#academicblorbo

[gabessquishytum]

I watched The Big Short so I'm gonna make it everyone's problem: banker Dream is taken to a strip club by his banker colleagues to celebrate his first day at work.

Dream is really not happy with any of it, but he has been told he too stuck-up and he needs to start making friends if he wants his career to work. (He works at his father's bank but that doesn't matter, his dad is a notoriously scummy man with the heart of a stone)

His colleagues want to prank him tho (a sort of hazing ritual) so they take him to a male strip club, not knowing that he is bi. And then, Hob shows up in a very skimpy outfit which is less fabric and more hopes and glitter. He immediately beelines towards Dream, who is the only one who manages to look incredibly uncomfortable but also obsessively curious at the same time.

(also he is the most beautiful man Hob has ever seen, and he can spot a sensitive heart, especially amongst a sea of dudebro bankers)

Dream gets the hazing of his life and seriously considers switching banks so he can get another hazing ritual ASAP

Dream, obviously having the time of his life: oh noooo please stop this is so terrible I am being hazed so bad right now

Honestly though, Hob is amused and pleased to work on Dream for what's left of his shift. He hates the city boys who come in and act like he's some kind of freak show (and then have the nerve to ask him for a blowjob backstage, the hypocrites). But Dream seems authentic, so Hob gives him a good time. He chats as he works, mostly whispering sympathetically in Dream’s ear about how his banker colleagues obviously suck. Dream struggles to speak, but he does apologise for what Hob has to put up with. Hob just grins, and rolls his arse firmly over Dream’s cock. Having something pretty to look at as he dances definitely makes up for the shitty guys whooping and catcalling.

He tells Dream to join him in the dressing room in 5 minutes, which is against the rules, but Hob is horny and Dream is the most gorgeous man he's seen in years. Maybe he'll also give Dream a few tips about handling his new career. The thing is, Hob used to work in finance before he realised that the whole thing was a scam and was bound to crash eventually. At least stripping is an honest profession...

Hob rides Dream’s massive dick while they both try to stay quiet and avoid the club management. It's the most fun either of them have had in years. If his colleagues in finance had been as pretty as Dream, Hob might never have quit!! At least in this job, he has an excuse to take his clothes off whenever Dream comes into the room...

[cuubism]

Shuffle your favorite playlist and post the first five songs that come up. Then copy/paste this ask to your favorite mutuals. 💌💜 >:>

🥰🥰 ah sweet :)

from one of my many wip fic playlists:

[embroiderling]

Hey darling! First of all, hats off for the fantastic stitch work for the Sandman fandom, with Amielot's AU being my favourite ❤️ I wanted to say thank you for your very kind words on my cross stitch project, it's such a high honour coming from someone as talented as you ❤️

Awww thank you for your kind words 💖. I'm an enthusiastic girl that wants to have in her gremlin paws all the art of this fandom. Embroidering is a way to materialise that lol.

I love cross stitch and seeing your embroidery was lovely. Thank you for sharing it on this site 🙌

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he���s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[ambiently-80s-gay]

sandman text posts ft my mates unhinged reminder

sorry @academicblorbo for stealing your schtick but it was far too tempting >:)

[so-i-grudgingly-joined-this-site]

"This Barbie can get you anything you desire..."

And here's the latest Endless sibling I decided to make for my figure collection: Desire of the Endless!

They were a real challenge to make! I taught myself several new techniques for this doll, including my new favorite-- real eyelashes!

See HERE for Death of the Endless doll

See HERE for Dream of the Endless/Morpheus doll

"Before" photo and tags under the cut:

(picking a base doll was one heck of a challenge)

(Fun fact: that's the same face mold as Dream's base doll)

@serenityspiral @duckland @orionsangel86 @roguelov @academicblorbo @notallsandmen @ambercoloredfox @lizajane2

[ralkana]

I got into The Sandman/Dreamling recently (in large part due to you!). Can you recommend any blogs that still post regularly? Thank you!

Oh yay! I'm so happy to hear that! I hope you are enjoying the MASSES of incredible dreamling fic on ao3, and if you need some recs, hit me up, I have SO MANY.

