#retired!dream au

[mollymagician]

Longing for a fic where Hob reads The Little Prince to Dream. For whatever reason, I don’t know.

something something Hob thinks of it as a story about the joy of living and experiencing new things. Maybe he’s also thinking a little of the fox. If you tame me, then we shall need each other. You become responsible forever for what you have tamed.

But he realizes halfway through that he fucked up. He forgot the ending. He’ll have to read the ending, there’s no getting around it.

something something Dream listening to the Little Prince planning with the serpent to end his human body’s life so he can leave and go home.

and of course there comes the inevitable day when Dream is standing to take his leave like he’s done so many times before, but it feels different. Hob can tell. And Dream says, “Nothing is wrong…I must go. I have procrastinated long enough.”

But Hob can hear, in the back of his mind— Do not come…you understand…it is too far…I cannot carry this with me…it shall look as if I was suffering…do not come to see that…it is not worth the trouble…

The next morning, though. He wakes to a knock on the door, and finds Dream. Standing there, looking looking down at himself in amazement. Telling him, “This body, it really isn’t as heavy as all that, is it?”

The things he left behind to be free were so much heavier.

[pa-nd-em-on-iu-mp-an-da]

My main HC for Morpheus is he lives and just retires from the stress of being Dream.

He gets convinced to just live for himself and choose his own destiny without the expectation of his existence weighing him down.

Hob helps him, both of them moving into a cottage where they learn to coexist and Morpheus learns how to be human without the added stress of a city life.

He reads books, new ones having to be thoroughly digested rather than just instantly available in his head like a goddamn robot.

Maybe he helps Hob plant seeds and realises that it's somewhat close to breathing life into new creations and helping them grow into their desired functions, immediately addicted to the feeling of mud under his nails and stains on his clothes because he's creating a life without needing a purpose for it.

They go down to the beach, and yeah it's not like the Shores of The Dreaming but he still has his spade and bucket and by fucking Christ is he going to make the best sand castle ever, Hob, stop laughing!!

He builds and builds until he's tired and worn out and sweating pints, but there's a version of the castle - his home, even if it's not his anymore, even if it didn't feel like home, not really - standing proudly in the sand. And he stares at it, realising that the dreaded feeling in the pit of his stomach is still there, but it's not as suffocating as it used to be. He's not weighed down by the unconscious minds of everyone, he gets to create for the simple pleasure of creating.

He gets to go back to the cottage, curls his feet under him and drinks hot chocolate as Hob cooks in the kitchen. Music's playing in the background as the fire roars in the hearth.

He feels safe.

He feels content.

He feels loved.

He's happy.

(And maybe a certain Angel and Demon buy a cottage close by, causing an all-out garden war between the Resident Goths on whose plants are better?? Which then creates the Annual Garden Competition. Both Hob and Azi are chilling and having cake whilst the Resident Goths are fighting over the last seedlings).

I just want the dweebs to all be happy.

Is it so much to ask for??

[loomingcastle]

I keep seeing peepaw Nightmare and sometimes Dream too so like..

Let’s just make the retirement home multiverse guys (does that already exist??)

Meemaw Dream is a reference to Muriel from courage the cowardly dog. That shit was my favorite show to watch as a kid, I especially loved the King Ramses’ Curse episode, yet I see some of ya’ll get scared from that as a kid 😭 (not judging <3333)

[issylra]

Square: A1 - Retired Dream Rating: Explicit (for future chapters) Chapter(s): 1/6 Word Count: ~1,300 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Slice of Life, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Cuddling and Snuggling

"You are staring," Dream says, after Hob has spent a few too many seconds mentally tracing all the lines swirling across his palms. Hob has to remind himself that there's no reason to be embarrassed, not now that Dream knows. Not now that they're something.  "Yeah. Just." He falters for a moment, old habits dying hard and all that, until Dream raises an eyebrow at him. "You've got pretty hands, is all."

Or five times Hob is distracted by Dream's hands, and one time Dream is distracted by Hob's.

fill for @dreamlingbingo.

[AO3]

[spotaus]

The Maskmaker (New Age AU Drabble)

Hiiiii. So, this isn't very long and doesn't do Nightmare or N enough justice, but I wrote this a while ago and my lovely pals looked at me w/ big ol' eyes on my post about posting it, sooooo!!! Here it is!!

This is shortly after Night's coronation and follows Ancha's drabble regarding Ccino + his remaining by Night's side!

   These halls. They were cold. Colder than the rest of the castle.

   Nightmare only knew, thanks to the gentle puff of steam left by his shallow breaths as he stepped down the corridor. The dark, long, corridor.

   He couldn't feel it. No. His sense of warmth and cold had faded almost instantly after eating the apple. The nervous chill in his core had been replaced with a luke-warm air. Like a puddle left after a summer rain. The chill couldn't reach him.

   Still, he wore his cloak. One which Ccino had tailored not a week ago because he feared Nightmare would feel bare without it. His old one used to keep him warm. Ccino was right, of course. Purposeless or not, the new heavy fabric kept him centered. Covered the restless twitching of his tendrils as he spoke with the few he could bring himself to communicate with since the incident.

  

   Now, it's bottom hem was suspended away from the old floors, just barely, by his extra limbs.

   His steps were silent, he wasn't sure when that had begun, but he imagined in this darkness no one would know he was there at all until the Cyan of his eyelight was turned upon them.

   He approached the door. Finally reaching the ornate, carved surface he'd visited only once before. When he and Dream were young. Nim had ordered them to come alone and let the mask-maker measure them. So they'd know when time came for them to commission their own masks. They didn't have to come down, the mask-maker already knew their measurements. They always did.

   His knuckles hovered away from the door. With its carving of that tree, swirling and dancing in the low light his eyelight provided. This space held more lingering emotions than he'd expected. His hand trembled a bit.

   No. He couldn't chicken out. He couldn't go crying, this was important to him. It was his right. It was... the least he could do.

   His fist connected with the door, twice, steadily. The loud sound echoed into the space behind him, and he stood. Prepared to face heckling and anger abd fear, for he wasn't sure the mask maker even knew of his rise to the throne. He hadn't been there, after all. At the ceremony.

   The door swung inward, and... Nightmare found hinself staring down at a monster.

   This monster... was not the one whom he remembered.

   Before, when he was young, he recalled a large, imposing monster. Heavy clay hands that held the pristine masks so carefully. Kind eyes which skimmed sorrowful past him, and handed him that lovingly carved owl mask. The one made simply out of dark wood.

   Now, the monster stood before him, leaning in the doorframe, was not that monster. This one was slightly shorter than him, stocky in the shoulders, and bundled in layers of cloaks and gloves. Their face hid behind the mask of some sort of rabbit, bright, burning lights behind the eye-holes were a soft lavender and blue. Only a lashing tail gave away their species. A skeleton varient.

