Setting: Supernatural, Season 2 (set shortly after “Born Under a Bad Sign”)
Tones: ☑ Fluff ☑ Domestic Love (as domestic as hunters get) ☑ Pre-established Relationship ☑ Found Family Vibes ☑ Lovesick!Dean who tries so hard to be cool ☑ Reader overhears how gone he is for her and melts
Synopsis:
⸻
When Dean brings Y/N to the Roadhouse for the first time, it’s just supposed to be a pitstop. A beer, a burger, maybe a tip on the next hunt. But Ellen’s no fool, and Ash doesn’t miss much either—and neither of them can help but notice the way Dean’s entire world shifts a little when Y/N walks in the room. He’s trying to be cool. Chill. The guy. But when the woman you love knows how to stitch a wound, kill a wendigo, and laugh at your worst jokes? Well, you’re gonna talk about her. A lot. Y/N overhears every soft confession, every bashful brag. And when Dean finds out? Let’s just say… the flustered hunter is real.
⸻
“Ain’t Nothing Subtle ‘Bout the Way He Loves Her”
The sun was dying slow and gold behind the Colorado hills when the Impala pulled up outside the Roadhouse. Dust rose soft around her tires like the place itself was exhaling—welcoming, wary, watching. It was the kind of spot that made your boots feel heavier and your shoulders feel lighter, if you knew what to do with a whiskey and had something worth bleeding for.
Dean popped the driver’s door, stepping out with his usual lean-and-stretch maneuver. The leather jacket creaked, the air smelled like beer, old pine, and maybe a dash of demon stink from some nearby town they’d just cleared out. But for once, his muscles weren’t tight with mission or guilt. Instead, his eyes flicked to the passenger door where she sat, legs tucked under her, hair wild from the wind.
“Y’ready for the madness?” he grinned, cocking a brow.
Y/N stepped out, slamming the heavy door closed behind her. “Please. I’ve seen you try to eat gas station sushi. I think I can handle your friends.”
Dean laughed—full and unguarded, the kind of laugh that made him look five years younger and a little more like the boy his mom remembered.
Inside, the Roadhouse was alive with the usual hum. Darts clinked. Glasses thudded. Ash’s ridiculous hair bobbed behind the bar as he scrolled something on his ancient laptop. Ellen looked up from a rag she was wringing out, sharp eyes landing on Dean. Then on the woman walking in beside him.
And like a switch flipped, her entire face changed.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Ellen said, a grin crawling slow across her face. “Dean Winchester, bringing a date into my bar?”
Dean instantly stiffened. “She’s not a date, she’s—”
Y/N was already giggling. “Don’t worry, Ellen. I know how hopeless he is with labels.”
That got a laugh from Jo, who popped out from the back room like she’d been waiting for the curtain to rise. “He’s definitely hopeless, alright.”
Dean groaned. “Great. A tag team.”
But Ellen wasn’t done. She came around the bar and sized Y/N up like a general inspecting a new recruit. Her eyes were sharp, measuring—but kind beneath it all. “You hunt?”
Y/N nodded. “My dad started me off with salt rounds and silver before I was potty trained.”
That got Ellen’s respect. She reached out to shake her hand.
Dean, behind them, tried so hard to play it cool. Just nods, casual, stoic. But his eyes betrayed him. Every second, he was checking Y/N’s face. Watching her reaction. Smiling like he’d swallowed the goddamn sun.
And Ellen saw it. Oh, she saw it.
⸻
An hour in and Dean had loosened up. The gang had made room at their usual table, drinks flowing, stories flying. Jo was trying to one-up Y/N with old salt-burn tales. Ash was explaining the finer points of demon detection with his “genius-level IQ,” which basically meant “I drink beer and hack things.”
And Dean?
Dean was floating. One arm over the back of Y/N’s chair, one leg half tangled with hers. He wasn’t even subtle. Whenever she laughed at something Jo said, he grinned like he’d won a war. Every time she reached for her beer, he was already sliding it closer.
Ellen stood at the bar, arms folded, watching the whole damn thing like it was a soap opera.
“You ever seen him like this?” she asked quietly to Ash.
Ash didn’t even look up from his screen. “Never. Dude’s whipped.”
⸻
Later, Y/N excused herself to the bathroom, and Dean got up to grab her another drink—leaving her jacket slung over the chair.
That’s when Ellen made her move.
“You got it bad,” she said, flat-out, wiping down the bar in slow circles.
Dean raised a brow. “What?”
She stared him down like a seasoned gunslinger. “Don’t play dumb, sweetheart. You’ve been grinning like an idiot all night. The only time you looked away from her was when you were blinking.”
Dean scoffed, scratched the back of his neck. “She’s cool. That’s all.”
Ellen leaned in. “You called her your girl three times already. And just now? You ordered her drink before she even asked. You don’t do that unless you’ve memorized someone’s whole damn soul.”
Dean blushed.
Actually blushed.
“Oh, man,” Ash mumbled from the end of the bar. “It’s terminal.”
Dean shot him a look. “Bite me.”
But Ellen smiled—soft now, not teasing. Just… knowing.
“She makes you happy, doesn’t she?” she asked.
Dean looked down at the bar top, swirling the condensation off his beer bottle with one finger.
“Yeah,” he said. “She does.”
And like some cheesy fate-orchestrated moment from a movie?
Y/N had walked up just in time to hear that.
⸻
He didn’t notice right away.
Not until she kissed his cheek when he handed her the beer, still warm from the bottle but even warmer from her lips.
He blinked. “What was that for?”
Y/N just smiled, coy. “Just… felt like it.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “What’d I miss?”