This community is so active and friendly, and welcoming, and encouraging, and I love it so much! I'm so happy to bring you into it!

Okay, some very cool and active folks...

Starting with @dailydreamling, which is awesome for a huge range of dreamling content!

Individual peeps:

@softest-punk @tj-dragonblade @carnelianmeluha @pellaaearien @kydrogendragon @dsudis @zzoomacroom @lenreli @issylra @gabessquishytum @cuubism @moorishflower @arialerendeair @signiorbenedickofpadua @five-and-dimes @teejaystumbles @karalynlovescake @avelera @seiya-starsniper @academicblorbo and I'm sure there are a ton I forgot, I could just keep listing them forever!

Also, I don't know if you're active on discord, but the @mr-sadman server is wonderful, if large and kind of intimidating, lol.

If anyone else wants to add on more blogs to follow that I may have missed, please please do so!

[moon-andstardust]

the second image is from this post by @academicblorbo

[the-cloudy-dreamer]

“And here we are! Mister Gadling if I may introduce you to the owner of this estate, Lord Morpheus Endelas?'' The portrait of a severe looking man hangs at the top of the staircase, with an ornate golden frame. It is the only thing occupying that wall. 

It looks lonely. 

“Lord Morpheus? So, if he is the owner of this estate, why is his sister the one rushing to sell it? Where is he?” Hob asks, confused.  

“Nobody really knows. He was quite the renowned painter at the time but went missing at the peak of his career months after his only son died in a tragic accident,” Mister Edwards explains. 

Hob’s heart clenches in sympathy, as if to lose one’s child seems horrible enough, but to be expected to carry on after such a loss seems unthinkable to him.

“Hold on, missing? Missing implies that he is still out there! Doesn't he get a say in what happens to his state? He could come back and rightfully unleash his wrath upon us for going through with this! Sir, you have to understand that if I am to take up this job offer I need to know I’m not risking my entire career and reputation over it.”

He feels perplexed “Wasn't anyone else concerned about this? How is picking apart a missing man’s home and selling all his worldly possessions to the highest bidder even considered acceptable? What was the Endelas family even thinking? The man lost his only child, surely he just needed some time away?” It didn't seem unreasonable to Hob. 

He didn’t like it. Something about this felt wrong.

“It is believed even by his own remaining family, that Lord Endelas killed himself. Saying he is missing is the polite way to not address the fact that no body was ever found! Even before his son’s death he was infamous for his melancholic moods and tendencies towards neglecting himself to the point of damaging his own health significantly. So I’m hardly asking you to do anything immoral here! You are a good man Mister Gadling, and if the thought of taking this job distresses you so much I will accept that and find someone else to do it, but Lady Endelas wants this to be done sooner rather than later and I think you are the best choice for it.”

Hob turns his attention back to the portrait and contemplates for a moment.

He truly did look lonely up there.

“I will give you my answer tomorrow morning, Mister Edwards,” he concludes. 

“That’s all I ask for Mister Gadling, for you to consider it. Thank you.” Edwards inclines his head and promptly turns around, heading back downstairs.

Hob looks helplessly at the portrait of Lord Morpheus, already knowing he will take the job come morning. 

Damn him and his bleeding heart.

---------------------------------------

Ta-dah! illustration that's part of my gothic romance dreamling AU for @dreamlingnation spooky event !! the prompt that inspired this was "cursed painting" the comic pages for the ficlet above are already in the works so stay tuned for that and more!

special thanks to @academicblorbo for helping me edit this, you are the best friend!

[gabessquishytum]

I'm having a galaxy brain moment: Winter Soldier AU 👀

Hob and Dream both grew up together in the same neighborhood. Initially, Hob was the lanky one, as he was from a family significantly more poor than Dream. But he always fought everything and everyone, especially those who dared pick on Dream. His beautiful, dark, lonely friend.

When they grow up, Hob wants to be a soldier, fight in wars, but his physique doesn't let him. Dream, who volunteers at the same time, is sent to the front, to their mutual dismay as they are now separated.

