Oooh very interested by the 5. feeling their pulse one 👀 for Dreamling maybe?
Dreamling | 1k | G | Retired!Dream | Domestic Fluff | Established Relationship
It took Morpheus longer than it should have to notice that it was a pattern.
He was, by then, intimately familiar with Hob’s hands and how they felt against his skin, the breadth of his palms and the length of his fingers as known to him as the back of his own hand. They had been the first feeling he had woken to in this, his new life, the weight of Hob’s hand holding his an anchor he had not previously known to search for. It was one he sought out regularly, now. There was a part of him that hoped, in the very back of his mind, that it might be the last feeling he felt, too, a very, very long time from then.
This was all to say, of course, that he should have recognized the frequency with which Hob’s fingers found their way to his wrist, the way they lingered there, not pressing, but merely resting. It had not crossed his mind to wonder why; after all, did he not find himself touching Hob just as frequently?
It had been a slow and drizzly day. Everything felt gray: the clouds in the sky, the light filtering through them, the long expanse of the hours before sleep with little to fill them. Morpheus still found it easy to become lost in the labyrinth of his own mind for minutes and often hours at a time. It was Hob’s self proclaimed job to draw him out of it, casting cups of tea and stacks of books and the low drone of the television in front of him to lead him out, a piecemeal version of Ariadne’s thread.
He found himself in a familiar position: half curled on the sofa, his head in Hob’s lap, the rain lightly tapping at the window to the side of them. Hob’s arm was around him, and, in seeming deference to his comfort, he was not holding his hand, but held his wrist instead, allowing Morpheus to stay in exactly the position he preferred. With a languid stretch, he turned, looking up at Hob rather than the flickering screen of the television. Hob was much more interesting to look at, in any case, with his brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he read, his free hand holding his book open far too close to his face. He had neglected to put on his glasses, something Morpheus could poke at him for later.
Hob looked down at him and smiled, adjusting the position of his arm around him. Two fingers fell against his wrist again, as easily as anything, slipping into place.
“Hob,” Morpheus said. It was not a question. Had he been sitting upright, his head would have been tilted in that curious way of his that he knew Hob found endearing, but that he somehow could not bring himself to stop doing, an innate gesture that had the added advantage of getting him exactly what he wanted when properly deployed. It was a shame he couldn’t achieve it then.
“Yes?” Hob shifted the book in his hand, half closing it while his thumb kept his place.
“Why are you taking my pulse?”
Hob opened his mouth, no doubt to form the words, “I’m not taking your pulse,” before snapping it shut and thinking better of it.
Morpheus raised an eyebrow, waiting. Hob’s ears were turning pink.
“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” he said, fingers still pressed against his pulse point, as if it hadn’t occurred to him to move them.
Morpheus considered this. He could picture, suddenly, all of the ways in which Hob had done exactly this before: Morpheus, pressed full length against Hob’s back, his arm around Hob’s waist and Hob’s arm over his own, Hob’s hand resting in just such a way that the tips of his fingers rested over Morpheus’s wrist; Hob, over and above him, not quite pinning his wrists above his head with the span of one hand, the tips of his fingers resting just against the thin skin of his wrist; Hob, taking his arms and arranging them to wrap around him, one hand still caught in his, and leading him in the steps of a dance that was the unholy bastard child of several much more structured steps, singing low in his ear, his thumb resting against the artery and tendon of his wrist.
“I have noticed now,” he replied.
“Old habit, by now,” Hob said, ears still pink. It was, Morpheus decided, flattering on him. He so rarely caught Hob visibly off-guard; it was a wonderful opportunity that had been afforded to him now, and he intended to enjoy it.
“That is not an answer to my question,” Morpheus said, unable to stop the small smile that settled at the corners of his mouth.
“No, I suppose not,” Hob relented, setting his book down over the arm of the sofa without any regard for the integrity of its spine.
“It’s a reminder, I suppose,” he continued, looking down at Morpheus. “That you’re here, with me, right now.”
There was something in his voice, still, that Morpheus decided immediately to leave alone. They could return to it later, whatever it was that Hob was refusing to say. He only wanted to know, not to pry. They had all the time in the world, after all.
He pushed himself into an upright position next to Hob, regrettably losing his hand on his wrist in the process, but remedying this loss by reaching for Hob himself, the palm of his hand cupping his jaw as he drew him closer. Hob went easily; he always did, never needing to be asked.
Morpheus pressed his lips to the underside of Hob’s jaw. For a moment, he thought he could feel it—the fluttering of his pulse against his lips. Perhaps Hob had something there, after all. There was something about it—the relentless pulse of alive alive alive just under his skin—that Morpheus could see himself returning to, again and again.