Ellen chuckled under her breath.
Y/N leaned closer, her voice low and honey-smooth: “Nothing, baby. Just glad to be here.”
⸻
Outside, later that night, Dean had her pressed against the Impala, arms on either side, breath puffing warm in the chill.
“You heard me, didn’t you?” he muttered.
Y/N tilted her head. “Heard what?”
Dean groaned. “You know what.”
She laughed. “That you memorized my whole damn soul?”
Dean groaned louder, forehead thumping to her shoulder. “God, kill me now.”
But she pulled him in tighter, fingers sliding into the back of his hair.
“Not a chance,” she whispered. “I kinda like lovesick Dean.”
Dean grumbled against her neck. “I’m not lovesick.”
“Mm-hmm,” she teased. “Tell that to the three different people you told I’m the best shot you’ve ever seen."
“I stand by that.”
“And that I make better pie than you.”
“Lies. Slander. I was drunk.”
“And that you’d give up the Impala if it meant keeping me safe.” Dean stilled. Pulled back, looked into her eyes.
“I meant that one,” he said, voice low.
Her breath caught. “Dean…”
He leaned in. Kissed her soft. Then whispered against her lips, “Ain’t nothing subtle about the way I love you, sweetheart.”
⸻
Author’s Note:
Thank you for reading, you sinfully sweet sugar demons! If you ever wondered what it would look like if Dean tried not to be totally whipped in public and failed? This is it. Thank you for loving these soft moments with me, for believing in the kind of peace a hunter might dare to touch. Until next time, keep the pie warm and the Impala fuelled.
Note: idk how I got this idea it just popped in my mind i hope you love cuz I definitely do 🥺
You were halfway through folding laundry when your phone buzzed with an incoming call from Dick.
“Heeeeeeyyyy,” he said, his voice carrying that dangerous mix of amusement and help me desperation. “Sooo… guess who just got their wisdom teeth out and is high as a kite?”
You froze. “No.”
“Oh yes,” Dick said, and you could practically hear the grin stretching across his face. “And you’re the only one who can deal with him right now because he refuses to leave the office until he sees you. Your boy is causing a real scene in the parking lot.”
You were already grabbing your keys. “Define ‘scene.’”
“Okay, so picture this: Jason sitting on the curb like a sulking raccoon, accusing the receptionist of being part of a ‘tooth-stealing conspiracy,’ and then declaring he’s too pretty to be arrested when I told him we needed to go.”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I’m on my way. Keep him from starting a fight with an old lady in the parking lot.”
Dick sighed. “No promises. Hurry... please”
When you arrived, the scene was somehow worse--and funnier--than you’d imagined. Jason was indeed on the curb, gauze in his mouth, glaring suspiciously at a nearby tree like it had personally wronged him.
“She saw what they did,” Jason was muttering to the tree.
Dick looked beyond relieved when he saw you. “Thank god,” he said, throwing his hands up. “I tried to get him in the car, but he told me I had ‘cop energy’ and he doesn’t ‘ride with narcs.’”
Jason’s head whipped around the second he heard your laugh. “BABE!!” he yelled, then tried to stand--only to sway dramatically until you caught him by the hoodie.
“They tried to take my teeth,” he announced gravely, clutching you like a war hero giving his final words, “but I fought ‘em off. Except… I think they won.” His brows furrowed. “Where are my teeth?”
“They didn’t steal them, baby,” you said, smoothing his hair back. “They just took out the ones that had to go.”
Jason blinked at you, betrayed. “You KNEW?”
Dick had to turn away to hide his laugh.
“Come on, drama king,” you said gently, guiding him toward the car. “Let’s get you home.”
Jason stumbled along, still glaring suspiciously at Dick over his shoulder. “Don’t trust him,” he whispered to you. “He smiles way too much. Definitely a damn narc.”
Getting him into the car was a process, mostly because Jason insisted that you sitting with him so he could look at you.
“You know what I was thinking?” he asked once you’d started driving.
“What’s that?”
“We should get married.”
Your hands tightened slightly on the wheel. “What?”
"Wedding.” He nodded seriously--or as seriously as a drugged-up Jason could manage. “You’re my favorite person. And you'd look so pretty...id be extra pretty for ya I swear. And... and I like you more than all my guns. More than Alfred’s breakfast food. More than---” he gasped, like the next part was a dramatic revelation, “more than my helmet.”
You bit back a laugh so hard it hurt. “Wow. That’s saying a lot.
“Yeah, so you should marry me.” He dug around in his hoodie pocket, fumbled, and proudly presented a crumpled spare gauze pad. “Here. Ring.”
You almost had to pull over because you were laughing too hard.
“You can’t propose to me with gauze, Jason.”
“Why not?” He looked genuinely offended. “It’s clean...ish. and pribably still sterile. And I’m serious. So serious. Like Batman-level serious.”
Your chest melted as you reached over to squeeze his hand. “Okay,” you said softly. “I accept.”
Jason lit up like Christmas morning, sagged against the seat, and whispered happily, “I’m gonna marry you so fuckin hard.”
Back at the apartment, you and Dick worked together to get Jason inside.
“Careful!” Jason warned dramatically as Dick tried to steer him toward the couch. “You’re gonna break me!”
“You’ve been shot before,” Dick pointed out. “Yeah, but I was sober then,” Jason countered.
By the time you got him settled on the couch, Jason was drooping like a tired cat, still holding the gauze “ring.” You switched out the bloody gauze for fresh ones, made him a milkshake, and coaxed him into taking his meds.
