Hob’s head, but it’s easier to be assured of it when Morpheus is looking at him like that, when Hob is touching him so deeply.

“Good. Think of me. Look at me.” He withdraws his fingers, fits himself properly between Morpheus’s legs and leans down over him, catching his gaze. “Look at me.”

Morpheus meets his eyes, chest rising in quick, startled breaths. Being able to rile him up so much makes Hob feel undone, he wants Morpheus so badly, and he wants Morpheus to feel good so badly. Wants to be responsible for it. Wants to take care of him.

Hob holds his gaze as he pushes in, fits himself in Morpheus’s body. The tight heat makes him gasp. Fuck, Morpheus feels even better than last time.

“It feels much more intense this time,” Morpheus breathes, echoing his thoughts. His body tenses as he gets used to the space Hob is making inside him. Gradually he relaxes, sinking back onto the bed, wrapping his fingers around the back of Hob’s neck, tangling in his hair.

“No stories this time,” Hob says. “Only you.”

“You enjoyed the story,” Morpheus points out.

“Aye. But I like you without it, too.” The tales Morpheus tells are very compelling, he might have been born to be a storyteller as much as he was a prince, but Hob likes the clever, sweet Morpheus underneath all the tales just as much. More, even.

“I like you,” he continues, starting to move in him, slow, dragging out each thrust in a way he hadn’t when they’d fucked under the premise of Morpheus’s story, “as my prince. As the one I’ve sworn myself to. The one I’d do anything for. The clever, strong, mad creature that you are.”

Morpheus whimpers. “Hob. Please.”

Hob kisses his neck. “I like you when you beg for me, too. And when you decide what you want, and then make sure you get it.”

“Why should I beg when I know you will give me whatever I want either way?” Morpheus asks, breathless.

Hob smiles against his skin. “Because I want you to.” The words make Morpheus whine, and Hob presses down on his body, bending his leg further back. “And you want to do what I want, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Morpheus’s fingers scrabble for grip on his shoulders. “Yes, Hob, please, please.”

“Good boy.”

The sound Morpheus makes when he says that goes straight to Hob’s gut. God, he’s never wanted someone as much as he wants Morpheus, it’s like a hook in every part of his flesh, it’s like the religious fervor that Hob never got from church. He wants, and he can’t believe he’s allowed to have.

Hob could kneel at his feet. Has, in fact. But he so loves when Morpheus is desperate, and that he can let go of the careful trappings of princedom when it’s just them, just in this moment.

“You could command me to do anything you wanted, you know,” he says. “But I’d rather you beg.”

“Please,” Morpheus says immediately, and it’s the most heady thing Hob’s ever heard. “Please, Hob. Please fuck me.”

“Well, when you ask so nicely.”

He takes Morpheus's hands and presses them into the bed, holding him down, and plies his whole weight to snap his hips into him. Morpheus wails, grip flexing desperately under Hob’s hands.

“Anyone passing in the hall will hear you,” Hob says into his ear, grinning, as he does it again, finding a brutal pace and keeping it up as Morpheus squirms and cries.

“Good,” Morpheus pants, “good. Let them know— what you do to me.”

“Oh, they’ll know.” He nips along Morpheus’s throat, soothes the skin with his tongue. “They’ll see you all disheveled. My marks on you. Such a stoic, distant prince. No one could imagine that this is what you get up to, that you want to be taken, that you beg for my cock.”

“You will ruin my reputation,” Morpheus gasps, not sounding upset about it at all.

“I think it’d only make them more in awe of you,” Hob says, “though I wouldn’t mind a bit of jealousy.” No, he wouldn’t mind at all the thought of all who see them together wanting Morpheus, and not being able to have him. Knowing that only Hob is allowed to.

He pins Morpheus down harder and fucks him with all the passion and possession inherent in that thought. Morpheus's cries turn into punched out gasps of pleasure, each sound catching roughly in his throat as Hob rocks him. It's the sweetest sound Hob's ever heard, and it's all he can do not to come too quickly when what he wants is to drag it out, give Morpheus as much pleasure as he's able to.

But it's not long before Morpheus pants, "Hob, I'm-- I'm-- oh!" And he comes with a startled cry as if his pleasure was yanked out of him. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, but Hob is delighted to have made him lose control.

“Aw, darling, it was all too much, wasn’t it? You’re still new at it, it’s alright.” He sucks a mark into Morpheus’s throat, slowing momentarily, and Morpheus moans. “You’re still learning, aren’t you, my prince?”

“Hob.” Morpheus hooks his leg tight around Hob’s back, thighs trembling. “Please. Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” He lets go of Morpheus’s hands—Morpheus immediately clutches at the back of Hob’s neck, digging his fingers in his hair—and starts moving again, relishing in the heat of Morpheus’s body, how lax he is under Hob, going easily with his movement, the quiet whines he makes each time Hob presses in particularly deep. His own arousal builds within him, heat pooling in his groin and thighs, and he chases it in Morpheus’s body, chases it—

He comes with a groan, clutching Morpheus to him, losing himself temporarily in the feeling of it. If only, he thinks, they were like this all the time, the two of them, if only he was always holding Morpheus close in bed, bringing pleasure to him. It can’t be like that, not really, not with Morpheus being a prince—but he can imagine it.

