The Shaper Of Forms - Chapter 5 : Daydreaming
Summary: Dream did not fall to the hands of the Fates. Instead, they cursed him, binding him within his cat form. Seeking refuge from a world no longer his, he found shelter at Hob’s inn. You were staying there too… unaware that the quiet creature watching you by the fire was once the Lord of Dreams himself.
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The sun had already set by the time you returned to the inn. The pub was alive with noises, voices overlapping in warm laughter, the clinking of glasses, the low hum of conversations woven together like a familiar song. Behind the counter, Hob was pouring a beer for an old regular, chatting easily as always. When he spotted you, he lifted a hand in greeting and gestured toward the booth by the fireplace, your usual place. A small reserved sign waited on the table.
You slipped through the crowd and settled into the booth. Here, the noise softened, dimmed by the wooden partitions, and the fire Hob had lit to chase away the day’s persistent damp made the whole corner glow with warmth.
You nudged Dream’s shopping bag under the table just as Hob approached.
“I see you found clothes to your liking, my friend,” he said, smiling at Dream.
“Indeed,” Dream replied, calm and composed as ever.
Hob turned to you then, eyes glinting with mischief. “Are his tastes as expensive in clothes as they were in wine?”
You snorted softly. “He has fine taste... for a cat,” you said, half teasing, half fond as your eyes flicked toward Dream.
“That makes sense,” Hob laughed. “You just made me realize, I never once saw him eat the food I left out for him. Maybe if I’d tried caviar or smoked salmon, I would’ve had more luck. Very regal sort of palate, I imagine.”
You both laughed while Dream sat between you, dignified and entirely unimpressed.
Dream’s gaze slid toward the two of you, expression perfectly composed despite the teasing.
“I simply chose garments of adequate quality,” he said, as though stating a plain fact.
Hob huffed a laugh. “Adequate, he says. Just hand-stitched coats from a tailor who charges by the breath.”
Dream blinked once, slow and regal. “Is that… significant?” he asked genuinely.
You pressed a hand to your mouth, a soft laugh escaping. “You could say that…”
He looked between you both, still unruffled. “I see. In the Dreaming, when I required attire, I simply imagined it. It seems humans have made the process… unnecessarily complicated.”
Hob snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”
Dream tilted his head, not defensive, simply confused. Then his gaze returned to you, quieter, softened by something almost tender.
“You allowed me to choose freely,” he said. “And you did not question my decisions. This expense for me was… not necessary. Yet you permitted it.”
You smiled, warming at the sincerity in his voice. “It made you happy,” you murmured, leaning closer. “And it made you look like a god…”
Your lips curved, voice dropping to a playful whisper meant only for him.
A shadow of a smile touched his mouth, and his face colored faintly, an exquisite mix of embarrassment and quiet happiness.
Hob chuckled at his friend’s flustered reaction. To spare him further, he clapped his hands. “I’ll bring you both something warm. Weather’s miserable out there.”
He walked away, leaving the booth quiet again except for the low crackle of the fire.
You nudged Dream’s knee beneath the table. “You know… the way you say things, it’s very hard not to tease you.”
Dream blinked slowly, considering. “I do not mind,” he said finally. “I simply do not always understand what is humorous.”
“That’s alright,” you murmured, leaning closer with a soft smile. “We’ll teach you.”
Something subtle shifted in him then, warmth flickering beneath centuries of stillness. The firelight caught in his eyes, and under the table, his knee pressed gently back against yours.
After a bit, Hob returned with glasses of wine and a shepherd’s pie to share. You dug right in, your small lunch and the coldness of the day had left you hungry, while Dream watched, not touching anything.
“Is it not to your liking?” you asked.
“I do not feel hungry,” he replied, calm and measured. “It seems that even in this form, I do not require food.”
“Maybe not require... but try, yes,” you said, spearing a small piece of pie and holding it out to him.
He regarded you for a moment, then leaned forward to take it from your fork. His eyes never left yours, silently conveying that he indulged only for you. “It is… heavy on the tongue…” he murmured.
“You do not like it?” you said with a laugh; perhaps he did indeed have a soft palate.
He straightened slightly, gaze sharp. “Perhaps not.”
“Do not say that to Hob, he made it himself. It’s a family recipe, I recall,” you teased, still half laughing.
