#endless thoughts fics

[endlessthxxghts]

Best I Ever Had

Jackson!Joel Miller x afab!reader | w/c: 2.3k

Summary: Someone tries to hit on you on your night out with Joel, insulting your man in the process, and oh you don't like that. You blow off some steam in more ways than one.

Content/Warnings: Reader is able-bodied, no physical descriptions. Feminine perception of reader and feminine pet names (Joel calls you mama and babygirl), but no pronouns used. Reader's a fucking badass and can hold their own fights (probably Joel's too, tbh). Slight description of reader getting physical/violent with another person (bby has some anger issues). Established relationship. Implied age gap (exact number unspecified). A bit of insecure Joel. 18+ MDNI! Dom!reader !! Sub!Joel !!!! P in V unprotected. Slight breeding kink (reader just likes being filled, no children talk). Joel has a fast refractory period (don't think too much on it, just enjoy). Definitely some overstimulation. Cockwarming. Riding..straddling.. Teasing. Begging. Edging. Sloppy making out. Multiple orgasms. Please let me know if there’s anything I missed that should be up here!

A/N: Some get post-nut clarity, but I get post-nut lust. This was the product of that. Hope you enjoy, my angels. Thank you @honeyedmiller for beta’ing 🩶 also I picture both game Joel or hbo Joel, so it’s entirely up to you what you wanna visualize ;)

masterlist | updates blog

It was a busy night at the Tipsy Bison. Everyone was out. Everyone was mingling, getting to know each other. As if it wasn’t a small town already, but hey, it wouldn’t hurt to make sure you really knew the people living in this little forever-town. 

Except, Joel was not one to mingle—especially on nights like tonight. Tommy insisted that he come, it’ll be nice, he tried to reason. 

He eventually agreed. Not because of Tommy, though, but because of you. 

You knew Joel was a certified grump, through and through. And you love Joel, you really do. But the post-apocalyptic world caused you to react differently than your man. Yeah, you’ve become tougher, harder to break, harder to trust. However, you crave any sense of normalcy you can find. So on occasion, you like to go out and get to know the people of the town. You like human interaction. 

And when they say opposites attract, the saying couldn’t have been more true. Joel was absolutely smitten the day he met you. It’s been a long time coming between you two—with his vulnerability, or lack thereof, and his initial unwillingness to accept that he can finally relax and unclench his jaw—but you’re together now, stronger than ever, and everything is worth it. 

You are worth it. 

Which is exactly why all you needed was to give one raise of your brow during his protesting before Joel promptly shuts his lips and takes a defeated breath, fixing his answer to Tommy. “Oh, hell. Alright, brother, we’ll be there.” 

And to be quite honest, Joel would go as far to say that tonight’s little get together was actually decent for once. That is, until he sees you waiting on the bartender for his beer and your old-fashioned, and a man—a boy—approaches you. 

“Hey,” you heard a voice beside you say. Not realizing it was meant for you, your attention stays on the bartender. Still, the voice persists. “I was thinking, uh-” you look at the guy then, eyes staring him down in a way he perceives as a challenge. 

He clears his throat. “I was thinking I could buy you a drink?” 

“No, I’m good,” you say shortly. The bartender comes up to you, pulling you away from the guy’s feeble attempt at flirting. You tell the bartender your order, and before you can take another moment to speak, the guy pipes up. 

“Put it on my tab,” he smirks triumphantly, taking a closer step to you. 

You pull yourself away on instinct— out of disgust, but your eyes stay trained on his gaze. You’re pissed, but this naïve little boy has no idea. Both of what you're capable of and what the older man, your older man, across the bar is capable of. 

“Thanks,” you smile, “my boyfriend’s gonna appreciate the free drink,” you tell the guy, turning to Joel and giving him a sweet smile. You’ve been feeling his stare the second this waste of space walked up to you.

Joel would pounce if you told him to. He knows you can handle yourself, though, and you confirm it through that pretty smile you flash him. He can’t deny the way his cock twitches at the way this scene is unfolding. Part of him is begging for the guy to try something more, to test you—to unleash you. 

The guy scoffs the second he sees Joel. “That old man is your boyfriend? Come on, baby,” his hand reaches for the crook of your elbow. “You can do so much better than that,” he taunts. 

And that was the something more you needed. Immediately your hand takes hold of his wrist, twisting the man to face the bar in a rough fashion as you lean him over the bar counter, his arm twisted behind his back, shoulder ready to snap out of his socket with the tiniest of movements. 

“Wanna say that again?” You seethe, knocking the breath from his lungs as you push him into the wooden counter. 

“I said—” 

He’s cut off by his own high-pitched scream. You push his arm higher, a sharp pain shooting through every nerve center in the guy’s arm. 

“Sweetheart,” a southern twang says softly, but it’s not your man. Tommy. “I know he probably deserves it, darlin’, but it’s not worth it,” he says, not wanting to aggravate you more. Everyone knows not to test you. 

Well, apparently not everyone. 

You roll your eyes, knowing Tommy’s just trying to keep up the liveliness of tonight. “Fine,” you mutter. Leaning closer into the guy, you whisper into his ear. “Talk about my fuckin’ man like that again, and I’ll snap your shoulder so fuckin’ hard, Jackson’s doctors won’t even know what to do with ya. Ya hear me?” You’re not from the South, and before the outbreak, you’ve never even been. But get angry enough, and Joel’s twang possesses you.

You release the crying boy with a shove, and you back up, wanting to pull yourself away from the situation. Your back is met with something hard, and immediately you know who it is. You soften in his touch as his arms immediately wrap around your waist. “You alright, babygirl?” Joel rasps in your ear. You can feel his fucking hard-on pressed against your back. 

The guy looks at you and Joel, chest still heaving as his face turns into disgust, a fuck you muttered under his breath, an aftertaste of jealousy on his lips. 

Smiling wildly at the guy in front of you, you snake your hand up to wrap around Joel’s jaw before you turn your head back and tilt your head up, pulling Joel into an open-mouthed kiss, your tongue pushing into his mouth as he eagerly sucks it, lapping up your spit. He groans into you, his arms pulling you impossibly tighter into him. 

You pull away with a harsh nip to his lip, feeding off the little whimper Joel lets out. “Baby,” he whines. 

You look back to the guy, and the silent audience you’ve accumulated. “Come on, cowboy,” you breathe. “I’m not done with you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies happily, spinning you two around and walking out with you still pressed against him. 

The bar stays quiet after a beat. Tommy’s hand slaps the bar counter before he speaks. “Well. Get the music back going unless y’all wanna hear ‘em goin’ at it all night!” The bar roars in laughter, the music coming back to life. 

Before returning back to Maria, Tommy turns to the guy. “You. Out.” 

He scrambles without looking back.

“Oh my God, baby.”

“Fuck— I- I can’t, baby, I can’t hold it much longer, baby, I need to come.”

“Just one more second, baby.”

“Mama, please,” he cries out, his head lolling from side to side on his sweat-soaked pillow as you grind your hips into his pelvis, lifting yourself on and off him every other moment. His hands hold onto your hips, not in a way to control your movement but to simply feel you. 

“Oh, come on, be a good boy for me, baby,” you moan, your hand fixing itself onto his jaw to make him look at you. “Just wanna feel you twitch inside me a little bit more ‘fore you make a mess inside me, okay?”

“Oh, fuck— yes, yes, mama, yes, okay,” he rambles, trying his hardest to breathe through the pleasurable pain as you take and take and take. 

A particular grind sends your back arching, his pubes soaked in your arousal nudging perfectly against your clit, sending an electric pulse up your spine. You cry out in ecstasy, your climax hitting you instantly. “Oh fuck, oh shit- fuckfuckfuck, baby, come with me— come inside me, baby, fucking fill me,” you nearly scream, hoping that boy can hear you now. 

“Shit, baby, oh my God- fuck- I’m coming, mama, holy fuck- I-” he stutters, his thigh muscles shaking underneath you as you bounce on him through his climax, the mix of his spend with yours bouncing lewdly across the walls of your shared bedroom. 

Your hips come to a slow but never stop, your chest heaving as you lean down to bring your lips to Joel. You let them ghost across his lips, but you don’t let them touch. He knows better not to chase it, not yet, anyway. He can still feel you fuming. 

You can do so much better than that.

“Can you fucking believe him?” You whisper against his lips, barely audible yet fucking scary nonetheless. 

Joel thinks that boy is right, deep down. Even though he’d never want you to leave him, and you’d never want him to leave you. Joel thinks that there’s a crumb of moral rightness in that statement. But he keeps that to himself. 

Nevertheless, you know Joel like the back of your hand. He doesn’t need to utter a lick of anything to you. You already know what he’s thinking. 

“Joel,” you say again. “I asked you a question.”

All questions must be answered. 

Fuck. 

“Y-yeah, baby,” he rumbles, too distracted by the comments from the bar, but mainly still caught up in the way his softening come-covered cock is still nestled inside of you. 

You sit up now. A whine leaves his throat at the movement. “So you do believe him?” 

Only then does he realize what he said. His eyes shoot up to yours. “W-wait, no, baby, ‘m sorry, no. No, I don’t believe him, baby,” he panics. 

You quirk your eyebrow at him. 

