#tickldpnk8

[fishfingersandscarves]

I just gotta say that despite having a beautiful illustration style that is all your own…You also just have such an excellent grasp on the craft of illustration and working in various styles. Speaking as someone in the general design/illustration industry, you are incredibly talented. I know you probably know this about yourself already. But if you ever doubt yourself, if you ever find yourself struggling with imposter syndrome, please come back to this and remind yourself that you’ve got just an insane amount of talent.

WEH THANK YOU

[writing-for-life]

Dream—Streetcar Desire

[tickldpnk8]

So here's a not-as-exciting possible source for the knight at the top of the ceiling:

Spotted at Edinburgh Castle: a statue of William Wallace. The pose and armor is similar, but notice that the coat of arms isn't the same. (so still hoping this is a Last Crusade easter egg)

So about that ceiling

So to wrap up this series on art history in Season of Mists, here’s my last post (at least until I discover more). You know the ceiling in Ch. 6, the one we were all talking about? I’ve continued to do research because so many of those paintings look familiar. And I think I’ve found a few more references for it with all of your help!

For reference, here is again that ceiling:

And as I zoomed in, here are some similar works of art from across the eras that might have inspired some of the details:

Rider mounted on horse vs Napolean Crossing the Alps by Jacques-Louis David (1805)

Scenic landscape with trees vs Chalk Cliffs on Rügen by Caspar David Friedrich (1818)

Castle with trees vs The Ruins of Hohenbaden by Carl Philipp Fohr (1814/1815)

Knight Templar (or perhaps Teutonic Order? Both have crosses on their shields) vs Grail Knight from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989) (man, I really hope this is an Easter Egg because I couldn’t really find anything in art history that would match up as well as his costume does)

Huge thanks to @beatnikfreakiswriting , @notallsandmen , @mathomhouse-e , @mollymagician and @quillingwords for their insights on the original post! It definitely helped me narrow down my search, and was such a fun discussion. If you or anyone else has any thoughts or corrections to the above, I definitely welcome them!

And if Kelley Jones is out there and wants to share his inspiration sources, point him my way! 😉

[tryan-a-bex]

100 fics

Today I posted my 100th fic on Ao3!

My first was Pottery; or Function, Purpose and Heart on Mar 11, 2023. It was a retired Dreamling fic with Destruction (who I call Joe) as the main character.

I moved fairly quickly into my Spy x Family crossover series. Anya is so cute, and throwing her in with Dreamling and the Endless family led to a lot of fun shenanigans! (Generally you don't need to know Spy x Family canon to follow these.)

Next I started on my Sandman x Scooby Doo shenanigans! I really like the Scooby Gang, and there are definitely some mysteries to solve surrounding the Endless! (With awesome art by @sab-draws!)

Gaulcienne caught my eye next. Lucienne, my beloved librarian, and the shape-changing dream-fairy? Oh yes! A Quiet Love with Wings has most of my commissioned art, with pieces by @athymelyreply for Sometimes when You Fall, You Fly, @ibrithir-was-here for Fireflies and a Missing Person, and @designtheendless for The Dragon Rider!

King of Night and Prince of Day, for @nathanwonderwolf's wonderful art, has the second highest kudos of all my fics.

Then I invented an OC who is the preteen personification of the consciousness of humanity, aka Social Media. I thought this was pure crack but people liked it and now it's a series! Dinner and Play was created with @carnelianmeluha's food ideas in mind!

My Dreamling works tend to be short and sweet, often prompted by something on tumblr or discord, and are collected as Dreamling vignettes.

I have recently written (but not yet posted) my first honest to god smut, but early dabbles in the craft were mostly crack, like my Helm Fucking Crack series. I'm unreasonably proud of how cracked it is, and thank everyone who enabled me (notably @sleepsonfutons, @windsweptinred, @tickldpnk8, @zzoomacroom, read their fics!).

My obsession with Fuckboi Dream (mind the tags) is ongoing, and included creating a chapter index with notes so I can find things, a series about Murphy's childhood (somebody please read these, they are so cute), and others, fanart as well!

In The Dragon's Tongue, Lucienne takes on Titania! I commissioned @lostelfwriting to write the bdsm continuation of the scene, and she did a fantastic job!

A Reunion in the Dreaming (picnic recreated here) was the first fic in Walking with the Walkers, my series about Rose, Jed and Unity. It features Rose and Ara (Barbie transformed in Life is but a Dream), Rose and Jed meeting their Endless family members, Jed and Gault having adventures, and Unity throwing family parties in the Dreaming (with art by @ilya-halfelven).

