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withoutyouimsaskia · 6 months

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Don't Stop (Sandman One-Shot)

GIF: Originally posted by @imironstark

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: One-shot. Reader self-insert. Smut. You and Morpheus are in the exploratory stages of your relationship. Morpheus asks to worship you, and all is going well. At least, that is, until you start to wake up...

Warnings: Minors DNI. Smut. Porn with plot. Kissing. Oral sex (AFAB receiving). Slight dominant Morpheus.

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: So I watched Sweetbitter. With my partner. Maybe not the best idea because suppressing the squeaks of excitement whenever Tom came on screen was tough and not always 100% effective! The hyper fixation is still going strong... Hope you enjoy this one. All my love, Saskia xxx

Sandman Masterlist

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It is only when the violent spinning not only stops but holds for several minutes after, does Morpheus make steps in allowing his guard to drop.

He straightens elegantly out of his crouching position, withdrawing his hands from the scree smattered earth. He looks to his left, to Lucienne, who is warily regarding the ground and sky, wondering if they might start to rapidly switch places again.

She meets Morpheus' gaze and adjusts her round-framed spectacles with a steady hand.

"I might be speaking too soon, sir, but I truly think it is over now."

Morpheus takes one last steely appraisal of the horizon, almost daring it to misbehave.

He nods once. "I believe you are correct, Lucienne."

"Will you be requiring anything else from me, my lord?"

"Not at present."

"Very well," Lucienne replies with a warm smile. "I will return to the palace now."

She does a little incline of the head in deference and goes to start the winding walk back towards the glowing lights of the Dreaming's seat of power.

Morpheus calls to his friend.

"I thank you for your persistence in supporting me to resolve these issues. I suggest you take some extra hours to rest."

"I suggest you do the same, sir."

Though her reply is innocuous, the knowing gleam in Lucienne's brown eyes hints at an alternative interpretation, one that Morpheus cannot help but notice.

It was becoming generally well known that he was in the early stages of courtship with a dreamer, you, and there was no doubt that Lucienne was aware of how far the relationship with you had recently gone.

He raises an eyebrow in response, earning a grin from Lucienne and then he watches her walk away.

Once alone, Morpheus allows his eyes to flutter closed as he sifts through the myriad of dormant minds and tunes into the space occupied by yours. He takes a reading of your emotions, thankful to find that you are contented and have not been rendered feeling neglected by his absence.

There's a faint undercurrent lingering below the surface level of your emotions that he is also able to lock on to given the familiarity that you share.

Desire.

They are present, filling you with neediness and longing.

A longing to be touched, to be touched by him.

Morpheus is with you in seconds, appearing in the doorway of the room you have chosen to conceal yourself in.

You are curled up in a large armchair by a panoramic window that frames the mountainous vista beyond. The torches that mark equidistant points along the bridge leading to the palace project a soft gleaming warmth over your skin. You are gazing softly at the landscape, the fingertips of one hand combing through your hair, the others trailing up and down your inner thigh.

Such an innocent yet provocative display. It makes Morpheus' voice drop to an even deeper and more sultry register than usual as he calls to you.

You are out of the chair instantly, meeting him at the threshold of the room. Your heart pumps out an allegro drum beat, the sound of the blood rushing in your ears like a waterfall.

You are pulled into a searing kiss, arms encircle your waist to ensure you are flush against his hips and chest. It is a relief that he is holding you in such a way for your knees are threatening to give out within seconds.

The power he has, in his body, his actions, through his words, in a metaphysical sense; you are helpless against them all.

When Morpheus pulls away from the kiss, you follow him on instinct, aching for more. He smiles faintly at your eagerness but maintains the gap in order to explain his length of absence.

"I must apologise, Y/N. The issue was a little more complex than Lucienne and I had anticipated."

He's looking down with a tint of shame in his aquamarine eyes.

You slide your hands up his forearms, gripping tightly and angling your head so you can capture his gaze.

"There is nothing to be sorry for. Your work and the safety of your dreamers take priority."

He simply nods. Your unwavering understanding is always on the side of overwhelming for him.

You register this in his stance.

"You feel a little tense. I can help with that if you want. Like I did last night?"

You move a hand up to stroke the hair on the back of his head. It is a form of touch that never fails to release tension.

Morpheus indulges in your attentions for a bit, leaning into you and sighing deeply, before staring at you directly with sudden seriousness.

"I cannot deny that what you did for me yesterday was beyond exquisite," He leans in to speak by your ear. "But it is my turn to worship you."

"Oh," you swallow down your surprise. "Okay."

Morpheus wastes no time in guiding you back towards the armchair and sits you on the very edge of the seat pad.

He carefully removes his long sweeping coat and then drops to his knees before you.

His rosy lips are parted, eyes dark pools, both standing out against his beautifully pale skin.

"Where can I touch you?" He asks urgently.

"Everywhere," you reply as the flutterings in your stomach warble your voice.

He begins by trailing his hands up your legs. The patterns he draws are intricate and intoxicating.

"May I have the honour of tasting you?"

"Yes," you consent, breathless already.

You remove your trousers and underwear in the same movement and allow Morpheus to adjust your position.

The image of him looking up at you with lust and intent as he parts your legs is immediately imprinted deep within your memories.

He trails innocent kisses up your left calf to your knee. A long-fingered hand is hooked under it and once Morpheus slips your leg over his shoulder, he continues his path along your inner thigh.

Wisps of his midnight hair tickle your skin and make you squirm in the most delicious way. You whimper when you feel his cool breath hit your pulsing core.

Morpheus speaks your name reverently, a taster of what was about to come.

He leans in the last few inches and kisses your vulva. You melt with an ecstasy-filled exhale. His tongue gently licks at your labia, encouraging them to part and expose your clit. He laps at you with precise strokes before sealing his mouth over the nub.

It's like a direct current has been shot into your body; you jolt into him, moaning his name with abandon.

He hums against you, lips curling into a naughty smirk. You are completely at his mercy and he knows it all too well.

He manipulates your clit between his plush lips and the pleasure reaches a higher ground.

"Whatever you do, please don't stop," you beg.

Morpheus obeys, slowly increasing and decreasing the pressure of his suckling until you are almost unable to think clearly anymore.

Then, suddenly, you are distracted by a strange feeling radiating through your body. You recognise it with immediacy. It's like you are being dragged upwards by a marionette string. You are waking up.

You stiffen, falling silent, hoping above all hope that if you stay still, you can stave off the pull back to consciousness.

Morpheus, noticing your change in demeanour, stops his attentions and pulls away.

He speaks your name in a caring tone, "Are you alright?"

You grab the arm rests in a further attempt to keep yourself in the Dreaming. The sensation isn't letting up.

You respond with haste, "I think I'm waking up. I don't think I can stop it."

Waking had been the cause of cutting short your time with Morpheus many times before. It was to be expected; you were a human being with things like sunlight and birdsong and routines to contend with. The worst had been mid-way through a conversation, one that you were able to pick up again the next time you passed the Dreaming threshold.

Right here while Morpheus was working on you so perfectly, however left you with one thought: Why did it have to be now?

Your surroundings flicker and all sound becomes warped. The support of Morpheus' body and the chair vanish.

"I'm sorry." They are the last words you speak before you disappear.

You come to in the semi-darkness of your bedroom. Your chest is heaving and wetness has spilled onto your pyjamas from the dream of Morpheus lavishing your aroused core.

Your phone is blasting out a morning alarm, its shrillness the clear root of you disappearing on him.

It turns out though, initially unknown to you, that Morpheus was having none of this separation business. That is until you notice him sitting between your splayed legs.

"Morpheus?! What are you -"

"You asked me not to stop, my dearest dreamer," he interrupts, pouring every ounce of seductive energy into the words as he can muster.

Morpheus' eyes bore into yours as he climbs up to fully straddle your body. He reaches over you to turn off the alarm with a precise tap on the screen of your phone. He takes a deep breath.

"Much better," he purrs. The pitch of his voice is pleasure enough on its own, even without the fact that his hips are subtly grinding against yours.

"Now, would you like to resume with what we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted by that repugnant tone?"

You nod.

"Verbal consent, please."

It's suddenly so hard to speak now he is in your bedroom, your domain. You hope that a clear display will be an acceptable alternative. You reach your hands down to rid yourself of your pyjamas only to have each wrist pinned either side of your head.

You gasp.

"I need to hear you say it out loud, Y/N."

Another wave of hot, stifling arousal is released between your legs. You shiver in reaction to it, to his dominance.

Your mouth is open but no coherent words leave it, just the starts of failed sentences. Morpheus comes to your aid:

"Will you allow me to taste you here, in the waking world, just as I did in my own realm?"

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, Morpheus. Please. Put your mouth on me."

He hums his approval before lowering your shorts and beginning to feast on you once more.

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Tag List: @herfantasyworldd @shadowqueen1318

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dragon-kazansky · 2 months

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When the raven calls

Morpheus x Female Reader

You, his raven, die protecting Jessamy while rescuing the Dream Lord. When Morpheus returns to his realm, he mourns your loss, only to find a stranger waiting for him in his throne room. The stranger claims to be you, now in human form. He doesn't understand, but his raven will always watch over him.