Morpheus whimpers when he pulls out, but Hob kisses him to ease the discomfort of it. And just for the pleasure of doing it. Morpheus in the afterglow kisses lax and soft, so sweet against Hob’s body. No clever storyteller left, this time.

When they separate, Morpheus looks dazed, red mouth parted, fingers twined gently in Hob’s hair. He gazes at Hob for a long moment, and Hob thinks he might be about to say something—but whatever it might have been, he decides against it, instead just petting Hob’s temple.

Hob kisses him once more for good measure, then removes himself to fetch a spare cloth from Morpheus’s things and clean off his belly, after which Morpheus pulls him back to bed with demanding fingers. Hob stays frozen, stunned, as Morpheus pushes himself in against his body, curling in close.

“I’m feeling unsafe in this foreign castle,” he says, not sounding particularly afraid as far as Hob can tell. “Perhaps you will have to guard me from closer quarters tonight.”

Hob laughs incredulously, but obligingly pulls him close. “Of course, love. This country is very hostile, I’m sure. They might even come back to get you to bribe them with more sexual favors.”

Morpheus squeaks indignantly, digging a finger into Hob’s side. But he quickly subsides, pressing his lips indulgently into Hob’s skin.

Hob holds him like that for a time, pressing him close and helping him come back into his body, stroking a firm hand up and down his back. It feels like more of a privilege to hold Morpheus like this than it even was to fuck him. A privilege for Morpheus to want him to stay.

When the room has gone dark, the fireplace burned low in need of tending, he finally asks, “What did you really do, with that king? You made it look like you sucked him off.”

Morpheus chuckles. It’s an endearingly wicked sound. “I threatened him. Made it quite clear what I would do to him if he defied me. Or perhaps…” he pulls himself from his repose, leaning far enough away to look at Hob, eyes dark, dragging a finger along Hob’s lower lip, “what I would have done to him. What my loyal knight might do to him, as soon as I gave him leave.”

“Oh, yeah?” There is something… thrilling, about being Morpheus’s weapon, an extension of the darkest shades of his will.

“Would you do that for me, my Hob?” Morpheus asks, eyes heavy-lidded. “Ply your sword in my name?”

“Already do.” Hob kisses his cheek, mouths over the skin, drags a hand up and down over his bare hip.

“Did you really think I used my mouth on him?” Morpheus asks. “Did you think I would not save it for you?”

Hob swallows hard, but says, “I can never know for sure what you’re thinking.”

“Did it make you jealous, then?” says Morpheus. “Did it… burn in you, to think I would let myself be used by another when I should be yours?”

Oh, it did. Hob leans over him, presses him down to the mattress, murmurs against his lips, “I wanted to cut his throat.”

Morpheus’s breath catches. “I would not have stopped you.”

“Even if it started a war?”

“I want to see you spill blood for me.” He takes one of Hob’s hands, sucks two of Hob’s fingers into his mouth. Then, still with his lips touching Hob’s skin, says, “Next time you bloody yourself at war, come back to my chambers first. I want to see it.”

Hob’s whole body goes still in anticipation at the thought, imagining bringing himself to Morpheus’s fine bedchambers while still dripping blood and grime, sword hanging loose in his grip, exhaustion tugging him down. Morpheus, his lord, his prince, welcoming him in with dark eyes and wanting hands, bloodying his fine fingers as he undoes the buckles on Hob’s armor, undresses him, before indulging him in a much needed bath— or perhaps he would not even want to wait, would drag Hob to his mouth and let Hob coat him in all that he had wrought in his name—

“Perhaps you should come to mine,” he says, voice rough with want. “Perhaps your favorite knight might be in want of some particular comfort, hm?”

Morpheus will do it, too, if Hob dares him. He has before, just for his own satisfaction.

Indeed, Morpheus’s lips curl up in a smirk. “Be careful what you wish for, Hob.”

He slides on top of Hob, settling in his lap, but instead of starting something up again he just lays back down with his head tucked into Hob’s shoulder, now with all of his weight resting on Hob’s body. Hob curls his arms around him.

“Hob?” Morpheus murmurs, at length.

“Yeah, darling?”

“When you go to war… do be careful.”

Careful isn’t really Hob’s fighting style. But something in him stills at Morpheus’s tremulous words. The care in them, and the fear.

“Be careful where you send me,” he says in return. Morpheus may not be king of their realm, but his decisions do have weight. And Hob is sworn to his word.

Morpheus is silent for a long moment, truly thinking about it. He traces his fingertips up the length of Hob’s sword arm, over his shoulder, landing on the side of his neck, beside where his own face rests.