Trials of a Shapeshifter in Love (in which Gault tries to surprise Lucienne with a romantic dinner) was my favourite fic from October 2023 -- Femslash weekend (by @sandmanfemslashfans ) and Monsterfucktober (by @seiya-starsniper and friends) made it a really fun month! I also wrote Chantal and Zelda, Johanna and Death, and zombie Lyta (my most angsty fic, I believe).

Just Get Me Off the Damn Mountain was written for designtheendless' contest and omg, I won! It is my most popular fic, at 185 kudos!

I also wrote an OG story for NaNoWriMo! At 23k, Wander Witch is by far my longest story (the next longest is under 9k).

After a bit of being stuck, I got started again by writing continuations of @gabessquishytum's asks! Thank you to Gabe and to all the anons and contributors who allowed me to post their parts of the story!

Asmi, @weirdly-specific-but-ok, argued that he does not have a fandom, so (with permission) I proved him wrong by writing fanfic where he meets Crowley and the Maggot Fam. I love you, Asmi and the maggots!

Heading on an Adventure, the story of Rose and Orpheus' road trip, led to a series of library adventures for Lucienne (often featuring Meowpheus), starting with The Library Cat and continuing in the Lucienne my Beloved series.

I wanted more Lucienne and Walkers content, so I started a side blog, @lucienne-my-beloved, and am open to prompts there! On ao3, the series is called ficlets for lucienne.

Hob Meets the Doctor June 7, 2389 and The line I will not cross and the line I will (Gaulcienne) are my space fics, and I am unreasonably happy about them!

I'm now writing for @augustwritingchallenge! (They got me over 100 in my wips a week or two ago!) I combined prompts so you'll see a fic every 2-5 days in various series and fandoms, including Good Omens (Aug 30) and Dead Boy Detectives (soon).

And my 100th fic! Why are you whispering? a Jed and Rose fic for the late night call prompts. Woohoo!

Thank you so much to everyone who has supported my fandom journey! I'm the least depressed one in my long covid cohort, due to your support and friendship! I cherish every kudo and comment and bookmark and reblog, and the art and fics you all create as well!

[orionsangel86]

A Big Thank You For Death Appreciation Week

This is slightly overdue but I just wanted to say to everyone who participated thank you so much for Death Appreciation Week! All your fanworks have been wonderful to see and it's been a joy on my dash this past week in the run up to the release of Dead Boy Detectives.

Wasn't she fabulous in it? Even if it was only a short cameo it was so so lovely to see Death again and it just makes me more excited for more Sandman!

For anyone who wants to see the fanworks from the week, please check out the #Death Appreciation Week tag

For all your excellent contributions to the appreciation week, thank you so much! :)

@dragonnan, @milfzatannaz, @tryan-a-bex, @seiya-starsniper, @writing-for-life, @marlowe-zara , @bobbole , @mjdrawsalot , @nanonews , @goblininawig , @alteon77 , @iconsumethesoulsofthedamned , @tickldpnk8 , @nualaofthefaerie , @lucienne-my-beloved , @kittynannygaming ,

[bobbole]

@windsweptinred @tickldpnk8 a collage I had made for halloween, I want to share with the despoe fan club!

[seiya-starsniper]

Music Tag Game

tagged by @bazzybelle, thanks friend! <3

Rules: Shuffle your Spotify On Repeat playlist, and put the first 10 songs in a poll. Have your followers choose which song is their favorite.

I don't have Spotify, but thankfully YouTube Music has an equivalent playlist😄 (Replay Mix, if anyone's curious)

tagging with no pressure @tj-dragonblade @five-and-dimes @tickldpnk8 @silver-dream89 @bruce-wayne-simp

@arialerendeair @sans--seraph @quellawrites @queerofthedagger

[windsweptinred]

Fandom love but make it Cillian Murphy: what’s his best role and why?

His BEST role?? Uff, would you accept a dissertation on the matter? To be handed in in a years time. With the conclusion being why I believe it should be Destiny of the Endless? Seriously, he's got the cheekbones and the eyes to be Toms big brother.. And the voice and the aura... But anywho, enough on my fan casting. 😅

But yes, his best role 🤔. I think I'll have to come at this from a 'My personal favorites' point of view or I will actually be answering you with an essay!

Obviously, let's get this out the way. He was phenomenonal in Oppenheimer and deserves every bit of acclaim he gets for it.