“You’re so bossy,” Jason complained, even as he let you tuck a blanket around him.
“But you love me,” you teased.
Jason smiled, sleepy and loopy. “Yeah. That’s why Imma marry you.”
Hours later, when he was fully awake and significantly less loopy, you sat on the arm of the couch and told him everything he’d said.
Jason groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re lying.”
You held up the gauze pad. “Evidence.”
“Oh my god.” He flopped back against the cushions. “I can’t believe my proposal story involves anesthesia and a piece of gauze.”
You grinned and kissed his temple. “It was kind of sweet. And heyyou said I’m your favorite person.”
Jason peeked at you, still red but softer now. “You are.”
You smiled. “Then I guess you can get a do-over.”
Jason smirked, tugging you down next to him. “Good. Because next time you’re getting a real ring. And Dick is absolutely not invited.”
From the kitchen, Dick called, “I’m still in the group chat, you know!”
Jason groaned. “I’m blocking him the second I buy that ring.”
Tagging:
@ladyperceval
Notenote:request are open and if you'd like to be tagged just let me know
A Friendly, Beginner-Safe Guide to Tumblr RP (G1N Edition)
Welcome!!
If you’ve wandered into the Gotham 1 News inbox and thought:
“What does mun mean?”
“How do people write as fictional characters??”
“What is a private RP?”
“Do I have to be good at writing?”
“Do I even need a special account?”
“Why is everyone yelling about multiverses?”
“What am I supposed to DO?? 😭”
Then congratulations — you are exactly who this guide is for.
Tumblr RP can look intimidating from the outside, but it’s actually incredibly welcoming once you know the basics.
This guide will walk you through everything you need to know, step by step, using clear examples and friendly language.
And at G1N, we specialize in being beginner-friendly — so you’re safe here.
✨ What “mun” means
Mun = the real-life person behind the blog.
If someone runs an account as Wonder Woman, she is the muse (the character), and the human typing is the mun.
It just helps people know whether you’re speaking as the character or as yourself.
Extra info:
Some people will write their OOC (“out of character”) comments in parentheses so you know which voice they’re speaking with. Examples:
((OOC: I’ll reply later!))
((Mun Note: Sorry for the delay, life is chaotic!))
— The Mun
You NEVER have to do this in a perfect or specific way. Everyone has their own style.
✨ What an RP account is
An RP account is a Tumblr blog where you pretend to be a fictional character.
You “write” as that character in asks, posts, and threads — like acting, but through text.
There’s no special setup required.
Your blog is your character when you talk in-character.
You can make your own storylines with that character and it does NOT have to be related to canon at all.
You can even change the character to be anywhere from slightly to completely different from that character's canon (we call this the Multiverse: Anything can be explained via different multiverse, timeline, or dimension!!)
Extra info:
On Tumblr, most RP blogs fall into loose categories, and you don’t have to pick one — but here are the terms you’ll see:
Canon Blog: Writes the character as they appear in the official source.
AU Blog: “Alternate Universe.” The character is changed but recognizable.
OC Blog: “Original Character.” Entirely created by the mun.
Crossover Blog: Mixes fandoms (ex: Naruto meets Batman).
Crack Blog: Chaotic, meme-heavy, not serious.
Serious Lit Blog: Writes long, descriptive prose.
ALL of these are valid.
You don’t have to “fit” in any box to RP.
✨ How RP interactions work here at G1N
You can send asks to us as your character, and we’ll respond as Gotham 1 News, like you’re in a shared universe.
Totally beginner friendly! You don’t need fancy writing or special formatting — just talk as your character would.
Examples:
“Hello G1N, this is my detective reporting a strange creature sighting—”
“My hero would like to submit a tip to the newsroom.”
“My witch character wants to yell about whatever just came out of the sewers.”
We accept:
✔️ Canon characters
✔️ OCs (That means your own Original Character; someone not written into the canon of a universe, but instead you created it to be there, like if you wanted your character to be Tony Stark's kid in the Marvel universe; that's an OC! For another example, Gotham 1 News is actually an OC!)
✔️ Crossovers from literally any universe
✔️ Multiple versions of the same character
✔️ Silly, serious, chaotic — whatever your vibe is
If you ever get stuck, just ask! We’re happy to help.
Extra info:
You can write in ANY length:
One sentence
A paragraph
Multi-paragraph
A meme-style dialogue
ACTIONS in asterisks
Or just vibes
There is no “wrong” way to RP here.
✨ What “THIS IS FOR A PRIVATE RP” means
Sometimes people want a news story written just for their storyline.
If you add:
THIS IS FOR A PRIVATE RP
that tells us:
We’ll write the news report
But other people won’t jump into your thread
It’s only for your character and whatever story you’re working on
We won’t treat it like an open starter for everyone else
If you don’t write this, we assume others are allowed to join in and interact with the news post. Sometimes, a roleplay thread will say "CLOSED RP". This is the same thing; they're asking for it to be private.
Extra info:
Public threads = great if you want to meet other RPers.
Private threads = great if you’re building your own dedicated story.
Both are equally valid.
✨ What is a pinned post?
A pinned post is a post we put at the very top of the blog so it’s the first thing you see when you visit. It's not required; but it makes RP so much easier!
Think of it like the front door sign or welcome desk of the blog.
It’s where we put:
how to interact with us
what this blog is about
important info for roleplayers
quick guidelines so you’re never confused
any rules you want for interaction (i.e. This blog is 18+ only! or No NSFW please!)
any artwork of your character (if you want!)
description of your character (again, not required, but still fun!)
yours and/or character's pronouns
character's backstory
Make sure to always check another RP's pinned post before interacting! It will save a lot of confusion.
