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cuubism · 8 months

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the better to see you with, my dear | spy hob/king dream au

canon-adjacent, spy!hob, post-character death, blood & violence, king & loyal knight dynamic, slow burn, developing relationship, loyalty devotion and sacrifice, power dynamics, hob gadling - royal spy of the dreaming

Hob escapes from Death and finds himself in the Dreaming. Instead of sending him back, the King of Dreams makes him an offer: will you be my spy?

[cover image from Arthur Rackham's illustration for Little Red Riding Hood]

The... person? creature? that dragged Hob from his hiding place in the forest had six arms, and three sets of eyes.

Though that seemed to be on the more normal end of things that went on around here, so Hob wasn’t too fazed.

It caught him by luck, followed him when Hob had made the—foolish in retrospect—decision to sneak into the nearby town to try to learn something about this strange realm he’d found himself in. Curiosity had done him in. His mum had always said it would, when he’d fallen in streams chasing minnows and gotten sick from eating berries picked in the woods. Touch with your eyes, Hob, not with your hands. Hob had never been very good at that.

Up ’til then, Hob had sequestered himself in the forest, keeping to himself and scavenging for plants to eat. He hadn’t seemed to need much food, didn’t get hungry often or lose weight when he didn’t eat, which he supposed made sense considering— well. Considering. But it kept him occupied. Kept him from thinking about it too much.

And he explored the fantastical forest. Its trees broader than he could wrap his arms around, reaching up into the sky higher than he could see. Its grassy dells, with wildflowers in detail and variety he’d never seen, its bird and insect life, its towering waterfalls and quiet brooks. Hob loved the forest. There was something truly ancient about it, something wilder than he could comprehend.

It was almost enough to distract him from why he was there.

But he got too curious. He wanted to know more, he wanted to understand the rest of this world, what realm he was in— so he’d gone searching for people.

And drawn something back with him.

Inevitable, really. Hob couldn’t hide in some place he didn’t belong forever.

The six-legged thing that had caught him was now dragging him across a wide, grassy field, traveling faster than Hob would have thought possible. Its claws dug into his arm, nearly drawing blood. Hob didn’t bother fighting back. He’d tried, once along the way, and gotten what felt like a sack of bricks to the face from the creature’s fist. No use trying to take it in a fight; better to keep his wits about him and look for a chance to escape. Nor did he bother asking it any questions. He’d tried that, too, and gotten only stony silence.

In any case, he was too preoccupied with taking in the scene around him.

Hob had been aware that this place, this… realm, he supposed, had a castle. He had seen the strange silhouette of it in the distance whenever he was at the forest’s edge, had heard occasional gossip by eavesdropping on actual denizens of the realm. But despite his curiosity, he’d steered far clear; the last thing he’d needed was to attract powerful attention.

Now, they were approaching said castle, and Hob let his curiosity run free, gaping up at the towering marble spires. The seemingly endless wings, the intricate carvings, hell, the elevated bridge that crossed the river to the front gates… he had never seen nor even heard of anything approaching its like back in his world. It was like something out of a children’s story, a fairy tale.

Was that where he was? The land of faerie? That couldn’t possibly be good.

Better than death, though, had to be. Hell, Hob would join ranks with the bloody fey if it kept him alive, what did he care where his loyalty lay?

The palace gates creaked open at their approach, and the creature pulled Hob through into the chill, shadowed rooms within. They stepped into a hall so massive Hob couldn’t see the ceiling or the end of it, but he had barely a moment to take any of it in before his captor was flinging him down onto the marble floor.

Hob just barely managed to catch himself on his bound hands. He panted, trying to catch his breath from the forced uphill march to get there, hair hanging in his eyes.

"There is no need for the dramatics," said a voice. A voice that seemed to come from the sky above and the shadows beneath his body and from within his own chest, resounding like the perpetual hum of the heavens turning. “Leave him to me.”

In his peripheral vision, the creature bowed jerkily and scurried off, leaving Hob alone with the owner of that voice.

He wrenched his tired head up. He was in an immense throne room, grander than anything he could have imagined, pillars reaching up to a ceiling that faded away into starlight, massive stained-glass windows that cast triangles of red light down on Hob’s face. How there could be sunlight and a night sky up above at once, Hob didn't know, but then, he still didn’t know what this place was. What kingdom he had found himself in. He had been too preoccupied with not getting caught to risk asking.

The owner of that voice was seated at the top of a long, winding staircase, the windows at his back, sprawled on one of the top steps rather than on the throne that was presumably there for that purpose. From a distance, Hob could only really make out the shape of him – the sweeping black lines of his cloak, the sharp angles of his limbs, his dark hair, his unnaturally bright eyes.