I will forever love him in the Dark Knight Trilogy. Was it the acting prefromance of his life? No. I think in one movie he only has a few lines. 😅 But I love Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow, I have ever since the 90s Batman cartoon. He's my favourite Batman Rogue. I went into Batman Begins excited for Scarecrow... And came out having met Cillian and those supernatural blue eyes of his. And have been in love ever since. 😅 So yes, the Dark Knight trilogy will always hold a special place in my heart.

I actually have a real soft spot for him in Red Eye and Red Lights. Red Lights for the premise, Red Eye because Jackson Rippner... (Jackson Rippner, subtle 🤣) is a charasmatic little dick.

Tommy Shelby from Peaky Blinders has to reign supreme. The fact that Cillian is able to portray a man of so many contrasts, loving yet glacial, strong yet shattered, dark yet light. And make the character feel so REAL. There's just something he manges to craft with Tommy, this almost inhuman man, who at the same time is loved as an everyman. Able to appeal to so many. I think Tommy is one of those characters Cillian will always be associated with, and with good reason.

There's some of Cillian's work I have yet to see. But those for now have to be some of my favorites. How about you @tickldpnk8?

[elemen]

Thanks for the tag @tickldpnk8

Last Song: A chi mi dice by Blue

Favourite Colour: Red. It's important for Ben Ming Nian.

Last Book: I reread random passages from Simply Empowered by Crystal Andrus. It's a self-help book.

Last Audiobook: I've never listened to a whole audiobook yet.

Last Movie: Black Panther Wakanda Forever

Last TV Show: Mayfair Witches

Sweet/Savoury/Spicy: I reach for the sweet snacks first. I'm a fan of instant ramen so spicy your tongue is on fire. I prefer chili spicy over wasabi spicy.

Relationship: I'm single.

Last Thing I Googled: Greeting cards.

Current Obsession: Freebie hunting. Yes, I'll take this $150 business course %100 off for a limited time.

Looking Forward To: Beating procrastination. It's an ongoing thing.

Tagging (no pressure!) @mauraeyk @crowleybrekkers @good-enemy @whopooh

[stellerssong]

WKFJSA your WIP Wednesday post is an absolute delight to read, thank you 😂😂😂 can I hear a bit more about #6 and perhaps persuade you to share a snippet if I ask very very nicely?

i'm glad to hear it! the thing i have really missed about being on tumblr is being fucking sillygoofy about my own fic. you have to be an adult in the comments, y'know, and there's only so much room in an author's note for Japes and Goofs when you have to make time to outline non-tag warnings and link song attributions and thank your prompter and/or beta and flash an In Tonight's Performance The Role Of X Will Be Played By card as necessary and—

anyway.

#6 was indeed begun in my evernote drafts while waiting for the Fall Out Boy concert to begin and slowly sinking under a dose of unprescribed downers. i think maybe Pat Stump and Pete Wentz are not good at writing, like, "music"—many of those melodic lines are 100% reliant on "i have the range, stamina, and lack of understanding of what constitutes healthful singing of 23-year-old Patrick Stump" in order to function—but some of their word salad lyrics do make great titles, and except to dream sweet of me was kind of a banger from first principles. but then i was like "oh maybe this is my chance to drop while you're orbiting, might i? a potential fic title i've been holding in reserve for a few years now." but THEN i was like "in the spirit of continuing to tick boxes on my nonexistent List Of Languages I've Used For A Fic Title, and also in the spirit of what actually happens in the fic, why not trína chéile, le chéile, claochlaithe?" vote now on your phones!

okay but what is the fic actually ABOUT. right. what the fic is actually ABOUT is, i believe @tickldpnk8 commented on suffer that hurt that they wanted to see Lucienne tell Dream about her "pleasant" "conversation" with Desire, and to know how that would go. for my part, i didn't want to end revisionsverse without at least one more tender moment between Dream and Luce, because as much as i joke about this being the "Dream talks to all the women in his life au," the Danny/Luce relationship is really the heart of the thing. i also wanted there to be some reciprocity for Luce's courage in suffer that hurt (and during the years of Morpheus' captivity).

something that i think is not super important to fandom at large, but which is very important to ME, is the acknowledgement of female characters of color's emotional labor—not just "wow! you are so girlboss and yass kween and Greta Gerwig Barbie, just like we always knew you were!" but like, "you were brave and strong and i know you didn't really have a choice, but it matters that you endured, let me help you hold that for a while. i see you and i love you." it's the seeing that matters the most to me. not the assumption that She's Always Got It In Her, not the unbroken fortitude, but the acknowledgement of the person underneath. and like, Luce has seen the person underneath all of Dream's competing positionalities so much in this series—has helped shape that person for the reader in a lot of very real ways—so i wanted to get Dream looking back at her, through his own eyes, and showing us the person he loves.