He continued watching you as you ate, the warmth in his gaze softening the usual sternness of his face. Gradually, his attention lingered on the small motions you made, how your lips brushed the fork, the faint movement of your tongue afterwards. The memory of your lips on his pressed lightly in his mind, not sharp or urgent, but soft and insistent. In the quiet corner of the inn, with the fire crackling beside you, he found his thoughts drifting, imagining his fingers in place of the fork, his lips tasting yours, the quiet warmth of you near him, closer than before. Beneath the table, his knee brushed yours again, a quiet mirror of the closeness he imagined.
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Your plate was now empty, as was your glass. Dream had taken only a few sips of his wine, leaving it still half full. You had spoken a little, about nothing and everything, while he answered only in small, deliberate words, but his gaze never left you.
The pub had quieted as people trickled out, leaving room for softer moments.
You shifted slightly in the booth, realizing you didn’t know how to return to your usual evening routine. Normally, after dinner, you would retreat to a book or the guitar, letting the quiet of the inn wrap around you. But now, with Dream there, human, present, watching, you weren’t sure where to start.
He seemed content with whatever you chose, eyes calm and patient, following you with that steady, unreadable gaze. The faint light of the fire glinted off his hair, and you decided, almost on impulse, to reach for a book from your bag. You opened it, letting the familiar weight settle in your hands, while Dream simply watched, still, observing every small gesture.
As your eyes moved over the words, his thoughts drifted again. He remembered evenings when he had been a cat, curled across your lap, feeling the warmth of your hands as they stroked his fur, the gentle hum of your presence grounding him. He missed that closeness now, the simplicity of it, and yet the longing had shifted. Now, he could imagine more, longer touches, softer presses of your fingers against his skin, the brush of your lips over his in the quiet dark of the inn.
His gaze never left you, though he did not speak, letting his daydreams fill the space between you. He watched the faint motion of your lips as you read, the tilt of your head, the way your fingers lingered on the page. Each small detail, innocent to you, became vivid images in his mind.
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In that quiet alcove, with only the crackle of the fire and the rain tapping against the windows, Dream sat with a patient, almost reverent stillness, but his thoughts of you spiraled into a daydream of closeness, intimacy, and desire.
He imagined himself rising from his chair and settling beside you, close enough for your shoulders to touch, for the warmth of you to seep through his skin. In his mind, his hand found yours where it held the book, fingertips brushing your knuckles with a feather-light curiosity. He pictured the way your breath might catch as he traced the delicate line of your inner wrist, the way you might shiver at the gentle contact.
His daydream wandered further: the slow glide of his hand to your arm, the lean of his forehead toward the soft hollow of your neck, breathing you in as though your scent were something he had been missing for centuries. He imagined the faint tremor of your gasp when his lips brushed the curve of your neck,
And then the image of his hand rising, cupping your jaw with infinite care, guiding your face toward his. A kiss, soft at first, then deeper.
In his fantasy, you reached for him, one hand slipping from your book as if drawn to his skin by instinct alone. But he caught your wrist with a light touch, his lips ghosting over yours as he whispered, barely audible, “Keep reading.”
The thought alone nearly unraveled him.
He imagined himself pulling back to lower his mouth to your neck once more. His lips would follow the line of it slowly, reverently, then drift downward to your collarbone. He pictured the way you might shiver when he grazed that delicate place with the faintest scrape of his teeth, a soft sound escaping you before you could stop it.
His lips trailed down again, pushing away your shirt and then brushing the side of your breast before lightly licking your nipple. When the sensation grew warm and insistent, he moved to the other one, licking and gently nibbling at it. His hand drifted lower, sliding to grasp your hips as he tended to your other breast.
Then, he dipped lower, lips tracing your belly through the thin fabric of your shirt, sending shivers up your spine. Needing better access, he gently turned you toward him, his body close, warm, and insistent. One of his hands slid from your hips to rest on your chest, guiding you backward until you were sprawled before him, head sinking into the corner of the pub booth. Every touch was deliberate, every movement teasing, his presence pressing against you in a way that made your heart race.
His fingers slid beneath your shirt, tracing and teasing your skin, while his lips lingered on your lower belly, warm and insistent. Every touch was deliberate, exploring just enough to make you shiver without overwhelming. Your breath hitched with each graze, every subtle movement pulling you closer into him. Slowly, his mouth drifted lower, kissing and nibbling at your thighs through your pants, teasing with soft, lingering nips. He lingered there, alternating between your thighs, savoring each moment, while his hands roamed your breasts, caressing and memorizing every curve, leaving you burning with anticipation.