If you’re new, start with making yours — it tells everyone everything they need to know before jumping in!
Extra info:
Pinned posts can also include:
DNI lists (Do Not Interact)
Trigger warnings
Shipping rules
RP preferences
Connection lists
Verses (different versions of your character)
Again: You DO NOT need all of this.
You can add things slowly over time.
✨ What if I don’t know how to ‘sound like’ my character yet?
Totally normal.
Most people grow into their character over time.
You can:
Write short replies
Use emojis
Write however feels natural
Change your style later
Ask questions whenever you need to
RP is about fun, not perfection.
Extra info:
A lot of RPers start off nervous and gradually become SUPER confident.
There is no timer.
You learn by doing.
The ONLY rule is:
Have fun.
✨ What tags you should know
Not required, but helpful:
IC = in-character
OOC = out-of-character (you speaking as the mun)
RP = roleplay
Ask = a message someone sends your blog
Starter = a post you can jump into to start an interaction
Thread = the ongoing back-and-forth between characters
Mun — the real person
Muse — the character
You’ll learn the rest as you go — promise.
Extra info:
Other common tags you might see:
Queue — pre-scheduled posts
Headcanon — your personal take on a character
Mains/Exclusives — people you RP with the most
Verse — a specific AU or storyline
Dash-only RP — RP happening on the dashboard, not in reblogs
Reblog Karma — “If you reblog a meme from me, send one back” (optional rule)
You DO NOT need to use these unless you want to.
✨ So basically:
“Mun” = the real human behind the blog
You send asks as your character
We reply as Gotham 1 News
Write “THIS IS FOR A PRIVATE RP” or "CLOSED RP" if you want a story only for you
Crossovers and beginners are 100% welcome
You do NOT need special formatting, skills, or experience
You’re already doing great just by asking!
If you need anything — explanation, tips, or help starting — we’ll happily walk you through it 💛
(More will be added to this post as the need arises; it will also be included via link in our pinned post!)
I have read so much gay fanfic that I am now convinced that men are not at all attracted to women but are, in fact, exclusively attracted to other men so yes I am going to eat this entire steak by myself and I don't care that it's "not attractive".
[hilariously thinking about how Derek is a man of many talents]
people tend to forget he had an entire life before the fire and all the other shit that went down — probably because for the first few years of knowing him, he was a brooding and depressed mess?
so you can imagine Stiles’ surprise when they finally get together and he learns of these talents because Derek openly shows him… but he won’t show the pack. he leans close to Stiles, giving sultry eyes, and a gentle kiss before saying menacingly, “go ahead and tell them; they won’t believe you.” and Stiles is left standing there, slack jawed and feeling equal parts scared and turned on.
like finding out that not only does Derek cook really well, he shows so much interest in complicated dishes and presents them to Stiles as if they were sitting in a five-star restaurant instead of a dusty loft.
or Stiles saying he just needed to get a few things in the mall and he left Derek out in the courtyard. when he returns, he hears beautiful piano music playing and as he rounds the corner, there’s Derek playing some fucking romantic sonata while a little girl looks up at him in awe. when Derek’s done playing fucking debussy or whatever, he teaches the little girl “chopsticks”. Stiles is once again standing with an incredulous look on his face.
just before Derek drifts off to sleep, low in Stiles’ ear he whispers, “i know how to tap dance.” Stiles’ eyes shoot open with the revelation, now wide awake with curiosity. Derek continues, “when we were seven, my mom put Laura and i in dance classes. i’m not too bad at hip-hop or ballet, either.” before Stiles can ask a question, Derek’s sound asleep. “how the fuck does he fall asleep so fast” Stiles whispers.
Stiles finds out other things that he just has a hard time believing. like that Derek can actually sing pretty nicely — “6th grade boys choir,” Derek smirks. making Stiles an entirely new shirt — “my grandmother taught me to sew,” Derek shrugs. that Derek’s got other creative hobbies outside of reading that he does in his spare time. speaking of books, he formed a book club with most of the attendees being sweet, elderly women??
Stiles tries to tell scott but his friend just laughs and says, “dude, imagine?” obviously not believing him. tries to tell Lydia but she says she can only kind of believe the book club story. even tried telling his dad who just looks at him concerned, “you don’t have to make up reasons why Derek is so great. i already approved of him when you two started dating ages ago.”
“fine! you win; no one believes me,” Stiles shouts when he enters the loft. Derek just turns from where he’s standing, smiling back at his boyfriend. “don’t give me that smug look,” Stiles says, very much annoyed, “is there anything you can’t do?” Derek raises eyes to the ceiling, genuinely thinking about it before answering, “im fluent in five languages, trying really hard to make it six — i’ll let you know how it goes, tho..”
Derek’s vague about it and of course Stiles wants to learn more but he really gets so easily distracted when Derek’s in his space and his hands are on him.
Stiles would later discover what Derek meant when they’re walking back into the loft after a date night. Derek brings up his talent of speaking several languages and Stiles rolls his eyes, “hey, so you actually don’t have to rub that in my face” he quips. although the loft is dim, Stiles sees he’s worked a smile out of Derek. “i’m not rubbing it in,” Derek says in clear and perfect polish. Stiles’ jaw drops, stuttering, “wha- how? why?” Derek’s quiet for a second, his hands nervously fidgeting in the pockets of his jacket, slowly stepping into Stiles’ bubble. “i learned it so i could ask you..” Derek stalls, “czy wyjdziesz za mnie?” Derek pulls out a ring in a velvet red box that shines in the little light that fills the loft.