"okay but i'm asking what HAPPENS in the fic. what is the PLOT" THEY CUDDLE IN BED WHILE DREAM CASUALLY HAS A SERIES OF VIVID HALLUCINATIONS. THIS IS A NORMAL DATE NIGHT FOR THEM.

“Where are you now, love?” You are drifting weightless and silent through the soft-edged dreams of a floating cnidarian, the constant pulse-pulse-pulse of your meandering path through space the only defining line between your body, your mind, and the vast careless collective of the open ocean— —and you are stalking along at the side of one of the lesser nightmares as it pursues a child through an alien, twilit forest, tasting fear-sweat smeared over the flat violet plane of a teardrop-shaped leaf, marking the depth of footprints in the leaf-litter, listening for panting breath and for the impact of a small body against the ground as your quarry stumbles for the final time— —and you are stone, molten and white-hot, the burning heart at the core of a newly formed planet which dreams of cooling rains and columns of cloud and the first trembling breath of a living thing that might one day tread the ground of you, the world of you— “I am here with you.” “Well, I know that’s not true,” Lucienne says with a sleepy chuckle. “Or not entirely, anyway.”

[writing-for-life]

The Endless Are Not Their Opposite--They Only Define It

I read quite often, on here and elsewhere, that the Endless are also their opposite (@tickldpnk8 and I were just talking about an interesting thread on Reddit), so I just decided to speed-complete this one and get it out of my drafts before it dies in there (so not as much in-depth as originally planned, but sometimes, you just need to run with it 🤣).

The Endless are not their opposite. They define it. It’s a (in my mind, and I’d love to hear what you think) massive difference. And they define their opposite by their absence. If they truly were their opposite, it would give very different meaning to canon, and if we were to do so, a lot of it wouldn't make sense in my view.

Dream is not also reality. He defines it. He is, and forever will be, unreality. It is his absence that defines reality. A dream that becomes real isn't a dream anymore--it's real. That’s the main reason why pulling the ship into reality in Overture weakens him. If he were reality, he could have just snapped his fingers and make it happen. If he were reality, a lot of his problems wouldn't be... well, problems. The fact he is (a) D/dream is pretty much why all his relationships are doomed to fail. Dreams don't last. Dreams are forever strange and can't be truly known.

Delirium is not also sanity/clarity. She defines it through her absence. And when she pulls herself together like in Brief Lives, it hurts her "muchly". It is immeasurable pain for her because it is what she is not and cannot be for any extended period of time without hurting herself.

Despair is not also hope. She defines it via her absence. As long as you hope, you don’t despair. If Despair were also hope, we would not have 6 issues of Overture very clearly showing us who and what H/hope is. If Despair were also hope, we wouldn't need a little girl called Hope reach out her hand and touch Dream—he would have a sister who could do it. But the only time Despair shows up for him, so to speak, is after he killed Orpheus—make of that what you will.

Death is not also life. She defines it. The fact that she is there at your beginning does not mean she is the one who gives you life. She is there so you will remember her, always (and especially when she takes your hand), hence you will cherish life. She does not directly give life to immortals either--they are immortal because of her absence, because she withholds her gift, like she does with Orpheus and Hob (the Eblis-situation has nothing to do with anything in my mind and is linked to a funeral rite, and we are clearly told it is not something she usually does [“it’s been so long”], or is remotely comfortable doing. It is just that she is the Endless that is most life-adjacent and hence the one who will have to do it. Just like Dream is the most reality-adjacent and hence the one who has to pull the ship).

Destruction is not also creation. He defines it. He is what gives us the blank slate, he is what makes creation possible, he is what starts the cycle and ends it, but he is not creation himself. Keeping on destroying makes creation impossible. There needs to be a pause, a break for creation to come to fruition—the absence of destruction. If he were also creation, he wouldn't create so badly (to the extent that it is canonically turned into a running gag), and being around him and seeking him out wouldn't be an issue. But it is.