   "Mask-maker." He greeted, composure renewed.

   The monster blinked, before they widened the door a bit more. A wave of amusement and excitement washed over Nightmare, and he thought he might be sick from just how potent it was.

   "Ah, my King!" They exclaimed, and Nightmare could almost hear the smile in their tone. "I wasn't expecting you so soon after your whole coronation, come in!"

   They darted away from the door, allowing Nightmare to see past them. The room beyond was as he remembered. The large sets of work-benches, suspended candles, piles upon piles of wood. Masks lined every inch of the walls, though now he could see newer ones piling up along shelves and along the stations.

   The monster seemed to round to a large chair, much too oversized for them, and plop down into it. Nightmare drifted inside, closing the door behind him carefully.

   "You royals only come down to see me for masks, that is my job though," They mused. "Or, well, that's what my mentor always said."

   Nightmare drew closer to the opposite side of the table which now separated them. He could see the messy, amalgamated surface of a partially-completed work laying between them. The wood mangled and frayed not unlike torn flesh.

   "I must ask," He knew he had other business and little time, but, "Who are you, mask maker? My mother never mentioned a change in position."

   It would be just his luck that a fraud would be hidden here in the depths. Though, the emotions were simply so delighted. They swirled about, as though every flick of their tail sent another ripple through the air.

   A giggle erupted from behind their mask.

   "Oh, I think I like you already, my king!" They said happily, "Mask-makers have never been asked such a thing by the royals! We have always been known to retire and pass on the mantel without care from you folks."

   They divulged the information so easily, but Nightmare didn't recieve the answer he had asked for. It took a few more breaths before they spoke again.

   "My name is N, my King. Call me as you see fit, I change as easily as replacing my mask." They finally admitted. "King Nim visited me once, two years ago, only to inform me her prince may quickly approach after his coronation. Though, I'm sure you're not the one she meant?"

   Nightmare withheld the hiss which desperately wanted to bubble up in his throat. His tendrils whipped about in frustration. Guilt. Of course they were expecting Dream. He'd figured as much.

   "No matter. I am here to serve my king, and that king is you, my good sir." They dipped their head a bit, "So, what is it you'd like me to carve? A noble wolf? A regal ibis? Something fitting a consort or-"

   "None of that." Nightmare cut them off, his good socket narrowing in disgust. The thought made his stomach churn.

   He thought he'd have to wait for her to speak up again, but found they had quieted and were seemingly awaiting information.

   "My... head of house. Recently promoted as of my ascension." He said, slower. He wouldn't get worked up again, "He deserves only the best, and I know you understand this well."

   N seemed to smile beneath the mask again, their eyelights hidden in thin crescent slits.

   "Describe away, my king!" They exclaimed, reaching out for a scrap of paper.

   Nightmare remembered how he'd been taught. To describe the mask with intention. Feelings and thoughts tucked away into each and every word. Those were supposed to be insightful for the mask-maker. To guide their hand as they carved.

   "This mask. I would like it to be the Visage of a cat. Well-kept, clean, orderly." He spoke, gently, drawing his eye away from the table and to the plain floor were nothing would influence his thought. "A kind face, soft. Trustworthy and bold. Clever. Warm."

   Nightmare wasn't sure what came over him. Descriptions and feelings tumbled from his jaws for what felt like ages. By the time he finished, his throat was raw with emotion. His hands clutched the inside of his cloak like a life-line.

   It was the tapping of N's charcoal stick to her desk which alerted Nightmare. Made his eyelight snap back up to her position.

   Though, she'd already put her sketch down and was up and across the room. Tugging at her piles and piles of enchanted and imported woods. For being a stationary monster, they had strength to move the wood with ease.

   "You've given me the perfect working material, my King! This mask should be done in four-days time." They assured him, not turning around.

   Their emotions read as elation now. A pure, unadulterated joy at the... the way Nightmare had described his mask? He could only imagine his magic intent had something to do with it. Ccino would, hopefully, understand.

   Oh!

   "The mask. You are aware who it is for?" He questioned.

   N hummed, before popping away from the stack of wood with a nice chunk of white-ish wood. It reminded Nightmare of cooked fish flesh, a pristine off-white with an intricate pattern.

  

   "I can only imagine it's that guy? Ccino? Good for him with the promotion, by the way. I'm sure he had his fair share of struggles to get there." N replied.

   Nightmare gave a minute nod. He hated that he had a heavy suspicion as to why N already knew Ccino by name. Nefarious plans set by his mother yet again. Bastard woman.

   He debated staying longer. Watching N strip the bark away or making smalltalk.

   In the end, it was better to leave. His hands were still shaking and his gut felt like it'd spill if he felt one more overwhelming emotion from the craftsman he was standing with. So, he bid them a farewell, promised to return in four days time, and exited from that heavy wooden door.

   The trip would be worth it so long as N delivered. And she would.

[ennas-aesthetic]

Retired!Dream as a Librarian AU

Both @ineffablyendless and I spent a night brainstorming on what we think Retired!Dream would be doing (you know, if he walked away like Destruction did and decided to live life not tied down to impossible responsibilities), and we immediately agreed that he would LOVE being a librarian. So here's a collection of our Retired!Dream as a librarian headcanons:

Surprisingly, joining the library wasn't Hob's idea.

The first few months after he left his duties and responsibilities as ‘Dream of the Endless,’ Morpheus had gone into a bit of an existential crisis. He has basically lost his entire function, which was the anchorage of his whole being and identity. If he is NOT the manifestation of the collective unconscious and the Prince of Stories, then who the hell is he?

(He has no idea where Destruction has gone, too, so it’s not like he can tap him and ask casually how to start living his life as a human. Dream is drawing on a blank, and is completely lost on who he should be and what it is that he wants to do.)

Hob is there for him during those months. He is gentle and kind and patient; he tells Dream that he can do whatever the fuck he wants, and encourages him to try various things. Crafting, painting, writing. Dream has a natural affinity to the arts (of course) but none of them seem to stick (and the Bohemian starved-artist persona was more Destruction’s thing, anyway. Dream may be a ‘human’ now, but the pettiness went nowhere, it seems.)

Hob tells him that he will NEVER mind Dream going out of the flat when Hob’s off to teach at the University. Encourages it, even. He tells Dream that he does not need to be cooped up in the house, that he can go wherever he wants. Dream often stays in, anyway, (because he has got nowhere to be), until he could not take the constant ennui and boredom any longer and books out of the flat.

He goes around the locale for a bit, explores the town he and Hob live in. Inexplicably, he is drawn to the local library.