Plot idea by @missdreamofendless

☆☆☆

Chapter One - Loyal little raven

Chapter Two - Broken wing

Chapter Three - The raven's call

Chapter Four - A day in Hell

Chapter Five - The oldest game

Chapter Six - Two left feet

Chapter Seven - Sound of wings

Chapter Eight - Friends through time

Chapter Nine - The little things

Chapter Ten - Trust Fall

Chapter Eleven - All together now

Chapter Twelve - Hold my hand

Chapter Thirteen - Glass heart

☆☆☆

To be continued with season 2!

Just ask if you want to be added to the tag list!

#when the raven calls #morpheus x reader #the sandman #female reader #dragon writes

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nobodysuspectsthebutterfly · 2 years

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When I first met him... he was the most gallant of lovers. He knew so many things. He delighted in sharing his knowledge. He had a castle full of treasures, and he took such pleasure in showing them, giving them to me. He was so gentle, and his skin felt like white silk against my skin. And I gave what I could give to one such as he. When we made love, it was like a flame: I felt utterly engulfed, utterly loved. Treasured. I have been with many poets, many dreamers... but his love alone was ice and fire. His eyes were stars.

Calliope, in The Sandman #71, by Neil Gaiman

#calliope #sandman #the sandman #dream of the endless #dream #morpheus #neil gaiman #comics #quotes #favorites #sandman spoilers #not spoilers for the new ep as such but it's more-or-less spoilers for show-watchers who haven't read the comics so just in case #(although the most spoilery parts of her speech in that issue are not included here so no worries)#anyway i thought those who are thirsting over dream juuuust a little bit more today would appreciate this quote #it's a long-time favorite and the writing is beautiful so you can appreciate it even if you're not inspired by a muse so to speak #also i couldn't find it by googling at all? you're telling me nobody ever quoted this online before? what in the world

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seiya-starsniper · 3 months

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"Oh I'm dreaming of you again. If I wouldn't be dreaming and if you would be really here, then I would tell you I love you."

*slides $5 across the table* dreamling. you know what must be done.

Ayyyy I FINALLY got around to doing this one! 😅😅 Starting my birthday off right with a present for you! 💖💖

[AO3 Link Here]

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When war comes to the Endless Empire, Ser Robert Gadling, known simply as Hob to his men, is on the front lines of the defense effort, fighting for his monarch and the love of his life. The second title is a secret he keeps close to his breast, for there are no scenarios in which a Knight would be deemed the type of lover fit for a King.

The war is long and brutal. The Morningstar Kingdom had timed their invasion well, choosing to strike in the heat of summer, ideal conditions for soldiers who were born and raised in lands far hotter and more unforgiving than Hob had ever known. Their forces are fierce, but Hob’s are fiercer, for they have something to protect, mothers and wives, sons and daughters.

Hob only has his King. Orphaned at a young age, Hob was recruited as a foot soldier into the royal army as soon as he was of age, and his quick thinking and heroics on the battlefield earned him a coveted place in the royal court, right as the Endless family had established themselves as monarchs of the realm.

Try as he did to be polite, Hob did not fit easily into a life of court politics. He could not hide his brusque mannerisms, his frank manner of speech, and it was that attitude that endeared him to King Morpheus years ago, establishing a unique friendship most other nobles would sneer at.

Hob never cared for noble opinions before King Morpheus, and to this day he still did not. It is his king’s face that he sees in his mind’s eye as he cuts down the Morningstar’s soldiers, pushing their forces further back. It is his king’s voice that rings in his ears as he and his men march through the pouring rain, caked in mud, blood, and sweat. It is his king’s eyes that Hob sees in the moments after an arrow pierces through his armor, knocking him off his horse and rendering him unconscious.

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When King Morpheus receives word that the battalion Hob was leading had fallen in battle with no known survivors, he nods solemnly and dismisses the messenger, along with the rest of his court to give those who had lost a son, brother, or lover, time to mourn.

What his court does not know, however, is that once the throne room is empty, Morpheus collapses to the floor and weeps. He weeps for his fallen people, for the lives that this pointless war has cost his kingdom, but in particular he weeps for Robert—no, Hob Gadling, his oldest and most treasured friend.

Hob had been one of the only members of Morpheus’s court that did not treat him like the outsider he was when he was appointed king. When the Endless came to power, they divided the small municipalities into their own kingdoms, placing each of their seven children as the reigning monarch. Dream had suffered many cutting remarks and passive aggressive attacks, but Hob had been open and honest with him, even if their relationship did not start off in the most positive manner.

To know now that Morpheus would no longer hear Hob’s laugh, would never again be able to break bread and share stories over a warm open fire with him, that he would never feel the warm touch of the other man’s hand upon his shoulder, was more than the king could bear. He retires early to his bed, and spends the next days alone in bedchambers, claiming a sudden illness, but in truth, he is mourning for what could have been, what he was too cowardly to reach for, what he could have had, if only he’d been brave enough to confess how he felt.

And now, it was too late.

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When Hob finally escapes his imprisonment behind enemy lines, he leaves a trail of bodies in his wake, including the head of the Morningstar King. He steals a horse and rides away into the night, desperate to return to his men and tell them that everything is over. The war is over. The Morningstar and their warriors will trouble them no longer.

When he comes across the nearest army camp flying the Endless flag, he heads immediately for the general’s tent. But instead of finding his second-in-command, he finds King Morpheus there, sprawled across what was once Hob’s bedroll, a cup of some unknown liquid in his hand. When he sees Hob enter, he freezes and drops the cup immediately, and the smell of cheap liquor fills the air between them.

“Oh,” King Morpheus whispers in a broken tone that absolutely breaks Hob’s heart. “I'm dreaming of you again.” As Hob steps further into the tent, he can see the king’s brilliant blue eyes are stained red from crying, and his cheeks too are covered in tear tracks that criss-cross along his face. It is breathtaking and beautiful, agonizing and unbearable, all at once.

“I am no dream,” Hob says softly as he approaches his king. Had he put those tears on his lord’s face? Had Morpheus thought him dead the entire time he’d been imprisoned?

“Oh but you are, for why else would a dead man stand before me and haunt my grieving heart so?” Morpheus replies, his breath hitching now as his body threatens to start sobbing anew. “Why else would I see you, if not as a reminder for every unspoken word, every regret I hold for not confessing to you you my deepest desires?"

Now it is Hob’s turn to gasp, his heart beating wildly in his breast. Surely there was no way that Morpheus was alluding to sharing the same desires as Hob. But then, why else would his king be here, in Hob’s tent, laying amongst Hob’s things, acting as a grieving widow, if he didn’t not feel like one himself?

Hob takes another step closer, and though Morpheus startles, he does not flinch back from him. Hob then kneels down in front of his king so that they are eye to eye, and steels his nerves for what he plans to say next.

“What would tell me, my liege, were you not caught in the thrall of a dream?” Hob asks. “What words do you hold in your heart that you could tell me before?”

Morpheus chuckles, and it sounds like shattered glass.

“If I were not dreaming?” he asks. “If I wouldn't be dreaming and if you would be really here, then I would tell you I love you, Robert Gadling.”

Hob he gives up all semblance of self control and brings his hands to his king’s face. Morpheus gasps at the touch and Hob wants to kiss him, wants to pull this beautiful, wonderful man into his arms and never let him go.

“You’re—” Morpheus breathes, his eyes filled with tears once more. “You’re alive.”

Hob nods. “It is not a dream,” he says. “Touch me, and feel that I am real.”

Morpheus lunges towards him and seals their lips together in a kiss. Hob kisses him back, uncaring of the fact that any random soldier could walk in at any moment. All that matters to him now is that he and Morpheus are reunited, that he is alive, and in love with someone who loves him back. That is all that matters, for tonight.

#dreamling #dream x hob #hob x morpheus #the sandman #sandman fanfiction #seiya writes dreamling #seiya's birthday prompt fills #gonna be posting fics every few hours!

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bisexual-cyborg · 2 years

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seeing lots of posts about sandman where they’re like ‘this scene is so emotional, Dream has tears in his eyes’. babes, he’s got tears in his eyes like 90% of the time, this is not a good indicator of emotion anymore

#Morpheus doesn’t have emotion he just has very wet eyes #I wanna write a fanfic with the whole trope of ‘his eyes glistened with limpid tears’ but it’s like every paragraph #please just let this endless being cry #the sandman #Morpheus #dream #dream of the endless #sandman #hob gadling #johanna constantine #John dee #bee talks

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cuubism · 26 days

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inspired by this Hope!Hob piece by @mashumaru, have a little reverse-verse fic, Hob as Hope of the Endless and human Morpheus

(reverse-verse Hope and Morpheus are my special special little guys, I wrote an extremely long fic about them before. I think about them all the time and at this point they're basically distinct from Dreamling in my mind 😂)

cw hate speech, homophobia, slurs, violence. it's pretty brief though.

At this point, Morpheus is no longer shocked to come home and find Hope sat at his kitchen table, knuckles and brow bone bloody, drinking tea as if none of that matters. It still rankles him, though. Bloody. Injured. Always.

Morpheus sets down his messenger bag in the hall with a thump and bypasses Hope entirely to go right for the first aid kit on the top shelf in the bathroom. Hope turns to watch him pass, a forlorn little look on his face. No, Morpheus tells himself, he does not get some sweet little welcome home kiss if he’s going to come back like that.