This teeth grazed your most private part, pants still in the way, and he teased it with light nibbles until his frustration with the fabric grew. With a careful, deliberate movement, he loosened your pants and lowered your panties just enough to reach what he craved. You shivered under his gaze, your pussy glistening before him, and he licked his lips, savoring the sight.
Leaning in, he finally took you into his mouth, tasting it slowly, deliberately. The warmth of him against your pussy made you arch, a soft moan escaping as his tongue traced your lips gently at first, then teased your entrance. Encouraged by your moans, he explored with more intent, flicking and circling with precision, savoring every small response from you.
All the while, his hands roamed over your breasts, caressing and pressing gently, tracing the curves, and sometimes pinching your nipples. Each subtle touch from his lips and hands sent shivers through your body, your thighs pressing involuntarily. When his teeth grazed your clit you exploded in a load moan.
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You turned another page, the soft sound startling Dream back into himself.
For a moment he simply blinked, the remnants of his daydream clinging to him like the warmth of a fading touch. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly: shoulders drawing in, breath catching, fingers curling against his knee as if he needed to anchor himself in the present.
His eyes flicked to yours, too sharply, too quickly.
“Yes,” he answered, but his voice was low, unsteady in a way it almost never was.
You tilted your head, studying him. “You look… far away.”
“I—” His breath faltered. For centuries he had spoken truths without hesitation, yet this one tangled on his tongue. “I was thinking.”
He should have looked away. He didn’t.
His gaze held yours, dark and intent, something warmer flickering deep within it despite his attempt at composure.
“You,” he said, before he could stop himself.
Your book stilled in your hands.
He swallowed, an entirely human gesture, a clear sign of his unease. “I was… remembering the evenings... when I layed in your lap.”
You softened. “You miss that?”
The word came out bare, honest, stripped of the regal distance he so often carried.
But then, after a heartbeat too long, he added quietly, almost involuntarily:
Dream’s own eyes widened by a fraction the closest thing to panic he ever showed. He looked as though he had just stepped over a line he hadn’t meant to reveal existed.
He straightened, trying to gather himself. “Forgive me. I did not intend to say that aloud.”
Your hand closed your book gently, heartbeat quickening as you watched him struggle with emotions he had never learned to hide.
“Dream,” you said softly, “look at me.”
He did. And everything unspoken flickered between you: the longing he didn’t yet know how to voice and the way his composure trembled now, not from fear but from wanting.
“I do want you, you know,” you said, your hand rising to caress his face. He purred at that, his eyes darkening.
“You are my own sexy Dream King,” you teased softly, a half-crooked smile playing on your lips.
He bent his head and kissed the fingers that had traced his face. “And you… are my queen,” he replied.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his hand, lingering as they traced along his knuckles. His gaze followed, steady and patient, as if silently asking for permission. You leaned closer, letting your lips graze the side of his jaw, your touch gentle but confident.
“Dream,” you whispered softly, your hand cupping his face, thumb brushing over the sharp line of his jaw.
He blinked at you, startled by the desire in your tone. You pressed your forehead against his briefly, feeling the warmth of him, then shifted to sit beside him. Leaning into him, your lips found the hollow of his neck. Your fingers trailed down from his face to rest on his shoulders, then slid around to hold him gently at the waist. His breath caught, low and unsteady.
Guided by your hands, Dream shifted slightly. You traced your lips along his collarbone, soft and teasing, and he shivered beneath your touch. His hands, hesitant at first, found yours on his chest, resting there.
“Awfully cozy in here, are we not?” Hob’s voice startled you both.
For a moment, you forgot where you were, and from the grin on Hob’s face, it was clear he was both proud and amused to find you like this.
“I’ve closed. You can both stay here if you like, but I’m heading upstairs. I’m knackered,” he said, a knowing smile still on his lips. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder, “Don’t do anything on my tables!”
You both flushed crimson. Then you laughed at the sight of Dream, red-faced, lips slightly swollen, hair tousled, looking utterly adorable and completely unguarded.
“We should probably go upstairs too,” he offered.
“No,” you breathed, leaning closer into him. “I’m indeed cozy here.”
“There’s no one else but us here,” you murmured against the skin of his neck.