Stepping into the library reawakens a small part of him that has been dormant ever since he left the Dreaming. Stories had always been his domain, and it is there that a tiny part of his soul (if he has any) is moved – as if the place has put him under its spell. He browses the shelves, reads through books and novels that he has read a thousand times. Often, though, he is content sitting at the little visitor’s nook, looking at readers of all ages exchanging and accepting stories and tales, and feeling a forgotten part of his heart twinge with bittersweet calmness and serenity.

Haunting the library became a daily ritual. And as it is with humans and rituals, the staff become more and more used to him the more he frequents the place. Slowly they integrate him into their tight-knit band of librarians. Dream finds himself in deep discussion with various people over folktales and legends and stories, and they are entranced by how much he knows, endeared by his seriousness and aloofness. It is in conversation with the head librarian that he finds out they are always accepting volunteers. Would Dream like to be one?

When Hob finds out he is overjoyed. It was a no-brainer, really.

And that’s how Dream became part of the staff of the local library.

Sometimes Dream wonders how he had gotten here. Oh, if only his subjects could see him now. If only Lucienne could see him now. He was the owner of the Dreaming’s vast, endless library, sure, but as Monarch he had left the more menial tasks to Lucienne. Which, he realizes, was quite the “dick move” (as Hob puts it), on his part. He gets taught how to shelve books using the Dewey Decimal system, how to administer fines for books that are way past their return date, find the exact shelf for Fortunately, The Milk that a child had wanted for forever, how to wrangle silence with a vehement ‘sssssh!’ and a death glare. The last part he could do with ease, but the others not so much. He resolves to be more appreciative of Lucienne’s work over the millennia, if he ever sees her again.

But the work itself is pleasant, an anchor. He never had a sense that being a librarian is a chore. In fact, the task seems to keep him fixed, hinged on an axis of purpose and drive. After months of senseless brooding he is happy he has this at least, to define the fuzzy boundaries of his identity. He is still crafting who he wants ‘Morpheus’ to be, but it gets easier, a day at a time.

And the people, to his bemusement, love him. He is surprised at the ease of which he gets accepted into the brood, and realizes that people are so much kinder than he could ever have thought. There is Lissa, who is going through her bachelor's degree in Sociology, but who heads the Weekly Library Scavenger Hunt and frequently asks Dream’s help to cut up various visual aids and decorations for their bulletin boards. There is Annalee, who sometimes brings him coffee when they exchange shifts. They help him with the shelving and sorting at the end of the day, and they enthusiastically drag him in to help organize the monthly Slam Poetry competitions. Rupert, an elderly man who comes to stay at the library all day, and who does not forget to ask Morpheus how he is doing. Charlotte, the matronly Head Librarian who notices Dream not eating or taking breaks at the right time (his relationship with food has been complicated and rocky since his imprisonment at Burgess’), and clucks at him like a mother hen for skipping meals.

It’s… it’s a community. Dream has found himself a community: people who CARE about him, who allow him to be part of their little found family, who do not cower away from him or act as if they’re walking on eggshells around him. For once he has found himself an actual, healthy support system. Hob says something about Dream resonates with them: how aloof and awkward he is, how utterly serious and straight-faced he is about the job. They give their kindness so freely that sometimes Dream thinks that there is a catch (because there always was.) But sometimes kindness is brash and natural and emergent - it shows up wherever, whenever, just because.

(He is loved by the community, too. They are obsessed with him, this awkward, no-nonsense, goth librarian in doc martens and earrings and black nail polish. Whose partner, a genuine University professor, comes over occasionally to give historical talks and seminars. This skinny, goth, queer librarian who can and frequently glares people to death for the slightest perceived misdemeanor but blooms like a fresh flower for every nervous child who has questions about books. He’s done so well that they upgrade him from volunteer to full-time librarian, of which Morpheus accepts graciously.)

Another thing the community is obsessed with: Morpheus’ Children Reading Programs.

He was not in charge of Story Time Tuesdays. Peter was, except Peter wanted to move back to Brighton to be closer with his family. Morpheus takes the mantle when he volunteered to adlib a story on the behest of one of his fave kids. Of course, unbeknownst to literally everyone else, Morpheus is in his element. He does not just read: he performs. He takes the voices very seriously, and he is an excellent storyteller, weaving a tale of dragons and knights and pegasi so enrapturing the entire floor goes dead quiet hanging on to his every word. When he is finished they erupt into incredulous, awestruck applause.

Story Time Tuesdays become a hit. The kids are apt listeners and a great audience, and adults come over once in a while to sit in, too. Sometimes he does not even need a book. He's like a fucking bard. An old-timey rhapsode who could string one story into another with ease. EASE. He could recite them as though he himself was there for each and every one. (And he was. HE WAS.) The children love him completely.

He is so good at storytelling that the library club affectionately nicknamed him the Library's "Prince of Stories." This sends Hob to hysterical tears.

One time the kids suggested he tell the story of Mr. Sandman. This is the one time he is taken aback, the one time he sputters as he insists Mr. Sandman doesn’t have his OWN story, because he was the storyteller. He does not have a story of his own.

The kids call BULLSHIT on this, because somehow Dream trained them all into believing EVERYONE has their own story. Hob, bastard that he is, who has made a habit of getting off the university early to listen in on Dream’s Story Time Tuesdays, yells "YOU'RE RIGHT!" So Morpheus is delegated into the sidelines as he watches the kids make up a story of their own for once, about a dream magician named Mr. Sandman with a dragon best friend who goes on a quest to leave his island.

Mr. Sandman becomes a recurring character in all of Dream's adlib stories now, at the kids' insistence. He’s the magical godmother and the helpful NPC that helps the heroes on their quests. The other librarians who are secretly compiling all of Dream's adlib stories are naming it "Sandman Stories". The kids dress up as "Sandman" on Halloween and Dream is beginning to realize the children perceive Sandman to look a lot like himself.

He also DID NOT have a complete breakdown in the bedroom he and Hob share, about how the children are adamant that Morpheus has a story of his own, despite believing for entire eons that he has none. It's still hard to reconcile his issues on self-worth, remember that he deserves kindness and compassion. But Hob is there to help him get through it, and the kids continue insisting that the Sandman is a real character with a story of his own that MATTERS. That he has a life worth living, a tale worth telling.

And slowly but surely, he starts believing that, too.

We have SO MANY MORE librarian!Dream headcanons that we haven’t touched on yet! If you have questions + want some more these hit us up! 