Until a scientist named Death because the experiments haven't gone tremendously well sees Hob and asks him if he wants to be their next lab rat for their "Immortality Serum", a treatment that will make him incredibly strong and pretty much indestructible. Hob, being the Himbo we know and love, and thinking how impressed Dream will be with his new muscles, says yes.

Cut to Hob in tight Spandex and other cute outfits being shipped to the front, where he is reunited with Dream. On a mission together, Dream falls off their train and is declared dead. What's worse, right before hia descent he told Hob he loved him.

Hob is devastated. His one true love is gone, there is little for him to move forward. Eventually he crushes into some ice, and is declared Deep Frozen, until 100 years later.

The reason he was defrosted? He is believed to be the only one able to go after The Winter Soldier, a deadly assassin hiding behind a horrifying mask who seems to be taking orders from some dark master he can't refuse. It's because his master, Burgess, is using some specific magic words and runes that bind Dream to him.

Yes, the Winter Soldier is Dream. Deprived of his memories, his empathy, his identity. Hob doesn't know who he is, and they fight, until during a hand-to-hand he curses a swearword that was an inside joke between him and Dream. The Soldier freezes, and in that split second Hob is able to remove his mask. Imagine his shock when he sees Dream, his Dream, staring back at him with no recognition. But it is Dream, without any doubt. Nobody has eyes this blue, lips this pink, skin this beautifully pale.

He weeps for his friend, both happy he is still alive but also desperate because he isn't his friend? The Soldier goes back to trying to kill him, and Hob is about to let him finish the job, he won't fight Dream, he won't hurt him ever ever ever.

That gives the Soldier pause, he doesn't understand why his target doesn't fight back. That gives Hob hope, that maybe his beloved is still in there.

How will Hob bring him back?

Ahhh, this is a great au for them!! Mostly because I want to see Hob’s butt in the spandex. He would definitely cheer on the morale of the troops!

And Dream would look so cool in the Winter Soldier gear, maybe with his hair grown out and flying wildly around his face. Fighting hard against the brain washing as he tries to remember why this unfamiliar man might be important to him. None of it makes any sense, and Dream is just so tired. Burgess doesn't let him sleep properly, and although it doesn't impact his physic capabilities, it's just another method of torture because his mind can't rest. He can't dream.

He stops fighting Hob, because he's confused and because he's tired. He steps back. Hob sees an opportunity, and he seizes it! He starts telling stories from their childhood. All the games they invented, the raven that Dream nursed back to health, all the times Hob got beat up by other kids because he defended Dream’s "weirdness". Everything he can remember, finishing up with the moment Dream finally declared his love for Hob. Hob is weeping the whole time as he speaks, and Dream just listens in stoic silence.

And then his eyes fix on Hob’s face. There's the barest hint of recognition amid those dazzling blue irises. He's fighting hard against the magic. "I never got to hear your answer. If you loved me too, or not." He whispers.

"I did." Hob manages to sob. "And I still do."

And maybe it's enough to break the magic, at least for a moment. And even if Hob can't save Dream, at least he'll know. That he's loved. Even if Hob can't save him, Dream will fight for that love with his own hands, until he's free of Burgess. Hob’s fought for Dream often enough, and now it's Dream's turn to fight for him.

[cuubism]

Hello! Just feeling the love and wanting to share how much I adore your words and ideas 🥰🥰🥰

aw thank you so much!! you're so sweet ☺️☺️

[chaosheadspace]

How about #15 for the kissies? Hope you feel better!

Hello! Thank you for sending in an ask. Yes, I am better by now, but I still have for prompts to do :D This is a continuation of this prompt, because they wouldn't shut up in my mind (tagging @academicblorbo for obvious reasons).

15 is passionately, I hope this qualifies.

Of course Hob gets the job. It just takes the interview and five weeks of waiting, during which Dream misses him that much more fiercely, because Hob could be here, with him, if they would just hurry up and answer.His inability to do anything about it almost drives him crazy.