He didn't look like a king as Hob was used to seeing them depicted, with all their gold and finery. But he felt like one, in the way Hob stood at the altar of a church and felt the presence of the Lord.

The King stood, a slow, fluid motion like the rising of the moon. He strode down the steps toward Hob, cloak dragging at his ankles.

Hob could have run for it. There was nobody else in the room, nobody holding him captive, no guards, no retinue.

It was precisely because of that that he did not. No guards meant the King was absolutely confident in his ability to restrain Hob himself if need be, and more besides.

What the hell kind of kingdom was this?

“Robert Gadling.” The King stopped before Hob, close enough that Hob had to tilt his head up to look at him from where he was still kneeling on the floor. He had a beautiful face, a regal face, imperious tilt to it and all. Eyes like moonlight on winter’s first snowfall.

“Hob, if you please,” said Hob, because he had never known when to shut the fuck up.

The King’s lips twitched, and Hob had no way of knowing but he would have sworn it was amusement. “Hob, then.” Despite the stone walls, the empty space, his voice did not echo. It was simply there. Hob felt it inside his head, inside his heart. “Would you care to explain to me what you are doing in the Dreaming?”

“The Dreaming?” Hob asked.

The King raised an eyebrow. “You stand in the Kingdom of Dreams, my kingdom. You do not know this?”

“Uh.” Hob ducked his head, abashed. “No? I kind of just... found myself here,” he hedged.

Then there was a hand in his hair, tugging his head back. His grip was strong, and Hob winced. He met the King of Dreams’s eyes again and found the impression of very sharp teeth deep within them. The moment Hob presented as even somewhat of a real threat, he would find those teeth in his throat, he was sure.

He supposed he’d have to try not to be a real threat.

“Only living souls find themselves in the Dreaming,” said the King of Dreams, voice the rumbling growl of shifting ice. “Perhaps you would like to try for a different answer.”

“Alright, alright!” Hob relented, and the King's grip on his hair eased, just a smidge. “Alright. I escaped from Death.”

“Escaped,” repeated the King of Dreams. “From Death.”

“I swear,” said Hob. He would have raised his arms in surrender if they weren’t bound. “That’s the truth.”

“One cannot escape from Death’s grasp.”

"Guess I’m just really determined?”

The King's jaw clenched. “Very well. I will call her, then, and we shall see.”

Dread pitted Hob's stomach, but then the King of Dreams paused in thought, head tilting. He looked Hob up and down, calculating, cleverness spinning in those eyes.

“It takes quite a bit of skill to hide from me in my own realm,” he observed.

Hob didn't know what answer to this would prevent him getting chucked into the void, and for once in his life, wisely remained silent.

The King released him, and Hob swayed forward in the wake of his grip, nearly falling. “Walk with me,” he said, and turned and strode away across the throne room, leaving Hob scrambling to catch up.

He followed at the King’s side, just a step behind, as they turned into a side hall that seemed to unfold from nowhere as they walked. Hob looked at the man—being?—beside him. He was smaller than he seemed, slighter than Hob and almost delicate, but still Hob didn't fancy his chances in a fight. Not here, at the seat of his power. He'd be better off trying to wrestle the sun.

He just kept following.

“I have read the book of your life, Hob Gadling,” said the King of Dreams. It was said casually, like this was a usual occurrence, but a shiver ran up Hob’s spine nonetheless. Unnerving, to think his story was just accessible like that, and so easily summarized. “I did so as soon as my subject caught you to bring you before me. Your life was cut short by violence, but before that, it involved a rather interesting occupation.”

“I… suppose you could say so, my lord,” Hob agreed. The hall they strode down was infinitely long, lined by columns that let in streams of moonlight. Again, with the time of day shifting from room to room. Maybe this really was the land of dreams.

The King hummed. “Relations between the Dreaming and several other realms have been tense, of late,” he told Hob. “I would prefer to avoid war, but to do so requires inside knowledge that I am currently lacking.” He looked at Hob out of the corner of his eye. “For any man who could get me that information, perhaps making use of certain hidden talents—I could be persuaded to make an exception to my usual rule of sending stowaway souls back where they belong.”

Wait.

So Hob wasn’t going to be killed?

“You don’t—” his head was reeling— “you don’t already... have spies?”

The King sighed. “Dreams cannot leave the Dreaming. My ravens can, but they are known across the realms as my messengers, and I would not put them at such risk, besides.”

He did not have to say, I would easily put you at such risk, for it to be heard.

“I did, you know…” Hob said, though he wasn’t sure why he was arguing with salvation, “die in my role, you’re aware. I’m not sure you want a failed spy working for you.”

The King made a dismissive noise. “Your skills were solid. Your commanders were reckless and wasteful. Sending you scurrying back and forth like a courier and wasting your better expertise. The Kingdom of Dreams is not like the kingdoms of men. I do not wage war on petty whims, and I do not waste my resources.”