[inennui]

~Sick~ Dreamling Week 2023 hosted by @mr-sadman

[avelera]

Struck between the eyes today by the Random Sandman Twitter account that posted this image from the comics and what it means for Retired Dream AU:

So if we go with the headcanon (/ fact??) that all the Major Arcana represent some deeply buried fear or desire of Dream, specifically (because the Dreaming is him but at least in theory his greatest creations should be even more reflective of him than the average?) then we could in theory take Gilbert's words as reflecting Dream's desires as well.

We could read all of Dream's interactions with the Major Arcana as, on some level, being interactions with himself, Dream talking to himself in the mirror, or at least the strongest external parts of himself, the largest fragments so to speak. So Gilbert/Fiddler's Green is called the heart of the Dreaming here.

And Dream's heart then is tired. His heart is curious. Specifically, his heart is curious to experience the little victories and tiny defeats of human life. And, his heart longs to spare Rose, which we know Dream wants to do as well, another point in favor of the possibility that Gilbert's words are literally Dream's heart speaking right now.

And, because I am Dreamling shipper trash and it all circles back to that, I can't help but think of who we have seen in the Waking who is most familiar, perhaps of anyone in the world, with the little victories and defeats of human life and who would love to share those with Dream (spoilers, it's Hob).

(Dream, the votes from 2 out of 3 of your MAJOR ARCANA are in, they want to be human enough for your own heart (Gilbert) to FLEE you and for arguably the personification of your darker desires (Corinthian) to IMPRISON you and risk being unmade to live as a human, and the third one wants so badly to stop being a nightmare so she can make dreamers happy that she also risked being unmade. Dream, my man, I think your subconscious is trying to tell you something. Why are you only the Dreaming when it means you're supposed to be miserable but not when the entire Dreaming is telling you that you want to be human so badly you'd risk death to do it??)

[valeriianz]

Retired!Dream with facial hair, inspired by @watercubebee's art here!

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

Dream stared at the reflection of himself in the foggy mirror, his fingers pressing into the warm skin that was now his very human face. The pads of his fingers were soft along the strange texture of his jaw, prickly dark hairs that had begun to grow.

Dream knew what this was– facial hair, Hob had it. Dream had enjoyed the burn it left along his skin when they kissed, had curiously observed Hob when he would trim or shave it, usually with a device that buzzed so it was never too short. The human experience of maintaining and grooming had been fascinating, back then. Dream loved to observe and learn and judge, of course, why humans did the things that they did. 

Hob was always so patient with Dream, explaining why he chose to maintain his scruff, and how “... I don’t see you complaining about it,” said with a smirk and a wink. Of course Dream was a naturally curious entity, he gathered pleasure from Hob’s experiences and stories. Dream of the Endless knew everything, was well aware of the knowledge of men through their dreams alone, their fantasies and nightmares. He had been very content to observe from afar– human beings and what brought them happiness or hardship always seemed so trivial and banal. Something about Hob Gadling, his persistence, his eternal optimism, was different. It made Dream stick around when otherwise he’d grown impatient.

Hob was a fighter, an enigma, something to study under a microscope. And after hundreds and hundreds of years, Dream began to admire and wonder at the mystery that was Hob Gadling. Began to relate to his experiences, growing something substantial in the meantime, something grounding.

Hence why Dream had made the decision to become like Hob Gadling; human. 

There had been trials and tribulations (forced to make small talk with strangers, using the bathroom, brushing one’s teeth, the dreaded ordeal of going to the grocery store and searching for food). But Dream hadn’t anticipated the hair.

He did not care what he looked like, in the waking world. The discovery that his body produced testosterone and therefore, hair, was startling. Dream was a being of absolute control. He couldn’t control this.

But it was… interesting.

The stubble, as Hob liked to call it, on Dream’s face had gotten quite long in the past few days. Dream dug his fingernails (another nuisance, trimming fingernails. A waste of time) into the black bristles and scratched, tilting his chin to look down his throat, grumbling softly at the realization that the hair descended downwards as well.

A knock on the door gave Dream pause, gaze stuck on the mirror as Hob spoke, his voice muffled behind the door.

“Dream? You alright in there?”

With his eyes still roving over his face, Dream spoke up.

“Come in.”

Hob opened the door and Dream watched, out of his peripheral, as he approached.

“Looking at something nice?” Hob teased, pressing his front against Dream’s naked back and winding his arms over his waist, the towel there shifting but otherwise remaining tight around Dream’s hips.

“This is unsightly.”

Hob notched his chin over Dream’s shoulder to see what Dream saw in the reflection. He chuckled as his eyes followed the movement of Dream’s fingers on his jaw, down to his chin.

“You’re just not used to it, is all.” Hob pressed a kiss to the end of Dream’s bony shoulder. “And I happen to think it looks very fetching on you.”

Dream huffed, unconsciously leaning back in Hob’s hold, discreetly delighting in the feeling of Hob’s broad chest, covered in a thin cotton shirt, warm against his damp skin. 

“You think everything looks ‘fetching’ on me,” Dream stated matter-of-factly, causing Hob to chuckle softly, his lips traveling across Dream’s shoulder and up the side of his neck, playfully nibbling along the way.

“And I am always right.” His fingers pinched Dream’s hip bones before descending lower, forcing Dream to bite back a jolt of surprise at the tickling sensation. Especially as Hob’s hands, stark in color against Dream’s milk-white flesh, began to caress the line of hairs that had begun to grow under his belly button as well.

Dream’s breath, another anomaly that he was fascinated by, hitched audibly as Hob’s fingers dipped just a fraction below the towel wrapped around him.

“I also quite enjoy this.” Hob murmured against his skin, watching Dream in the mirror’s reflection. “I love seeing your human qualities come out. How your body responds to it.” 

Dream drops his hand to wrap around Hob’s wrist, meeting his chocolate brown eyes in the mirror as Hob takes a step to crowd Dream further against the counter, his hips slotting along Dream’s ass as he gets his clever fingers deeper, wrapping them around Dream and causing his jaw to drop in a silent cry.

Hob’s eyes flutter shut as he nuzzles his way up to Dream’s ear, bumping his nose against the coarse hairs at his jaw, biting it gently.

“Let me show you how much I love it.”

In response, Dream turns his head and captures Hob’s mouth in a burning kiss.

—----------------------------------

A few days go by and in that time, the scruff on Dream’s face only becomes longer, individual hairs popping up as far up as his cheek bones, and Dream scowls as they even begin to curl.

“I want it off.”

Hob looks sideways at Dream in the doorway to the bathroom. “What?”

Dream stands, that attractive frown only making Hob– who’d been trimming his own beard before the interruption– slowly begin to smile.

Dream points to his face. 

Hob raises his brows as he gives Dream a once over. 

“Your scruff?” Hob clicks his tongue as Dream huffs impatiently, affirmatively. “But it really does become you.”