Desire is not also hatred (I’m still not sure if hatred is really the opposite of desire, but I’ll run with it because that’s what Gaiman chose). They define it via their absence. You know how Dream doesn’t want Desire in his life anymore after one major spat (whether he had reason to or overreacted isn’t really the issue). And what feelings are often left in the absence of Desire? And what does Desire feel and gets themselves tangled up in because they are pushed away and are basically not acknowledged/desired by their own sibling despite constantly trying to show him they are important (desire is not just a sexual thing, people, get your mind out of the gutter 🤣)? Yeah, about that one… There is definitely a different type of enmeshment here which sometimes seems a bit plot-hole-y to me, but I think that might be down to the fact that Desire is the chosen antagonist (and even that, only to a degree until they aren’t). Even so, it still makes sense.

Destiny is not also freedom. He is the absence of it. All paths lead to the same end. Or a decision you make was the decision you were going to make all along, and what looks like a different ending was the ending that would have happened anyway. And even if you choose, the book will start to make that choice destiny again. Only Delirium knows what’s not in his book, and in this universe, the only true freedom is not bound by any rules, logic or sanity…

[tickldpnk8]

Man, seeing the scale of one of these in person really puts the panel into perspective.

Dream’s Castle x Assyrian Lamassu

I’ll get back to my regular series on Season of Mists soon, but have started to compile art history references used in this volume. This is the first on a series of posts on that topic!

Entrance of Dream’s castle in Season of Mists Ch. 3 vs Assyrian Lamassu (winged human-headed bull) from c. 721-705 BCE

The lamassu is a celestial being from ancient Mesopotamian religion bearing a human head, bull's body, sometimes with the horns and the ears of a bull, and wings. It appears frequently in Mesopotamian art. The lamassu and shedu were household protective spirits of the common Assyrian people, becoming associated later as royal protectors, and were placed as sentinels at entrances.

From the Wikipedia page on Lamassu

[scifrey]

Keepsakes:

Caraway & Rosewater

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta’d

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: PG13

Warnings: Some fade-to-black sexytimes.

Relationships:  Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Delirium of the Endless, Death of the Endless, Dream of the Endless | Daniel Hall, Destruction of the Endless, Desire of the Endless, Despair of the Endless, Destiny of the Endless, Matthew the Raven, Eleanor Gadling, Harriet Butler

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

Caraway & Rosewater

Inspired by a prompt from @tickldpnk8 on Tumblr. Am I also specifically making this partially about food specifically for @carnelianmeluha  …. Maaaaybe.

Hob stops his horse beside the window of the hired carriage, which brought them north from London, in order to get a good look at Eleanor’s face. He wants to memorize her expression when she sees the house for the first time. 

Eleanor appears more than a little startled to arrive and be greeted at the door by no one. It shows on her leaf-shaded face, plain as the sun in the sky, and in the stiff set of her spine, and the way she folds her fingers together stiffly in on her lap, and rolls her lower lip in between her teeth. In short, she is displeased.

Hob’s stomach immediately sinks.

“Here?” she asks politically, as she takes in the cool glade where they’ve halted.

It’s a very pretty clearing. 

Hob had picked it out a century prior, when his banditry and sellsword ways had granted him enough coin to escape both the unsavory life, and the stink and press of London. He’d purchased the deed for a few small fields and this little patch of woods, and named the tiny farm “Glade Estates” in jest. And in hope. For he did hope, one day, to transform it into a mighty country seat, worthy of the aspirations and titles he worked toward.

He’d returned to London once the purchase had drained him of his money, and found a place as a printer’s apprentice. He’d intended to use what scant extra coin the profession provided to sneak away for a week here and there to lay foundations and design a grand mansion. But first he’d need a cottage in which to stay while doing said planning, laying, and building. Luckily he had all the time in the world to do so, and could afford to take the grand project slowly.

But the more he visited over the next few decades, the more he realized that he prized the simplicity of the little cottage he was creating here, and the peace of being alone with his thoughts and secrets in a way that he could not in London. When he took ill or was injured severely, it was a place of refuge and a haven from prying eyes who would wonder why he was not yet dead of his wounds. He could heal in private and return a whole man. Or as a different man, entirely.

With no hired hands or tradesman to get in his way or gainsay his notions, the glade became a place to work with his hands and challenge his creativity and mind. This became an ever-more valuable treasure as his ascent through the social order meant he increasingly spent his free time sitting on his bottom and drinking. And while he dare not leave behind anything too valuable or worse, tell-tale of his true nature, the little stone cache he’d hidden in the forest proved to be a dry and safe place to guard his few carefully hoarded mementos of the last two centuries.