“The fuckin’ audacity on ‘em,” he adds for good measure. 

You’re silent for a beat. Then—

“You’re lying.”

Joel’s heart starts to race. “No, baby. Please. Mama, I’m not lyin’,” he tries. 

Still straddling his hips, you grab onto his bicep, pulling upward. He gets the hint and sits up. He’s still inside you, his cock slowly growing to full mast again the longer you sit here. 

You’re face to face now. His arms are loosely wrapped around your waist, your arms tightly around his neck.

“Look me in my eye,” you whisper, “and tell me you’re the best I ever had.”

Joel audibly gulps. 

Slow— so slow, your hips begin to move again. A breathy little moan escapes your mouth, and he lunges forward for you, his tongue dancing along the tip of yours, swallowing your breath. You allow it. 

“Tell me,” you groan into his mouth, practically swallowing his tongue as you shallowly bounce yourself on him. 

“Baby,” he whines, getting lost in this dance of heat and sweat he’s become utterly addicted to. 

You break yourself away from his mouth, not allowing him the option to reach for you anymore. He pulls back, eyes wild and sad. His mouth turned down into a literal pout. 

“My poor baby,” you mutter. “Tell me what I wanna hear,” you say again. “Or you’re not getting my lips nor are you coming for the rest of the night,” you tell him, switching back into your grinding motion to stimulate your sensitive bud, letting him feel the way your pussy flutters around him. 

“Baby,” he begs again as you grind, your warmth forcing him to another climax. Please don’t make me say it, he’s trying to convince you. 

Your fingers find their home at the base of his salt and pepper curls, tugging them in warning. “Tell. Me.”

You force his body down to lay flat on the bed again, towering over him, allowing your body the space to lift yourself off of him, only his tip inside of you. He takes a sharp breath in, knowing what’s coming. 

You drop yourself down on him, fucking yourself on his cock at a bruising pace. You grab his hands and drag them up to your chest, wrapping his thick digits around you encouraging him to squeeze. 

“Fuck- mama, I’m gonna—”

“No the fuck you’re not, baby,” you moan, lost in the pleasure but still rightfully in charge. “Swear to God, Joel, gonna leave you fucking swollen and pulsing for a fucking week— oh fuck,” you cut yourself off, a familiar sensation building at the base of your spine, sending you convulsing around his length yet again. 

Joel’s eyes clamp shut, finally giving into your request so he can finally let go. “I— shit, I’m the—” a rugged moan forces itself out, “—the best you ever had, mama, please, the fuckin’ best, baby,” he cries out, his hips bucking up into you as he covers every inch of you with his spend. 

“Shit,” you moan, his words affecting you a lot more than you anticipated, your hips doing overtime, unable to find it within you to stop even as he begins to soften. “Yes, fuck, that’s my boy, shit—” you breathe, “—the fucking best, always make me feel so fucking good, baby.”

His hands finally use their strength, trying his best to slow you with ease, his nerves reaching the point of painful overstimulation. “Alright, baby, alright,” he winces. 

Recognizing his limits, you immediately begin to slow, lowering yourself onto his heaving chest. You let him slip out of you this time, giving him an actual break. “I’m sorry,” you whisper into his chest. 

“For what, baby?” Joel responds with a kiss into your head.

“Did I go too far?”

He couldn’t help the belly laugh that shakes the both of you. You immediately sit back up, your hands on his chest to keep your limp body up. “What?” you glare at him.

“Too far? Which part, darlin’? Nearly breakin’ that guy’s shoulder or my dick?”

A belly laugh erupts out of you this time. Taking a moment to compose yourself, you respond. “...Both.”

“Mmm…” Joel puts on a fake thinking face. “Maybe to the former, but not at all to the latter,” he hums, his hands finding the back of your head to pull you in for a chaste kiss. 

You hum into his lips, a smile stretching across your cheeks. 

Resting your head on his chest, you let a few moments pass before you speak again. “Tommy’s not gonna invite us to another one of those, huh?” 

“Probably not, mama,” he smiles. “Probably not.”

I’d love to hear what you think!! Any feedback or interactions with you all truly brightens my day. So so so much love for you all. Thank you for being here 🩶

I cannot get myself to write for Joel or for TLOU without mentioning the horrors occurring in Palestine. Please check out the links in my navigation + bio to learn about the situation in Palestine and also learn about some ways in which you can help🇵🇸. Reading and interacting with those links takes 5 minutes of your time at the bare minimum.

graphics by @saradika-graphics (middle divider in fic by me)

#endless thoughts fics #pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #smut #pedrostories #one shot #fic #smut fic #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel x reader #joel miller fluff #joel miller one shot #joel miller x female reader #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou smut

[furiosophie]

He looks back down at the baby – Andy – with her lick of dark hair and her splotchy pink skin. Even though she can’t be more than a month old, probably not even, the resemblance to her father – to Hob’s friend – is already uncanny. She looks imperious, a little disapproving, like she’ll nap in his arms if she has to since she doesn’t want to be rude, but privately she thinks the conditions aren’t quite befitting an infant of her station.

Hob loves her instantly, instinctively, in a way that he thinks is going to be nearly impossible to get over.

real people by spqr (@andthepeople)

#dreamling #dream x hob #hob gadling #dream of the endless #PLS GO READ THIS FIC IT IS SO GOOD #it made me cry on the plane #honestly just the ultimate comfort fic #couldn't get the image of them carrying Andy around in that baby björn out of my head #i know they would prob not have gone for a pink one but I needed a color contrast so uh #just pretend they got it as a hand me down #or simply that hob thought it would be funny to break up dreams monochrome fit #anyway the sandman brain rot continues #soph arts

[valiantstarlights]

#dream of the endless #death of the endless #the sandman #speech bubble post #death: stop being dramatic 😂 #dream: inviting me to a dirty tavern is a cruel and unusual punishment. I thought I was your favorite sibling 🥺 #death: oh shush 😂 who knows. you might meet someone cute! #dream: unlikely #hob: death is stupid 😊 #dream: ...you truly know what's best for me sister. I want that man carnally 🔥 #not me writing fics in the tags again

[cuubism]

more dreamling fic tropes that hit so good every time:

dream thinking he has to repay hob somehow for saving him. hob being like bitch what the fuck. we are friends

hob encountering dream in eldritch nightmare form and instead of being afraid he just like. pets the eldritch creature on the head.

(alternatively. dream is like 'you won't like my Nightmare form.' hob's like 'jokes on you i'm into that shit')

dream just. appearing in hob's living room. or in his bedroom. or on his bed.

the absolutely feral rage of hob when he sees dream in the fishbowl.

dream yelling at desire because how dare they make him have feelings for hob???? desire just like ?????????????

Desire trying to seduce hob. Dream being like I will punt you to the other end of the earth do not test me

hob's students being deeply deeply confused by hob's cryptid goth boyfriend like what the fuck is this relationship actually?

hob and death becoming bffs. perhaps through their combined power they can get dream to practice basic self care.

hob built the new inn for dream. (i frequently forget this isn't explicitly canon).

relatedly - the new inn as a temple.

hob as dream's knight in the dreaming. the king & his loyal knight dynamic generally speaking.

hob calling dream 'my king,' 'my lord' or some variation thereof and dream just bluescreening.

hob defending dream from some innocuous threat he definitely didn't need help with. dream deeply charmed by hob coming to his defense.

on the flip side. someone saying something mean to hob and dream yeets them into outer space. ("that was a bit of an overreaction." "it was not")

Hob doesn't get nightmares anymore because the nightmares are afraid of being unmade by Dream

meowpheus. in all incarnations

Hob making Dream finally eat something ("you didn't eat for like a hundred ten years." "Ughhhhhhhh")

Hob beating the crap out of people at the Burgess manor

That moment at the new inn reunion when oh my god. Their hands. TOUCHED

Hob wrapping his coat around Dream's shoulders after rescuing him.

Pressing their hands together through the glass.

Hob's friends/coworkers etc seeing him making heart eyes at this random goth and being like ????🤔😳??🤔??😳

The Dreaming residents seeing Dream mooning over this incredibly average guy and being like !!!!😑😑🙃🙃???🤨🤨??

"So then I went to hell." "Oh ok-- hang on hell is REAL?"

Hob: oh hey cool raven. Matthew: thanks. Hob: oh it talks too hahaha *dies*

Hob making friends with all the dreaming residents. dream's feeling a little personally attacked by the way they all gang up on him now

Dream just Chillin in Hob's classroom while he teaches. Hob definitely not Sweating at all

Hob giving Dream some of his clothes. But making sure they're black

#this is all to say. do not fear using the same tropes over and over in your fics. they are enjoyable every time #there are more but ive run out of thoughts #dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling

[five-and-dimes]

Thinking about Dream/ the Endless and their shitty parents and it got me thinking about some absurd situation where Dream somehow gets turned into a literal child. He gets dropped on Hob's doorstep while other folks look for a solution, and Hob is over the goddamn moon to see tiny Dream, but he learns very quickly that tiny Dream is, in fact, a menace. But not for the reasons he would have suspected.