When Hob does get the answer, the search for a house proves to be equally frustrating—slow at first, before it's all over fairly quickly. They're on a phone call, both scrolling through listings.

“Here, look at this one,” Hob says, sending a link. Isn't that—”

The listing is for a flat identical in layout to Dream’s, albeit decorated somewhat more… frilly. “There is no way to know, Hob,” Dream says. “There are thirty-five apartments in this building alone, you cannot—”

“No, look at the pictures of the balcony, it's the one next to you. It's the exact flowers you're always stealing, and the pink bird bath.”

“Excuse me?” Dream asks, offended. “I do not steal, I simply take what grows over onto my side, which—”

“Do you think we could knock down a wall?” Hob muses.

“—is very well within—what?” Dream's train of thought comes to an abrupt halt.

“Like. Make a passage. From this one to yours.”

“The lease is very particular about holes left by nails,” Dream tells Hob, holding back a smile. “I do not think they would take at all kindly to holes very much larger than that.”

“Pity,” Hob says. “Okay, have you seen the one with the double parking spot that we don't need because we both go by bike?”

In the end, they get very lucky. Through one of Dream’s coworkers, they find a small house with four rooms and a fairly large kitchen, tucked away from the seaside hotels and tourists, just a short walk away from a stone beach. The style of it is, as Hob would call it, romantic. Dream just calls it “in dire need of renovation.”

“I know you'd have loved grey stone and glass,” Hob teases. “If you want, you can paint the bedroom.”

And so Dream does. Hob knows Dream secretly loves the house just as much as he does. He’s seen him caressing the wooden framework when he thought Hob wasn’t looking, as well as trying and failing to tuck the overgrown roses back behind the archway. When Hob, who only offered up the bedroom walls as a means to make peace between the house and Dream, checks up on the room after two days, he's left there in the doorway, gaping.

The room is painted in dark blues and greys in a soft gradient until it dissipates into a light grey in the middle of the ceiling, a rippled almost-circle around the cables where Dream detached the lamp. The walls and ceiling are covered in bioluminescent sea creatures, winding themselves around the corners of the room, swimming up, partly hiding behind an underwater volcano that covers most of the wall where the wardrobe will go. Amidst all of this kneels Dream, on cheap, taped-down paper sheets, painting something close to the floor.

“Love, that's amazing, Hob gasps as he finds his words again.

Dream, veritably covered in paint, looks up at him. “You always seem to forget that my second major was art,” he pouts.

There's a bright green streak on his cheek and a white spot on his nose, his usually raven hair flecked with grey. Hob thinks he's adorable. “Never,” he vows, stepping up to Dream to carefully press a kiss on his as of yet clean forehead. “You'll always be my little artist.”

“I am not little,” Dream says.

“You so are,” Hob grins.

Dream gets up from the floor, where he has been painting the very bottom of the wall with little rocks, the paper he put down to protect the floor crinkling. “Just because I am one centimetre smaller than you—”

“One and a half,” Hob corrects cheerfully.

Dream points at him with his brush. “I am not small,” he tells Hob again.

“To me you are,” Hob sing-songs, narrowly avoiding getting his face painted on. He gently grabs Dream's wrist to stop him, his tone turning earnest. “Does it really bother you? Because I'll stop if it does.”

Dream arches his eyebrow, stepping closer, making no move to free his wrist. “Are you insinuating that I cannot take a friendly barb about my height?”

The tension in Hob's stomach eases at once, while other parts of him light up with a spark of interest. Dream really does look cute covered in paint. Maybe they should split the library room to double as an art studio. “Well, I know all kinds of things you take very well, but even I can't know everything, can I?” Hob says softly, smiling.

With a hoarse, sobbing laugh, Dream buries his face in the crook of Hob's neck, dropping the brush in favour of embracing him. “Are you seriously coming onto me right now?” His disbelieving tone is belied by his hands that wander down to tug Hob flush against him by his waist, his breath that ghosts hot over the side of Hob's neck, followed by a playful nibble.

“I might be,” Hob hedges, his breathing just a little heavy. “Why, are you objecting?”