“I will use you well, if you will come back to me,” he finally says.

Hob tangles his fingers in his hair, pets his scalp. He can’t really make that promise, not if he’s to also fill his role as Morpheus’s sword and shield. And Morpheus has never been on a battlefield, doesn’t understand the chaos of it, how even with all his skill and determination, Hob can’t make things turn out right.

But if there’s any true incentive to try, it’s Morpheus resting in his arms.

“I will, love,” he promises. “I’ll come back to you.”

[just-french-me-up]

dreamling 16 or 23 for the kiss prompts? 👀

23. "A kiss in relief" | Have some Prince!Dream / Knight!Hob as a treat because this concept tickles my brain divinely!

The battle was won.

Already the camp was filling up, some soldiers shedding their dirtied armours while others were being rushed to the healing tents. The chaos of battle clung to them still, brewing amongst them and would soon, no doubt, burst into the clamour of celebration. Regardless, all heads bowed as the prince exited the command post, guards following close behind.

Morpheus would celebrate with his men, as all good leaders must, in due time. He would be expected to give a speech, rousing words for those gathered under his command, and solemn ones for those who had fallen, but he could not focus on either now. He had to know first. He had to make sure.

A prince does not announce himself upon entry. It was with tight apprehension that he stepped into the Lord Commander's tent, his guards following suit. He braced himself for blood, gushing wounds and grunts of pain, but was met with a much more pleasant (and relieving) sight.

"My prince."

Hob would bow lower, Morpheus knew, but his movements were hindered by his squire, who was busy removing the various parts of his armour. A quick glance was enough to know the blood staining his shirt and skin was not his. Good. Morpheus suppressed a smile.

"Lord Commander."

Like the rest of his men, Hob looked spent, covered with the grime of the battlefield, his hair sticking to his forehead, but victorious nonetheless. He, too, ought to be with his men soon, share the glory together as brothers in arms. But not yet.

"We have much to discuss after today's victory," Morpheus said, before glancing back at his guards. "Leave us."

The soldiers stepped out without a word, although Morpheus knew they wouldn't stray far. Hob gave a quick nod to his squire to dismiss him, and as the boy left, they stood alone. Hob had not drawn another breath that Morpheus pulled him close, tasting the battle on his lips, blood, salt and dirt, and something else, something distinctly, comfortingly Hob's. Hob sighed into his mouth, hot breath tickling his cheek, bringing him closer still. By the time he let go, Morpheus had gone almost dizzy, holding on to a still armoured shoulder.

"Careful, I may get a taste for winning you battles," Hob smiled against his lips, "if this is the thanks I get."

"Are you hurt?"

"Bruised, at most. It will probably look worse than it feels."

Morpheus furrowed his brow, suspicious. Hob was hardly reliable when it came to pain. He would suffer agony and wave it off as nothing more than a scratch. Morpheus would have to wait for the whole armour to come off to see the extent of the damage.

"You know," he said as he started undoing the laces of Hob's vambrace. "Lord Commanders usually stay at the commanding post to oversee the battle."

"Well, I guess your Lord Commanders are usually pretty shit, then."

Morpheus shot him a disapproving look, the piece of metal falling on the floor with a dull "clank".

"I do not want you hurt."

"You should have made me Lord Jester then," Hob chuckled. "Master of the Drapes and Napkins. No chance for bruises there."

He cupped Morpheus' cheek, his thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. He did like to jest, that one. Unfortunately his true talents lay in the sword, which inevitably placed him at the end of another. Perhaps that would be another reason to seek peace during his reign, Morpheus told himself. A selfish reason, but a motivating one nonetheless.

"I always come back to you, don't I?"

"Only because I order you to."

"And I wouldn't dream of disobeying my prince."

"Good."

Send me a kissing prompt?

[martybaker]

Dreamling week Day 7 - AU

A Knight’s Tale screencap redraws because i cannot stop thinking about this au, it fits them too well

Hob pretending to be a knight, Dream aksing him to lose to prove his feelings, then asking him to win 🙃

Also, I tried drawing Matthew as a human but it didn’t feel right, so for the purposes of this au let’s say he’s a shapeshifter?? 😅

idk we’re sprinkling in a little magic i guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also please do zoom in or check out the close ups under read more, the horizontal format makes them so small on the app 🥹

Versions without bg

[embroiderling]

Square/Prompt: Knight!Hob Rating: General Audiences Ship: dreamling

Original artwork by @teejaystumbles The braid is bigger than I intended, but I like my knight Rapunzel.

[designtheendless]

Assassins Creed au requested by @aralezinspace ! ⚔️

[hardly-an-escape]

Fluffbruary Days 9, 10 & 11

gonna try to do a little daily drabble just to get the creative juices going while I work on longer WIPs. no guarantees that it'll be every day.

Dream/Hob • rated T • urgency | kneel | rural & flush | angel | owl & reflection | water | apology

Hob’s vigil is but halfway gone when he hears footsteps behind him.