Dream is very much a neglected child. Hob constantly finds him climbing up dangerous surfaces to get something he wants because it doesn't even occur to him to ask Hob for help. He hoards anything he can get his tiny hands on because best case scenario he'll never be given anything ever again and worst case scenario it'll be taken away from him. He gets upset when Hob pays attention to him because he doesn't know what to DO, he knows how to take care of himself, he knows how to be ignored, he knows how to be scolded or punished, but Hob just sits with him and asks him questions or offers to play and Dream is so confused it makes his child emotions go haywire.

Hob is very sad, and loves Dream very much, so he spends a few days pouring all his love and care into this child, and then once he has adult Dream back he keeps doing it, because that little kid is still in there somewhere, and he needs all the hugs he can get and Hob is more than happy to give it to him.

#the sandman #dreamling #kind of #having Thoughts #no I'm not making this into a full fic I have TOO MANY WIPS #thoughts and ramblings #poor neglected endless #also Night creeps me out

[cupidskissx]

🌷 All Tied Up 🌷

Pairing: Charles Leclerc / Max Verstappen

Word count: 2,553

Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

“What are you—” Charles’ words stall on his tongue as his bandana is looped around his wrists, “Max…” Max winks and double knots the fabric.

Max offers to help Charles get out of his head with a little help from a red piece of cotton.

Author’s note:

I’ve had most of this fic written in my head since September last year but had never been able to get it right.

This fic was inspired by the fantastic, ever talented artist @kiki0716.

For @coconutshygame, after all this time, here is the long awaited Bandana Fic!

I hope you enjoy x

Read on Ao3

#lestappen fic #All Tied Up #one shot #Art as Dialogue series #lestappen #charles leclerc #max verstappen #another ​surprise guest #endless gratitude to Kiki for letting me continue this fic despite removing the original art due to awful art thieves #very slim almost minuscule chance I will continue this so marketed as a 1/1 #but I have thoughts

[im-not-corrupted]

I was consumed by the idea of Merman!Hob in the last few days and now I'm writing a Dreamling fic about it so have a small, 1.7k snippet from the much larger fic :)

Includes: near-drowning, near death experiences, perhaps many medical inaccuracies because I am not a doctor and haven't edited yet, Merman!Hob, Prince!Dream and some light angst.

---------

He awakes with a gasping, heaving breath. His lungs are greedy things, sucking in air with desperation, and he presses a hand to his chest. Beneath his palm, his heart races. Adrenaline and panic both fill his veins and his hand shakes. His lungs feel full, but as he coughs mostly involuntarily, nothing comes up at all.

It takes a bit for him to calm down. When he does, when his lungs stop heaving and he stops coughing and he is left with nothing but an ache in his lungs, his head and a rawness in his throat, he looks around himself.

He sits on a beach, the sands golden and kissed by the sun. It shines down on him, blessing his face with its light. His clothes are soaked through and no doubt ruined, and before him—before him is the ocean.

It holds none of the fierceness he saw earlier, and he stares at it blankly. It looks as welcoming, as lovely, as it did the day he stepped onto the ship. His mind had been occupied, yes, but he had enough awareness to acknowledge the sea’s beauty.

Not enough awareness to acknowledge its dangers, though. He remembers in startling clarity the coldness of its waters, the ferocity with which it drowned him, the storm that waged and threw him overboard.

He should’ve been more careful.

It is not just the ocean that lies before him, but a man, too. A man, staring at him with honey-eyes that catch the sunlight as though they were made for it, with a curiosity on his face that, if it weren’t for the sudden anxiety twisting his all-too empty stomach, would’ve endeared him immediately. His skin is tan, golden like the sands, and some distant part of his brain wants to press his lips to that skin and find out what it tastes like for himself. Like ocean salt and sweat and the sun itself, he thinks, and then considers the possibility that he may have suffered some brain damage due to oxygen deprivation.

It takes him a bit to find his voice. During that time, the man—sitting in the ocean as though he belongs there, ignorant of its gentle waves lapping at him—continues to stare, head tilted like a particularly curious bird. “Who are you?” he asks, wincing at the hoarseness of his throat. It feels scraped raw, and he thinks he would like to simply not speak for a while, only—only this is rather strange, isn’t it?

The man’s shoulders shake with laughter. He is a beautiful creature, this man, with chestnut hair framing his face. Laughter, and amusement, becomes him. Distantly, Morpheus is aware that he should probably take offence at the man’s laughter, only—only he doesn’t really have the energy. If anything, he thinks he’d much rather sleep. “The one who saved you, obviously. Or did you forget you nearly drowned?"

He has half a mind to scowl at the strange man in the water, but only just has enough energy to narrow his eyes. "You saved me," he repeats dumbly. In his defence, he did nearly drown, and sleep calls to him now. Nearly drowning is, apparently, rather exhausting. "We were in the middle of the ocean. We weren't even close to any land. How did you—"

Come to think of it, he can't recall having seen this man's face before. Though perhaps that's explained easily. He was distracted on the ship, after all, and it wasn't like he went out of the way to remember the entire crew. Both Telute and Lucienne always said he should try to interact with people a little more than he does, but he thinks recent events made him exempt from that rule these last few months.

Still. The man's statement doesn't really make sense. They were in the middle of an ocean, and in a storm no less. It would've been impossible for the man to save him then, at least not without a boat or ship of his own.

Thinking of it made his head hurt more. For a moment he feels ready to simply shrug and accept the nonsensical answer as truth in the hopes that maybe the man would leave him to rest. Logically, he knows that isn't what will happen at all. If this man knows who Morpheus is, if he recognises him, then there will be some kind of demand. A boon for saving the Prince's life.

He can't do anything about that now, though, and the idea of laying on this beach and letting himself wither under the sun's heat seems very appealing. He doesn't even know where they are, or how close he is to his kingdom. How he's supposed to make it back in this condition, he doesn't know. The task seems impossible, in all honesty.

The man does not leave him to rest, not even when Morpheus simply nods stiffly and says, "Sure. Saved me. Alright." He remains in the ocean actually, the waves lapping at his torso, and continues to stare at him blankly as though expecting something a little more. Eventually, he rolls his eyes—Rude, Morpheus thinks, but hardly cares at all in the moment—and moves a little closer. It looks almost like the ocean parts for him, but that's ridiculous.

Then—well, then things get even stranger. Which also seems impossible, but—there they are. The man shifts in the water and brings what looks like a tail out of the ocean, all golden scales and fins. Beautiful, he thinks, knowing he's staring but seemingly unable to help it. Of course the man's tail would be golden. That only makes sense when the rest of him could've been carved from sunlight.

A little belatedly, he realises just what he's staring at. Which is the man, who had a fish's tail.

Hallucinating. He is hallucinating, then. That makes sense. Still, he can't help but laugh quietly—it makes him wince, his lungs still raw and aching, but the pain is temporary and certainly doesn't matter much if he's hallucinating—and says, "You're a merman."

The statement is ludicrous. Morpheus wonders just how much damage nearly drowning can do to a person, and then figures he doesn't want to know at all, actually.

"That is what you call us, yes," the man agrees easily.

Sure. Why not. "Why did you save me then?"

He shrugs softly. “Too pretty for death,” the—the merman, of all things, tells him. It sounds almost petulant.

He is losing his mind. He had swallowed a lot of water. A merman. “One can be too pretty for death?” he asks weakly, his throat hoarse and his chest tight with pain. The ridiculous nature of the question at least makes that pain easy to ignore. It will get him later, he knows that much, but he lets himself be distracted by his amusement at the situation for a while.

The merman blinks at him, expression entirely serious. “You are.”

”Right.” Right. Of course. Too pretty for death. That makes sense. As much sense as a merman fishing him out of the water does.

Whatever energy let him carry this conversation leaves him suddenly and he falls onto his back on top of the sand, his elbows failing to hold him up any longer. The sun glares down at him and he gazes back up at it blearily. Exhaustion clings to him just as the beach does to his sea-soaked clothes. Sleep seems like a wonderful, bright idea.

He let his eyes fall shut. It isn't very effective for blocking out the sun’s rays—it remains insistent, and closing his eyes doesn't give him the satisfaction of darkness that he dearly wants. Still, while that would’ve been a problem any other time, his body yearned for the void, to let the dark take him. It would be easy to simply lay here and wither, until either the tide takes him or someone finds him. Whichever came first. He didn’t mind either way.

Then the merman spoke again. “Are you dying, pretty one?”

It took a great deal of effort, but he grunts, “No.”

”Are you sure?”

He is not, actually. But that is no concern of this mermaid, and he merely answers, “I am certain.”

Silence follows that statement. Morpheus lets himself relax, lets himself hope this is it. He can sleep now, he thought—and is quickly proven wrong, for the merman states, “You look like you’re dying. Does anybody look for you?”

He hardly cares. Distantly, though, he thinks Lucienne might be. Jessamy and Matthew, too. “Perhaps,” he says after a couple of minutes pass, when he realises he has not yet replied. "I would like to sleep now."

The merman makes a considering noise. "I do not know much about humans," he said slowly, and Morpheus can practically feel the concern in his voice now, "but I'm pretty sure that's a bad idea. I'll stay and talk to you until you're found."

"Must you?" he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. The merman's voice is pleasant enough, yes, but rest is the preferred option here, regardless of what he says.

"Yes," he confirms. Morpheus's eyes are still closed so he can't actually see but he can imagine the smile on his face easily enough.