Something in Hob coiled tight at the thought of being a resource, a tool of this man. Or entity. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves, or anticipation.

“Before you answer,” continued the King, “it is only fair that you know the risks. The realms that span this universe are myriad, with a variety of dangers. While you would not die, you could be hurt, captured, tortured, imprisoned. Especially if your purpose were to be found out.

“Should you be caught—” the King studied Hob’s face, “you would be utterly disavowed. You are not one of my creations, and I would risk nothing for you, nor claim you; I would deny any association between you and the Dreaming. You may find yourself trapped eternally in Hell. Or somewhere worse.”

There was somewhere worse? Hob thought.

Still, perhaps it was the reckless brigand in him, but he hadn’t yet heard anything that made him want to pick death instead. If anything, it was all sounding like a rather grand adventure.

“What say you, Hob Gadling?” asked the King of Dreams, with a tiny smirk. He clearly didn’t think Hob was going to say yes. “How far will you go to avoid death? Would you be my spy? My agent in the dark?”

Hob thought it might be worth being trapped eternally in Hell just to see the surprise on the King’s face when he said, “Oh, hell yes.”

#so much of this exists in my head but i've made so little progress on actually writing it #hoping that by sharing some it will kickstart that process #spy au #spy hob #expect slow updates on this one sorry #i say as if all my fics arent slow updates #hob gadling #dream of the endless #dreamling #my writing #my god this has been waiting in the wings for an ETERNITY #technically most of this first chapter is already floating around on tumblr from when i first posted it for a prompt #the spy au and spy hob tags contain tons of visual inspo too btw

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just-french-me-up · 1 year

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Hi, if possible and you are still taking prompts request, could you do number 12 pls? Thanks!

Fandom : The Sandman | 1.5k Pairing : Dream of the Endless x Fem!Nameless!Reader (3rd person, no (Y/N)) Prompt : "The things I want to do to you..." Rating : M/E (Suggestive talk and a heavy dose of seduction more than outright smut) Tags : Established relationship | PWP with feelings | Nada rules : Endless beings and humans cannot have sex in the Waking World, or the Universe shall unleash hell and ruin on said human

Dream of the Endless was no stranger to duty. His own existence was ruled by obligations, endless tasks he had to see through only for them to be completed again, as Sisyphus rolls his boulder up the hill. He had spent countless hours, days, months, years, eras on his own, in the name of duty.

Yet, when it came to his lover's obligations in the Waking World, his regard for duty often weakened. It was selfish of him, he knew it. A little dismissive too, or so she had told him on a few occasions. How could he be blamed, though, when valuable time meant time spent with her? He could not be expected to be pleased to have it shortened.

"When should I expect you back home?" Dream asked, as conversationally as he could.

Home. They had taken to referring to the Dreaming as such, recently. Or rather she had, which pleased him to no end. He never failed to use the word, now. That was the beauty of it. It was a word meant to be shared.

The room he was standing in was in a different home, however. Hers. It was not a place Dream would call his own, but he'd grown familiar with it, attached, almost. He knew where she liked every little trinket, where she sat to bask in the warm afternoon sun, where she preferred to read the morning papers. Every room carried her perfume, as though her presence never truly left these walls.

"I don't know," his lover's voice rose from the bathroom. "Two, three in the morning, perhaps?"

Dream frowned.

"That is quite insufficient for your mind to rest."

"I could squeeze in a nap tomorrow, then," she negotiated. He could hear a smile in her voice. "It will be something of a surprise visit." Sounds continued to emerge from behind the door, drawers being opened and closed, zips being opened. "It's a wedding reception. It's considered rude to leave before the newlyweds."

Humans had such strange traditions. If they could even be called that. Most of them had emerged during his imprisonment, making them traditions in name only, hardly a century old. More of a passing fad than anything else.

The door of the bathroom creaked open. Sometimes, Morpheus wished he needed a beating heart, only to have it stop on such occasions.

Undergarments had come a long way since the beginning of the twentieth century. Gone were chemises and drawers. These days humans favoured tighter fits, less fabric. They were less about warmth and support than aesthetics. For once, Morpheus understood the appeal.

His eyes followed her as she walked past him to reach a full-length mirror. There was something artful about it, in the way her bustier followed the slope of her waist to perfection, drew the curves of her breasts as though it had been tailored to her, and her only. He could feel the invitation of it, the growing desire to feel the fabric under his hands, to have his fingers trace these lines, too.

"Are these not mostly worn for viewing pleasure?" he asked, taking in every inch of fabric, committing them to memory.