Deciding to keep Glade Estate humble, Hob worked hard over the decades to build the four-room stone cottage by hand, whenever he needed a break from the stink and the plagues. Or, when hiding from London society long enough to return as his own son. 

Now completed, the cottage consisted of a small Great Room, with cooking hearth and bread oven against the wall in the centre of the cottage, surrounded with all the attendant tables, cupboards, and chairs necessary. To the left of that were two small rooms to act as pantry and dairy, and another room to the right was outfitted as best he could manage to mimic the incredible Turkish hammams he had visited as a sellsword. 

While he had no hot underground spring to tap into for water, the nearby river water could be heated in the great copper pot he’d installed in one corner of the room, over a stone basin to cradle the fire. A little bit of clever engineering saw the pot itself suspended on a pole with a handle, allowing it to be tipped into the soaking tub and mixed with cold water and bath oils until it was just right for a body to laze in comfortably. Above the washing room, to take advantage of the heat of the copper, was a loft containing a few low chests for clothing, and an equally low bed strung with rope and laid with an extravagantly overstuffed eiderdown mattress.

It’s been decades of back-breaking labour to collect, pile, mortar, and plaster the local grey slate into walls; to fashion and tar the timbers himself with all his shipwright’s tools; to white wash and thatch; to build fencing and train brambles into hedgerows, and plant all manner of fruiting plants and bushes in orderly rows beyond the kitchen door; to plane and joint the wood for each stick of furniture; to lovingly craft the hearth grate and fire tools at the local blacksmith’s; in short, to learn trade after trade, skill after skill, to turn this first piece of land he was able to call his own into a real and honest home.

Instead of funneling his growing shipyard wealth into a great country manor, he’d used it instead to purchase land on the unfashionable south side of the Thames. Let his gold be spent where it would be admired by his fellow courtiers. And let this haven remain modest. This cottage, and its glade, and its woods, and its two remaining small fields were his own personal project.

Today, the two fields were rented to the family whose own fields abutted them. In payment asked for no coin, but for the good maintenance of his garden, orchard, and house while Hob was in the city.

He is rightly very proud of his little retreat. It is not a fine house, all red bricks and glass, not like the one he’s having refurbished in the city as a surprise for Eleanor at that very moment. But it is his–theirs, now–and it is good.

And, if the neighbors have done their duty by the eccentric Sir Gadlen, it should also be scrubbed clean, filled with fresh bedding and linens, and stuffed full of all the best victuals, libations, and cookery ingredients good London gold can buy.

“Yes, here,” Hob confirms, screwing his courage to the sticking place. He swings down from his mare and walks her to the hitching post before the sweet little wood shed leaning against the stone wall of the cottage. This will stand in stead of her barn for the next month, and will be warm enough with the bathing room on the other side of the stone wall.

“Are you not a knight, my husband?” Eleanor asks as the lone coachman steps down to open the carriage door and set out the stepping stool for her.

“I am, my wife,” Hob replies, stripping off his thick leather riding glove to hand her down out of the carriage and onto the thick, mossy grass ringing the cottage garden.

With Eleanor safely on the ground, Hob helps the coachman and driver to unload their trunks, piling them beside her. He’ll bring them inside himself, later. He wants to show Eleanor what she is now mistress of, first. 

He thinks it a great treasure indeed. Eleanor, who has seemed amiable enough these four days' journey with their stripped-down comforts and service, seems unconvinced.

“And did you not tell me that you were wealthy, my husband?”

“I did, my wife,” Hob admits, a smile curling into the side of his beard when she offers him a displeased frown. Oh, how he enjoys teasing his sweet and canny lady.

As proof of both his wealth and his generosity, he digs out his purse and pops a gold coin into the palms of the coachman and driver. Along with this he adds a letter of instruction for them to return to Gadlen House, which confirms his instructions for the renovations, and his orders for them to return to Glade Estate in thirty day’s time for the return journey.

“And did you not tell me, my husband,” Eleanor goes on, throwing her arms wide to encompass all that she can see, sending the fan tied to her wrist gyrating in the air with the aggrieved gesture. “That we were to reside at your northern estate for this, our honeymoon?”

Hob sends the carriage and it’s intruding humans and horses on their way.

“Indeed I did,” Hob confirms jovially as he waves goodbye.

“Then why are we alone, standing beside a pokey little crooked cot, with no servants nor people of any sort to speak of, my husband?” Eleanor asks, with a look that might turn lesser (or mortal) men to stone in their tracks.

“Because, wife,” Hob says, and pauses as the carriage rounds a bend in the forest road and is completely out of sight. 