“I do not care for it. Remove it.”

Hob chuckles lightly, turning back to the mirror to finish up his grooming.

“Always polite,” he quips lowly, tilting his chin as he works. “Give me a mo’ and in the meantime, take a shower.”

After Dream is clean and his skin is warm to the touch, Hob has him seated in a stool he pulled from the kitchen, keeping a warm towel around his face while Hob gathers his equipment.

Dream watches silently, his eyes tracking Hob’s movement before finally meeting his gaze as Hob drapes another small towel over Dream’s shoulder.

He removes the towel from Dream’s face and stares at him, causing Dream to raise a brow.

“What?”

Hob sighs, bringing both of his hands, cool from a fresh wash, around Dream’s face, thumbs stroking his cheeks.

“Just saying goodbye.”

Dream is unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes, another human trait that he’d been having a hard time tamping down.

“Perhaps once I am ‘used to it,’ as you say, I may consider growing it out again.”

Hob’s eyes seem to sparkle with excitement.

“Yeah?” At Dream’s nod, Hob gives his cheeks a brief squish, making the skin bunch up around Dream’s mouth and his frown deepen.

Hob laughs softly, the crinkles around his eyes deepening, striking Dream down and reminding him why he loved Hob so much. The laugh lines on his face, centuries of smiles and laughter etched onto his skin forever. A trait that made Dream himself smile more, enamored by the history there, in not just Hob’s laugh lines, but the wrinkles of his brow too. Years of hurt and frustration carved deep enough to leave memories that Dream could trace with his fingers, his lips. The stories Hob’s skin alone could tell made Dream want to trace constellations upon it.

Hob leaned forward and kissed the tip of Dream’s nose, breaking him out of his stupor. “I look forward to it.”

Dream had to admit, as Hob prepared him for his shave, that he quite enjoyed being pampered. 

Hob had lathered a thick cream upon Dream’s cheeks, mouth, and neck with a horse hair brush, his eyes gone serious, gaze studious as he worked and Dream once again, could do nothing but watch, sitting still as Hob took up a blade and began carefully stroking it down the side of Dream’s face.

“A straight razor,” Hob spoke eventually, his voice quiet, hot breath puffing against Dream’s ear. “Is my favorite for a close shave.” He swipes the blade on the towel resting on Dream’s shoulder, cleaning it before going back in with short, sharp strokes.

“Never goes out of style…” Hob murmurs, his free hand pulling slightly on Dream’s skin to keep it taut. “Also doubles as a weapon, eh?”

He gives Dream a cheeky grin.

“Have you slit many throats using a straight razor, Hob Gading?” Dream makes sure to speak once the blade is safely away from his skin.

Hob hums, going back to Dream’s jaw, going with the grain of Dream’s hair.

“Sweeney Todd style?” Hob pulls back to give Dream a look. “Can’t say I have. Though, in other instances…” he trails off, not finishing his sentence, leaving Dream to guess the answer.

They are silent for a long while after that, the only sounds filling the air being the grazing of the blade against coarse hairs and Dream’s own breathing. It tickles Dream’s ears, the gentle vibrations of the blade, and he continues to study Hob to distract himself from the sensation.

There is an intimacy here that isn’t lost on Dream. The trust he places in Hob’s very capable hands. Hands that have seen violence, committed crimes most egregious. Hands that were calloused over from physical labor and then softened by wielding a pen. Dream was fascinated, watching how Hob’s fingers held the blade, sure and confident, bringing it down swiftly, a tame version of a sword. 

All while performing something so… domestic. These hands had also healed and loved, touched Dream with such reverence, held him with gentle astonishment, as Hob admitted freely how lucky he was to have Dream in his life. Making love to him slow and deep, but also hard and brutal, fingers interlocked with Dream’s and holding him in place, keeping that connection. 

And in this moment, with Hob’s hands touching him fastidiously, attention focused solely on him, Dream felt relaxed and safe, enjoying the experience more than he’d ever admit.

It was over far too soon, Hob taking up the towel to wipe off any remaining shave cream and instructing Dream to rinse his face with cold water.

Once dry, Hob massaged an after shave balm into Dream’s skin, catching his eyes and smiling almost shyly.

“You were very distracting, you know.” Hob says, pulling Dream to standing. “Watching me the whole blessed time.”

Dream’s head tilted a fraction as he brought a hand up to feel his smooth skin.

“I like watching you work.”

Hob huffed, his smile widening as he playfully tugged Dream’s hair.

“Go on, take a look,” he gestured behind Dream to the mirror.

Dream obliged, sweeping his gaze over the smooth skin he had been used to wearing his entire existence and hummed in approval.

“Next time,” Hob said, tossing the towel in the hamper. “I’ll properly show you how to shave, so you can do it yourself whenever you’d like.”

Dream hummed, contemplating.

“Or you could always do it.”

“Oh?” Hob chuckled, turning Dream around and getting his arms around his hips. “Figures a king would overindulge in my humble services.”

“And you indulge me so well,” Dream crooned in a low voice, feeling his lips curl in an unconscious smirk that always caught Hob off guard. It was his favorite thing to do, if Dream was being honest, causing Hob to hesitate and laugh.

“I think I’m just whipped.”

Dream nodded with a considerate hum, leaning forward to brush his lips against Hob’s.

“Good.”

[valiantstarlights]

[Dreamling Week Day 2: Dragons] A New Beginning

This is a The Hobbit AU where Dream is Smaug and Hob is Bilbo. I hope you like it! 🖤

CW: angst (grief, depression, suicide ideation) with a happy ending

Dream basks in the morning sunlight, pipe to his lips, looking just like any other hobbit smoking an Old Toby. Unlike other hobbits, however, his pipe-weed remains unlit. He's really just breathing from his dragon lungs and exhaling smoke from his mouth or nostrils.

On the other side of the garden, Hob is patiently teaching Daniel how to water the plants so they receive just the right amount that they need. His low voice and occasional chuckles, as well as Daniel's frustrated little hmph!s and wondrous little ooh!s serve as a balm to Dream's scarred soul.

He has never expected this to be his life.

Only a year ago, he had been a bitter old dragon, done mourning his wife and son for a hundred years but unable to move on. He didn't know what else to do in his life except wait to die in the place where their murderers lived, surrounded by their riches that mean absolutely nothing to him.

The last thing he expected to come into his life was a thief that brought sunshine with him. And the last thing he expected the thief to do was to sit with him and talk about the world outside the mountain.

And the way that Hob, the little hobbit thief, talked about the joys of food, the journey from the Shire to Erebor, the smell of the changing seasons...