He sighs heavily and wonders what he did to deserve this. Then figures this is some weird, twisted kind of punishment for all that happened with Orpheus and Calliope and resigns himself to his fate. "Very well."

The merman talks, almost endlessly, until the sun is low in the sky. It is, truly, an impressive amount of talking. Morpheus doesn't remember much of that afternoon. At some point, he regains just enough energy to sit up, to listen more attentively. The merman, whose name he doesn't learn, seems to appreciate that. And just when despair begins to eat at him—I will not be found, he thinks and despite his inaction while he sank into the ocean, the idea panics him, I will die on this beach—there are calls of his name from behind him. They are voices he recognises and his heart picks up its pace when he turns around to see Lucienne, Telute and Jessamy walking down the beach towards him, each of them looking a little rough but all of them alive.

When he turns back to the ocean, the merman is no longer there, and Morpheus wonders if he dreamt the whole thing up. He does not mention it as Jessamy helps him to his feet, as Telute pulls him in for a hug, as the three of them begin to make it back home, to their duties, but he does not forget the kind eyes of the man who saved him from drowning.

#the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling fic #morpheus dream of the endless #the sandman fic #merman!Hob #listen i've written nothing but this for the last three days and I have 5k to show for it #also the larger fic is way way angstier than this snippet would lead you to believe since it deals with a lot of grief around Orpheus #but i thought this little and mostly light(er)-hearted snippet would be fun to share #and YEAH i have many many WIPs and yes i put them aside for this. that's fine #this becomes a Dream Saves Hob Fic eventually #for anyone interested in that #Merman au #eris writes things

[mamoonde]

i really really really love the idea of wei wuxian revolutionizing modern cultivation over breakfast and conceptualizing these different theories simultaneously because the adhd brain has no brakes and the only reason it took him a decade to publish all these ideas was because he could not stick to a single train of thought long enough to finish (verbalizing) it, let alone put it down on paper coherently.

the only reason he even got to publishing them eventually (and enrolling to cultivation theory grad program to get on that track) was because one morning, his undergrad thesis advisor, lan qiren, finally got fed up and sat him down for an early morning progress check-in because it was midterm season and wei wuxian still hadn't decided on a topic.

wei wuxian, fueled by an unhealthy amount of redbull and three all-nighters, finally word vomits all his 'convoluted' ideas which he'd thought were uselessly obvious and redundant (because he's gone over these like a bajillion times, it's very plain-as-day to him, so he probably just hasn't read the articles that say these exact things).

lan qiren, teacup frozen halfway to his mouth: ...first of all, i only understood half of how you got to these conclusions, which only means they are indeed too convoluted and will need to be pared down; secondly: you have never mentioned any of these ideas before. why.

wei wuxian: oh. haven't i? oh well, i just thought, xyz, because, obviously, abcde. which is really what the 2 centuries old law on ghjkl was alluding to, right? and so, logically, xyz.

lan qiren: [mind blown, screaming, good gods this is the same child who's always tardy and spent freshman year pulling on the metaphorical pigtails of my straight-laced nephew?!?!??!??!?!] ..again, why...how have you never even spoken or submitted these ideas?

wei wuxian: because!!! they're so obvious!! surely, it's been published somewhere already? i can't be the only one to connect these dots, surely??

lan qiren: incredibly, you are. no one else has even thought to question tradition nor pursued more thoughts on the law of ghjkl, with half as much...sound arguments as you seem to have. in the past century, the focus of modern cultivation has tended towards practical uses and tools, some fine-tuning, perhaps. not entirely new theories.

wei wuxian: huh....

lan qiren, sighing, feeling a migraine: your problem with your thesis is not a lack of focus or ingenuity, but likely to be more a lack of recent, evidentiary sources. you will need to become very familiar with the university archives and dig deep for sources that will back up every argument you make.

he jots down notes on a paper. "you will also need to strictly adhere to the structure and methodology of these articles, especially given how radical your thesis will be. if you are diligent enough, you may just be able to submit your thesis without too much of a delay." he slides the list of materials to a gaping wei wuxian. "depending on your output then, we can discuss the possibility of submitting this for peer review."

"peer review." wei wuxian repeats. "as in, that thing where some uppity committee of old coots put their stamp of approval for it to become the reading materials of undergrads like me. you're joking."

lan qiren chooses to ignore the sentiment about peer review committees being uppity old coots, especially considering how he can't completely deny it on account of some of his colleagues, but also as a member said peer review committee, he isn't exactly pleased about being lumped in the same category.

wei wuxian backtracks at his unamused look. "right, you're not joking, of course you're not." he slowly inches the list towards himself. "right, yes, i guess i'll uh, get to it then. ok bye."

----

idk, just, waves hand at wei wuxian candidly explaining new modern cultivation theories over cheerios at 2 in the afternoon to lwj who's trying to help him structure his grad thesis, getting mind blow dick hard at how this messy genius who's talking with his mouth full of half eaten cereal is the object of his affection....

wwx: --oh, oops, your highlighter fell

lwj: mn

wwx: ...aren't you gonna get that?

lwj: it's fine; i'll pick it up later. finish your thought.

wwx: right... i'll pick it up for you!

lwj, fighting for his life, trying to think unsexy thoughts: NO! sit. finish your meal, and then your thought.

#big brain wei wuxian #wei wuxian #genius wwx #in an interview for modern cultivation magazine he's asked: how do you do it? #wwx: adhd! #also a dedicated partner who tolerates your midnight rambling about spiritual energy and entertains your endless what ifs scenarios #bonus points if your partner is lwj who has amazing notetaking skills and a phd in decoding wei wuxian notes #wangxian #mdzs #modern cultivation au #also i love a supportive mentor lqr dont you #a mellowed out lqr who has a little more tolerance for radical ways of thought as long as theyre rooted in morality and good will #mamoonde short fics

[virgo-dream]

the yellow sweater controversy took over the r/endlessband subreddit. user dreamstanning seems to have found evidence of a possible romance between dream and his bass tech, hob.

for @valeriianz’s amazing band au bolt in the blue ⚡️💙

#bolt in the blue #valeriianz #Dreamling #rock band au #the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #amazing art #my edits #no thoughts just editing hyperfixation #fic rec

[unlikely-gravestones]

This is given, Hob thinks desperately, This is given.

So anyway, how are we feeling about vamp dream? a little bit of context under the cut

1. 1689 Hob my beloved, tits out and all 2. Yes that’s Dream’s blood- i think vamp Dream feeds on Hob every century before they part, but in 1689 he breaks tradition bc he feels that Hobs gone through enough without him draining the immortal on top of it all. Instead he offers his own blood, though i like to think Hob isn’t a vampire? Perhaps Dream is still endless, just more Nightmare than Dream- Lord of the Dreaming and Prince of Darkness? hm...but anyway, i like to think Hob’s not a vampire so it really does nothing for him but.....its the thought that counts, and Hob will not deny such a gift

#hope y'all are on board with this #let me have my fun #you have the lovelies in my discord server to thank for this #went absolutely feral a while back about vamp dream and #the thought has not left my mind #so now it lives as a lil thingy #a lil doodad #and look at me writing a few lines in the background #who knows maybe a fic will come of it #dont quote me on that though #sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #Morpheus #the sandman #my art

[endlessthxxghts]

Do You Like It Here?

Joel Miller x afab!Reader || W/C: 2k

Summary: Joel contemplates shaving his beard. You are absolutely against that idea, and he makes you explain why.

Content/Warnings: Pics above are for aesthetic purposes only. Neutral descriptions of an AFAB reader (“your top”, “your shorts”, “your breast”, etc.). No use of “y/n”. Joel can carry you but there are no other descriptions of reader. Implied age gap if you squint. Joel being big and burly. SMUT 18+ MDNI. Joel being a menace. Hints of body worship. Dirty talk. Reader liking facial hair for dirty reasons🤷🏻. Joel on his knees for you…. ✨Bathroom counter✨ Cunnilingus. Tongue fucking. Face grinding. Hair pulling (m receiving). Joel’s fucking nose deserves a warning😵‍💫 Allusions to further sexual activity. As always, let me know if I’ve missed anything!

A/N: Can we tell how much I think about Joel eating pussy?💚 My sweet sweet Roman Empire. Enjoy. :-)

MASTERLIST || NOTIF BLOG -> @endlessthxxghtsnotifs

“Should I shave it off?” 

You choke on your own spit, eyebrows hitting the ceiling. “What?”

“My beard. All this scruff. Should I shave it?” Joel asks you, his thumb and forefinger rubbing against his jaw, his eyes surfing his jawline in the mirror much too critically for your liking. 

“Do you want to?” You reply back, curious to understand what is going on in that chaotic mind of his. 

“No? Yeah? I mean,” he breathes. “I dunno. A lotta white is startin’ to come through, ‘n I feel like it makes me look… raggedy.” 

You frown. “Baby,” you say softly. 

You woke up before Joel, last night’s activities knocking him out cold right after you two cleaned each other up. Unfortunately for you, no matter how hard you fell into your slumber, your body always woke you no later than 7am. It was a blessing and a curse. You decided a shower was in order. 