“Must you insist,” he says, as he drags the kit—packed full, always—off the bathroom shelf and trudges back into the kitchen, “on always starting fights?”

Hope pushes his half-drunk tea away, pouting. “I don’t start them!”

Morpheus sits in the chair next to him and just looks at him.

“…Okay,” Hope concedes. His lip and brow line are bruised. There’s dried blood under his nose. Morpheus wishes this wasn’t his natural state. “Sometimes I throw the first punch.”

Morpheus sighs, tearing open an alcohol swab and starting to wipe at the cut on his brow.

“…Most of the time,” Hope admits.

“Hope,” Morpheus says, exasperated, and Hope cringes.

“You know I can’t really be hurt,” he tries to explain. “I’m not human. Besides. You think I’m just beating the crap out of people for no reason?”

“No,” says Morpheus, and wipes at his split lip with perhaps more force than necessary. “I do not.”

“Besides, I don’t kill people and I don’t like when people do it around me either. It’s not about fighting, I don’t enjoy fighting. It’s about taking a stand.”

“You do enjoy fighting,” Morpheus accuses. “I have seen you.”

Hope ducks his head. “It’s not about that, though,” he insists. “Listen. You know I never really finish these things, but it’s my role to start it. To show that these battles can be fought. And that it’s worth standing up.”

“Bar fights, such a noble cause,” says Morpheus dryly, and Hope tucks his forehead into his shoulder. Morpheus can’t help himself, his hand automatically goes to the nape of Hope’s neck, fingers combing through his hair.

“You attract violence to you,” he says quietly. “I have seen it.”

Hope sighs. “Did you really think that people would like Hope? Sometimes they want to give me a hug but more often they just want to punch me in the face.”

“I thought you were meant to inspire,” Morpheus says, and it’s a little bit mocking of things Hope himself has declared in the past but Morpheus is listening.

“More like get in the way,” says Hope, his face still pressed to Morpheus’s shoulder. He sounds despondent now. Morpheus supposes people instigating fights with you simply because of your nature wouldn’t be pleasant. At least when people instigate fights with Morpheus, he’s usually done something to deserve it.

“You are not ‘in the way,’” he says. “If you are, then you are meant to be there. Like when you stepped into my path.”

“‘Least you didn’t punch me,” Hope mumbles.

“I considered it.”

Hope huffs. He pushes himself upright again, shaking his messy hair out of his eyes. He is so beautiful, even still speckled with blood and grime from the fight. Especially like that, if Morpheus is being honest with himself.

“So long as you never hated me,” Hope says. His voice is fragile now, and it hurts Morpheus’s heart. Hope is like a radiant sunbeam, and still more often than not people are only trying to throw shadows over him.

“I could never hate you,” he says, and Hope’s expression softens. Morpheus kisses him lightly on the lips. “I do not think they hate you either. You are… challenging. Just being around you… it is a confrontation in its own way. Especially for those who may have pushed you aside.”

“Even for you?” Hope says.

“Especially for me,” Morpheus tells him. He leans his cheek against Hope’s, overcome with fondness. Fondness that is greater for how frustrating Hope has been to him over the years, during those times of darkness. “It is how you saved me.”

“You saved you,” Hope says firmly. “But if I helped, then I’m glad.”

“Always.” Morpheus kisses the hinge of his jaw. “What would I do without you?”

“Now you’re just coming on to me.”

Morpheus hums, not disagreeing.

“Admit it,” Hope says, tangling fingers in Morpheus’s hair. “You’re into it. When I come home all bloody.”

“Mm. I am not.”

“Oh, you are. I can tell.”

Morpheus skates a hand up along his thigh. “Hm. Perhaps it makes you seem very fierce.” He kisses Hope’s mouth this time, swipes his tongue soothingly over his split lip, tasting just the tantalizing hint of blood. Leans in and—

“Ow!”

Morpheus pulls back, raising an eyebrow. Hope looks sheepish, pressing his hand to his nose, which Morpheus had bumped. Hope’s non-human body will heal quickly, but for now his nose remains at least partially broken.

Morpheus keeps giving him an unimpressed look. “I see you are gravely wounded.” Hope catches him by the hair before he can truly pull away, and he smiles. “I suppose… I will have to ply my mouth elsewhere. If you promise to be more careful.”

“For such a reward I’d promise anything,” Hope swears, and Morpheus obligingly sinks down, hands on Hope’s thighs. It is hardly a hardship.

“You do like this,” Hope swears. “Don’t try to pretend. You’re so transparent.”

“Perhaps you once punched a man in the face on my behalf, and perhaps I found it titillating,” Morpheus says, and Hope laughs. “Is it terrible if I wanted you to break his nose? Perhaps I am terrible. You do look appealing with blood on your hands. If it is not your own.”

Even Hope’s own torn, bruised knuckles do stir something in Morpheus, a fierce pride and terrible heat. But he worries for him also.

“Liar,” Hope crows, gleeful, “hypocrite. Terrible lecturer. You love it. You know you do.”

“Do not get yourself horribly maimed in a bar fight,” Morpheus orders. “However…” he takes one of Hope’s hands, kisses his knuckles, lets his lips linger there for a moment. “If you must be righteous and full of passion, then I will soothe your injuries later, oh knight of promise.”

“Terrible incentive, now I’m going to get worse,” Hope says. He caresses Morpheus’s cheek, thumbs at the corner of his mouth. His look on Morpheus is so fond, always. Then he says, “Alright, darling, for you, I’ll be careful.”

“Thank you.” Morpheus leans his face against Hope’s thigh, lets Hope play with his hair. In a moment he will indeed ply his mouth upon Hope’s body as promised, in a moment he will indulge the spark that Hope’s fierceness lights within him. But for this moment, he just stays close to him, a gentle valley in the topography of Hope’s violence. Morpheus has never been gentle for anyone before. He finds he likes it.

Hope leans down, smiling, and kisses the top of his head.

Morpheus does not like to be “out and about.” In fact, he generally detests it. But Hope likes to be out among people and Morpheus likes to be with Hope, so sometimes he goes. Besides, he likes to see Hope happy.

The White Horse is a safe space for them, anyway. Morpheus does not feel so uncomfortable there as he does at other crowded, loud establishments. He sits in his usual corner seat at the bar, nursing a drink and working on his writing, leaning lightly against Hope’s shoulder as Hope chats with whomever has come up to him now. He tends to attract people wherever he goes. Fortunately, no one has tried to start a fight, this time.

Hope leans in close to his ear. “Get some air with me?”

Morpheus smirks. Inevitably, getting some air will turn into Hope pushing him up against a wall and kissing him senseless. He is hardly opposed to that series of events.

Cold air washes over him as Hope leads him out to the back garden, around the corner to a private spot in the alley by the inn. It makes his hands feel even warmer as he takes Morpheus by the hips, leans him up against the wall as expected, thumbs stroking over his hip bones under his shirt. Morpheus smiles to himself.

“Did you get bored?” he teases.

Hope kisses his cheek, then his jaw, leans in close to his ear. “Hardly. You know my mind is always on you no matter what. But you were being so patient.” He tugs on Morpheus’s ear, then goes to his throat, kissing along his pulse. “How could I not reward my darling?”

“Knowing that I am the one you will go home with is its own reward,” Morpheus murmurs. He trails a hand up Hope’s back, pulls him close so their bellies are pressed together. “So many of those people in there want you. I see it. But they do not know that you are already taken.” It makes him feel privileged. And hungry.

Hope laughs. “Possessive little bastard.”

“Yes.” Hope is so radiant. To be the one chosen by him… it makes Morpheus’s soul sing. “You are mine. I am yours.”

“Yours,” Hope agrees. With that he moves to Morpheus’s lips and kisses him deep. Morpheus hums in pleasure, opens his mouth to him. Tastes the beer lingering on his tongue. Sinks into the press of Hope’s fingers on his hips, and—

“In public? Disgusting.”

Hope pulls away from him, and Morpheus grumbles in displeasure. Hope turns to the mouth of the alley, where a strange man is standing, expression of, indeed, disgust on his face.

When they don’t respond, the man steps closer until he's almost in their space. Hope’s jaw clenches but, perhaps remembering how Morpheus had chastised him for always getting into fights, he doesn’t yet react.

“Can we help you?” Morpheus asks. Not politely.

“By taking that somewhere else,” says the strange man. His tone is aggressive. And most of his attention seems to be on Hope, rather than Morpheus, which Morpheus doesn’t like. Morpheus has noticed before that Hope’s presence inspires ire to jump to action as often as it inspires positivity and good works. But this is the first time he has seen such outright aggression.

Maybe some people really do hate Hope.

“Mind your own business,” says Hope, stiffly.

“You fags shouldn’t be allowed out in public, it’s an insult to respectable people.” He’s still primarily looking at Hope, and it's hard to say if it's because he is the one who looks more traditionally masculine between the two of them, or if it is because of the inherent draw of Hope as an Endless. “Should fuck a real woman instead of that.”

Hope takes a quick step forward at the man’s words, expression hard.