“you have got to be kidding me!” Stiles utters in shock. at Derek’s raised eyebrow, Stiles remembers the question, immediately jumping into Derek’s arms and saying yes so many times he couldn’t keep count. “oh my god, the pack is not going to believe this,” Stiles chuckles with tears welling up in his eyes.
bonus round: is when Cora comes back from portugal or some shit, setting up a projector at Stiles and Derek’s wedding with photographic and videographic evidence of Derek’s many talents; baby Derek tap dancing to some janet jackson song, a preteen Derek singing “wonderwall” around a campfire with family, a very recent selfie of herself at Derek’s graduation from some prestigious university. someone in the back shouts, “when the fuck did he have the time to get a masters degree?!?” Derek’s face is flustered red as he glares back at Cora, “traitor!” Stiles shushes him with a kiss and says something along the lines of, “i’ll keep some of your secrets just between us.”
Watching that one Teen Wolf episode where Derek is training Boyd and Erica and Isaac in the subway and Erica kisses him and Derek shoves her off and realizing it's because she's a minor in High School and he's an adult and he will NOT do the same thing to her that Kate Argent did to him 😭😭
Although Morpheus has had many a past relationship you're the first one where he's felt like he couldn't exist without you. Like he really, truly needs you and he's never needed anyone before.
He may be an endless, anthropomorphic being but you make him feel like a simple man very much in love.
Now, it is no surprise that Dream's job has to take first priority most of the time. That's just how it is and has to be and you knew what you signed up for.
Though still he always tries to include you in everything he does. Learning from past relationship mistakes that even if he's preoccupied with work that by having you beside him he can still spend time with you.
So, if there's a runaway nightmare that needs taking care of, you'll travel to the Waking World with him. If there's a problem in the realm or someone else's dream, then you're coming along for the ride as well.
There is no part of his realm he won't show you. He rather delights in showing you every nook and crevice of the Dreaming and seeing your reactions.
Morpheus loves telling you everything about his world and his long existence. He is incredibly open with his infinite knowledge and abilities.
One of his favorite pastimes is visiting your dreams but he never disturbs them. Rather he just likes to quietly marvel at what your imagination has come up with. And, of course, he will personally destroy any nightmare that dares enter your head.
Dream's nicknames for you will be "love" or "darling" but he especially enjoys when he can introduce you to someone so that he can say "this is my partner" or "my wife." He likes when he can openly call you his.
The King of Dreams and Ruler of Nightmares is definitely one who let's his actions speak louder than his words.
He will face off against Lucifer and all of Hell for you should the need arise and he will not hesitate to battle even his siblings should one of them be foolish enough to mess with you.
He would dismantle the universe and lay waste to humanities unconscious just to keep you safe but saying "I love you" is a rarity reserved for only the most special of times.
You don't mind of course because every starry eyed gaze he gives you is a constant reminder of his everlasting love for you. His is the kind of love you can feel with every look and touch.
You're getting a raven whether you like it or not. Even when he's not near you he likes having a way to check up on you and make sure you're safe.
Matthew and Lucienne are your besties. Death is like a cool older sister to you as well.
Morpheus will not hesitate to offer you his coat if you're ever cold or if you fall asleep in the library or his throne room while he's still working he will cover you with it like a blanket.
He knows all too well the effect his voice has on you and though he'd never admit to teasing you with it, he does and does it all the time.
No matter how long you've been together nothing pleases him more than how his captivating, deep voice can still make your heart pound like a drum in your chest and bring you to your knees.
Despite Dream's more reserved nature he is an incredibly passionate lover. He is also gentle and kind. Your every wish he will fulfill. Your every dream will come true. He will give you pleasure far beyond what you could even fantasize about.
He uses his past relationship failures as cautionary tales to ensure that he doesn't repeat the same mistakes with you.
Morpheus tries, he really tries to always make you feel loved and above all else, valued. He makes sure that though he is Endless, without you he would feel like nothing.
infinite. ancient. divine. dream of the endless was not made for comfort. he was born from stories and starlight, solitude stitched into the lining of his very being. even among his siblings, he is the most distant, the most unknowable, forever mourning what slips through his fingers. but one night, when the dreaming grows too quiet, you follow the ache in the air to find him weeping in the shadows of his throne. he tries to push you away. tries to hide the break in his voice, the stars falling from his eyes. but you don’t leave. you kneel beside him. you stay. and for the first time in an eternity, dream allows himself to be held.
CW: themes of depression, emotional breakdown, isolation, crying, touch-starvation
it was nearly silent in the dreaming.
not just quiet—silent.
too silent.
the kind of silence that doesn’t settle but suffocates.
you’d walked the long marble halls without direction, guided only by instinct—or maybe by some deeper tether, something sewn between your soul and his. you hadn’t seen him in days. not since he’d returned from whatever distant corner of the realms called him away.
you’d asked lucienne, but she had only cast you a sorrowful glance and said gently, “he needs time.”
and you knew what that meant.
he was grieving again.
when dream grieved, the dreaming changed.
colors dulled. light faded. the air grew thicker, heavy with some old pain no one but he could name. the castle itself responded, growing taller, darker, colder, walls shifting to protect its broken master.
and yet still, somehow, you found your way in.
his throne room loomed like a forgotten cathedral. vast. hollow. drenched in shadow.
and there, slouched at the foot of his own dais, sat the king of dreams.
barely recognizable.
his normally statuesque posture had collapsed inward, limbs folded messily beneath him like he’d forgotten how to sit like a god. his head hung low, black curls veiling his face in a tangle of sorrow. his robes pooled around him like ink, soaked from the rain pouring in through the shattered glass dome above.