As soon as you finished and got dressed, your burly, grumpy and sleepy baby of a man stumbled into the bathroom. Wanting his presence always, you hopped up on the bathroom counter, your legs hanging off the edge, and stayed with him as he continued his morning routine. It was after he brushed his teeth and washed his face that he posed his question to you. 

You place your hand on his jaw and pull him closer so he’s standing in between your legs. The light press of your fingertips never leave his face. “You don’t look raggedy,” you scold. “You look… well, you look fuckin’ sexy, for one. I love this look on you,” you admit, a little sheepish. Your eyes scan his facial hair once more before you glance at his eyes, then to his lips. Your finger traces his bottom lip. “So fuckin’ sexy,” you mutter, emphasizing your claim.

You don’t have to look into his eyes to know his demeanor shifted. You can feel the way his gaze darkened. He pulls himself closer to you, his knees knocking the cabinets. His hand starts on your knee, dragging it up your thigh and up your side until it settles on your jaw, his fingers grasping your chin to make you meet his eye. “Oh, is that so, darlin’?”

You gulp, your head softly nodding at his words; unable to speak as your eyes gloss over. “What else d’ya love about it, darlin’?” He pushes, his fingers tightening on your chin—words, he’s telling you. 

You can feel every part of your body heat up. “It…it…” you stutter. His eyebrow flicks up with a faintness only you’d catch. You clear your throat in hopes it makes you speak up. “You- you’re already so big ‘n broad, ‘n this… the scruff… it just adds to- to you,” you tell him shakily, your brain starting to flood with just how much you love his facial hair. “P-plus, it- oh my god,” you whine, unable to stop the spew of shit that’s about to fly out of your mouth. “It feels so good when it rubs against my thighs ‘n my-” you gasp. You don’t remember when it got there, but his other hand is gripping your thigh, his strength tightening at the last words that fell from your lips.

Slow, tantalizingly slow, he leans in. He places a lengthy kiss to your lips; your eagerness gets the best of you as you try and deepen it, but he’s already breaking away—moving down. His lips grace your jaw, your neck—more open-mouthed and needy these ones are, and he pauses. “Ya like how it feels here?” He says against your neck. Then he’s moving lower. 

He peppers kisses along your shoulder and the exposed parts of your chest your top shows. He licks and sucks at a particular sweet spot atop your breast. A breathy little moan escapes you, your arms falling limp to your sides—and out of his way. He pauses his kiss to breathe you in. Lavender. Vanilla. The shower you just finished still clinging deliciously to your skin. “Ya like it here, too, don’tcha?” He places one more kiss on the mark he just gave you, not giving you a moment to respond. 

Then. He’s falling to his knees. Today was supposed to be a lazy day for you two, so you settled on solely a pair of sleep shorts. Nothing more. His hands settle themselves underneath your thighs, scooting you as close to the edge as possible without making you off balance. He’s so tall that on his knees, his nose is belly button level with you. 

He pushes your thighs open. Starting at your knee, he places a swift kiss there. The higher he goes, the wetter and slower they become. A drop of sweat beads down your neck. His hands make their way to your sides, fingers dancing along the waistband. He meets your eyes for a silent confirmation. Planting your hands behind you for stability, you lift your hips for him, a whimpered please leaves your mouth. 

He pulls your shorts off slowly—the wetness staining the center of your shorts peels off of you, the cold air interacting with your slick sends a shiver down your spine. Joel lets your shorts fall to the floor beside him, his eyes darting to your glistening sex. “Fuckin’ wet,” he growls. “All worked up from my white beard? My old age?”

“‘S not what I meant,” you sputter, the kiss he places to your mound throwing you off-kilter. His hands grab onto your waist and he’s angling your hips forward, giving himself a full view of you. He does it again—kisses your sex—but this time, he puts his whole face into you as he uses his tongue to aid him, his scruff tickling all around, on your thighs, your clit. Your hips buck into his face at the sensation, a louder moan reverberating against the bathroom walls. 

“Oh,” Joel smirks. “Right there, huh. Ya like the way it feels right there? Right there on that sweet, perfect fuckin’ cunt, huh? Drives you mad? Wild?” He teases. 

You lament at his words, conflicted between which you want more—hearing his mouth or feeling his mouth? You're pulled from your internal battle when you feel yourself become impossibly wetter: a glob of warm spit lands right where you need him most. Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah okay, you want to feel him. 

One hand behind you leaves from its place and reaches for his curls in an attempt to pull him into you. “Joel, baby, please,” you cry. 

His head doesn’t budge no matter how strong you are. “Nuh uh,” he tuts. “Tell me what I wanna hear,” he tells you. “Tell me what I wanna hear first, and then I’ll give it t’ya exactly, baby. Just be the good girl I know y’are f’me.”

“F-fuck. Fuck. Please, Joel, please-” you say impatiently. “I love the way it feels when I grind my fuckin’ pussy all over your face, baby, I love how it feels when it starts to burn against my thigh, the way it nudges and scrapes every part of me- it makes me feel like I’m on fuckin’ fire, baby, please,” you rasp.

“Atta girl, darlin’,” he coos, licking his lips before his hands pull you flush against his face, his tongue flying straight to your seam, licking a messy path that sends your slick and his spit everywhere. Instantly your head flies back, your hand curls into the roots of his hair once more as you moan and squirm against his grasp. 

Joel loves spending his time down there, but regardless of the fact, you’ll never get used to how fucking good he makes you feel. Joel is ruthless when it comes to eating you out—always making you see stars even in the light of day. 

“F-fuck, j-just like that, baby,” you pant, your one arm keeping you up threatening to lose balance at the greedy touch of his skillful tongue. He drags his muscle from your entrance and up to your clit, running circles and figure eights on it for a moment before he latches onto you—his lips completely wrapped as he suckles and continues to flick where you’re most sensitive. His dominant hand leaves your hip and he drags his fingers to your opening, his middle finger sliding in with ease—the sensation sending you to the edge of something white, hot, and all-consuming. 

“I’m- I’m gonna cum, Joel, shit, I’m gonna cum-” you squeak, your entire body feeling flushed at his actions. 

He pulls his finger out of you, his hand finding its rightful place perched against your hip as he pulls you impossibly closer once again, your ass nearly hanging off the bathroom counter, his grip the only thing keeping you up. Your arm loses its strength and you fall limp, your head thumping against the bathroom mirror, completely at the disposal of your man as he ravishes your sobbing pussy.

He lifts off your clit momentarily. “Give it t’me, sweet girl,” he tells you in a frenzy. His mouth is on you again, his tongue going straight to your hole—his tongue pushes inside of you as much as he can, his face pulled tightly against you. He begins moving, advancing his tongue in and out as you mindlessly begin grinding against face. With every upward push of your hip, his nose nudges at your clit and the pure ecstasy that washes through you is evident in the way you’re practically mewling above him, your obscene moans and gasps enough to make Joel’s hips thrust into nothing on their own accord in an attempt to seek some kind of relief. 

More arousal pours from you, and Joel is quick to drink it up. You can feel the way his tongue flexes as he gulps, and fuck, that is what sends you reeling. You yank onto his hair tighter, driving your hips into his face at a ravenous pace—practically fucking his face—and then it hits you. Eyes rolling to the back of your head as your back arches in this awkward angle, your orgasm hits you hard. It’s without warning, heart-pounding, toe-curling, addicting, and everything Joel. 

Your lips are babbling nothing coherent, the occasional drop of his name escaping your mouth as he continues to fuck you through your high. He’s moving much slower now, much more precise—as if he’s doing this solely for his benefit now, not yours. Which, you don’t mind. Even as you start to slip into overstimulating territory, you don’t want him to stop. 

You’d lay at his mercy for him to use you in any way he pleases if it meant you got to experience what it means to be loved by a man like Joel. With him, it’s all or none—none of that half in, half out bullshit. No, when Joel loves, he loves hard, and it’s evident in everything he does for you. Especially when it comes to your pleasure. 

A particular lick to your clit causes you to yelp out in a pleasurable pain, so Joel finally rises again, kissing your spent cunt one last time before he pulls you up, rubbing up and down your spine to ease the uncomfortable position you were in. 

“You okay?” Joel asks, slight concern and slight amusement on his features as he looks at your face. Pure bliss and contentment fills your features; he can still see the fog clearing from your head. 

“Yeah,” you mutter softly, a lazy grin plastered on your cheeks as you look up at his shiny face. Weakly, you bring your arms up and wrap them around his neck, pulling him in to kiss you. He takes the hint, and he bends down, letting your lips meet in a soft yet enthusiastic embrace. You love the way you taste, especially when it comes from his mouth. 

Pulling away breathless, both your and Joel’s eyes are aflame again. 

“Don’t shave, baby.”

“I won’t, darlin’.” 

You kiss him once more before he wraps your legs around his waist and carries you back to bed. 

You were wrong. It’s going to be a busy day after all.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and I hope it made your private parts tingle you enjoyed💚 If you’d like to be notified for upcoming fics, follow my notif blog!

@pedrostories

#endless thoughts fics #pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #smut #fic #smut fic #one shot #pedrostories #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel x reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller x female reader #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou smut

[magnusbae]

Dreamling - A Boon Granted - 535w

Hob finally asks for a boon. 😌

▾▾▾

"Dream?" Hob calls, getting the attention of one beautiful pale creature back to him. His eyes are pale blue, speckled with barely visible white spots, an entire galaxy reflected in the calm gaze.