The words, and the warmth of you pressed beside him, made him shiver. Every brush of your lips sent a thrill through him, soft, unexpected, and wholly consuming.
Your hands moved to his chest again, caressing him softly through his shirt. Wanting to be closer, you shifted between his legs, the table pressing lightly behind you. He purred, a low vibration coursing through his entire being, and you could feel it beneath your hands.
He threw his head back in pleasure, and you took the opportunity to explore more of his neck with your lips. Then you drifted lower, unbuttoning his shirt one button at a time, revealing skin that seemed to beg for your greedy attention and your needy lips. Throughout the process, he shivered, a small whine escaping him when your lips neared the waistband of his pants. Your hands moved back up, savoring the feel of his toned chest, tracing the bones along either side, and delighting in the way goosebumps rose beneath your touch.
His breath hitched as your fingers lingered over his nipples, tracing them. He shifted slightly, leaning into your touch, eyes half-lidded in quiet surrender.
You let your lips follow the path of your hands, brushing over his nipples, tasting the warmth of them, hard and needing attention. His hands, tentative at first, found yours, as if he needed to anchor himself to the reality of your closeness.
His purr grew even louder, and moans were escaping him now, and it sent a shiver through your fingertips. You let your lips trace lower, brushing along him, feeling the tension and desire coil in every line of his body. When you reached his waistband, your eyes met his, and you found the silent consent and understanding in his gaze, the unspoken permission lingering between you. You then reached for his fly and loosened his pants letting his cock out.
It sprang free, hard, its red tip leaking precum. Your hands rested on his hips, holding him steady, grounding him as your closeness deepened. You locked eyes with him and licked his shaft from base to top. The sight and feel of you had him whimpering.
You took him in your mouth and let him rest between your lips, slowly tracing it with your tongue, savouring his sweet, sticky warmth as it teased your senses. Each deliberate, lingering drag of your tongue made the sweetness of him bloom on it. Every tremor, every shiver, every soft sound from him drew you in further.
He watched you with a quiet, hungry intensity, fingers brushing along your hands on his hips, as if testing your reaction. The heat of his gaze sent shivers down your spine, making your lips part slightly, inviting his attention without a word. Every slow movement of yours became a dance, each taste and drag drawing him deeper into your mouth, the air between you thick with tension.
When his hand finally found your hair, gentle but insistent, he pressed you even closer, grounding you against him. You felt his warmth, the deliberate brush of his tip against the back of your mouth, and it made your heart race.
His purring grew louder and louder, vibrating against you, and one of your hands moved to cup his balls, cradling them gently. He threw his head back, letting out a soft, breathy moan.
His whole body trembled with pleasure, each shiver running through him. His hips pressed and buckled against you, pushing himself more into you, your lips kissing the base of his cock each time he bottomed out, your throat fluttering around him. Your free hand found his, and he gripped it tightly, fingers intertwining to ground himself.
You kept bobbing your head on him and stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist and then going lower again to play with his balls. You felt him leaking more profusely and twitching in need. You traced the sick vein on the underside of his cock with your tongue and heard him growl, a sound deep, raw and helpless.
"You feel so good...like you were made for me," he hissed while looking down, wrecked with half-lidded eyes, watching his shaft disappear past your lips over and over. You moaned around him and his whole body jerks.
"Starling," he whimpered "I won't last."
He couldn't stop rolling his hips forward, pushing himself deeper inside you, over and over again, making your eyes water. He was starting to lose his mind, like he was having a fever dream. He was lost in you. He then choked on your name, and you moaned again.
It sent him over the edge. He came with a whimper, his head thrown back, his hand keeping your head pressed against him. Hot ropes spilt on your tongue, thick and salty, and went down your throat as you swallowed greedily around him. He was panting above you, his body trembling, his purr louder than ever.
He looked down again, utterly undone, spent, dishevelled, completely unmade. His gaze lingered, wide and unguarded, full of quiet wonder and adoration, as if seeing you for the first time.
"You unmade me," he rasped.
You smiled around him, releasing him slowly. Your lips tightened around his tip before placing a soft kiss on it, your eyes locked on his.
“Did it surpass your daydream?” you asked, voice soft, teasing.
He shuddered, a slow, quiet tremor of satisfaction running through him. “Beyond expectations,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on you, full of awe and something tenderly possessive.