Dream moves away from his neck to frame Hob's face with both hands. “This house is basically empty save for painting supplies, and I am filthy,” Dream states before kissing him, deep and hungry. Hob sighs and opens for him, snaking one hand under Dream's shirt, feeling a cold smear of paint on his cheek from Dream’s nose.

“A shower, then,” Hob murmurs, “so we're clean before we get filthy again.” His fingers trail up over the knobs of Deams spine, finding goosebumps on their way back down.

“So you are suggesting two showers with work in between?” Dream asks, rubbing his nose through Hob's scruff, no doubt still leaving paint, before biting at his Adam's apple.

“I think you’ve worked enough for today,” Hob says, emphasising his words by sneaking one hand into the back of Dream’s paint-smeared jeans. “Could let me do some work for a change.”

“Very well,” Dream says smugly, wrapping his legs around Hob’s waist, leaving Hob to catch him so they don’t fall. “You may.”

Hob just laughs and kisses him again before walking them unsteadily towards the bathroom.

Send me a kissy prompt or read the other one's here

[notallsandmen]

He can be both

(For @academicblorbo)

[tj-dragonblade]

[FLUFFBRUARY FIC] Love, Rain Down on Me

Rated: M Word Count: 2272 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, fluff, human AU, writer!Dream, professor!Hob, stargazing, care packages, acts of service, kisses in the rain, realizations, confessions, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus loves Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, 5+1 fic

Notes: Final entry for Fluffbruary 2024; turns out I wasn't done with this Umbrella Boys AU just yet. Shoutout to @academicblorbo for asking about Dream's pov and suggesting the first 'I love you' as an idea; my brain said 'Oh yes' 1489-Hob-style and while this is not exactly what I first envisioned, I'm still happy with where we ended up.

Fluffbruary Prompts: Day 25: fox twilight sweat Day 26: fluff woolly care package Day 27: table blush laundry Day 28: reward shelter piano Day 29: breakfast valley sign alt prompts: wish hot solid

Summary: 5 times those Three Little Words go unspoken, and one time they do not

On AO3

1. The first time Dream realizes it, Hob has taken him to the astronomy department at the college, after hours, to look at the stars. "Gale lent me the key," Hob had laughed when Dream expressed trepidation about breaking into Hob's place of work. "I'm allowed to come moon over the stars sometimes, and I'm allowed to bring you with me if I want."

So they are taking turns looking through the telescope, peering into the perpetual twilight of the heavens and marveling at the beauty that cannot be properly seen with the naked eye nor from within the light-polluted aura of the city. Hob laughs when Dream observes as much. "Maybe come end of summer we'll take a drive out of the city, camp out for a night in the countryside and do some real stargazing. Sound good?"

And Dream looks at him, this beautiful man squinting up at the skies through his colleague's telescope, the way his hair falls around his face, the scruff of his three-week-old beard and the elegant line of his nose, this beautiful man who offers anything he thinks Dream might like as if it's nothing. Hob has shared with him the woes of past breakups, the consensus that he is too intense, moves too fast, is too much to put up with, and he has admonished Dream to please please tell him if he ever oversteps or pushes too hard, too far because he is trying to do better, but all Dream can think in this moment is how warm he feels in Hob's affections, how priveleged to receive his time and attention.

I love this man, he realizes, like camellias blossoming beneath his ribs, like the sun breaking over the horizon.

"Dream?" Hob is looking at him now instead of the stars, eyebrows raised, mouth curved in a patiently-amused smile.

"That. Would be lovely," Dream answers at last, smiling warmly back at Hob, and cradles his newfound revelation close in the hollow of his chest.

2. The second time, Hob is away at a conference and Dream has emerged from a morning of fitful writing to discover a neatly-wrapped package delivered for him, tied with a ruby red bow. His sister has brought it up and left it by his door rather than interrupting his writing time, as they've agreed. Upon opening it, he finds a letter from Hob atop an airtight plastic container.