“Hope—” Morpheus starts. Do not get yourself hurt again, he means to say. As much as I enjoy you defending our honor I also like you well. For Hope may have supernatural qualities that prevent him from dying but he is not invulnerable. His powers lie in his empathy, his charisma. Emotion and community. But he takes a punch like any other man. Comes home to Morpheus with a black eye like anyone else would.

Hope stops sharply as if caught on a leash. And Morpheus immediately regrets speaking, for the other man crows in victory.

“What are you, his little bitch? You a man or not?”

Hope flinches despite himself. Not, Morpheus thinks, because he cares so much about a stranger’s sense of masculinity, but because he prides himself on being able to handle himself. On being able to defend his lover. On being able to stand on his own feet after being broken down into shards by his imprisonment.

Morpheus often feels anger, is too quick to it even, but he does not often act on it with violence. It is not so much that he disapproves of violence as that he dislikes the attention associated with causing a scene, and, being rather slight, is usually at a disadvantage in any physical confrontation besides. Cutting words are his weapons instead.

But watching Hope shrink back, the hurt that flashes over him—a terrible spark jumps inside Morpheus. Hope is stronger, is better, than any person he knows. Has been through hell and come out of it still with more empathy than Morpheus has ever possessed in his life. Morpheus will not watch him made small.

He steps forward and punches the man square in the nose.

He hears a crunch. He’s not sure if it’s the nose, or his own knuckles. The man wheels back with a shriek, clutching his bleeding nose, and Morpheus stumbles back, too, shaking out his hand.

Hope has his hands over his mouth in shock, eyes wide. “Holy shit.” When he drops his hands, he’s grinning. “Holy shit.”

Holy shit indeed. Morpheus watches the man scamper off down the alley, casting one last dark look back at them. His hand hurts, he might have broken it—but the adrenaline pumping through his veins is much louder. He can’t quite believe he did that.

“How’d that feel?” Hope asks. He is a terrible influence sometimes. Always roping Morpheus into doing terrible things, like wanting to live.

A smile tugs at Morpheus’s lips. “It felt… good.”

“Yeah?” He’s still grinning madly. “Let me see your hand.”

Morpheus shows him. Hope prods gently at his knuckles, and winces.

“That’s gonna hurt for a while,” he says. “Your punching technique is terrible.” He kisses Morpheus’s hand anyway.

“Now you understand how I feel when you come home bloodied,” Morpheus says.

Hope’s eyes are sparkling. He does not seem like he’s learned a lesson from that at all. “Oh, I do.” He leans in close, presses his lips to the corner of Morpheus’s mouth. “You were…” his voice is a low hum, “incredible.”

“Do I get a reward?” Morpheus asks dryly, though his breath quickens at Hope’s proximity, the heat in his voice.

“For defending my honor? Anything.” He takes Morpheus’s uninjured hand. He smiles. He’s altogether too excited about Morpheus punching someone. Which only makes Morpheus want to do it again. Terrible influence, Hope. “Come home, and I’ll show you.”

But Morpheus catches him when Hope starts to tug him away. “Here.”

Hope raises an eyebrow at him, but he does look… interested. “Something to prove?”

Morpheus draws him close again, leans back against the wall so Hope is caging him in. “Perhaps I simply want you, and I do not care who knows about it.”

He touches low on Hope’s belly, his hand hidden between their bodies. He is not willing to truly expose them—though they are somewhat sequestered in the alley at the moment—but to play with the idea is… arousing. He wants Hope to touch him. Here, in their place. After Morpheus has hurt someone for him.

He cannot blame Hope for this. Morpheus is just a terrible influence upon himself.

“Menace,” Hope chuckles. “You’ve no high ground left, you know that, right? You’ve obliterated it.”

“I never did,” Morpheus says, as Hope lets him draw him in and kisses along his neck. “Always you have been the better of us.”

“In terms of exhibitionism, maybe,” Hope says. Even now, he won’t let Morpheus truly criticize himself. “I could be persuaded, though.”

With that, he slots their lips together. Sucks on Morpheus’s lower lip as he pushes him harder against the wall, Morpheus’s back scraping the brick. Morpheus groans, pulls him close by his hips so Hope’s swiftly-hardening erection is pressed against his, and Hope’s breath hitches against his mouth.

“Should I give you a proper reward?” Hope murmurs.

“Yes,” Morpheus breathes. “Hope—”

He loves Hope so much. He wants Hope so much.

“Vicious little thing, I love you so,” Hope says. And then, in the darkened alley by their favorite place, with his hands and mouth and the weight of his body and his devotion, he goes about showing Morpheus just how much.

#this has been sitting almost finished in my drafts for months...#dreamling #my writing #hope of the endless #hope x morpheus #cw homophobia #writing hate speech even for the purposes of the story (morpheus getting to punch someone) feels so fucking CRINGE like can you imagine #behaving like that. i think instead of countering hate speech with logic we should just start cringing at people like oh my god you talk #like that? 😬 cringe. you kiss your mother with that mouth? wow. everybody point and laugh at this idiot. the power of public shaming #anyway if it sounds super fucking cringe in the fic i apologize 😂

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spideybatsy · 2 years

Text

The Deal | Dream*

*of the Endless

Summary: The worst part of Dream's imprisonment is knowing you're getting closer to death every day.

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x GN!Reader

WC: 1.3K

Warnings: a bit of angst, if I do say.

Notes: "Despite his cold exterior, Dream is often passionate and infatuated with his lovers." This is all that played in my head while I wrote this, I hope you can see it come through <3 I also looked it up and apparently dreaming of bananas means you have a good sex life, so I threw in a few (-;

Masterlist

His palms lay on your back, pushing you further into his chest. Despite how long you’d been pressed into him, his skin still remained cool to the touch. His plush lips rest on your forehead, his even breath fanning across your nose.

Your nose brushed against his neck, and your cheek pushed into his shoulder. One arm around his back, the other resting on his chest. You’d been like this for hours, lying in bed and sharing the occasional kiss. Nights like these were rare but beautiful.

The peace was disturbed by the sound of pecking against the window. Jessamy.

Dream sighs, running one of his pale hands down your bare arm. It was scandalous, sleeping with a man while unmarried. You look down at the ring on your finger, silver with a black stone. A small smile found its way to your lips.

Soon enough, it won't be considered improper.

“I must go, duties call.” His voice sent shivers down your spine.

“Where to this time?” Morpheus may not be human but he travels a lot for work. There’s not a spot on this earth he hasn’t seen.

“Berlin.” He brings his hands up to your face, cradling it. “A rouge nightmare.”

“Maybe one day I’ll be able to join you on your adventures,” you hum.

The corners of his lips turn up, his eyes seem brighter. “I cannot wait.”

He runs his thumb across your lips, then leans in and places a soft kiss upon them.

“When will I see you next?” You ask, caressing his face with your hand.

He takes a moment to think about it. “I’ll be back on Tuesday.”

Tuesday, that’s only two sleeps away.

He moves his hands from you and runs his hands down your arms as he steps back. Your fingers intertwine with his.

“I’ll be waiting for you.” You smile shyly up at him, give his hands a squeeze and then let go.

He returns your smile and turns away, making it a few steps before you speak up.

“Be careful, I can’t have you dying on me.” You say a tad louder, making sure he can hear it as he walks away.

“I always am, my love.” He responds, looking back at you. “I’ll always come home to you.”

You smile to yourself as he leaves, closing the door behind him. The countdown to his return instantly starts and you begin planning what you can do. Perhaps a picnic in the park would be good, it is starting to get warm.

When Tuesday arrives, you have a basket prepared. You pack a range of cheeses, biscuits, sandwiches and even a few bananas, then wait at the door.

He never comes.

-----

By the time Dream escapes his captures, it’s been over 100 years. He cannot describe the pain in his heart. Captured, robbed, forced to watch Jessamy die and then trapped in a cage for decades.

The worst part? Knowing you are dead.

The love of his life, the person which kept him going every day and brought out the very best in him, is gone.

Dead.

He didn’t even get to say goodbye.

Part of him angry with his sister, infuriated even. The other part knows that it is not her fault. This is the fault of falling for a mortal.

He works hard and eventually gains back all his materials. Yet, the pain doesn’t fade. Every day, he thinks of you.

Did you wait for him?

He could ask his siblings but he’s not sure he wants to know. What would be worse, you wasting your life waiting for him, or you moving on and finding another man?

Dream never wants to admit to weakness but this, this pain? It’s soul destroying. At least when Nada was cast to hell, he had known where she was.

This is how he found himself in the park, feeding the birds. What was he to do now? He couldn’t move on, wouldn’t move on.

“What are you doing?” Death asked, sitting beside him on the small bench.

The two spoke for a while before leaving. It wasn’t until the very end of their interaction, back at the park, that you came up.

“I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned your partner.”

He said your name softly, eyes beginning to water. “There’s nothing to say, they’re dead.”

Death furrowed her eyebrows but stayed silent, waiting to see what he said next.

“It is the pain of loving a mortal.”

Death stopped, causing her brother to also halt.

“What are you talking about?” She sounded almost surprised. “Did you not look them up once you entered the Dreaming?”

“I could not bear to.” He admitted. “The mere thought of them hurts.”

Death sighed, “you’re an idiot. You know that?”

He didn’t respond, just furrowed his eyebrow.