The chapel is dark. The only light comes from the pair of candlesticks flanking his armor and sword where they are laid upon the altar. Hob is clad only in a thin cotton shift, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as the footsteps slowly make their way down the aisle to where he kneels on a thin cushion directly before the altar.

“Rise, sir knight,” says a deep and familiar voice.

“Not a knight yet,” Hob responds quietly. “Your Highness.”

“Do you doubt your ability to master this challenge?”

“No, my liege,” Hob says. He remains on his knees. “Lest you be a manifestation of temptation, sent to sway me from my path.”

“Not I.” Dream finally steps into his line of sight, and Hob’s breath catches in his throat. His prince is a vision, dressed in a diaphanous robe, long hair in a simple braid over his shoulder. “I merely wished to look upon the face of the man I love once more, ere it is wreathed in responsibilities.”

Hob flushes. He is not supposed to touch another soul between the ritual bath and when the priests come at dawn to fetch him for the ceremony, but he longs for Dream with every fiber of his being.

“I think you have come to tempt me, you sprite,” he accuses, and Dream smiles softly.

“Peace, my own,” he says. “Return to your prayers. Know that mine are with you also. I will see you in the morning.”

He glides from the chapel, but turns when Hob calls his name.

“Dream. My prince. I want you to know…” He has to pause and swallow hard against the lump in his throat. “When I swear my oath it will be to king and country, yes. But my first and best oath – the one I swear in my heart – will be to you. Always.”

He is shocked to see tears glinting in his lord’s crystal blue eyes. Dream nods, once, and slips out the side door.

In the morning, the priests come. Hob is clothed in a robe of pure white and thinks of Dream. He receives the sacrament, the first food to pass his lips in twenty four hours, and thinks of Dream.

The king presides over the ceremony. There is a pained look and a murmured apology from his advisor when he forgets Hob’s name.

Hob barely notices. He thinks of Dream.

Dream’s hands drape the red robe over his shoulders. Dream’s hands drop the embroidered black tabard over his head. Red, for his willingness to be wounded. Black, for his readiness to die for his lord.

The king rests his sword on the back of Hob’s neck, but it is Dream’s voice that rings out over the assembled crowd.

“Rise, Sir Gadling, knight of the realm.”

prompt list!

[samsalami66]

And I'm back again with an addition to my Knight!Hob Prince!Dream au (I've decided to go with royal au for shortness' sake lmao) which you can find the first part of here.

Once again all the love and thanks to my wonderful @im-not-corrupted , who provided me with motivation and screams as I wrote this little drabble and is the #1 fan of this au.

-----

Dream hated audiences. 

Audiences meant spending an awful amount of time in his parents' presence, and even if nobody paid much attention to the third royal child in a line of seven, it was still painful to spend even a minute longer than necessary in the King's and Queen's presence. Dream could feel his father's disapproving gaze drift towards him every time his eyes would droop a bit too low, whenever his elbow would slip from where he had it propped on the armrest of his throne to hold his head upright, which felt heavier with every word the current Lord or Duke let spill from his lips. 

Lord Burgess, the man currently grazing the family with his abnormally boring presence, looked about ready to explode as the King once again denied his request for an addition to his land, which would allow him to hunt in the forest neighboring his crops. But the forests were strictly royal territory, and Dream could have told Lord Burgess in much fewer sentences than his father that they would never give up on ancestral lands, not in this lifetime or any other. 

But just as Dream's eyes were about to close to allow him another few moments of respite from this whole ordeal, sounds echoed through the halls outside the throne room. Voices got louder in volume and increasingly more frustrated the closer they got. It was a blessing, an escape from these confines of literal hell, and Dream perked up curiously to figure out what the tumult was about. 

Between the shouts and hisses he could make out a hysterical You can't just waltz in there! and a very joyful Watch me, mate! and Dream decided that this was bound to become a much more interesting audience than he had anticipated. And, true to the small exclamation Dream overheard, a man did just waltz into the room, a smile on his face that would cause even the strongest hearts to faint in charm. Dream didn't quite know how he managed not to, when bright brown eyes caught his over the entirety of the room in an instant, familiar mischief hidden somewhere behind the obvious amusement. 

Christ, those eyes had brought ruin upon Dream once already, years ago, when they had both been young and stupid. Though, by the looks of it, Hob Gadling had not cast that particular trait aside, if his entrance was anything to go by. Guards were hot on his heels, panic written all over their faces as they didn't manage to keep this man from interrupting a private audience with the royal family, which would surely end in them being excused from their service. 

But Hob Gadling seemed to care little for their steps behind him or the guards eventual fate, his stride purposeful, a clear destination in his step. Dream realised much too late what that destination was, too distracted by the way Hob's shirt clung to muscles that had not been there when they had last met, hair that was longer and curlier than he remembered and that framed a bearded jaw so beautifully Dream almost swooned. There was no time for that though, not when those eyes finally left his and were cast towards the ground, not ten meters away from Dream. 