Hey Dream, reads the letter, just wanted to say that I'll miss you while I'm gone and can't wait to lavish you with sweet kisses when I get back. Meantime, I made you some of those lavender-rosemary-lemon biscuits you love and here's my shirt you can sleep with if you want. Enjoy ~♥

Delighted by the package and the letter and the biscuits, and the intent behind them, Dream lifts the container out of the box; beneath it, there is a compact umbrella nestled in what turns out to be one of Hob's favorite t-shirts, worn just enough to smell like him. Dream presses it to his face and inhales, absurdly touched, and smiles as he picks up the umbrella.

Of course Hob has sent him an umbrella; that is their 'thing', that is how they met, and he is also terrible at remembering to bring one with him. Tied to the handle he finds a piece of card stock about the size of his palm, with a drawing penciled on one side. It's a rough cartoon figure that is recognizably Hob, smiling brightly and holding a sunny yellow cocktail umbrella that has been carefully attached through the card so that Hob's penciled hand appears to grasp the toothpick handle. Don't forget! says his speech bubble, and Dream feels tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as his smile grows too wide for his face to contain.

I love you, Hob Gadling, he thinks, both hands wrapped around the umbrella, and presses his lips gently to cartoon-Hob's precious happy little face.

3. "You did not have to do my washing, Hob," Dream protests, somewhat futilely as the deed is already done, dried, and being folded. "I am a grown man, capable of doing my own laundry." Never mind that his clothes had been accumulating in Hob's flat all week while he worked through additional revisions to The Seeds of Fate; Hob's space was conducive to this particular story, he found, and Hob was generous in allowing him to hole up here during the day while Hob was at work and on into the evenings when he returned, overnight when Dream wished it.

Hob shrugs. "They were here, I had a load of darks, they fit. Don't worry, my washing powder's the allergy-free stuff and I checked your tags for temps and such. Which reminds me." He sets the black jeans he just folded aside, takes up a pair of his own. "Your fancy lace shirt's hanging in the shower; hand washed it in cold just like it said and put it up to drip-dry."

Dream is keenly struck by the soft warmth of Hob choosing to do mundane everyday chores for him, taking care with his things, simply because he wants to and he can. It is not new, by any means; Hob has engaged in little acts of service the whole of the time Dream has been acquainted with him, from the very moment he first offered shared use of his umbrella to Dream. The domesticity of this moment settles something deep within him, something that sings of home and happiness and contentment.

"Hob Gadling, you are a chivalrous and wonderful man," he says, when what he means is I love you. "Truly, you make my life so much easier." He comes close, presses a kiss to Hob's cheek.

Hob just smiles, soft and warm and pleased, and continues folding his laundry. "You're welcome, duck. My pleasure."

4. "Here, take ours," Hob says, handing his umbrella to the woman with the toddler at the bus stop as the skies open up.

"Oh I couldn't!" Her eyes dart from the umbrella (which Hob is of course holding over her and her child) to Dream and back to Hob. "That's very kind, but then you'll get soaked!"

"We're not far," Hob assures, pressing the umbrella into her hand. "I insist. We'll be fine."

"Well…if you're quite certain?" She clutches it gratefully.

"Of course. Take care." Hob offers a friendly smile, the kind that makes his nose scrunch up adorably, and they turn to leave.

"Thank you!" the woman calls after them.

Dream finds that he doesn't mind the rain, is not inclined to run for shelter, not with Hob beside him, not when their getting soaked is because Hob does not hesitate to offer kindness to strangers. It gives him a warm glow inside, to know that he loves a man who works to put kindness out into the world, to brighten the days of those around him when he can. Damp clothes and wet hair are a small price to pay, and the summer rain is not so cold.

Halfway to Hob's flat, Dream steps around in front of him and drapes his arms behind Hob's neck. "That was a very kind thing you did," he murmurs, stepping backwards, drawing Hob with him so they do not stop moving onward. It is very much like a slow sort of dance down the street, and Hob's arms wrapping about his waist only heighten that impression.

"Yeah?" Hob shrugs, smiling. "She needed it." Like it is truly that simple.

To Hob, it is.