“Once you’d disappeared, I went to their house.” Her voice softened. “I told of your imprisonment, and we made a deal.”

Dream stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not a monster, you know.” She replied, shaking her head. “As if I’d let your partner die while you were unable to say goodbye. You were in enough pain, I couldn’t do that to you.”

Morpheus felt something in his heart. It was bright, warm. It was hope.

“You mean to tell me-“

“That they're are still alive? Yes.”

Dream instantly pulled out his pouch of sand, taking some of the sand out.

“Tell them I said hello.”

-----

You didn’t notice as a figure appeared behind you, only hearing the music as you washed the dishes. Your favourite song from the olden days played, putting you in a good mood. It wasn’t very often you could listen to this genre, as it always reminded you of your long-lost love, Dream.

He’d been gone for at least a century now; you still missed him every day. Yet, there was hope in your heart. Death, his older sister, had agreed to take your mortality. She had promised that Morpheus would one day escape and come find you.

When? You did not know. But knowing it would, was enough for you.

As one song ended, another began. You couldn’t help but laugh when you recognised it.

“Mr. Sandman bring me a dream, make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen.” You poorly sang along, washing the plate.

“I only have myself, unfortunately.”

Every muscle in your body froze as recognition ran through you. The plate dropped back into the soapy water, soaking your shirt.

Slowly, you turned around to face him. He looked as beautiful as the day you lost him, cheek bones high-strung and hair as black as midnight.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding in, tears instantly running down your face.

“I-“ you couldn’t speak, opting to instead stare up at him.

Has he gotten taller? His shoulders look strong in his plain black shirt, jacket discarded on the ground.

A moment passed, then you ran into his arms. He wrapped one hand around you back, using the other one to press your face against his chest. You hung onto him, hands fisting his shirt. It felt like he’d disappear if you let go.

He rested he cheek against your head, tears trailing down into your hair.

The two of you stood like that for a while, grappling with your own disbelief.

Dream pulled away first, unbothered by the tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry for missing our date.”

You laughed, grabbing the front of his shirt, and pulling him back into the hug.

“It’s okay.” You whispered, voice hearse. “You have forever to make up for it.”

#dream #the sandman #morpheus #dream of the endless #sandman netflix #tom sturridge #netflix the sandman #dream x reader #morpheus x reader #sandman #the sandman x reader #sandman x reader #sandman universe #sandman 2022 #sandman series #neil gaiman #Neil if you see this not you didnt #I guess I really enjoy writing this genre #I hate love but I love this love

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fulcrvm · 5 months

Text

I am thinking thoughts about airports and flying again. And Dreamling, of course.

So. Human AU. History professor Hob has to fly around a lot for work, perhaps for conferences or smth of the sort so it's always to a small handful of the same nearby cities. He's pretty neutral on the idea of flying in general, though he wishes it was a bit more environmentally friendly, but Hob is a sucker for a nice airport and especially a nice airport lounge during layovers or before boarding.

Hob has begun to frequent a small local airline (White Horse Air, the logo is a coat of arms with a little pegasus, wyvern, and hippogriff on it, haha) when traveling because he likes their service (they've never lost his bags, not even once!) and their flights are never fully booked, which makes them quieter and easier for hob's chronic pains. He always picks seats with no one next to him so he can sprawl out and so it's easier on his knees.

Until, one day, he boards the little plane and there's someone in the seat next to his. Hob's sure that when he booked his seat, the other one was empty. Oh well, whatever, Hob's not going to bother the other man already sitting there for one flight— he'll just have to be a little more mindful booking next time. Hob shuffles into the seat, and notices that the stranger sat beside him is reading Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur! Hob gets excited because! That's a William Caxton publication! And Hob has so much to say about Caxton! He turns to the stranger to strike up conversation about it and... is immediately lost at how pretty the stranger is. Handsome, gorgeous, yes of course, but pretty, with the shell pink lips and focused blue eyes and slight frown at the book in his hands. Hob picks up his metaphorical jaw off the metaphorical ground and strikes up conversation with the stranger. Though the other man starts off apprehensive, somehow the two hours of flying fly by and the two of them end up talking about all sorts of art, history, and everything in between. Hob learns that the stranger works in publishing, thus his interest in Caxton.

Their flight lands, and the two of them disembark at the gate, still attempting to continue their conversation while Hob tries to wrangle his carry-on bags. (The Stranger only has a small laptop bag on one shoulder and a suit jacket folded over his other arm with him.) Then Hob has to check the time and begrudgingly says that he should probably head towards his next gate soon— this is just a layover after all. The Stranger looks ever so slightly disappointed and admits that this is his actual destination and he needs to meet his sister soon. They part ways, and Hob tries to dwell on the strange warmth in his chest. He thinks about the Stranger for his entire work trip afterwards.

This, somehow, happens a couple times. Turns out they both frequent White Horse Air, and though they're never in booked seats next to each other again, the flights are always empty enough that they can shift to sit next to each other once the plane's in the air. They chat the flight away, and then part ways once they disembark, with the Stranger headed to the baggage claim and Hob to his next flight. One time, the Stranger even requests the hostess to bring out a special bottle of Chateau Lafitte 1828 just for the two of them to share. Hob's in awe. He really enjoys their conversations, it's nice to be able to talk about his interests in a non-academia environment. The Stranger always has the most intriguing and eye-opening perspectives on everything, too. It doesn't really help that Hob thinks... maybe he's developing a tiny, teeny, really inconsequential really crush on his Stranger. He's not in grade school anymore, how does he feel like this about someone he doesn't even know the name of yet!

This all comes to a head when Hob mentions to the Stranger that his layover is a bit longer than it usually is, and if the Stranger is in no rush, they can continue their conversation in one of the airport's lounges. White Horse Air is a bit too small an airline to have their own lounge, but Hob's collected enough miles to get into one of the other airline lounges and is fully willing to pay to get in one if it means more time with his Stranger.

The Stranger is extremely enthusiastic about the idea— which shows up physically as a subtle, coy upturning at the corner of his mouth and a little sparkle in his eye. (Hob feels proud that he can read this reaction so well.) He's so enthusiastic, in fact, that the Stranger offers to get them both into a first-class lounge. Hob doesn't even pretend to hesitate to say yes.

Let's just say they get to the lounge, split some cheese and wine, and the proceed to get even more enthusiastic with each other in a private room. Hob's lucky he brought a change of clothes in his carry-on. (Maybe Hob's not so lucky and can't sit comfortably during his next three-hour flight.)

Hob gets a bit emotional when he has to leave for his next flight (already missing being able to hold his Stranger's face so gently, being able to card his fingers through his soft, smokey hair) and gets his guts together to ask if the Stranger wants to exchange phone numbers or something, so they can be in contact more regularly. Perhaps even, meet on purpose maybe? The Stranger smiles and kisses him lightly on the cheek when he slips a business card into Hob's hand.

Hob's so caught up in it all that he doesn't check the business card until he's fully boarded and sat on his next flight. And he gawks.

Morpheus Aion The Dreaming Publishing House

As in, one of White Horse Air's biggest shareholders? Aion, as in, probably the sibling of Teleute Aion? As in, Teleute Aion, the CEO of White Horse Air?! Hob almost passes out.

In the end, Morpheus and Hob laugh it out. Morpheus promises he never abused his sibling privileges to invade Hob's privacy, but used the sibling perks to frequent White Horse Air flights a little more than he even needed to just for the chance to see Hob again. They're both happy to not need to keep flying just for that chance anymore, haha. Idiots in love! Turns out, while Teleute lives where Hob keeps having his layovers, Morpheus and Hob actually live just a few hours driving from each other from their shared initial departure location. It all works out perfectly, and Morpheus self-restraint from inviting Hob to move in (so they don't have to keep travelling to see each other, no matter how small) lasts not even a year after they officially start dating. Hob doesn't even pretend to hesitate to say yes :)

(Years down the line, much after they're married, Hob finally has enough miles to get them back into those first-class lounges to have more fun. It's all very lovely.)

#my thought process was “can i get them to fuck in an airport lounge room” and then i never even wrote that part #guess what i am also a sucker for a nice airport and an even nicer airport lounge. i am yearning for a nice flight rn #i genuinely love flying so much. not domestic travel but international travel is what my entire life revolves around and i am allowed to #romanticise it a little bit haha #anyway #(me describing morpheus' lips with a guitar color) ah yes literature #how the hell do i tag this #i dont usually post idea dumps like this but i have no where else to put it haha #i'd love to write it but i dont think i'd know how to approach this lol #if anyone wants to take this as a prompt go ahead!!#the sandman #dreamling #dc #rex speaks #rex writes #(?)#long post

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notallsandmen · 2 months

Text

*shakes Gargoyle Dream with stained glass wings in front of artist mutuals* PLZ

#I can only draw stick figures #but I can write fic for it #dream of the endless #morpheus #the sandman fanart

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five-and-dimes · 3 months

Text

A White Blank Page

Hob Gadling messed up, and he just wants Dream to forgive him. But first he has to convince Dream that he did, in fact, mess up.

AO3

The first problem, Hob thinks, is that Dream ultimately struggles with balance. Left to his own devices, he is a pendulum swinging back and forth, never managing to settle in a comfortable middle. It is endearing, and frustrating, and heartbreaking, and so very sweet, but Dream simply tries much too hard.