Hob Gadling was kneeling, his head tilted in a bow that was entirely unnecessary for the position he was already in, in front of Dream. 

Not in front of the family, or the King himself, but before Dream's throne, an unmistakable message to everyone present, a showcasing of ultimate loyalty.

To his left Dream could hear Lord Burgess hiss in annoyance at the interruption, the words You dare to interrupt my audience, commoner? falling from his lips like venom-infused blood. Dream did not care for boneless threats. 

He merely cared for the smile stretched over rosy lips before him, the cheeks that stretched with unconcealed amusement. Two guards reached Hob Gadling's side, prepared to force the uninvited guest out the room, and it took all of Dream's years of carefully trained composure to not jump from his throne in a sudden surge of panic. 

"Leave him be!" he demanded, voice overshadowing any and all conversation as he slowly rose from his throne. Hob's grin turned victorious at the exclamation, his posture more relaxed where he knelt on the black carpet to Dream's feet. "I want to know what he has to say." 

There were eyes on him, Dream knew, those of his parents, those of Lord Burgess, those of his guards. He knew his eldest sister was hiding a smile somewhere to his left, fully aware of his and Hob Gadling's relationship, and the only person in this world aware of Dream's feelings towards this infuriating, obviously insane man. 

All the attention Dream had held with his command shifted towards Hob Gadling when he opened his mouth to speak, determination colouring his voice with self-confidence that vibrated through Dream's body like the pleasant rumble of a cat's purr. 

"I come to pledge myself to you, my Lord," Hob started, almost causing Dream to choke on thin air. "In body and in mind, I swear to protect you with my blade and life. Make me your knight, Dream of the Endless, so that I might serve under your name until I take my last breath, until my body betrays my desire to keep you from harm." 

There was no sound filtering through the pounding of Dream's heart in his throat. This – This, Hob's declaration, his offering of complete and utter submission – it was insane, completely crazy, simply not done, not in royal families, not in any politics around the world. One pledged themselves to the King and thereby the country, not to a prince who would never be king, an outcast from his own folk, from his own family. 

This wasn't done, had never been done before, and yet Dream found he didn't care. He didn't care for one single moment about propriety, not when all he had ever wanted kneeled before his feet and offered him Heaven. 

"I do not know who you believe yourself to be, but I will not allow-" The King started off, but Dream cut his reply short, his voice purposefully overpowering that of his father. 

"I accept your request." 

The answer wasn't grand or eloquent, entirely false in its deliverance, unofficial without the ritualistic knighting. But Dream was in a trance, his hand not his own as he stepped down the stairs to stand before Hob, one hand reaching to the hilt of the sword that was hidden beneath his robes. 

When Dream pulled the sword from its sheath and held it to Hob's head, all those eyes reflected back at him was trust, even when faced with total submission, with surrendering himself entirely to Dream, his office and his personal whims. All of this, when Dream had left him behind at the mere notion of friendship, knowing he could not be friends with a commoner. He could be friends with his personal guardian, with a Knight who stood entirely under his protection, and the fact that Hob had been willing to go to such lengths to find a way to be in Dream's presence… 

Well, if Dream felt tears build in his eyes as he allowed his sword to rest on Hob's shoulders, once on each, then that was between him and his Knight. And when his voice trembled slightly as he spoke next, then that was just between them too. 

"Rise, Sir Robert Gadling." 

Dream huffed a silent laugh into the hug he was pulled in next, the excitement bubbling in his chest enough to chase away every ill thought of his parents' opinion as he burrowed his face in Hob's neck. 

The sense of safety he felt in the arms of his oldest friend was almost too much to bear. 

[akumastrife]

Knightmare Of Your Dreams // Dreamling

Rating: Explicit (Just All Smut) Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Word Count: 3k I have no excuse for this. I wanted to write weird and kinky Dreamling with a side of shapeshifting, the thinnest King and His Knight vibes, weird anatomy, some claws and shadow tentacles, and self-indulgence. Written for the "Eldritch" square on last year's Monsterfucktober Bingo that I never finished in time.

{Also on AO3} Shout out to "Violently (slowed) by Mira" that I listened to roughly 200 times while writing this bc its soooo Dreamling to me. also to Zomsaurus for the funniest line in any of my writing ever

It was never supposed to be like this. Death was for everyone else, never Hob. She’d promised.

But the Endless did not abide by such rules; drifted uncaring outside them. If Death could make such a thing, it could be assumed that one of the others could unmake it.

And now that the imminent danger is gone, now that Hob’s safe and remade under Dream’s protection, he can at least admit Hob looks wonderful on his knees.

Dream’s always thought so, and now he gives himself over to leisure to look his fill. He’s well and truly his now, shouldn’t he be allowed?

The visage Hob’s chosen for himself is fitting; muscle encapsulated in shining armor, a sword at his side and the helmet with haloed spikes set reverently beside him. The insignia, mirrored on cloak and shield, is Dream’s favorite part.