She gave him an impish smile through the reflection as she put on her earrings. Dream resisted the urge to brush away her hair to fill her empty neck with his mouth. Oh, she was making this very difficult.

"Mostly, yes."

"Why wear it, then, if it is destined to remain hidden all night?"

She looked over her shoulder, her smile utterly disarming.

"What about my viewing pleasure?"

She turned back to the mirror, her eyes gazing at her own reflection.

"I like wearing it. It makes me feel... I don't know. Strong, I suppose. Confident. Almost like an armour. You have one in the Dreaming, don't you?"

Dream let out an amused huff, his lips drawn into a small smile as he stepped closer to her.

"Nothing quite like this."

His hand caressed her waist, indulging in the naked skin between the fabric of the bustier and the lace of her underwear, his fingertips gently playing with the hem. Never further, they both knew. Not here.

"An armour is meant to intimidate your enemies, not draw them to you."

"Good thing you're not my enemy, then."

He smiled against her shoulder, leaving a kiss on her skin. Her breathing was faster now, her pulse as well, he could feel it. She might not be aware herself, but he knew. Her skin was warmer under his lips than it was a second ago.

"The armour isn't complete yet," she told him, looking at him through the reflection of the mirror.

"Oh?"

She smoothly escaped his touch, his fingertips sliding across her lower back as she moved away. She picked up two delicate things from the chest of drawers left open and prompted one of her legs on the bed, under Dream's watchful eye.

"I see," he chuckled lightly. "Greaves."

He drank in the sight of her unrolling the fabric along her leg up to her upper thigh once, then twice, her fingers careful not to scratch the material. They were fragile things, or so he had learnt recently, after accidentally ruining a handful of those, some instances less accidental than others.

Connecting the bustier with the stockings came with somewhat of a struggle. He watched her as she tried and failed to attach the suspenders, her nails sliding against the end.

"Allow me."

Morpheus sat on the bed next to her. Slowly, his hands travelled along her leg, memorising the fabric, the way it felt, the way it glided under his fingertips. He wanted to remember it all, down to the last detail, so he could make a perfect copy of it, back home. One of his hands stopped at the lace at the top of the stocking, while the other reached further, purposefully caressing the skin of her upper thigh to catch the stray suspender. She shivered under his touch, and the temptation to keep going almost overtook him.

His movements were meticulous, precise. Once the suspender attached, Morpheus leant back, giving her space to settle her other leg next to him. All the while, he could feel her eyes upon him, though he only met them once the task was done. She didn't need an armour, nor any weapon for that matter. She could undo him with a single glance.

His lips brushed the skin of her inner thigh, right above the hem of the stocking. Her warmth was inviting, beckoning him to come closer. His mouth opened into a languid kiss, the taste of her skin on his tongue. Her pulse was there, under him, throbbing against his lips. The sigh he heard overhead only encouraged him, but ultimately, reason won.

"You are impossible," she whispered as he looked up. There was a slight mark on her skin where his lips had been. It seemed lonely there. It took all of Dream's resolve not to make another.

"Impossible enough for you to change your evening plans?"

She chuckled, shaking her head gently. At least he had tried. She ran a hand through his hair, her touch as revering as his had been. His own hands had a will of their own, drawing the shape of her hips, stroking her thighs. It became harder, then, to keep his desire at bay, to respect the clear boundaries the Universe had set for them.

"The things I want to do to you," he sighed, his fingertips digging into her flesh.

"Morpheus," she warned softly.

"I want you like this," he continued, his eyes looking into hers, unbothered by the lust she could see in them. "I want to have you like this. I want you above me so I can watch you unravel in this, all of you."

He could feel her body respond to him, leaning closer. Her hand cupped his jaw, her thumb following the line of his lips. He ran his tongue over it, for good measure.

"I want you to come on my tongue, again and again, until your thighs can't hold you up anymore."

Heat radiated from her skin, warming his own. His finger ran the length of one of the suspenders, as though testing its elasticity.

"I want to rip this to shreds and build it up again. For you."

"Later," she whispered, her cheeks flushed, a playful spark burning in her eyes.

A promise. She was ever so good at keeping them. She pulled away, depriving him of her warmth, to go slip on a dress of her choosing.

"Will you be waiting for me tonight, at home?"

"Avidly," he promised, his gaze detailing her thoroughly.

"Should I expect to be wearing any proper clothes at all?"

"Not if I have a say in the matter. Which I do."

"Sounds fair enough."

Morpheus stood up and took her hand, pressing a kiss against it.

"Do enjoy your evening, love of mine."

"My evening? Not my night?" she teased.

"Nights are my domain. Trust me, I will make it nothing but pleasant. You have provided quite the inspiration."

"My pleasure."

"Oh, it shall be."

Send me a smutty prompt? (open for promptmas)

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