Then he whirls on her, grabs her fast by her bottom, and heaves her up against his chest. He cranes his head up to capture her mouth for a filthy, filthy kiss, the likes of which he’s been dying to gift her since they woke together in bed the day after the wedding. He has refrained until now, as they’ve been surrounded by fellow travelers, or servants, or busybodies for nigh on a week. 

Eleanor squeals first in surprise, then delight. She laughs and clings to him, arms around his neck, dainty feet kicking in the air as he backs them toward the cottage. Her lips meet his on the tiltyard of their lust, thrust for thrust, sally for sally. So consuming and marvelous is it that Hob’s back hits the planking of the door hard enough to drive the latch into his hip.

“Oof,” he grunts, and sets Eleanor down. He cinches her tight about the waist with one arm, should she get any ideas about running off after the carriage, and fishes through the pouch at his groin for the key to the door. 

If the motion makes the back of his hand press against the mound of her sex through her skirts, well, that’s a secret for just the two of them.

“Because what, husband?” Eleanor asks him with cheeky breathlessness, all ire gone as she pets her hands down his neck and shoulders. It makes it hard to fit the key into the lock, and he fumbles it twice before the door swings open behind him, allowing them entry.

Eleanor peers curiously over his shoulder, but he will not have her distracted now. He pockets the key and kisses her again to keep her attention where it belongs, guiding her inside as he does. He kicks the door shut behind her, then presses her up against it and gifts her with another of terribly obscene kisses.

When he breaks away for breath, Hob takes her by the very tips of her fingers and leads her slowly, step by backwards step, toward the ladder that will bring them to the loft bedroom.

“Because, wife, with people we are utterly, utterly alone…” He pauses at the foot of the ladder and leans in to nip the lobe of her ear and whisper directly against her plump cheek: “We are tucked away in our private bower with no servants to snoop, no neighbors to gossip, and no courtiers to spy.”

“And so, dear husband?” Eleanor bids him continue with a raised eyebrow.

“And so, dear wife,” Hob says, meeting her eyebrow with a competitive leer. “There are none about to protest when I make you scream.”

#

Hob was serious when he said that he meant to woo Eleanor Gifford properly. He set out to prove himself to be not only a wise political choice on her part for her husband, but also a doting and devoted man and life partner. 

To that end, he spends the first week of their honeymoon laying service to his wife in all the ways possible. 

Hob hunts and cooks what he catches for her, skinning and tanning the hides out back of the cottage to later make mittens and fur collars for her winter-wear. He tends the garden and feeds them both from the early-spring bounty—mostly sallets of tender new leafy greens and herbs, edible flowers, sugar mixed with olive oil, and boiled eggs from the hens he has procured for their stay. He kills, plucks, and cooks chickens. He washes their linens, and reattaches the buttons that carnal enthusiasm has parted from their clothing, and mends tears. He brews quick-beer, and serves cider and wine from the root cellar under the kitchen floor. 

He takes her on rambles or rides around the county, teaching her how to find the secret deer paths of the woods, and showing her off proudly on Sunday at the sleepy local church. He tells her stories and sings to her lute accompaniment to her at night, as they cuddle by the hearth, and bids her sleep late in the mornings. He brushes her hair, and tends her frequent baths, and makes little surprises of lavender and lemon soaps.

And of course, he beds her well and often.

Eleanor has never lived without servants. She’s always had someone else to do labor on her behalf, and while the lack of domestic help had perturbed her at first, within days she found his efforts quaint and charming. And romantic. Hob hadn’t expected his ability to serve a decent roast fowl to be an amorous endeavor, but Eleanor’s reciprocity that night had proved him wrong. And her ardor had yet to cool.

Soon enough, she was keen to become his helpmeet in turn, asking him to show her what small tasks she could accomplish to make his larger ones easier or more agreeable. 

And so, one gentle, sunny afternoon in their second week at the cottage, Hob has Eleanor stirring the dough for Prince Biskets.

It is May 1st, 1583, and Hob is two hundred and twenty-seven years old today, give or take a few weeks on either side. Hob has selected May Day as his birthday, for the calendars have changed often enough depending on who is in charge and (what country he is in) that he's quite forgotten what day he was really born—if anyone in his family had ever known at all. His mam had always called him her little Bobby Bunny, “born in the spring with hairy ears”, so May 1st had seemed appropriate.