the stars weren’t visible.
and that alone told you how deep this went.
you stepped closer on instinct, the soles of your shoes whispering against the floor. he didn’t move. didn’t speak. you weren’t even sure he’d noticed you.
and then, his shoulders twitched.
a tremor. a breath.
and then—
a sound.
broken.
a sob cracked through the stillness like lightning. not loud, but raw. hoarse and breathless, as though it had clawed its way out of him against centuries of resistance. you stopped in your tracks, heart catching in your throat.
like a man who had run out of ways to keep the ache buried.
you approached slowly, kneeling down beside him. your presence shifted the air. made it warmer, softer.
and finally, he moved.
he didn’t lift his head fully, but tilted it just enough for his pale, tear-streaked face to be visible. the wet lashes, the trembling lips, the slight widening of his eyes when they met yours.
he looked wrecked.
and then came the shame.
his hand jerked upward to cover his face, fingers digging into his temple as he turned away.
“you should not be here,” he rasped, the words scraping against his throat like gravel. “this is not how you’re meant to see me.”
your chest ached.
“why not?” you whispered, shifting closer but not yet touching him. “why shouldn’t i?”
“because i am not meant to be seen like this.” he sounded angrier now, but it wasn’t directed at you. “i am… not a man. i am not soft. i am not supposed to break.”
“but you have broken,” you said gently.
his breath caught.
and another tear spilled.
you let the silence stretch. not empty silence, held silence. silence with space for him to feel.
then, carefully, you reached out.
your fingers brushed his sleeve.
he tensed. visibly. sharply.
“please don’t,” he said quietly. “i… i do not know what i might do. i do not understand what this… is.”
you nodded. your voice was barely a breath.
“then let me help you understand.”
it was tentative at first.
you slid closer until your knees touched. you didn’t force him to look at you. you didn’t pull him into your arms.
instead, you offered them.
you opened your hands. your body. your warmth.
and waited.
for a long, aching moment, he didn’t move.
but then his hand lowered.
his eyes met yours again, and you swore the universe tilted.
not because of the power behind them.
but because of the fear.
raw, trembling, human fear.
“i do not know what i have done,” he whispered, “to deserve you.”
his voice cracked in the middle of it, brittle and filled with disbelief.
you exhaled, slow and steady.
“you don’t have to do anything to be loved, dream. you just have to let it in.”
and that was what undid him.
not the kindness.
not the nearness.
but the invitation.
like a bridge held out with trembling hands, and for once, he stepped across it.
he moved toward you slowly. carefully.
his head bowed like he was afraid to meet your eyes again.
and then, with the fragility of ancient marble beginning to fracture, he leaned into you.
his body pressed to yours like a wave curling against the shore.
your arms wrapped around him without hesitation.
one hand cradled the back of his head, fingers weaving into his rain-wet curls. the other splayed across his back, feeling the tension in him begin to tremble and dissolve.
he melted.
not all at once.
first his shoulders slumped. then his arms came up slowly—shaking—until they gripped your sides with desperation he didn’t know how to name.
his face buried itself into your shoulder.
and then he wept.
truly wept.
his sobs weren’t graceful. they weren’t poetic or restrained. they were shattering.
they came in waves, great wracking gasps like the sea dragging out grief centuries deep. you held him through every quake. you whispered soft nothings, murmured affirmations that didn’t need to be understood, only heard.
“i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.”
“you are not alone.”
“you don’t have to carry this by yourself.”
you kissed the crown of his head.
you pressed your cheek to his temple.
you held him.
and slowly…
the sobs faded.
not completely. not gone.
but gentler. less jagged.
his breathing evened.
and for the first time in what may have been millennia, dream of the endless allowed himself to rest.
not just sit. not just exist.
but rest.
in your arms.
in your kindness.
in the love you offered freely, without condition.
and there, in the stillness, beneath a sky that finally began to clear, dream whispered so softly you almost missed it:
“…thank you.”
and maybe, just maybe, he meant more than he knew how to say.
the dreaming didn’t have mornings, not truly.
it wasn’t bound by time, not the way the waking world was.
but even so…
something shifted.
light filtered into the throne room like mist through stained glass, soft and pale and silver-gold, stretching in gentle bands across the floor. the rain had long since stopped. the sky above, once dark and empty, now shimmered faintly with distant stars, pale in the early quiet.
you stirred slowly.
your limbs were stiff from staying curled in the same position for hours, still cradling the body of a god who had finally allowed himself to collapse.
dream hadn’t moved.
he was still curled into your side, head resting just beneath your chin, dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. his breathing was deep and steady, each exhale a whisper against your collarbone.
he was asleep.
or as close to sleep as a being like him could ever get.
you shifted only slightly, enough to press your hand to the center of his back, grounding him there in your hold.
and still, he didn’t wake.
his body was warm against yours. heavier than you’d expected, like sorrow made flesh. but softer, too. more real like this than you’d ever seen him before.
and then—slowly—he stirred.
you felt it first in the way his fingers twitched where they’d been loosely wrapped around your waist. his body tensed for a moment, like he wasn’t sure where he was.
and then his voice, low and hoarse, against your skin:
“…you stayed.”
you didn’t move.
“of course i did.”
he lifted his head slightly, enough to look at you, but not enough to leave the shelter of your arms. his eyes were still shadowed, rimmed with the remnants of grief, but there was something softer in them now. not quite peace. but… an echo of it.
“you held me,” he said, voice low and uncertain, like he was repeating a memory he didn’t believe could be true. “i… wept. and you did not look away.”
you gave him a faint smile, brushing your fingers through his hair.