Dream kisses him, pressing close while the rain falls upon them. "Not many would give up their own comfort for a stranger." His lips brush Hob's with the words and then Hob is drawing him back in, warm, hungry. Dream fancies he can taste the rain, between them.

"Not a hardship, not when I've got you to keep me company," Hob finally says, nipping softly at his lips, water dripping steadily from a loose lock of hair.

"Such things you say." Dream is intoxicated with the moment, the atmosphere, the swelling of feeling he holds for this man and the tender warmth in Hob's eyes gazing back at him while the skies wash the world around them in soft hazy grey.

I love you, he thinks, kissing Hob again, pulling him close in the falling rain, I love you, I love you, I LOVE you—

5. He thinks it next when he is tangled with Hob in his bed, breathless and sweating and coming apart in Hob's practiced hands, when every time Hob moves within him he is crying out, starlight bursting behind his eyes.

He thinks it as Hob shivers to a halt, pulsing hot inside him, trembling in his arms.

He thinks it laying in Hob's embrace after, Hob's chest solid and warm beneath his ear, rising gently with each of Hob's sleeping breaths. I love you, I love you, I love you, he whispers in his head, in time with the steady beat of Hob's heart, and lets himself drift to sleep, content.

One day, one day when the moment is right, he will say it aloud; until then, he hoards it like a precious secret safe in his heart.

+1 Dream wakes on Sunday with a groan, protesting the sunbeams that have found his face; they had not closed Hob's bedroom curtains last night and he is paying the price for this oversight now.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Hob says, leaning on one elbow beside Dream with his head propped in his hand. He is supremely unbothered by the brightness, leading Dream to surmise he awoke some time ago.

"You are watching me sleep, now? You will not convince me that it is entertaining." He blinks once, twice, his eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Entertaining is not the word, no, but I do enjoy it. You're so pretty when you're asleep, soft and relaxed and at peace. I love that I get to see it." Hob smiles, reaches to trace a fingertip down his cheekbone. "Was trying to decide what to make you for breakfast, actually."

Dream squirms onto his back, throws an arm over his eyes, stretches his toes. "You need not make such effort—" He cuts himself off with a jaw-cracking yawn.

"You're worth it, though," Hob says easily, and Dream rolls his head to the side, meets Hob's eyes again. The sun is striking them exactly right, illuminating the depths of the brown to amber, honey.

He is so beautiful.

"Very well." Dream smiles, indulgent, lazy. "What will you be offering to please my discerning palette?"

"Fry you up an egg and a couple slices of bread? Tomato too, if you want. Blueberry jam for your toast and your sweet tooth. And if you're hungry enough, a nice hot juicy sausage?" He waggles his eyebrows.

Dream arches one of his own in return, and Hob grins. "Yeah alright, that's for later. But I will cook you actual sausage too if you like."

"I will take actual sausage with breakfast, yes, and 'sausage' when I am awake enough to enjoy it." He swings himself out of Hob's bed and makes his way to the toilet, the warm sound of Hob's laughter following him.

By the time he wanders into the kitchen, having donned his pants and a t-shirt of Hob's, bare feet and bare legs and bare arms because he's comfortable and because he knows Hob likes it, Hob has sausages and tomatoes frying in one pan with eggs and bread in another. He's tied an apron over his bare chest and joggers, captured most of his hair in an elastic band, is whistling cheerfully over the stovetop with a spatula in hand. The kettle is going, and Dream retrieves two mugs from the cupboard.

He preps Hob's tea once it's steeped, a quarter the milk and sugar that he puts in his own, and offers it to Hob to taste once he's finished plating their breakfast.

"Perfect," Hob pronounces, handing it back and picking up the plates to carry to the table. "Why's it always taste best when you make it?"

"I infuse it with my charming personality," Dream quips, deadpan, and Hob huffs a laugh.

"God, I love you," he says, his smile still broad, bright enough to rival the morning sun outside the kitchen window; and then he stills.

Dream, too, has gone still; Hob has never said those words to him before, and it sets something joyful and effervescent singing through his veins.

Hob loves him.

Hob loves him.