Dream had gotten so used to the awful feeling inside him that he never realized he had been starving. Not just for food, but also for stories. For companionship. For someone to look upon his true form and not feel an ounce of fear.

When Hob the hobbit ("Stupid nickname, yes, I know," Hob had said, eyes crinkling in amusement), with his sunny smile and carefree manner, opened his small satchel and offered Dream some nuts and dried fruit from his trail mix because he was worried that Dream was hungry, it was when Dream realized that the creature in front of him was the rarest and most precious gem of all.

Hob barely had to convince Dream to leave, because Dream himself wanted to leave with him. ("Relocate," Hob insisted.) Hob was, perhaps, the only one who could have done such a task without inciting violence of any kind.

Hob walked out of the mountain accompanied by a dragon in the guise of an elf. And while Dream could have transformed himself into a dwarf, a human, or a hobbit, transforming into an elf felt like he was giving a proper farewell to his wife and son, who were elves.

The entire company was angered by the presence of an elf in their home, and some of them even drew their weapons when Hob explained that, "No, he is the dragon, and he's willing to leave."

Dream could have easily reduced the dwarves to ashes, but Hob had placed himself firmly between the dwarves and Dream, with his back turned to Dream. Ready to defend him and drawing his own blade.

Dream could not help but be more enamored of him. Being a dragon means not needing to be protected by anyone. But that this small being would be brave enough to face more than ten dwarves if it comes to it just to protect Dream...

Dream is not stupid enough to let such a treasure go. He made sure Thorin Oakenshield knows the debt he owes to Hob. Made sure Hob was paid fairly for his services right then and there. He reminds them that he is still a dragon, even if he is currently wearing an elven face.

Thankfully, and despite Thorin's early stage gold sickness, the rest of the company is sensible and honorable enough to pay Hob for his service.

Hob went home with Dream, and a wagonful of treasure. They did not leave until Dream himself was satisfied that the payment is indeed just. And one knows never to cheat a dragon.

The return journey was pleasant. Surprisingly so. With Hob for company, it was like Dream was still a young dragonling with fresh eyes to see the world.

Let the dwarves reclaim 'their' mountain that had once been Dream's in the dawn of the world. Let them squabble amongst themselves and politick and Thorin grow mad with gold sickness--it doesn't matter much to Dream anymore.

He has taken the one truly precious thing from the mountain. And no, not the Arkenstone.

The hobbit thief.

"Dada!"

Dream looks to the side where Daniel is holding up a clump of weeds with tiny flower buds. He graciously accepts the bouquet and lets Daniel climb up to his lap and babble while pointing at the clouds.

"I think he's had enough of gardening," Hob says and sits beside him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Hello, love."

Love.

A thing he has not felt since Calliope and Orpheus. An endearment he has not been called for more than a hundred years. An emotion he had felt growing stronger in his chest ever since Hob came into his life.

Dream, the dragon, living with his new family in the Shire, where there is also neighborhood drama and petty thievery. (No one steals from Hob anymore. Not since Dream reclaimed every single thing that had been stolen from Hob's house while he had been away on his adventure to Erebor, including a wooden button that had belonged to Hob's grandmother.)

Those aside, the Shire is a peaceful, slow-paced kind of place where every day feels like a vacation. There are feasts, and birthday parties, and sometimes Gandalf visits and spoils the hobbit children with a firework show.

(Dream thinks the fireworks are pretty quaint, but follow Hob's instruction to stay quiet about his opinion on the matter.)

But most of all, The Shire is a place where Hob loves to live, where he thrives, and where their family can live and grow in peace, away from all the wars waged by other races against each other.

And so Dream considers this place his home too.

"Hello, Hob," Dream says. He wraps an arm around him, the one holding the still unlit pipe, the one not holding their son and the bouquet of weeds, and gives him a proper kiss on the lips. This morning, Hob tastes of honey on pancakes, and ginger lemon tea. Dream knows he himself taste of fire, but Hob insists that all he tastes is freedom and adventure. Hob is smiling when they part, and is looking at Dream like he still cannot believe he's real. It's flattering. Dream loves his husband so much. "Shall we prepare second breakfast?"

--

Hob does not know it yet, but being mated to Dream would ensure that he (and their children) would live long lives. Dream doesn't think that Hob would hate him for his sudden near-immortality since, between the two of them, Hob is the more enthusiastic one about being alive. Dream is just happy to re-experience life as Hob sees it. They go on to have many adventures in the future, accompanied by their half a dozen children.

[mollymagician]

Dreamling Week Day 6: Sick

A companion to this and also this.

It was day two of watching Dream’s fledgling immune system engaging in gritty trench warfare with what he hoped was the flu, and Hob was maybe…losing it a little. Just a bit.

Though it was obvious which one of them was more miserable, startling awake every few minutes for hours to the sound of Morpheus’ wracking coughs left Hob strung-out and woozy. But that wasn’t anything he hadn’t dealt with before.

It was just that, for all he’d known that this was inevitable, it was still a shock to his system to watch. Every time. With anyone he loved. Fresh blood from the 600 year old scab that had formed over the memory of his family dying of the plague. And the knowledge that Dream couldn’t die didn’t help nearly as much as he’d hoped it would.

Now he lay awake, too keyed up to doze back off. Dream was a long burning line beside him in the dark. Quiet and finally able to rest for nearly a blessed hour, thank God.

Quiet for a certain value of the word, anyway.

He twitched in his sleep, shivering, hands grasping fitfully at the blankets. Murmured incoherently on and off. But the coughing was settled for now and that was half the battle. Hob laid a hand against his sternum as his raspy breathing quickened, pressing gently. “Shhh, dove.” The bare skin was hot under his hand. Hot, hot, hot. After watching him sweat through his second shirt in as many hours, Hob had given up on hassling him to change into fresh ones and let it go.

It was probably the flu, Hob told himself. Again. The COVID test he’d pulled from his stash in the bathroom had come back negative, but what did that even mean anymore? He’d put in calls and informed all pertinent parties that he’d be isolating, anyway, with a sick partner who had all the symptoms. (Who still seemed so NEW, whose body still sometimes seemed to forget the rules it was playing under.)

They’d started him on an immunization schedule as soon as he was able. “Look. Even if it can’t kill us, whatever it is we get,” Hob had told him, “we still might pass it on, yeah? Better for everyone if we make sure that we can’t. And…there are things…” He felt his face twisting into some wry, sad thing. “Even if they can’t kill you, there are some experiences I’d spare you, if I can.”

Hob expected an argument, but Dream just regarded him for a long moment, nodded solemnly, and that was that. Hob found him a physician who was well known for his experience with neurodivergent patients, assuming that would be their best bet, and they cooked up a story about Dream finally removing himself from a “complicated family situation” that had resulted in an adult who had never once been to a doctor and needed to begin a vaccine regimen ASAP.