A burst of stars across a sea of black, glittering as it moves just as Dream’s coat does. It is the same, after all; a claim that makes primal satisfaction simmer low under his skin.

Dream’s remade him, and Hob has chosen to be his, still. Always.

Everything the Corinthian was supposed to be. Every iteration a pale imitation of the man Dream has followed through time.

 “You do not have to kneel,” Dream says. Near purrs. Can tell the low timber is pleasing by the way exposed skin shivers in answer. But Hob himself does not move. Not even an inch to have his armor creaking.

“Perhaps,” Hob says, looking up quickly and the corners of his mouth flicking up similarly. “But you like it. And I owe you, don’t I?”

Hob owes him nothing. The centuries of give and take sprawl behind them, and Dream is almost certain the scales are still tilted in Hob’s favor.

And yet.

That is not what Hob is asking.

Now that he’s part of the dreaming, now that he’s part of Dream—intertwined irrevocably—there is little Dream cannot know about him. His feelings, his mind, his desires.

It is a game Hob’s wanting.

Dream hums, leaning back in his high-backed throne, crossing one leg over the other. Considers Hob, all his pieces, the laughing light in his soft eyes. Gestures wide and airy with one hand. “And what would you offer? To me, an Endless, who has need of nothing.”

Hob does shift then. “My lord,” said with all the impudence of a knight who ought to be taught to heel like a dog. His eyes drop, hungry and dark, down Dream’s front—

Dream finds himself wearing a velvet robe in the darkest shades of plum and night-sky blue, open to expose the moonlight of his torso. Plays fingers along the sweeping sleeve hems with half an eye on Hob, considering him and the outfit he’s put Dream in with sheer want alone.

“I see,” he murmurs. Watches Hob swallow. Extends his lifted foot, now encased in a soft stocking that runs the length of his leg under the edges of the robe, and slides it slow between Hob’s legs. Presses up, idly, like he is a curiosity and nothing more.

Hob shudders, eyes fluttering closed as he swallows again, jaw clenching against the sigh Dream can almost taste.

“You would like to serve me, then? You, who are now a Nightmare under my hand, and think yourself clever as a knight. All the centuries you’ve lived, and still, you crave a king to kneel before.”

When Hob doesn’t answer, Dream arches up his foot again, a smooth slide that pushes speech out of Hob.

“No,” Hob gasps.

“This says otherwise.”

“No. Not a king.” Hob grits his teeth, every part of his body (tight, honed and singing like a weapon begging to be asked to strike) shivering in an effort to stay still. “Just you.”

Warmth blooms and oozes under Dream’s skin. He lets the satisfaction radiate out as something tangible until Hob’s blinking up at him, expression bare in its awe.

“You are an impossibility,” Dream praises, softly. “I should’ve offered to keep you long ago.”

“I would’ve happily,” Hob says. “Let me now?”

“Be kept? Oh, Robert Gadling,” Dream says, leaning towards him. Takes Hob’s cheek in his hand, cradling gently before shifting to catch his chin in an unrelenting grip. “I am never letting you go, even if you beg.”

Hot hands land on his knees as Hob surges closer and leans up on knees still to catch his mouth in a kiss.

Dream lets himself be kissed. Let’s Hob direct it as hot and slick as he likes, lets himself be lulled under the rhythm like a boat bobbing gently on calm waters. It is at odds with the desire boiling under Hob’s hands, thrashing and teaming to get out. Barely contained in this body Dream has fashioned lovingly for him.

“What do you have for me?” Hob asks against Dream’s mouth, hoarse already with the want like it’s choking him. His hands slide reverently down Dream’s chest, toying with his nipples before following the edges of the robe to his lap. Kisses him gently as he finds Dream’s hips and holds on, thumbs rubbing back and forth.

“What would you like?”

Hob’s hands squeeze, breath catching audible in something too close to a whimper. Freezes, startled by the overwhelming realization and the world that’s been opened to him. Offered to him on a platter.

Dream slips into his mind easily, eyebrows raising at the dozens of images that flip through him. Hob’s brain working overtime with all his wonderings and filthy dreams.

Hob certainly isn’t lacking in imagination. It seems like he’s traded any shame he might’ve had for more of it.

If Hob is spoiled for choice, then he shouldn’t have to choose.

Dream selects a few of them, plucking them out of the mire with newly sharp claws, as precise as a spider traversing its own web. He feeds that thought to Hob while he has him, and smiles at the shudder it gets him.

“Are you that easy?” he asks. He runs his black-tipped claws through Hob’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp.

“For anything, as long as it’s you,” Hob assures him, nipping at his lip.

“I might scare you.”

“You can’t,” Hob says.

Something dark and dangerous flares low in Dream, and he grips the back of Hob’s neck, dragging him back into a kiss. He has to taste him, has to steal his breath until he doesn’t breathe at all without Dream doing it for him.