“that’s what love looks like.”
he blinked at you, like the word itself was foreign.
“i do not understand you.”
you let out a soft breath, half-laugh, half-sigh.
“i know.”
he looked down, ashamed again, but only for a moment.
“i am not used to being witnessed,” he murmured. “not like that. not… undone."
your thumb traced slow circles at the base of his neck.
“maybe that’s something you can learn.”
his eyes flicked back to yours. curious. vulnerable.
“…with you?”
you smiled, soft and sure.
“if you’ll let me.”
another silence fell. this one different. full of things not said, but not hidden. things being felt instead of feared.
and then—slowly, hesitantly—he reached for your hand.
his fingers curled around yours with such care, as if he thought you might disappear.
and when you didn’t—when you laced your fingers between his and squeezed gently—he exhaled.
you felt it all the way down to your bones.
not just the breath, but the release. the surrender.
he wasn’t healed. not completely.
but he wasn’t hiding anymore.
“the dreaming,” he said softly, looking out the cracked skylight above, “is quieter today.”
you tilted your head.
“because you are.”
he nodded, a slight, grateful movement.
“i… rested,” he admitted. “not just in form. in spirit.”
his eyes found yours again.
“you gave me that.”
you leaned in, forehead pressing gently against his.
“then keep letting me.”
he closed his eyes at your touch, his hand tightening around yours.
and for a long moment, there was nothing but warmth between you.
not divine. not celestial.
just human.
quiet. real. shared.
he didn’t want you to leave.
you realized it gradually, not because he said it (dream didn’t yet have the language for needs like that), but because he kept finding ways to stay near.
after that long, quiet morning curled up on the throne room floor—his face buried in your shoulder, your arms around his slow-breathing frame—he didn’t return to his throne. didn’t resume the formality that usually wrapped around him like armor.
instead, when he finally rose, he offered you his hand.
his fingers were hesitant, loose at first, as if he didn’t expect you to take it. but when you did—when you curled your hand gently into his—his hold grew firmer, thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.
“come,” he said, voice soft and steady.
you walked with him through the Dreaming.
not as subjects and ruler.
not as human and god.
but as two people sharing a space neither of you wanted to let go.
he led you into a smaller chamber you’d never seen before.
the walls were tall and pale, draped in soft, celestial fabric. moonlight drifted in from no visible source, and the air smelled like memory: parchment and petrichor, crushed petals and something faintly like his skin.
it wasn’t the library.
it wasn’t a throne room.
it wasn’t anywhere formal.
just a room built for rest.
he didn’t speak much as you settled in.
but he stayed close.
closer than usual.
when you sat on the edge of the dream-couched bed, he followed. not beside you, not right away, but near. hovering, cautious.
as if still afraid he was dreaming you.
eventually, you looked up at him and opened your arms again, this time without asking.
just offering.
quietly.
and just like before… he came.
this time, he didn’t cry.
this time, he held you.
his arms slid around your waist, his head resting lightly against your shoulder. he didn’t bury himself like before, didn’t shake or tremble, but he melted all the same. like the shape of you was something he could finally fit into. like your presence gave him permission to exhale again.
“are you… all right?” you asked after a while, your voice a hush in the stillness.
he was silent for a long moment.
then:
“i do not know,” he answered. “but i am no longer drowning."
your hand moved to his hair, gentle as moonlight, and his eyes fluttered shut.
“good,” you whispered. “that’s enough for today.”
he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you—really look at you.
“you do not realize what you have done,” he said, voice low and reverent. “what it means that you stayed. that you chose me.”
your brow furrowed, and you brushed a thumb beneath his eye. “dream…”
“i am not easy to love,” he said, voice soft but unwavering. “i am distance. i am duty. i am solitude, in every sense. but with you—”
he paused, searching your face.
“with you, i feel… close to something i thought i had lost.”
you reached for his hand again.
and this time, he laced your fingers together.
he didn’t let go.
“i’ll keep choosing you,” you said simply. “even when it’s hard. especially when it’s hard.”
his lips parted like he wanted to speak, but the words faltered.
instead, he leaned in.
his forehead touched yours. gently. deliberately.
you stayed like that for a long, quiet stretch of time.
breathing together.
existing together.
finally, he spoke again. softer than breath:
“…stay with me. here. in the dreaming.”
your heart stilled.
he had never asked before. never dared.
“you want me here?”
he nodded, once. “not as a guest. not as a visitor. but… with me.”
you reached up and cupped his jaw.
and when he leaned into your palm, you swore you felt the stars shift again.
“okay,” you whispered. “i’ll stay.”
he closed his eyes.
and for the first time in an eternity, the king of dreams smiled, not for the world.
not for duty.
but for you.
umm okay so i doo think i mischaracterized him quite a bit, but that's primarily because im not used to writing characters with his personality! he's very stoic and complex so i apologize if it doesn't quite fit him, i just adore dream and wanted to write something. i will work on being more flexible with differing personalities like his though!
anyways, i hope this was enjoyable and thank yeww sososo much for reading!!!
Kicking your shoes off was a relief as you entered your shared room with Morpheus. He was already there, flipping through some book in his chair as he waited for you. Many of the moons were already raised high up in the sky, gleaming down on the rest of dreamland, illuminating the world in a cascade of gentle moonlight.
You smiled fondly at your husband as you closed the door behind you, walking nearer to him as he set his book down to greet you. You stood in front of him, between his legs with your arms thrown over his shoulders.
“Hello, my love,” he greets you with a kiss.