Apparently as soon as possible hadn’t been quite soon enough.

Beside them on the nightstand, an alarm began to chime softly from his phone and Hob reached over to silence it. He scrubbed a hand over his face

“After everything you’ve been through,” Hob whispered, “what does that brain of yours see when it goes haywire like this, eh?” He pressed a hand to Dream’s burning forehead. “Or is weirdness so normal that your sick dreams are all about toasters and shopping for socks?”

“My sister,” Dream rasped, “can make even socks as weird as anything you can imagine.”

Hob leaned over to peer down at him and caught the glint of pale blue eyes just barely cracked open in the dimness.

“When you’re right, you’re right,” Hob said softly. He brushed lank hair from Dreams face carefully. “I am so sorry to wake you, love, but it’s time for more meds.”

Dream stared at him for a few moments before his eyes drifted closed. “Yes,” he murmured.

Hob had begun to shuffle himself out of bed when a hot, clammy hand suddenly wrapped itself around his wrist. He glanced down to find Dream looking back at him, glassy and intense. “You were gone,” he said, his normally velvet-dark voice sounding as though he’d gone a few rounds with a cheese grater and lost.

Hob lifted the hand that gripped him and kissed the backs of Dreams fingers. “I’ve been here all night, I promise.”

“No. You asked what I saw…I…” Dream swallowed. “I kept seeing that day. The White Horse ruined, and I walk but there’s nothing to find, because you’re gone. And always I end up…back where I started…”

“Fuck, Dream.” Hob climbed back across the bed and gathered Dream against him. “But you see now that didn’t happen, right? Look.” He lifted Dreams hand, held cupped in his own like nesting bowls, and kissed his fingers. “I’m here, and that didn’t happen. I just need to go for a moment. To the kitchen. I’ll be right back, you just…stay right where you are.”

Ridiculous, considering Dream would probably be out again in seconds but Dream nodded, and let Hob go.

——————————

By the dim glow of the oven range light, Hob found the bottle of paracetamol he’d left on the counter and set about filling a mug with water and wetting a tea towel.

From the open window behind him he heard a familiar flutter, and Matthew landed on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Hey,” he said, “so how’s our guy?”

Hob ran a hand through his already disastrous hair. “Could be worse?”

“Yeah that’s about what I figured.”

Hob obligingly let him hitch a ride on his shoulder down the hallway, and he disembarked onto the top of the dresser, uncharacteristically quiet.

“Dream, love, wake up.” Hob laid a hand against Dreams cheek, jostling him gently. “I’m sorry, duck, I need you to drink for me. Come on.” Dream woke with a sharp breath, eyes tracking quickly around the room before meeting Hob’s. The tension drained visibly from him.

“Hob…” he said. When nothing else seemed to be forthcoming, Hob leaned in and helped him shuffle up against the pillows. He took two pills and drank half a mug of water before turning away with a scrunched, pained expression. “No more.”

“Okay.” Hob set the mug aside, knowing if he pushed his luck then everything that just went down would come back up. He gently went about wiping away a nights worth of clammy sweat from Dream’s face and neck with the towel.

“Thank you,” Dream murmured, followed by a tumble of words in a language Hob didn’t recognize (and he thought he’d heard them all.) Then, “I’m sorry…I…”

There was a soft thump as Matthew landed on the bed beside them. “Dude, what the hell was that?”

Hob sighed. “That was probably the hundred and three degree fever talking.” He pressed the towel to the pulse beating in the hinge of Dream’s jaw. “Though it happens sometimes on a good day. Think his brain’s still working out the kinks.”

Matthew sat silently for a long minute, watching Dream shifting restlessly beneath the blankets. Then he said, in a voice more subdued than Hob thought him capable of, “I feel kinda shitty, you know? I thought him being human, it was gonna be a big larf. Haha, right? I forgot for a sec how much it sucks balls, sometimes.”

Hob chuckled. “That’s certainly one way to put it.”

Matthew hopped over to Dream, close enough to preen gently at a lock of tangled hair. “You’re gonna feel better in no time, Boss 1.0”

He looked up at Hob. “There, uh, anything I can do for you guys? I mean, I was a lousy cook even when I was human so I wouldn’t trust my chicken soup if I was you but, you know, anything else I can do. Just ask.”

Hob opened his mouth to reply, and suddenly felt hot fingers, curling around his wrist again. Gripping tight. He dropped the towel and covered Dream’s hand with his own, then shifted to lace their fingers together.

“Actually, Matthew, can you ask Daniel to do me a favor?” The enormity of the fact that he could say this, so casually, as though he was asking someone to pick up milk at the shops, wasn’t lost on him. “Could you ask him to get a message to Del for me?” He rubbed Dreams fingers where they were locked with his own and felt the grip relax. “Tell him to ask her…to send us some goldfish instead. She’ll know what you mean.”

“Right,” Matthew said. “As Boss 2.0 to ask Del for goldfish. You got it.”

“Thanks Matthew.”

“Hey, anything for you guys.” He took off through the door and vanished in that uncanny way he had. Hob reached for his phone, carefully set the next alarm, and slid back under the blankets, tugging Dream against him in the gray pre-dawn light. “Not going anywhere,” he whispered, and lay his head down to sleep.

[zzoomacroom]

Fic: The Seeds Are Bursting, The Springs Are Seeping

Dreamling, Smut, One Shot, 2832 Words

Tagging @fleabagoftheendless and @mallory-x because y'all expressed interest with the WIP ask game. Also, credit where credit is due--this was partly inspired by several different asks sent to @gabessquishytum (some of which may or may not have been from me 🤫).

Tags and summary below the cut (very NSFW!):

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), The Sandman (Comics)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling

Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, One Shot, Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Domestic Fluff, Dream Sex, Wet Dream, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Sex Toys, Butt Plugs, Vibrators, Dildos, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Retired Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Has a Vulva, Hob Gadling is Good at Cunnilingus, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Loves Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling Loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Musings on Morphussy, Masturbation, Vaginal Sex, Top Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Bottom Hob Gadling, Top Hob Gadling, Bottom Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Married Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling, Lazy Morning Sex, Not Beta Read

Summary:

They are both breathing heavily, foreheads pressed together, and Hob grasps Morpheus’ backside with his free hand and pulls him closer still. Morpheus reaches between them and wraps his hand around Hob’s thick, throbbing cock, stroking vigorously until Hob cries out and spills over Morpheus’ hand and onto his own stomach. His hole twitches and clenches around Morpheus, who soon reaches his own peak and floods his lover’s insides with his seed just as—

—Morpheus, formerly Dream of the Endless, awakes with a gasp. He blinks, bleary-eyed, as he finds his bearings. He is in bed beside Hob, who is still fast asleep, in their flat above the New Inn. It is early yet—6:23 AM, according to the clock on the bedside table. The morning is quiet and still; the only sounds he can hear are the gentle tapping of the rain on the windows and the steady rhythm of his husband’s breathing. He is cozy beneath the covers, their shared body heat making it perfectly toasty. It is peaceful. He is content.