But Hob is shrinking in on himself, just a little, as if he could hide behind the plates in his hands and the apron he wears—every inch the man who fears (too much too fast I always come on too strong) the consequence of words he had not intended to speak aloud. Dream will be sad about this later, that he has failed somehow to make clear to Hob beyond the shadow of any doubt how welcome his affections are, how endearing his intensity, and he will vow to do better; but now, in the moment, with his heart soaring, the solution is simple, so simple, as easy as breathing.

He has never said the words aloud either, but they are as familiar to him as the beating of his own heart and they are spoken with as little effort.

"And I love you, Hob Gadling." He leans over the corner of the table, kisses Hob soft and sweet on his blossoming smile. "Now, where is my blueberry jam?"

= Started: 2/26/24 Drafted: 2/29/24 Posted: 2/29/24

The lavender-rosemary-lemon cookies were first written by @softest-punk and then brought to life by @carnelianmeluha; you can find the original fic and the recipe via this link One day I will brave my utter dearth of kitchen skill and make these myself. One day.

[orionsangel86]

Subtext Glorious Subtext! A Dreamling on Netflix analysis in The Sandman - Masterpost

Introduction

Shortly after realising this show was going to become my new obsession, I decided to throw myself into all things Sandman, which meant actually reading the comics (several times over) and listening to the audio book on Audible. The one thing that struck me most after consuming all Sandman media, was how different the tone of the Netflix show was. In particular, the choices made in the show for the Men of Good Fortune sequence in episode 6 The Sound of Her Wings which is the reason I fell head first into shipping Dreamling. The Netflix show portrays Dream and Hob’s relationship in a whole different way to the comic and the Audible book.

Whilst it IS possible to pick up certain moments in the Men of Good Fortune comic which can be interpreted with a queer lense, (the rose, Death’s knowing expression, etc) there isn’t really much to work with until we get to Hob’s dream in Season of Mists (and I’m losing my mind thinking about how the Netflix show will adapt THAT).

The queer coding in the show however is laid on so thickly, it’s difficult to ignore it. Like with most popular fandom ships, the reason Dreamling has suddenly become SO popular, is because viewers all collectively watched this 30 minute sequence, and had the eyebrow raising realisation that this was actually all very romantic and subtextually very queer.

I have yet to see a full meta analysis of the episode, so thought I would write a breakdown of Dream and Hob’s meetings over the centuries and outline how their differences from the comics have had such an impact on Dream and Hob’s relationship. How everything from the tweaks to the dialogue and additional scenes, the acting choices made, music cues, and the use of classic love tropes in TV have all come together to give us a subtextual masterpiece of queer coding and very much turned a friendship into something more. Even if you don’t ship Dreamling, I believe it would be very difficult for anyone versed in fandom culture (and anyone with a good knowledge of film and TV analysis) to ignore just how thickly the queer subtext is laid on.

Besides, its also writer acknowledged that there was intention there among the creative team, whatever they may decide to do with that going forward.

Initially I was going to put this entire analysis into one long post, but it is far too long and Tumblr was getting angry with me for the amount of gifs I was using. Instead I have broken my meta essay down into 8 parts as follows under the cut:

Chapter 1 - A Walk with Death and the Return to the White Horse

Chapter 2 - 1389 and 1489

Chapter 3 - 1589

Chapter 4 - 1689

Chapter 5 - 1789

Chapter 6 - 1889

Chapter 7 - 1989

Chaper 8 - Reunited

I have been writing this meta essay very slowly over the space of 7 months and I would love to know your thoughts, feedback, comments, or questions on it! Tagging those who may be interested and those who have asked to be tagged:

@notallsandmen @academicblorbo @just-cosmere-fan @seiya-starsniper @littledreamling @altair214 @lulusolier @joyce20091234 @zenkitty714 @tickldpnk8 @timeuntravel @marlowe-zara @mr-sadman @duckland

[cosmic--static]

self-indulgent meet-cute drawing. going to call this an aquarium au with merfolk performer dream and (the wonderful addition by @academicblorbo ) marine biologist hob. pretty tail "finspiration" (and pun!) from @merytsetesh