Hob fumbles to strip his thin gloves off and find the opening of the robe with bare hands. “Please,” Hob groans. “I will be so good for you.”

His hands slip greedy to skin, wrapping around Dream’s cock. Strokes him slow to learn the new shape of him, to thumb all the fluted edges like a tall flower closed.

Hob bows his head to take him into his mouth immediately, groaning softly as his tongue dips into the slit.

Dream sighs, letting his hands wander of their own accord. The armor is mostly in his way, but he is not bound by mortal conventions and can slip beneath them. “You have only ever been perfect.”

Hob’s tongue is heavenly and cruel at once; a rolling softness that deftly coaxes at every place that sparks pleasure like Hob is singularly attuned to it.

The plush give of his mouth is enough that Dream distantly wonders if he had reshaped it to only accept him.

He wants to devour Hob whole, if only he might also feel this all-consuming pleasure.

Hob groans softly like he agrees.

“Easy,” Dream praises again, deftly flicking at every buckle and clasp of Hob’s armor with his claws. It all falls away under his whim, clattering indecent to the floor and echoing through the hall. Leaves Hob in just a soft tunic and breeches, and available to his hands and the shadows that ripple around them in pleasure. They shift and pulse in time with his own heartbeat. Grow larger and darker, building up on their own and teaming hungrily around Hob.

The hunger is its own entity, awakening from disuse in his body and ravenous for it.

Shadows pull together, wriggling into tendrils that wrap and caress Hob like a lover.

Dream can feel him shiver and shake, can feel his breathing stutter and deepen. Feels everything his shadows do, awareness split to watch Hob’s head move sinuous and also in the tendrils slipping under fabric and along tacky skin.

Exhales heavy and inexorable as he tips his head back and watches through the shadows that explore the length of Hob’s body, licking in every crease and curl against the tight heat of him.

“Hard for me?” Dream breathes. “Just from being on your knees, just from having your mouth full? Easy.”

“Merely rigor mortis, my lord,” Hob teases, tracing his tongue down.

Dream tightens his fingers in Hob’s hair, pulling warningly. “I gave you life, and I can take it away.”

“Don’t threaten me, I’m into that.”

Dream laughs despite himself, startled, and just as quickly it twists into a moan at the savage spear of tongue against his slit, the way Hob takes him so deep into his mouth he can feel the squeeze of his greedy throat.

“Do you wish to consume me?”

Hob whines, nails digging into his sides, swallowing again.

“Do you wish to take me inside all of you? Or shall I open myself up so your tongue may taste me at my core?”

Images fly fast and desperate behind Hob’s bruised eyelids, saliva pooling and dripping, knees twinging against stone as shadows finger lovingly along the inside of his thighs. Debauchery, and a spine-tingling notion of Dream splitting his cock open so Hob can lap his tongue down the center of it, giving pleasure from inside-out.

“Steady, love,” Dream eases. His claws betray him, digging into the back of straining shoulder blades. Trace slow paths that almost draw blood. “We have eternity yet.”

Dark tendrils tease up to Hob’s hole, laving attention and worming inside.

“Fucking terror,” Hob gasps, pulling back and jamming his face in the crease of Dream’s thigh.

“Just that? They are so small, just curious,” Dream muses, curling fingers through his hair, soothing. “You have taken more. This should be nothing.” Tightens and pulls, yanking Hob’s head back and savoring the electric groan.

“It’s well and truly different, and you know that.” Hob’s already panting. Shifts on his knees, hips hitching into empty air and then back on the mime of fingers. “More?”

Dream lets him have as much as he can take, humming a soft ballad from the thirteenth century as he feeds more to Hob, stretching inside him; another to wrap and squeeze his balls, preventing him from rocking himself to any sort of satisfying end. Savors the choked moan.

He would play with him like this for a century, like a cat does a mouse, toyed with on just the edge of some finality but never letting him have the satisfaction.

“Please,” Hob begs. “Please, anything you like, I will do anything, just—just more. I want to feel you. I need to feel you.”

He’s very lucky that it’s exactly what Dream himself wants. Lucky to be so handsome, to have caught Dream’s affection like the golden-limned muse he is. Lucky that Dream will happily bend time and reality for him.

Will happily help him up from the floor to kneel over Dream’s lap instead, and hold his hands firm for stability as Hob sinks down onto his length with a groan so obscene Dream’s sure it would put a whorehouse to shame.

“Look at you,” Dream purrs, watching every inch of Hob’s face tipped back in rapture. “You take me beautifully, my love.”

Hob laughs, something breathy and aborted, tight around all his edges as he squeezes Dream’s hands in a dozen things unsaid. Squeezes his eyes shut; squeezes around Dream himself, sweat dotting his skin as he takes a blessed moment to get used to the new shape of him remade for Dream’s pleasure.

Or maybe it the other way around, maybe it is Dream who’s been reshaped for Hob, to be used and enjoyed.