Except for the fact that he just woke up in the midst of an intense orgasm and he is still unbearably aroused.

(AKA the Retired Morphussy fic, in which Retired!Dream has a wet dream and he and Hob have lazy, weekend morning sex)

Continue reading on ao3:

[pa-nd-em-on-iu-mp-an-da]

At first, the idea had been horrible.

Images from a time when he could just drift into others' subconscious and pluck out the treasures within had been much simpler than the idea Hob had come up with.

Gardening.

He was a King!

He would not lower himself and bury his hands beneath the soil, finding creatures of all sizes. He would not allow himself the abhorrent notion of speaking to said creatures as he gently scooped them in his palm, cradling them as he moved them away and somewhere that wasn't where he'd been digging.

He'd never had to physically work at something like this when manifesting such things were much more simpler.

But then; the feeling of mud underneath his nails. Grass stains on his clothes. Bits of stray grass shedding burying themselves in the locks of hair that had escaped the bandana in his excursion of planting. Dirt being smudged across his forehead and cheeks as he wiped the sweat away. Gently planting seedlings into the holes before spreading the dirt and patting the top, knowing that with loving hands and gentle words, life would once again grow with his help.

'It was far from the dignity he once had as a King.'

Morpheus glanced back at the freshly dug ground, caked in all manner of mess and ready to soak in a tub. Hopefully, Hob stocked up on those sparkling glitter bath bombs; the midnight blue was his most favourite, so like the night sky of the Dreaming. The thought brought a curl to his lips.

'He's never felt more peaceful.'

[loomingcastle]

Sorry my handwriting is kinda bad-

If you haven’t seen the other post I made of this Dream, he’s kinda different from your usual so uh yeah

Both designs are by me :]

[issylra]

issylra's dreamling fandom content list

writing: the trouble with talking - series - complete - explicit - 19k - canon verse - Dream learning to communicate while Hob is the most patient man in the universe.

warning sign ⇾ mercy ⇾ the list

someone to stay - series - compete - explicit - 55k - alternate universe - tag - tattoo artist Dream and florist/handyman/professor Hob meet and fall in love.

spilled ink & daffodills ⇾ bloom ⇾ feel something ⇾ reciprocation ⇾ steady hand

take it easy - series - wip - explicit - 18k - post-canon - tag - Dream retires and moves in with Hob. Fics focused on Dream experiencing things for the first time.

breathe ⇾ remedy ⇾ slow hands ⇾ practice ⇾ drunk (in love) ⇾ stripped

by the minute - complete - explicit - 11k - alternate universe - tag - Dream takes a job as a phone sex operator so he can win a bet with Desire. Hob can't stop calling him.

nightswimming - complete - mature - 3k - canon verse - Dream and Hob go swimming together in the middle of the night.

blood in the water - series - complete - explicit - 7k - alternate universe - tag - Hob and Dream are criminals with a lot of history and a lot of feelings.

break me shake me ⇾ the hand that feeds

golden days - complete - teen - 21k - canon verse - In which Dream agrees to visit Hob more often and neither of them quite know what they're getting into.

distraction (reaction) - wip - explicit - canon verse - Dream stumbles on some suggestive photos of Hob and becomes hopelessly distracted.

visuals: gifs | au gif sets

[wolfgirl-valentine]

Retired Dream AU, lyrics from “(I love you) For Sentimental Reasons” by Nat King Cole

It was a quiet evening, the interior of the apartment warm and cozy in contrast with the freezing temperature outside. 

It felt…domestic. A concept that was still a novelty for Morpheus. A companionable quietness  between them as they prepare dinner together, only the sound of the utensils as they are used and the music coming from Hobs speaker breaking the silence. 

Morpheus have acclimated to his new…situation, more easily that he expected, and he is sure Hob have played a key role in that. They have rekindled their friendship before his change of status, and when he and Death have showed at his doorstep a rainy night, he only looked at his drenched, shivering and very human shape before opening his home for him.

It was supposed to be a temporary thing, only until he found his footing, but the more Morpheus spent time with him, the less he wanted to leave.

When after a year living together, he confessed his change in feelings (so tentatively, so scared of rejection) and Hob responded with a bright smile and teary eyes so full of love, Morpheus feel his chest filling with a warmth that has stayed ever since.

Right now he can feel it from the tip of his toes to the top of his head, as he help chopping the vegetables meanwhile Hob stir the pots on the stove. It pulses as a beating heart as Hob places a sweet kiss on his cheek when he comes closer to pass the cut carrots to be added to the stew.

The song from the speaker ends, and as Hob places the lid of the pot and adjust the heat another begins.

"Oh I love this song!" Suddenly Morpheus founds himself being dragged to the middle of the small kitchen, embraced by the warm of Hob arms, being rocked softly to the rhythm of the music, Hob humming quietly next to him.

" I have told you Hob, I do not dance." There is not real heat behind his remark, and by Hob chuckle he knows that.

" Ah but we are not dancing Love, we are…just embracing in our kitchen, moving together, with background music…" Morpheus huffing gains him another chuckle, and he lets himself enjoy the moment, so many things he is experiencing at the side of this ridiculous, wonderful man.

When the next verse starts, Hob voice joins it, and as Morpheus finally pay attention to the lyrics, a coil starts to burn in his chest.

"I love you,

and you alone were meant for me,

please give your loving heart to me

and say we'll never part"

Morpheus vision becomes blurry, and he is mortified to realize he is crying, but this time there is no negative feeling involved, just warm, Hobs warm, the comfortable warm of their kitchen, and the warm inside Morpheus own chest, and he realize that warm is love, a sob left his lips, but a smile is stretching them, and Hob just hug him tighter("It's ok love"), still rocking him as he whispers the next verse, and Morpheus only let the tears run free, because he can have this, Hob, their home, their love…nothing, nobody is going to take this from him, and as the last line repeats again, he joins Hob voice, his own hoarse but firm.

"I've given you my heart"

(sorry for any grammatical error, english is not my first lenguage)

(photos of my drawings taken with my phone)

This idea make me get out of my bed at 3 am, going to let it in pencil because I’m sure if I try to ink it I’ll make it worse.

Dedicated to my people in the “Dreamling con ñ” server