"Yes Hob?" he asks, purrs really. He's always good mooded after a good shag.

"Remember that boon you've offered me?" Hob asks, noticing the way Dream's shoulder line tenses, the way he seems to breathe slower, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

"Yes." his answer is slow, calculated. His lips purse just a touch. "I remember."

He's so guarded. Hob knows why, may Roderick Burgess rot in hell, that old wanker.

"May I wash your hair?" Hob asks, his voice relaxed, hoarser after the love they just shared.

A flinch of Dream's eyebrows, the eyes narrowing a fraction more, his lips parting for a second. Oh, he is baffled. Hob can tell.

Hob lifts himself up to lean on his elbow, gazing down at Dream, beautifully contrasting the black satin sheets. (Smartest purchase, right smart of him.)

"Is that the boon you seek?" Dream speaks first when it's evident Hob is not about to elaborate.

"Yes." the answer comes with an easy smile. His eyes wrinkling with fondness.

"I am not certain you understand the concept of a boon." Dream sounds like he is contemplating whatever he should be amused or not.

"I think I do." Hob shrugs with one shoulder, reaching a hand to Dream's perpetually disheveled hair. "I ask you something..." he says the word slowly "... and you grant me my wish." he chuckles at the shadow of a pout that passes on Dream's face, no longer tense, he just looks bewildered by him. Good.

"It is to be what you'd use your boon on, Hob Gadling, washing hair that needs no washing?" Dream aims for stern, but it's clear from the way his lips are twitching upwards, the lightness of his eyes, that he is smitten by the idea.

Whatever his feelings of showers are, he enjoys the thought of it being all Hob asks for.

"You understand that there would be no second boon." Dream is almost smiling now, voice deep, smooth. "Yes?"

Well, that and perhaps a little bit of shower snog, Hob thinks idly. He's certain that this being would oblige, he is a gracious God, after all.

Despite Dream's insistence of being no God, Hob finds it hard to see much difference.

He is a God to him, would have been even if he wasn't one, if he was only a man of flash and blood. In his bed, as he is, he's God.

"Oh yes" Hob remembers to breathe a reply, leaning in to kiss willing lips, smiling lips.

Dream is humming under him, a satisfied purr of a sound. Dream's arms wrap around him and pull him on top of himself.

He likes it, Hob noticed, being pressed down like this.

Naturally, he doesn't keep any of his weight off of Dream when he lies down on him.

"Very well." Dream agrees, sounding a touch breathless already "Your boon shall be granted, Hob Gadling." his nails drag across exposed skin, following the shivers his voice set.

Hob is indeed a man of good fortune.

#I absolutely did write it entirely on mobile and edited it that way too 😂 why o why tumblr doesn't allow to select all of your text 😂 😂 #Doing a word count was quite a thing 😂 #BUT THAT ASIDE. #I thought about Dream's hair all day long and I just had to express the thought ™ #Please imagine them absolutely f—ed in bed having this lovers conversation~ #Enjoy darlings I hope you vibe the vibes 🌻💕 #dreamling fic #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #the sandman fic #The sandman #dreamhob #hobdream #dream x hob #hob x dream #Hob #Dream #buns.w #buns.all

[cuubism]

In Waking Dreams

Part 1 || AO3

----

Hob Gadling was halfway through his third drunken karaoke rendition of “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” when he learned that he had a husband.

It came in the form of what Hob could only describe as a ransom letter, passed to him by the bartender as Hob paused mid-song to take a swaying, unsteady breath.

God, seven drinks was too many. Way too many. Hob couldn’t die, but he was pretty sure he could still get alcohol poisoning.

The song’s backing track continued on behind him, a grating bass line to the melody of his self-pity, as he read the letter with glazed eyes. The words, pasted together from magazine cutouts – Christ, was he in a cheesy action film or what? – swirled in whiskey-laced currents, but Hob managed to make it out.

heLLo ur Husband is In a GlasS JaR in Some Guy’S BaSeMEnt plS geT hIM out i cant taKE the mopiNG ANYmore -- A concerNed SisteR

What in the ever-loving fuck?

“Hey,” Hob said to the bartender, mouth uncomfortably tacky around the word. He really should swear off drinking when he was feeling morose. “Who left this?”

The bartender shrugged, already shaking another martini. The clinking ice met the ending chords of the song and set Hob’s head to pounding. “Some lady.”

Helpful. “She still here?”

“Nope.”

Hob let out a long, arduous sigh. So much for that.

He dropped his karaoke mic onto the stage with a clank and got up from his stool, letter in hand. “That’s it for me, then,” he said, not that anyone was listening. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Hopefully not,” grumbled the bartender, but Hob waved him off.

Outside, the air was cool and crisp, nudging away the haziest edge of Hob’s intoxication. He stumbled towards home, taking deep, settling breaths of the night.

The letter crinkled in his hand. Hob looked at it again, under the moonlight this time. It could just be a very strange prank. Hob didn’t have a husband, after all. Technically, no men had husbands, but he’d known more than a few who’d considered each other as such, so he wouldn’t get too pressed about the details.

Also, a jar? A JAR?

Really, this woman should go to the police if she thought her brother had been kidnapped and was being held in a basement somewhere. The least helpful thing she could do was to give a vague letter to Hob, who knew neither who this brother was, what was meant by jar, nor whose basement it was supposedly in.

Except…

No. That was stupid. Hob was drunk, not completely insane. There was zero chance this was about some guy Hob’s delirious and probably lonely brain had dreamed up. Zero. None. Dreams didn’t just… walk into the waking world.

Except.

There was the small matter of Hob being kind of…

Immortal.

Always threw a bit of a wrench in his ‘reality follows such-and-such rules’ monologues, that. It was kind of hard to make declarative statements about how things should be when one was violating several natural laws just by walking around every day.

And Hob’s Dream… he hadn’t seen him in a while, had he?

“Where’ve you gone?” he murmured, looking back down at the strange letter. “Stuck in a jar somewhere, love?”

Then he shook himself, snorting. Christ, he really was drunk, wasn’t he?

He continued on home, already anticipating tomorrow morning’s brutal hangover.

He tucked the letter into his pocket.

----

It was a quiet ceremony. Incense hung heavy in the chapel, candlelight flickering over the handful of guests arrayed in the pews. Sunlight streamed in from high stained-glass windows.

Hob stood at the altar, silk robe slipping over his shoulders. Waiting.

A man stepped up beside him, giving him a quizzical look. Hob wasn’t sure what that look was for. This was who he’d been waiting for, wasn’t he?

“You’ve drawn me into your dream,” said the man, a curious tilt to his head, intrigue in his voice. “How interesting.”  

“You’re my dream,” Hob told him, and got a tiny, startled smile in return.

“How interesting,” repeated his Dream.

Later, Hob would wonder about so much of it. The fact that he’d dreamed himself into a wedding. The fact that his fiancé was a man. Hell, the silk – Lord knew he couldn’t afford it in reality. But, in the moment—

Hob and his betrothed stood face-to-face, hands lightly clasped. Past Hob’s field of vision, an officiant read out the marriage rites.

“Last chance to back out,” Hob teased his fiancé.

His Dream looked around at the chapel, the officiant, up at the ceiling, as if wondering how the surroundings had come to be. Then he looked back at Hob, giving his hands a tiny squeeze. “This is your dream, isn’t it?”

“Our dream,” Hob corrected. “Marriage isn’t just a one-sided thing, you know.”

“Hmmm.” His Dream’s eyes were like tiny stars. “You are a strange man, Robert Gadling.”

“Hob.”

“Hob,” he agreed. Then, strangely tentative, “…Husband?”

Hob couldn’t help his broad grin. “They haven’t finished reading the rites, love.”

His Dream chuckled. “They have,” he said. And they had.

Hob leaned in and gave him the softest kiss on his lips. His Dream was stiff at first, surprised to be kissed, but then his lips softened. He let Hob cradle his face in one hand and draw him in closer, pressing their foreheads together when they parted on a breath.

Hob laughed. “Husband,” he said, and got an answering smile.

----

The morning brought a full-body ache and a desperate need for coffee.

Hob stumbled into the kitchen, switching on the radio to catch up on news while his coffee brewed. He didn’t know why he bothered. Things had been shaky for so long now that sometimes it felt like they’d never stabilize.

Usually, Hob was pretty decent at looking on the bright side of things. Appreciating the coffee in the aftermath of the air raids, and so on.

But this century…

Well. He hadn’t been sleeping very well, for a start, and that never helped anything.

He turned the station to music, and sat down at the table with his coffee. He'd meant to open the book he’d been reading, a romance novel of all things, but found himself looking at that strange letter, instead.

In the daylight, the absurdity of it fell away, leaving only a more concerning message:

Your husband is trapped.

Hob worried at his lower lip. “Dream guy,” he murmured to himself, “now would be a great time to show up again.”

When had Hob last dreamt of him? It had been… longer than he’d thought, he now realized. He didn’t think he’d had a proper dream about his Dream since near the turn of the century. Occasionally, he’d have dreams that were more memories of things he and his… dream husband had already experienced. Like repeats of their wedding. But that was different; Hob could always tell when his Dream was really there with him.