You run your fingers through his hair. “Sorry I'm back so late.” You bend down and kiss him again, breaking away gently to start undoing your hair with a sigh.
“I was with Abel,” you explained. “He'd just woken up again, needed some comforting.” He'd been covered in dirt and grime after digging his way through an exceptionally deep grave this time around. He'd coughed up two full leaves while he was speaking to you.
Morpheus smiled so lightly, you wouldn't have even noticed it if you hadn't known him so well. “What was the infliction this time?”
You sighed, glancing over your shoulder at him. “No biscuits with their tea.” He watched you take out your earrings, your bracelets, your necklaces, your rings, dropping them with a clatter onto the vanity. “Apparently Abel was supposed to make them, but Cain never told him.” You shrugged, shaking your head. “He can be so petty sometimes.”
Morpheus hummed. “An old truth.”
You clapped as you turned to look at him again. “On happier news, Lucienne and I got so much done today.” You started stripping off your clothes, disappearing into the grand hall of your closet to find your sleep gown. He could still hear your voice through the open door. “So many souls come through her library. It's a wonder she usually gets everything done on her own.”
Nodding along, he agreed gently. “She is magnificent at what she does.”
“That she is.”
You came out soon enough, sitting at your vanity. Morpheus waved his hand and all the tops on your creams and lotions and wipes unscrewed. It was such a natural thing that neither of you even acknowledged it. You simply took a wipe and kept reciting your day to your listening husband.
“How was your day, my love?” Morpheus’ lips parted, and he took a slow breath before he tried to say anything. “Matthew tells me the Monster Under the Bed has been bothering him.” He smiled, closing his mouth once more. “Did you ever get around to looking into that?” You turned to face him, wiping a powder blue cream into your cheeks. “And what about the Willow Maid? She says all her toadstools have turned green, but they're all meant to be red.”
You shrugged, finishing the last parts of your routine as you stood again. “I tried to fix them myself but they're tricky little things, so you might have to stop by when you can. And–”
You stopped yourself suddenly, dropping your cheek into your hand. Morpheus tilted his chin, his brows furrowing slightly. “Oh, listen to me.” You closed your mouth, taking a deep breath as you walked over to him. His arms instinctively opened for you, and you walked into them as you set your hands on his shoulders. “How are you, my love?”
He looked at you with all the love in the world, his eyes shining with it like a billion, billion twinkling stars. “I'm well,” he said, his voice so soft as his hands rubbed circles into your sides.
You splayed your hand across his cheek, holding him so gently. “Good.” You bent down, kissing his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut at the brief contact, and you smiled. “You know, you should stop me when I prattle on like that. I feel like I talk too much sometimes.”
Morpheus tilted his head, standing to his feet and holding you just as closely as before. His hands came to rest at either side of your face, cradling you with as much love and care as he could muster in a touch.
“Love, my dear,” he breathed, “it is when you remain silent, the world becomes deafening to me.” He kissed your forehead. “So, please, don't ever think that.”
Your cheeks hurt with the depth of your love for him, burning hot as you stared at him. You gently grabbed his wrist. “I love you, darling.”
“And I love you,” he whispered. He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, leaning in and kissing you long and slow. Kissing him was like breathing. He filled your lungs and granted you such a simple pleasure, and still, after all this time, he made your heart flutter in your chest.
He brushed his thumb over your palm before turning you around, setting you gently down into his old seat. “And, to answer your questions,” he began to shed himself of his own clothes, “I have spoken to the Monster Under the Bed. They wanted to reach me about changing their name to the Creature Under the Bed.” You smile gently. “As for the Willow Maid, I shall visit her first thing tomorrow.” Morpheus pulled on his sleep pants, leaving his messy hair to be messy as you watched him stretch his arms over his lean body, admiring the distinct V-line disappearing into the pants. “What else did you wish to tell me, my sweet?” he breathed through his stretch.
You hummed, leaning your cheek dreamily against your fist as you watched him walk along the room. He dipped his fingers into one of your creams, spreading it over his hands and twisting closed the lids of each container with a sway of his elbow. “You missed this one,” he whispered, kneeling in front of you to carefully stroke the cream into the skin of your face. You smiled, preening under his praise.
“The Headless Horseman wants a new head. He says his pumpkin face stopped moving, and he's finding it very difficult to speak. Also, he thinks the problem may be a strange rote inside.” You peeked at him through one opened eye. “Which is mildly disturbing, by the way.”
Morpheus let out an amused sigh, lifting your chin with a crooked finger to examine your pretty face. “That, I trust you can fix.” He pulled you in and kissed you quickly once more. You hummed, watching him walk away again to close the closet door.
“Yes, but the pumpkin patch has disappeared again. I don't know where it went this time.”
He chuckled this time, sitting on his side of the bed with a hand on his bent knee. “I will help you find it tomorrow. But it may be next to the Swamp of Sorrows; a murder of crows has built a rather large group of nests there.”
You nodded, standing again as you stretched out your own limbs. Morpheus’ gaze drank up the sight of it. “I see,” you sighed heavily. “I'm guessing the scarecrows must miss them by now. Except, perhaps, Mervyn.”
You were startled by a sudden yawn, one that came from deep in your lungs.
Morpheus smiled fondly, pulling the covers undone to beckon you to him. “It's time for you to rest, my darling,” he said lovingly.
You hummed, walking over to the bed and tucking yourself beneath the covers. “Yes, I think so,” you muttered.
You hadn't even laid back before he was wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest. You both laid back, wrapped in each other's embrace as you breathed in, breathed out, and dozed off into a peaceful slumber.
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