The second problem, is that Hob has had a fucking terrible day.

It starts off wrong when he hits ‘off’ instead of ‘snooze’ on his alarm. By the time he’s realized his mistake he’s forced to skip coffee and breakfast in order to have any hope of getting to work only a little late.

Which means he’s hungry, tired, and developing a caffeine headache during his least favorite class of the week. In general he loves his job as a university professor, but every now and then he got groups like this one- who never did the readings, didn’t participate, and overall made it very clear that they didn’t want to be here, no matter the work Hob put into the lesson plans to try to get them engaged.

By the time he finally makes it to the staff break room, he only manages a single sip of coffee before turning a corner and immediately running into another professor and dumping the hot liquid all over himself. It’s about then that he begins to suspect with growing dread that this is just going to be One Of Those Days.

And unfortunately, he’s right. He spends the work day in a coffee stained shirt, a student after class eats up half his lunch break asking questions that were definitively covered in the syllabus, he hits his knee hard on the edge of his desk, and when he finally gets to his car to go home, he finds the battery dead and ends up spending nearly an hour tracking down someone with jumper cables to give him a jump start.

The door to his flat slams shut behind him as Hob practically throws his messenger bag on the floor. Sighing heavily, he ran his hands through his hair as he made a beeline for the shower. You’d think after six hundred years and many days far worse than this one that he’d be less of a mess. But the truth was, as much as he loved life, he was still human, with a human’s temperament and an absolute disdain for stupid days like this one. Especially when he gets out of the shower and realizes he forgot to grab a towel, the minute warmth and relaxation he’d managed effectively killed when he’s forced to run wet and naked through his cold apartment to fetch one from the linen closet.

So yeah. It’s been a terrible day.

He’s frustrated, and annoyed, and just over this damned day. All he wants is something quick and easy for dinner and maybe a drink before falling into bed to make the day end faster, who cares that it’s barely 6pm.

And that’s when Dream arrives.

In hindsight, Hob should have been expecting him. Dream usually stopped by to visit his lover near the end of the night, sitting with Hob to hear about his day even if just for a little before being drawn back to his duties. They scheduled their longer dates, but Hob was accustomed to Dream popping in whenever he had a chance and knew that Hob was free. His appearance now was not unusual.

But Hob wasn’t thinking about his usual routine. All he was thinking about was his own frustration with everything around him. So instead of a small startle that he brushed off with a laugh, the sudden sound of swirling sand and a deep voice greeting “Hello Hob” had him jumping, his heart racing as his hands flailed and knocked over the beer he had just opened.

That is, apparently, the last straw.

"Jesus, FUCK," Hob slams his hands on the counter, face twisted in anger and he misses the way Dream flinches as he snaps around and shouts, "Would it kill you to use the bloody door? At least then I'd have the option not to open it!"

There is a moment where Hob swears the lights flicker, and Dream’s face darkens like a shadow has passed over him. It is there and gone too fast for him to be certain it wasn’t just his own rage warping his vision.

But then, much more blatantly, Dream… shrinks. Although maybe it's just the way he curls in on himself, averting his eyes and clasping his hands in front of him.

"I sincerely apologize, Hob," there is genuine guilt in Dream's voice, and even through the haze of anger it makes Hob's chest clench. "I will return another time more appropriately." He bows his head and between a blink of an eye is gone from the apartment as quickly as he had arrived.