Which was… a strange thing to think about a figment of his imagination.

He ran his thumb over the jagged edges of the pasted-on magazine letters. It really was like a movie ransom note. Begging for a life.

Stupid as it seemed, Hob couldn’t let it go. And it was better to try, and end up looking incredibly stupid, than it was to ignore it and later learn that his dream husband was real and Hob had left him stuck in a jar. Which, the more times he thought it, sounded less ridiculous and more horrifying.

I’m coming, he thought, hoping his Dream could hear it. If you’re out there, I’m coming.

There was a problem with this plan, though.

Hob had absolutely no clue how to find his husband.

----

The landscape was cracked and broken, an endless expanse of black lava fields, shattered mountains sticking up in jagged spikes, empty riverbeds curving into the distance. It looked nuclear. It looked long abandoned.

Hob picked his way across the rock, black sand scuffing the soles of his boots. He looked up at the grey, smoky sky, wondering just what was so familiar about the dreamscape. A relic of the war – wars – stowed away by his subconscious?

He knew it was a dreamscape, now. Over time, his dreams had clarified, became easier to navigate. That didn’t mean it didn’t feel real, though. The cold wind raised real goosebumps along his bare arms; the sand, when he bent to touch it, was harsh and scratched his palms; the smoke prickled in the back of his throat.

Something fluttered down from the sky before him. Hob reached out and caught it.

The solitary raven feather he found in his palm was soft where the sand had been harsh. Blood clung to the shaft where it had torn from the flesh. Hob looked up, but there were no ravens to be found in the sky. Just the whistling wind, and the clouds churning overhead.

His Dream had liked to carry a raven on his shoulder. Perhaps Hob was just missing him, again.

He held the raven feather in his hand and turned to go, to see if there was anything else here but devastation.

The ground rumbled.

Hob was flung into the sand as a crack! echoed across the lava fields and a gaping crevasse opened before him. Steam lifted from it, burning his face. Don’t cross, it seemed to say. Don’t go.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Hob told the dream.

A swarm of ravens erupted from the crevasse, steam streaming from their wings, caws echoing in the air. They blew past Hob’s face like a cyclone, feathers all a-flutter. Their wings brushed his cheeks. Claws grazed his skin, but didn’t draw blood. He closed his eyes, held his breath so as not to be smothered.

Then they were gone, and so was the feather in his hand. It had left behind a pile of dark sand, softer than that on the ground. Hob tried to disperse it into the wind, but a sudden visceral aversion to doing so had him closing his fist over it instead.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said again. “I don’t know what you’re telling me, my Dream.”

He didn’t know why he addressed him directly when he was hardly present. Perhaps he just missed him, so much that he wished this strange and gruesome landscape was a message of some kind.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “You’re going to have to give me a little more to go on, if that’s really you there.”

The ground rumbled again in increased agitation, the rock below him fell away, and Hob tumbled into an infinite abyss. The knowledge that it was a dream abyss didn’t stop his breath from lurching into his throat, and he flailed for a grip somewhere above him.

The sand streamed from his grasp and was lost in the falling wind.

----

The nineteen-thirties were, quite frankly, shit.

Everyone had partied it up in the twenties, and that was all fine and well. Hob had partied it up, too, why not? Whichever year you found yourself in, you’d never see it again, would you?

Now, he couldn’t help but feel this cursed decade was some kind of recompense for all that indulgence.

Everybody was out of work. Hell, Hob was out of work, and would have been fucked if he hadn’t been like five hundred years old and thus had had plenty of time to squirrel away money. Plus, something was stirring up in Germany – nobody seemed to be paying much attention to it, but Hob had witnessed enough wars in his long life to recognize the ingredients for one, and dear God they did not need another.

So, the thirties thus far were decidedly terrible. Hob was greatly looking forward to the time when things finally tipped over for the better, whenever that was. He wasn’t confident it would be soon.

But, if he was being honest with himself, all of these growing problems paled in comparison to his personal life. If he was really being honest, it wasn’t a problem with the nineteen-thirties; Hob’s life had been steadily going downhill since around 1916 – when he’d, well, basically stopped sleeping.

Or stopped sleeping well, anyway.

As the war ended, Hob’s dreams had grown restless, shadows curling in the corners of his vision every time he closed his eyes. Where before, he’d been able to find peace in sleep, even during the most brutal of historical times, now his dreams were just chaos.

He wished he could attribute it to the war. But his terrible dreams weren’t full of young boys’ bodies broken in the trenches, or the green English fields empty of horses. Instead, they were, well—

Birds rushing through a dense forest, stripping the trees of their leaves as they went and leaving feathers behind—

Flashes of an empty altar and rotting rose petals—

A bloody hand pressed against glass—

Echoing gunfire—

Strange creatures shredding apart into dust—

Book pages fluttering to the muddy ground—

Hands, briefly holding each other—

A child’s terrified face—

A phantom press of familiar lips against his own—

Incoherent images tumbling over each other in an endless stream, straining, pounding at his mind. Hob could find no consistency or narrative to them, not even the nonsensical type of narrative common to dreams. He could make no sense of it whatsoever.

He never woke up well from those dreams. He woke up troubled, unsettled, like there was something he needed to be doing but he didn’t know what it was. He carried that feeling from his dreams and into the daylight. It trailed him like a shadow.

Hob used to love dreaming. Now, any night that he didn’t dream was a mercy.

Hob felt bad trying to get a job when there were so few available and others didn’t have five hundred years of savings to back them up. Instead, he’d set himself to trying to help other people get jobs using whatever connections he had. Admittedly, he’d let his connection with society slack a bit in the last few years – if his sleep had been bad since 1916, it had been downright atrocious since 1926 – but he was doing his best.

In reality, this effort entailed a lot of waiting around. Sending letters, waiting. Submitting documentation, waiting. Calling people, waiting for a call back. Etcetera.

In the middle of one of these days, Hob slipped into a doze at his desk. He was tired, after all. He was tired almost all of the time, nowadays. And in his dream—

His husband was sitting in the tall grass, his long coat arrayed under him as a blanket. Hob sat across from him, legs folded underneath himself. Between them was a plate of pastries that Hob had brought, because his Dream was seemingly incapable of procuring food; he never ate it unless Hob prodded him to, either.

The sun beamed down gently upon them. Insects buzzed and sang in the nearby grass, but none bit or even landed. Such were the privileges of dreaming.

His Dream gave him a tiny smile, as if Hob had dozed off and just come back to him. Hob remembered that smile. That exact smile, as a matter of fact. That exact scene. A memory, then. Not real, not really there.

Christ, Hob missed him so much. He wanted his real Dream back, not the memory-version. Not that he was entirely sure what the difference was, in a dream world. Both had been conjured by Hob’s mind. There was a difference, though. He knew there was. The more lucid, the more aware of his dreams he’d become, the more he’d known.

“My Dream,” he said anyway, as he had before. “There you are.”

“My dreamer,” replied his husband in a familiar refrain.

Hob picked up one of the pastries, a tiny strawberry Danish, and bit into it. The Danish was perfect, buttery and flaky and sweet, because of course it was. This was a dream. Hob wished, with a sudden, strange fervor, that something about it would be imperfect. A little too tart, a little too sticky. A little more real.

He held the other half of the pastry out to his Dream. Held it to his lips until he finally took the hint and let Hob slip it into his mouth, his tongue brushing Hob’s fingertips. Then Hob leaned in, rising onto his knees to get closer. He drew his Dream in with a hand on his cheek and kissed the corner of his mouth. He watched him swallow.

“You are in a good mood today,” observed his husband, voice rumbling under Hob’s hand.

“When am I not, when I’m with you?”

“Hmm. This is true.”

“You’re in a good mood,” Hob pointed out. “That’s far rarer, isn’t it?”

His Dream smiled. Hob was still close enough that their cheeks were brushing, so he could feel it. “That is even truer.”

Hob kissed his cheek, then under his ear. “You should be happier.” He amended his phrasing. “You deserve to be happier.”

“I am happy. When I am here.”

Why haven’t I seen you, then? Hob thought, but it was pointless to ask this of a memory.

Instead, he drew him down into the grass, which, being dream-grass, was unnaturally soft, like a wild blanket. Hob couldn’t help being hyperaware of how it wasn’t scratching his skin. He didn’t know why he couldn’t quite lose himself in this dream. He could not seem to let go of the fact that it was a dream, and not only that, but a memory. He couldn’t stop thinking, thinking, thinking, and remembering.

Where are you? he thought. Where are you?

“Where are you?” asked his Dream, lying beside him in the grass. There was still humor in his gaze, as if he hadn’t caught on to the depths of Hob’s troubles – but of course he hadn’t. This had all already occurred. “Your mind is in the clouds. Found a better dream?”

Hob kissed him, one hand cradling his cheek, the other sweeping through his unruly hair. His Dream hummed, satisfied.

“No such thing,” Hob said against his lips.

His Dream tangled a hand in the collar of his shirt and—

Hob startled awake to the sound of his desk phone ringing. He brushed his hair from his forehead and a line of drool from the corner of his mouth, and picked up the phone.

“‘Ello?”