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January 5th, Headcanuary prompt: Pet (Dreamling and Corinthiel)
The New Inn always seemed to be a beacon for the local feline population. It was begrudgingly accepted by the regulars, that their after work pint or weekend tipple would always be shared with one of London's many resident moggies.
Until recently, the pubs offical cat had been a large, jet black creature by the name of Murphy. Standoffish and haughty, but a beautiful animal. Often seen trailing after Robbie, the pub landlord. Or occasionally conceding to let visiting children pet his long furr, or tug at his ears and tail with regal exasperation.
Sadly, in the summer just passed Murphy had seemingly vanished. In his place however came the landlords new husband, Morpheus. A striking man, just as dark and unsocial as Murphy, but as similarly kind in his own way. And oh, it couldn't be missed how much Robbie glowed in his presence. How his smile lit his eyes, how he laughed freer and louder and how their beloved inkeep looked for all the world like a man so contented, he desired for nothing. As such, the loss of Murphy in exchange for Morpheus was eventually accepted as a worthy one.
It was in the following September that a new cat graced the doorway of the New Inn. A young little critter, barely passed its kitten years, with an immaculate white coat and vibrant green eyes. Friendly and curious, it would greet each patron in turn, accepting pats and all manner of affectionate nicknames from Snowy to Casper. Untill the daughter of the pubs chef declared him Dandelion, or Danny for short and it had stuck.
Unlike his predecessor, Danny would sit amongst the pub patrons, listening to their chatter with an enraptured expression. Or play with the younger visitors, bounding after them with an identical, youthful glee. But most often he'd be seen chasing the heels of the Morpheus, weaving between his black clad ankles and pawing his thighs for constant attention and affection. They made mismatched pair, Danny's bright, white furr against Morpheus's all black attire. But they never seemed happier then when they were together. Danny curled about Morpheus's shoulders, batting playfully at his wild locks as the other watched on indulgently.
As the Christmas season arrived, so too did what was generally assumed to be Danny's owner. An undeniably handsome blond with a natural charisma, that immediately endeared him to customers and bar staff alike. His strange obbsession with sunglasses in the depths of British winter notwithstanding. It was accepted that this must indeed by Danny's owner, for whenever this rakish fellow graced the inn with his presence, neither cat nor man could be torn asunder. Together they'd haul themselves up in this corner or that. Danny curled blissfully in the blondes lap, or held possessively against his chest. The man, seemingly euphoric with the undeivded attention and decidedly foreboding if anoyone dared come between them. Much to the evident amusement of Robbie and the chagrin Morpheus.
Unlike so many of its counterparts, the New Inn stayed closed over the New Year. But if any of its customers had chanced a peek through its windows at the strike of midnight, they'd have seen the hearth lit and a table close by, original designed for two and a little too small for four, occupied by two couples. To one side Robbie and Morpheus, cheeks ruddy with with wine and leaning into each other with a loving ease. And on the other, that same tall, blond accompanied by an angelic looking young man, pale haired and bright eyed. Clasping at each other with all the adoration of new love. Four glasses raised in a toast to happy endings and new beginnings.
I think retired Dream / Morpheus would be the most useless malewife in history.
When Death drops him on Hob’s doorstep, the division of labour is pretty non-existent — he’s a former king in friendly exile, and he is very magnanimously allowing himself to be pampered by Hob. But after a while, he would try to help out with the chores when Hob is at work.
However, without being tapped into the Collective Unconscious, Dream’s ability to choose and critically evaluate his sources is… somewhat shaky.
Hob starts him out on a good note, leaving him with a few Marie Kondo books. Things go fairly well, even though Dream ends up colour-coding the wardrobe according to some colour system that human retinas can’t perceive.
But then Hob goes to a conference, and Dream insists that he is perfectly capable of caring for one cat and 20 overnurtured houseplants for five days. What could possibly go wrong?
Dream reads several books on housework, but he can’t seem to finish any tasks before getting derailed by the narrative, turning every chore into one of those endless blog essays you have to scroll through before getting to the damn recipe. Even the simple act of hoovering has to involve a long-winded story about getting out of an MLM scam, forgiving backstabbing siblings, and finding your inner goddess.
Everything escalates when Dream discovers housewife milf porn.
Hob gives up and gets a roomba.
Dream refuses to admit that he hates the roomba with a passion, and instead proceeds to Lady Macbeth-manipulate the cat into throwing up on the roomba until the motor breaks.
Hob throws in the towel altogether and pays for a cleaning service. Dream takes up yoga and comfortable day drinking.