Hob stalks into the living room, grabs a pillow off the couch and screams into it.

~~~

The next morning, Hob feels… good.

Well, physically he feels good. He has vague memories of a pleasant dream, his body feels loose and well rested, his blankets are warm and comfortable, and he has just enough time before his alarm goes off to get up leisurely. It is, all things considered, a perfect morning.

Which makes him feel, emotionally, like complete and utter shit.

In general, Dream does not interfere with Hob’s sleep. The exceptions being scheduled dream dates, and one instance when Hob had had persistent nightmares for over a week and eventually resorted to begging Dream for a night of dreamless sleep. Most of the time though, Dream has expressed that he thinks it’s important for Hob to experience the Dreaming without his meddling, which Hob understands. If anything, he thinks it makes the times he does spend lucid in the Dreaming more special.

But this morning has the unmistakable impression of Dream’s influence.

When they first reunited, Dream spent every other breath offering Hob things. Boons and answers and powerful trinkets, anything Hob might want in order to make up for his actions in 1889, and for his absence in 1989. It had taken several weeks for Hob to convince him that he was forgiven. That he didn’t need to ‘make up’ for anything, didn’t need to pay Hob back in any way.

This- this perfectly peaceful sleep and soft morning- feels the same. An offering Dream has left at his feet in hopes of forgiveness.

Yeah. Hob feels like shit.

Forcing himself to rise, to disentangle himself from the comfort of his blankets, he makes the decision to deal with one thing at a time. He quickly shoots an email out to the class he has today. He knows he has no hope of focusing on lecturing today, and so he apologizes for canceling at the last minute and attaches a file for a worksheet to complete for the next week. He takes a shower, and in a moment of indulgent self-deprecation, keeps the water icy cold, washing away any lingering comfort from his restful night.

Sitting at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee, he sighs and puts his head in his hand. He knows he overreacted, that his words were mean and entirely uncalled for. A small part of him shivers in fear that Dream won’t come back- that his anger with Hob will drive him away just as it did in 1889. But he shakes his head, trying to think logically. Dream has promised him, more than once, to always come back to Hob. Not to mention, Dream’s influence on his sleep the night before suggests that Dream is not gone, but simply waiting for Hob to calm down.

He’s on his second cup of coffee when he looks up and happens to glance at the window. There is, he’s pretty sure, a raven on his windowsill. That raven is, he’s pretty sure, Matthew. They’ve met a handful of times, and he doesn’t think a normal raven could give the impression of glaring quite like this one. Then again, given his luck the past few days, he could very well be about to open his window for a perfectly normal waking world crow.

Approaching the window cautiously, he calls out, “Matthew? That you?”

“No, it’s your mother. Now be a good boy and open the fucking window.”

“Jeez, I was just checking…” Hob grumbled as he unlatched the window, allowing Matthew to glide inside and land on the back of one of his kitchen chairs. “Did… did Dream send you?”

Matthew looks ruffled, “Yes and no. I was just supposed to keep an eye on you from afar, but I have GOT to know what’s going on.”

Hob frowned, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the Dreaming is freaking out. There are these earthquakes popping up all over the place, and when I asked the boss man about it, he just said he ‘wronged Hob Gadling’, which coming from him could mean anything from he broke a teacup to he accidentally started a war. So then he’s all, ‘Matthew’,” he deepened his voice in an impression of Dream, “Go and check on Hob Gadling and bring me news of his emotional state’. Which, I THINK means find out if you’re mad at him? So.” He shrugs as much as a raven is able, “Are you mad at him?”

Hob really doesn’t want to cry in front of Matthew. Still, he can’t keep his voice from cracking with guilt when he answers, “No.” He takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself, “No, of course not! I just… I had a bad day and I overreacted.”

“Oof, we’ve all been there,” Matthew shakes his head sympathetically, “What’d he do to set you off? Cause he feels real bad about it.”

Here, Hob hesitates. Sometimes he feels like Matthew doesn’t really like him, and he has the boyfriend instinct to want, very badly, for Dream’s friends to approve of him. He doesn’t think Matthew will approve of this.

“He… he didn’t really do anything. He, uh, showed up and startled me and I just… y’know… yeah.”

Matthew, expectedly, looks extremely unimpressed, “He ‘showed up’.”

“I mean he, y’know, he did the thing where he just appears, and it always gives me a heart attack but this time I just-”

“Well have you fucking told him that?” Matthew squawks at him, “Jeez, I thought he killed your dog or something the way he was acting. No wonder he didn’t want to check on you himself if he thinks just being here is what made you mad at him!”

“I know!” Hob collapses onto the couch, burying his face in his hands to hide the way his eyes have begun to water, “I feel awful. Could you please, please tell him that? I want to see him so I can apologize properly.”

“Hmf,” Matthew grumbled, looking as annoyed as a raven can, “I’m tempted to let you stew, except for the fact that that would suck for the boss too. Also I’m afraid if I wait too long all those earthquakes are going to turn into a ‘Tremors’ situation.”

Hob let out a sigh of relief, looking up to give Matthew a grateful look, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. But you owe me! I want one of those cakes that’s soaked in rum, got it?”

“Anything,” Hob says without hesitation.

Matthew grumbles a bit more, but looks somewhat sympathetic as he flies back out the window to deliver the message. He knows the raven is right- he’s never told Dream not to do his magic appearing act, he’s always just laughed and greeted him, never gave any indication that Dream should change his arrival. And to be honest, it really didn’t bother Hob. It had just been poor timing the night before, through no fault of Dream’s, and Hob felt awful that his lover got caught in the crossfire of a simple bad day.

So he sits patiently, back straight like a child in the principal's office, mentally rehearsing his apology. Time passes, and he’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he nearly misses the soft knock on his front door. Furrowing his brow in confusion, he stands to answer. He’s halfway to the door before he realizes what is happening, and he sprints the rest of the way.

It feels petty, but he figures Dream has earned a bit of pettiness given Hob’s behavior. Sure enough, when he throws the door open, it is Dream standing before him. He is standing straight and regal, as he always does, but Hob swears he is smaller than usual- shorter, thinner, more delicate. As statuesque as ever, but glass instead of marble.

“Hello Hob.”

Dream’s voice is carefully neutral, and Hob can’t help but wince, “Dream, thank you for coming.” He steps back, gesturing for Dream to enter, which he does after a brief moment of hesitation. As he closes the door, Hob takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself to grovel to one of the forces of the universe. It’s not like he’s never gotten into a fight with a partner, he’s certainly had his fair share of screw-ups, but that doesn’t make it feel any better. Not to mention, there’s always the lingering fear of Dream not accepting his apology and simply storming off to a place Hob can’t follow.

Well, there was nothing for it but to try. So with one last steadying breath, Hob turned to face Dream.

“I would like to apologize.”

Hob blinked. His mouth was open, but it was Dream’s voice that rang through the room.

For a long moment they stared at each other in silence, and then Hob shook his head in confusion, “I-... what?”

Dream stiffened, his hands clasped regally in front of him and his eyes on the floor, “I wish. To apologize. For my behavior yesterday. I will do whatever you require of me to make amends.”

There was another pause while Hob gaped, feeling lost, “Wait, you’re not mad at me?”

“For what?” Dream tilted his head in question.

“For- for snapping at you! I yelled at you, for no reason! I should be apologizing to you!” Hob’s arms flailed as he explained, but Dream remained still and stoic.

“Nonsense.” He replied, “You did no wrong.”

And here, Hob frowns, his confusion of the situation shifting into concern. “Yes, I did,” he states slowly, “Dream, the way I acted wasn’t okay.”

“Why? You are within your rights to admonish me when I am at fault.”

“But you weren’t at fault!”

“Obviously I was, to invoke such ire from you.”

“No, no, no,” Hob waved his hands frantically, “That’s exactly my point. I was in the wrong here, because you didn’t do anything and I snapped anyway. And, and I was mean, it’s okay if you’re mad at me for that.”

Dream blinked slowly, expression blank and unchanging at Hob’s words. Hob ran his fingers through his hair, groaning in frustration and dropping down onto the couch, "Oh my God, I've never had to convince a partner to be upset with me before."

"And you do not have to now," Dream frowned, cautiously moving to sit beside him, "You are allowed to express your displeasure with me. I was the one who misstepped. Tell me what I must do for you to accept my apology. Please."

"You don't have anything to apologize for! That's what I'm saying! I need to apologize because I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that-”

“I would not begrudge you taking your frustrations out on me when I am the cause of such frustrations," Dream interrupted. His voice was even and cool, back straight as he sat still and regal. He was far too put together. Especially next to Hob who was literally pulling his hair out.

"No, see, that's-" Hob paused, breathing deeply and trying to at least somewhat compose himself.

"Okay. First of all, you weren't the cause of my frustrations. I'd had a bad day and snapped when I shouldn't have." Dream opens his mouth to argue but Hob cuts him off, "And secondly, even if you were the cause, that doesn't give me the right to be mean. We're in a relationship, that means we talk about these things. You’re allowed to be mad at me when I fuck up.”

Dream stares at him blankly, brows furrowing ever so slightly in confusion, and Hob throws his arms in the air, “Christ, it wasn’t this hard to make you mad when I called you lonely.”

It’s a low blow and Hob knows it, regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips, but if nothing else he hopes maybe Dream will finally snap back.

He doesn’t.

Lowering his head in shame, Dream seems to wilt in front of him, “Yes. It is precisely that which has lost me any right to shy from your retribution.”

Hob gaped in blatant horror, “You don’t lose the right to your feelings just because you messed up once-!”

“More than once,” Dream interrupts, his voice hardening, and he forces his eyes up to meet Hob’s gaze, “I have wronged you many times in our acquaintance. You have been kind and generous with me, but I have not forgotten that I have earned your retribution.”

It is perhaps not the best response, but all Hob can do is lean forward, put his head in his hands, and breathe deeply.

It’s not like he didn’t know Dream had some messed up ideas about relationships, but it’s still a lot to take in at once, especially after a day of bracing for something completely different. He was prepared for anger and offense. He was not prepared for this shame.

He realizes that he would take Dream’s pride over this any day.

“Dream,” he speaks slowly, turning back to look at where his lover is still sitting rigid and tense beside him, “I forgave you for that. I forgave you for all of it, a long time ago. There’s… there’s no scoreboard between us.”

He wants, very badly, to take Dream’s hands into his own. But a part of him feels like Dream might shatter if he touches him. Dream’s eyes search his face, and when he speaks, his voice is cold.

"It is not. Just you,” he says, “I have made many mistakes during my existence. I have hurt many people. I am greedy, and arrogant, and do not connect well with others. And I was blind to it, for so long. I know it took me too long to recognize that and to begin making amends, but I am trying to do better now,” Here his eyes drop, shame and sorrow and defeat drawing tears to the corners of his eyes, “I am not doing this right. I know I'm messing this up, and it is unfair of me to ask, but I would gladly give you anything if you would give me another chance."

“I’ll give you as many chances as you need,” Hob replies carefully, “but you don’t need one this time. You aren’t messing anything up. You haven’t done anything wrong. This time I messed up.”

“You did not-“

“Yes, I did,” Hob cut in firmly, "I'm not perfect. You know I'm not. Not every fight or argument is going to be your fault. I'm going to make mistakes too, and I'm not going to let you blame yourself for things that aren't your fault. And I definitely don’t want you to just…. let me hurt you.”

Dream blinks, and while his face remains blank, it’s becoming more obvious how much of an effort it’s taking him to keep it that way.

“Even if I deserve it?”

Despite himself, Hob stands in frustration, “You don’t deserve it!” He snaps.

And here, finally, Dream snaps back, “I have hurt you in the past-“

“That doesn’t mean I’m allowed to hurt you!” Hob interrupts, “Come on, you can be mad at me! You can have feelings when I mess up, and then we’ll work it out and move on, but don’t… don’t just wave it away.” There’s a long pause, and Hob asks, “If I mess up later, would that mean I lose the right to be mad at you?”