He listened to his acquaintance on the other end of the line, who was trying to tell him about a job that might be open for one of Hob’s ‘clients’. Hob took this in, but most of his mind was still on the dream.

He hadn’t seen his Dream, really seen him, in so long, now. Was it his fault, somehow? Hob had dreamed him up, after all. If he’d been absent, it must be Hob’s mind failing to conjure him. Failing to find him.

These memory-dreams were almost becoming more agonizing than the chaos of his usual nights, for all that they reminded him of what he had lost.

I miss you, he thought, doubly despondent over being so distraught over a dream. Still, his Dream’s elegant face hovered in his mind. I miss you. Come back to me.

----

“Hello.”

Hob looked up. Standing in the doorway to his tiny kitchen was a thin man, finely dressed in black, his sure steps stuttering to hesitance as he hovered on the threshold. A smile broke out on Hob’s face before his mind had even caught up.

“Hello, you. God, you’re so lovely that for a moment I thought I might have just dreamt you up.”

The man – his Dream, or so Hob thought of him because having such a man must be a dream come true – let out a startled huff and sat down across from him at the kitchen table. “I had wondered how much you might remember.”

His movements were tentative, like he wasn’t yet sure of his place in Hob’s space, here, so Hob took his hand. His Dream looked down at where their skin touched, flexing his hand experimentally.

“Forget you?” Hob scoffed. Forget his own husband? Who could do that? “I could never.”

“Evidently so.”

“Never,” Hob repeated. “I believe you’re rather stuck with me now, love.”

His Dream studied him, looking for an answer to an unknown question in Hob’s eyes. “Hmmm,” he agreed at last, squeezing Hob’s hand in return. “I do believe that I am.”

----

Hob had once declared that he would never die, but it was highly likely that he did, in fact, have a death wish.

Or so his dreams seemed to be telling him.

He could not, would not, get that one dream out of his head. He was so lost in thought that he stumbled in the mud, sword clanking at his side, and would have fallen were it not for one of his mates pulling him upright with a laugh.

“Had too much to drink last night, Hob?”

Hob affected a smile. “Something like that.”

If only.

No. Something far more troubling had Hob’s mind in a haze and his feet tripping over themselves. Someone.

What in the bloody hell was he thinking about, dreaming about a man?

Generally speaking, Hob did not care much what other people did. He also could hardly be considered the arbiter of all morality, so who was he to tell other people what to do, really. However, Hob was very aware that many people did not hold this sort of live-and-let-live mentality, and that those people could get rather upset about certain things.

These were dangerous dreams to be having.

“Hob!” called his friend from up ahead. “Quit lagging behind!”

Hob supposed he was fortunate it was just dreams he was having. Not that he was necessarily opposed, the more he thought of it, but it would certainly make his life more complicated, having such a thing in the real world. More dangerous, too.

And yet, he couldn’t get his dream husband out of his head. The dark swoop of his hair over his neck. The intensity of his eyes. The curiosity he seemed to have about Hob, about the marriage Hob had unknowingly dragged him into.

Hob had kissed him, after. Not the chaste kiss at the altar. After, when they’d slipped away to the back of the church, hovering in the shadows at the base of the stained-glass mural above. Lost in the dream, he’d had no hesitance, no self-consciousness, had simply pulled his Dream closer and kissed him. Hands twisting in the lapels of his long outer coat, he had held him close and tasted his mouth, and his Dream had kissed back, dragging a moan from him with the skillful use of his tongue.

Hob hadn’t known kissing could feel like that, buoyed by the very real dream-love he held for his dream-husband. The passion this nameless, mysterious man he’d dreamt up had inspired in him.

And how real it had felt in the moment. Not only consciously, but bodily, the very real pounding of his heart and the heat under his layers of clothes, the very real wetness of his Dream’s mouth and the ache in Hob’s bones for him. He could still feel the press of his lips on his own, and touched his hand to them now, absently. He shuddered.

“Hob!” yelled his friend again. “Supper is not getting any warmer!”

“Yeah, coming,” Hob said. “I’m coming.”

Physically, he trudged on through the mud, hefting his pack higher on his shoulder. Mentally, he stayed in the shadow of the church, lost in the press of his Dream’s warm body.

Dangerous dreams, indeed.

----

There were an ungodly number of buildings in the United Kingdom that had basements.

Hob knew exactly how many now. This was, of course, assuming that the basement in question was, in fact, in the United Kingdom, and not Papua New Guinea, or somewhere.

Hob looked at his extensive list of basemented houses in dismay.

No. Fuck this. This was never going to work. It would take him years to search them all, and who knew if his Dream had that kind of time. Hob didn’t know how long he might have been imprisoned for already.

He threw the list on the floor.

Time for a different tactic.

Assuming his Dream, was, in fact, a real individual who existed in this world as well as in dreams… Hob could only assume something supernatural was afoot. Unless both he and his Dream had somehow acquired the powers of dreamsharing, such as it were.

But also, Hob was immortal. How, he still didn’t know, but he was. He had no choice but to believe in some element of the supernatural, or the divine, or the occult, or whatever it was. The idea that his Dream was some kind of supernatural figure, one that existed in dreams as well as reality, was certainly within the realm of possibility. Was likely, even, as, while it was certainly not impossible that someone would be keeping a normal human in some kind of glass prison in their basement, it seemed somewhat of a strange thing to do with a prisoner. Wouldn’t they want to hurt them, or get something from them? Torture them? Why simply leave them there, and in a glass prison, of all things, rather than just a locked room?

No, Hob was feeling more and more certain that his Dream was supernatural, in some way. It explained far more than the alternative. He pushed all the weirdness of that aside for now – there would be plenty of time to have a minor crisis about his apparent six-century-long marriage to God-knew-what later on. Right now, he had a more pressing investigation.

Who would know about a supernatural being, have the means and knowledge to trap one, and the ability to keep one for who knew how many years?

Hob knew what he had to do. Rather than searching through basements –-

-- he should be searching through occultists.

#tfw u learn the guy youve been dreaming about for 600 years and thought was just a figment of your imagination is real #and oh he's also in an orb. #hob's having a normal day #the sandman #dreamling #dreamling fic #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing #bunswords #the looooooooong work in progress #but now the pressure is on to actually finish it 😔 #in waking dreams

[poly-space-nerds]

Finally, after centuries of pining for this dark haired man in front of him, Hob holds Dream in his arms.

Finally, he thinks, as Dream kisses him passionately, hands holding his cheeks close. He opens his mouth, tongues sliding together.

He tastes- He tastes like- What does he taste like? Rain? A forest? An aged book? Blast. How come book characters always know what a person tastes like? See, this was why I was never a poet. It’s okay though. Maybe Shakespeare turned his head but look who’s holding him now? Ha you-

“Have you gotten lost Hob Gadling?” The voice of his stranger gets him out of his thoughts. He’s about to make an excuse when he sees the look on his lover’s face. It’s incredibly soft and fond. The corners of his mouth are lifted almost as if he’s amused by Hob’s daydreaming.

“Oh bugger off.” Hob says as he captures Dreams lips again.

#i had so many ideas while writing this #bc at first i was just in love with the thought of adhd hob getting distracted and dream being fond about it #but then i thought #what does daydreaming/getting lost in thought mean to dream #is he flattered by it? does it make him feel closer to Hob? #THEN i thought #oh shit what if kissing dream makes people like want to daydream more #the kissing the personification of dreams might make you dream a little yknow? #god i love all of these reasonings #btw this started bc i was reading a dreamling fic where they were kissing and hob explained what dream tastes like #and i thought abt that post that was like ‘do fanfic characters have better senses or something???’ #and THEN i got the idea of the person being kissed also getting lost in thought with that post #so i wrote this #it’s been 20 minutes i need to get back to that fic #dreamling #centennial husbands #dream x hob #hob x dream #dream of the endless #the sandman netflix #the sandman #robert gadling #hob gadling

[rriavian]

So. Fic idea for Halloween. The Corinthian and Dream carving pumpkins...how would it go?

Would Dream make the most insanely intricately beautiful but unquestioningly terrifying design you've ever seen in your life? Just effortlessly excelling with this soft happy smile on his face because he loves creating? Would the Corinthian use it as an opportunity to show off his knife skills like hey your majesty I can cut you like this too *winks in an incredibly threatening yet sexy way*

I can already foresee some ambiguously gory descriptions of scooping out pumpkin insides in this fics future.

Maybe someone is tempted to throw some pumpkin insides at the other one when their back is turned. Maybe Matthew is there chipping away at his own pumpkin with his beak. Maybe Lucienne has her own half completed and is stood watching the chaos unfold with disapproval (for the Corinthian) and warm fondness (for Dream).

(...Is Mervyn crying in a corner somewhere because damn this happens every year and it might be tradition but that doesn't change the fact that it's so disrespectful)

#dream of the endless #the corinthian #corintheus #the sandman netflix #i thought about pumpkins and came up with this #pls accept my tentative crack-y fic premise

[cosmologicalspoon]

#ive been told #the way i consume fic is strange #cus i always open it #on view full work #and then just consume it rapidly #endless scrolling through a 15k fic with no pause for thought or chapter breaks #thats normal #👀 #ao3 #archive of our own #fanfiction #fanfic #polls