Dream continues to watch him, enjoying every detail and shift, as Hob takes his time. Runs sharp claws only somewhat careful up and down Hob’s heaving ribs, keeping his own hips still as Hob begins to rock small circles onto him. Keeps him deep inside, but chasing the little shocks of friction.

“Everything you wanted?”

“More,” Hob says. His thighs flex in an effort to lift and sink back down, building to some rhythm only he knows. It is heaven and hell both to feel him—better than, when he’s experienced both. Would rebuke both for this here, and does with his teeth to Hob’s throat, tasting the pounding of his heart as Hob works himself a little faster.

“And you?” Hob manages to ask.

Dream does not bother with words, just in the tightness of his hands and claws as he drags Hob closer into him, both of them gasping as talons pierce skin.

The dark tendrils are as hungry as ever, sliding around Hob’s skin and covering every inch Dream cannot. Teaming against them both like a desperate creature, jealous for attention. Needy still, despite having tasted Hob already. Maybe wants more for having done so already.

They are part of Dream, after all, and Dream does not think he will ever tire of tasting Hob. Tastes him again in an open kiss, slow and indulgent in contrast to the fast and brutal way Hob fucks himself on him. Tastes every breath and keen that escapes Hob. Tastes Hob’s skin and nipples and cock through the wriggling passes of darkness.

Hob is tight and hot and slick, and Dream buries his face into Hob’s neck, breathing deep and fast, grazing with very sharp teeth. Each press gets closer to breaking skin, and each one makes Hob shake harder.

“Will you give it to me?” Dream rumbles. Teeth and claws dig in so slowly, pressing wrenching gasps from Hob. Shadows build and creep around Hob’s cock, gripping him tight, squeezing in time with his own frantic rocking.

Hob sobs, body tense and face utterly slack in ecstasy. “I’d give you anything.” 

“Just you then,” Dream says. Drags nails down to sink into the writhing dark mass to take Hob’s cock in hand. “Everything. You are everything.”

The smallest, weakest whine escapes Hob. As does a tear, tracking slow down his cheek.

Dream stretches to lick it up, saliva turning sticky as arousal swells. He grips Hob tight all over, free hand gripping his hip to yank him down into a frantic rhythm. Feels his pulse follow suit in the desperation—hears Hob’s do the same—thoughts swirling with the desire to fold Hob over something and well and truly claim him. The desire to hold Hob down and use him as much as Hob himself wants.

Wants most, ridiculously, to make Hob happy. And that is to stay right here and let desire fan the flames of his power until he is growing in size and energy, and still letting Hob curl over top of him as he shouts in painful sharp release.

Dream groans with him, drawing it out of him like spinning yarn, a gentle and thready tug-and-give, taking every shake, every pulse, all the suffusing warmth Hob has in him. Wishes to draw every ounce of damp completion out of him until he is as empty and cold as the armor he likes to wear. The armor still scattered on the floor of the throne’s dais. The sight of it over Hob’s shoulder (scratched, bitten, bleeding) is nearly as loose and erotic as the man still fucking himself on him is.

“Won’t you join me?” Hob gasps. His voice grates and fails him, near hoarse. Keens as he forces himself to tighten around Dream’s cock, trying to milk pleasure out of him. Hob is so tired. Dream can feel it. His exhaustion. His pleasure. His satisfaction. His greediness as his muscles spasm and twitch with continued stimulation. “You’ve made me feel so good, love. Won’t you let me do the same? Please.”

It wobbles. The word or Hob’s voice, or maybe Hob’s grasp on rationality.

Dream only hums. Loosens his grip on hip and cock both, softening to hold and stroke featherlight. “You are tired.”

Hob shakes his head. Resumes languid rolling of his hips.

“You might hurt yourself, continuing like this.”

“You will fix me,” Hob argues. Stubborn in life and death both.

“You are charming.”

Hob manages a breathy laugh. His expression tightens, eyes squeezed shut in focus. “If you don’t come inside me right now—”

Dream bites his lip, cutting it off neatly. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t. Just…” Rolls words around in his mouth, leaning back against the throne, watching Hob refuse to still.

The dark tendrils, pesky things, help him. Wrap around his waist and curl at his back, stabilizing him, keeping him from tumbling either direction.

“Not yet,” Dream decides.

Hob chokes on a whine, posture shooting ramrod straight as the layers of ridges on Dream’s cock expand outward. Just enough to keep him locked in place.

“You wanted something new to play with,” Dream reminds him, running claws through sweat-soaked hair. “Who am I to cut your fun short?”

[si-siwrites]

Redo of an old piece with new line work and colors!!! Also has alt images for reference under the cut!

Y'all the amount of time I spent working out the colors on this was ridiculous. Mostly took colors from the godseeker palates, because while I definitely don't have a perfect idea of how I would incorporate him and Hua Cheng into a Hollow Knight au, I know that it will definitely have something to do with them. Also, you know, the golden mask.