Dream snaps his head to meet his gaze, “That’s different.”

“How?”

“You’re different.”

“How?” Hob repeats, insistent.

Dream’s jaw tenses, grinding his teeth together as he looks at Hob with something between sorrow and frustration, “You are a person. You cannot hurt me the way I can- and have- hurt others. The rules are different for me because the consequences are different.” His hands are clenched into fists on his lap, his eyes darting to the side as he grinds out quietly, “I have more than proven that I do not learn when I am given leeway.”

There is a stretch of silence, Dream sitting tense and miserable while Hob stands and tries to find the words that will just make all of this better.

Finally, Hob moves to sit beside Dream again, ducking his head to try to catch Dream’s eye, “Being hurt isn’t a lesson for you to endure. Me being mean to you isn’t going to make you a better person or whatever.”

Dream still won't look at him, so he reaches out to lay a hand on one of his tightly clenched fists, “Dream… what are you afraid of?”

For a long moment, Dream simply stares down at where their hands are touching. Hob can feel the slightest tremor in his fingers as he slowly answers.

"Sometimes…” He falters, inhaling deeply before continuing, “Sometimes terrible things happen to good people." Here, he finally looks up to meet Hob's gaze, everything about him resigned and defeated, "You are a good person. I do not want to be the terrible thing that happens to you."

Hob feels his breath leave him like he’s been gut punched, “You’re not a ‘thing’. You’re not terrible, either. And I’m not as good as you think I am. I think, somewhere in there, you know that.”

“Hob-”

“I’ve committed atrocities. You know that, because you talked me out of committing them for longer, and that’s just the ones you heard about. I did a lot of things between our meetings, Love. I think I’m just… younger. Maybe I haven’t had the time to make a list as long as yours, but give it time.”

“Yes, you are younger. And already you are learning from your mistakes. I am ancient. My wrongs are ancient. And only now do I seek to be better. How monstrous would it be, then, to dare feel hurt by my punishment when I have so earned it?”

“I wasn’t punishing you! Not then, not now, not ever. Dream, you’re trying, so hard, I see that. We’re both just two bad people trying to be better, and I’ll forgive you your mistakes along the way if you’ll forgive mine. But I need you to see mine, first.”

There, again, he sees the way Dream’s jaw tenses, a slight shift like he’s grinding his teeth together. Hob realizes, in that moment, that the anger is there, tightly leashed and buried under the heavy weight of shame.

Feeling brave, he reaches out to cup Dream’s face in his hand, stroking his thumb along the tense line of his jaw, “Look, I’m not asking you to storm off again. I’d actually really rather you didn’t. I appreciate that you’re trying to change and react better than before, I do, I think it’s amazing. I think you’re amazing. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be upset with me at all.”

Dream releases a sharp exhale through his nose, his eyes fluttering shut. But he also leans a little heavier into Hob’s hand. He is slow to speak, gathering his words as well as the courage to speak them. Eventually though, he admits to Hob softly, “When you… reprimanded me, I was... Frightened. That I had managed to drive you away without even noticing,” his voice wavers and becomes impossibly softer, “That I managed to make you hate me despite my best efforts.” He swallows thickly before visibly steeling himself to continue, “And then. I was irritated, I suppose.” Opening his eyes, he looks at Hob, and there is frustration, and fear, and confusion, “I would have changed my behavior sooner had you but told me that it bothered you.”

“I know. I know you would,” Hob assures, “The truth is, it doesn’t bother me. Not usually. It was just poor timing and catching me in a bad mood.”

Humming, Dream’s expression is still wary, “I will abstain from arriving unannounced from now on.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I would rather,” Dream interrupts, “not risk catching you in a ‘bad mood’ again.” His voice is a little stronger, a little more of the frustration seeping through, more confidence building the more Hob keeps holding him through it.

Hob nods, giving him a self-deprecating smile, “That’s understandable.”

Furrowing his brows, Dream tilts his head, looking at Hob in awe, “You… truly forgive me?”

“Of course,” Hob replies with no hesitation, “I’ll always forgive you. I’m not dating your past, I’m dating you. Who you are now. Who you’re trying to be.”

Dream searches his face for a long minute, confused and suspicious and still handing his heart to Hob all the same. He nods, “I wish you had not shouted at me. And I forgive you for it.”

Hob smiles, his body sagging in relief as he leans forward to press their foreheads together, “Thank you.”

Looking at Dream, Hob gets the feeling he doesn’t truly understand. That he thinks Hob will change his mind or come to his senses, that this is just something else to get his hopes up and his guard down so it hurts more when it crumbles around him. Hob doesn’t think this one conversation will settle Dream into a balance between his pride and shame.

But they’ve got time.

And Hob’s no saint, so he’s certain there will be plenty of opportunities for them to forgive each other.

#the sandman #dreamling #my writing #I don't know I just needed it to be done lol #That moment when you realize Hob is 100% a Morpheus Apologist lololol

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martybaker · 11 months

Text

Whiskey for the good times

It’s a warm June evening and Dream is sitting at the end of the bar at The New Inn, watching Hob at work.

Priya the bartender called in sick and so Hob is manning the bar himself tonight. The inn is full of patrons and Hob is kept busy, clever fingers handling various bottles of liquor. He chats amicably with regulars and newcomers alike, ever with a kind smile on his face, even though there is a sheen of sweat at his temples, testament to his hard work.

And despite the crowd, whenever there’s a lull in the influx of warm bodies demanding his attention, he finds a moment to wind back to Dream, to give him a refill, a new anecdote, an observation about a patron, or just a smile before he’s called back to duty.

Dream enjoys their conversations, but he enjoys simply watching Hob at work as well, and he has had plenty of opportunities to do so over the last year. Since his escape from Fawney Rig and the subsequent demands of his office, his visits to the Waking world had became much more frequent. But not only because of his duties, but also thanks to the newly rediscovered pleasure of Hob’s company.

They agreed to meet once a month, so Hob could more thoroughly catch Dream up on all the things he has missed during the years of his…detainment, and slowly conversations over a drink turned into invites to, quote, “hang out” with Hob outside of the New Inn as well. Some things are better shown than told, he said, and Dream smiled and complied rather too easily. Their monthly meetings became weekly, and though Dream was notoriously prone to getting lost in his work, he suddenly found himself in the habit of time keeping and counting down days until their next meeting.

Today, however, is special. The calendar on the wall reads June 7th in bold black letters. A day as any other, but also their day.

Dream watches Hob, circling the rim of his glass with his finger.

Currently Hob is held at the other end of the bar by a pair of young giggling women he seems to be familiar with, presumably his students. They keep glancing in Dream’s direction, and Hob’s face is growing redder by the minute. He keeps shaking his head, disputing whatever notion they’re pushing, but the girls seem relentless.

Eventually, when he makes his way back to Dream, Dream cannot help letting his curiosity take over.

“Your students?”

Hob nods, a faint flush still visible on his cheeks.

“What were they inquiring about?”

Hob huffs, shaking his head. “They were making fun of their old history professor, s’wat they been doing.”

Dream rises his eyebrows at him.

Hob sighs, fidgeting under the gaze, but eventually breaks.

“They were asking if you were a good kisser,” he admits, darting away with his gaze as soon as he says it, tugging nervously at his ear.

Dream’s eyebrows shoot up even higher. “Were they? What did you tell them?”

Hob blinks at him. “The truth? That I wouldn’t know?”

“Hmm,” Dream hums, twirling the amber liquid in his glass. He slowly puts it down, then reaches across the bar and pulls Hob towards him, leaning in to join their lips. Hob makes a noise of surpise against him but then falls into the kiss, tasting the whiskey from Dream’s lips.

When Dream pulls back, Hob sways on his feet, looking lost with his mouth hanging open and pupils dilated. His hands clench, frozen in midair as if he wanted to hold onto Dream but wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

There’s a whistle and laughter from the other side of the bar.

Dream picks up his glass again and smiles at Hob beatifically. “There. So you could give them an honest review.”

Hob blinks at him and makes a noise like a squeezed rubber duck.

Dream cannot help the grin tugging on his lips as he nods in the direction of the women, encouraging Hob to return back to them to relay his impressions.

Hob unfreezes slowly, shaking his head, running a hand through his hair and muttering “bloody hell” under his breath before he hesitently makes his way back to the other side of the bar. The students immediately latch onto him, rejuvinated by the display as well as the liquir running through their veins.

When Hob comes back to uncork new bottles for the customers he is unusually quiet and the red on his cheeks seems to have made a permanent residence there.

As he grabs for a bottle of tequilla it slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor, minutely interrupting the rumor of conversations before they’re picked up again.

“Bollocks!” He curses.

Dream hears himself laugh. Not a full on raucous laugh, just a chuckle, but Hob looks at him with wide eyes, as if he was seeing the eight wonder of the world.

Hob laughs too, breaking the moment, and returns his attention to the shattered bottle.

“Look what you’ve done to me!” he says, grabbing for a broom and glancing at Dream with mirth dancing in his eyes.

“Menace.”

Dream hides his smile in his glass. He feels a sparkling feeling in his chest, which doesn’t seem right because alcohol shoud have no effect on him unless he lets it. Perhaps his control is slipping, or perhaps it’s just the pleasent buzz of the evening and good company.

Perhaps he doesn’t mind all that much, letting his control slip tonight.

Having cleaned the mess, Hob comes back to him, as he always does, and gives him a crooked smile. “You’ve just about made their day tonight. I won’t hear the end of it at the uni, thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” Dream drawls, leaning his head on his hand. He gives Hob a once-over, gesturing at his shirt that’s been soaked by the alcohol. “You might want to take that off.”

Hob looks at his shirt, then back at Dream, huffing in disbelief. “Was that the plan all along??”

“An unforseen benefit.”

“Uhuh,” Hob says, giving Dream a dubious look. “Heavens, you are in a mood tonight. Should have given me a warning beforehand, I don’t know if I can survive a whole evening of this,” he says, gesturing at the whole of Dream.

“You can survive anything,” Dream reminds him.

“Physically, maybe, but my composure? My dignity? My sanity? I am really not all that sure, love.”

Dream smiles, keeps smiling, really, as he doesn’t seem to be able to do otherwise tonight. He downs the last sip of whiskey along with the sweet tingle of Hob’s endearment.

“Want a refill?” Hob nods at his empty glass. “Or would you like to try something new? Something more daring?” he says, rising his eyebrows in a challenge. “Since that seems to be the vibe tonight.”

Dream hums. “Perhaps i would like to try something old.”

If Dream knew Hob’s reactions to a little bit of flirting would be so entertaining, he would have endeavoured to do so sooner. Hob grows even redder in the face if that’s even possible, huffing and blinking rapidly, seemingly unable to decide what to do with his hands which he twists together, then crosses across his chest, then lets fall against his sides again, smoothing down the seams of his trousers.

He shakes his head and rubs his forehead.

“You’re something else, Dream,” he says with a deep sigh.

“Yes, that is a correct assesment.”

Hob rolls his eyes.

“Hey, Mickey!” He yells at a regular at a nearby table, “would you like to make a quick buck? Can you come over to man the bar for a minute? I need to change.”

“Sure thing, mate!”

Hob takes of his apron, muscles flexing underneath the shirt made half translucent, and Dream wants.

“Do you need assistance,” he asks nonsensically, but Hob understands it for the proposal that it is.

Hob’s eyes grow wide. He laughs, shaking his head. “Christ, if I were really working here I would get fired for this,” he says, but he beckons at Dream who slips from his chair and joins Hob at the other side of the bar. Hob puts his hand on his back and nudges him towards the backroom.

“Lucky you are the owner, then,” Dream points out.

“Yeah, lucky,” Hob says, hand slipping around Dream’s waist from behind, and kisses Dream’s neck as he closes the door behind them.

——————

Happy 7th of June dreamling nation!

Here’s something for ‘Ep6 continuation’ prompt of Dreamling Week :)

#dreamling #dreamlingweek2023 #dreamlingweek #dreamling week #dreamling week 2023 #my writing #the sandman #sandman #dream x hob #hob x dream #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream the endless #morpheus #sandman dreamling #not beta-ed we die like jessamy

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