He’ll be meeting his Stranger again in six years, and this time he’ll be able to share all of his joys of his newly married bliss. Perhaps even, by then, show the Stranger portraits of his children, if Hob’s strange nature allows for his seed to take root. Or introduce his Stranger to his family themselves, if their initial meeting at the White Horse goes as smoothly as the last one and his Stranger can be convinced to visit a second night in a row.

That morning, Hob had chivvied Eleanor out of bed at dawn so they could wade into the garden of climbing meadow flowers and harvest the first dew of Spring to wash their faces.

“No one does this any more, husband!” Eleanor had laughed, pleased with the old-fashioned bumpkin ritual.

“I do, wife,” Hob had said. “Make sure to wash behind your ears.”

“You make sure,” Eleanor had countered and tackled him into the verge. Whereupon they engaged in the most traditional and ancient of all the May Day festivities:‘gathering fresshe’ and staining their underlinens bright green with their activities.

After they broke their fast, Eleanor had presented him with his birthday gift—a handkerchief of fine white linen, which she had embroidered herself on the carriage ride north.

“This is a funny little design, is it not, husband?” Eleanor had asked, showing him a sketch. “I saw a whole row of these darling little squiggles on a letter one of the courtiers thought he was being discreet about, just before our wedding. Throckmorton, I think it was. When I asked him what it was, he told me it was a new pattern of stitching for his waistcoat, and that he thought it was to be all the rage quite soon. So I put it down on paper straight away.”

Hob thanked her for the delicate needlework with all the thorough appreciation that such beautiful thoughtfulness deserved, which kept them quite occupied until luncheon.

Now they are making prince biskets to take down into the village for the May Day celebrations. Their most colourful clothes are laid out away from the hearth, where they won’t get ashy, and the flower crowns Eleanor had woven for them that morning during the afterglow are waiting patiently on a hook by the door. 

His wife has told him that each of the flowers she’s chosen signify their ardor and attachment, but Hob’s already forgotten which each one is supposed to mean. He’s finding it hard to keep a lot in his poor brain this last fortnight, considering how well fucked-out it is.

“How long must I do this?” Eleanor whines playfully from where she’s seated on a stool by the hearth. Spring though it may be, the clouds are thick in the sky today, and winter’s chill has not entirely retreated from the English countryside.

“The whole of one hour,” Hob reminds her, again. He looks pointedly at the hourglass, where only one quarter of that time has slipped down the funnel, and bends to stoke the fire in the bread oven he’d built into the wall beside the hearth.

By the time Eleanor has finished, the fire should be well burned down and the embers ready to rake out so they can bake using just the heat absorbed by the stones. Normally he would preserve the glowing coals under the clay cerfew to use the next morning, but tonight they’ll be bringing back a torch lit from the May Day Bone Fire to heat the cottage.

As these biskets are for May Day as much as Hob’s birthday, he resumes grinding up the last of the winter-sown spinach to colour the little cakes green with the mortar and pestle. That finished, he perches on the edge of the table to mix the resulting paste with some of the leftover rosewater to liquify it, and then tips the whole lot into Eleanor’s mixing bowl.

She scowls at him for adding to her labors, but he softens it with a sweet kiss on the crown of her flaxen head. Leaving her to stir, Hob retreats to the bathing room to freshen up, and when he returns to the little great hall to relieve her of the bowl so she may do the same, Eleanor’s appreciative gaze travels the length of him more than once.

“I have fur enough to stay warm without clothes,” Hob demurs, flushing under the predatory way her cornflower blue eyes flash with mischief. “And putting my soiled clothes back on simply to finish the baking would defeat the purpose of washing up in the first place.”

“Careful your fur doesn’t catch fire when you rake the oven,” Eleanor murmurs, rising from her stool and raking her nails through the dense curls along his thighs. “I’d hate to see the pelt of so fine a woodland animal scorched. You are so much a faun I half expect you to have a tail.”

She pinches his tail-less bottom. Hob shivers delightedly. 

“When you dress,” he murmurs against the side of her head. “Leave off your braes, and I shall do the same. And then when we watched the play and cheered on Robin Hood and his Maid Marion, and eaten our fill, and drunk ourselves into delight, and have jumped the fire to purify ourselves for the coming year, your naughty faun may chase you into the woods and desecrate your temple anew.”

“Is that what this is?” Eleanor whispers, running her fingers now through the hair on his chest. “Foliage instead of fur? Are you the Green Man, come to pluck the last flowers of my virtue to wreathe your maypole?”

Hob feels himself flush deeper, and swats her arse through her skirts. “Off with you, wife, before you distract me and we end up burning our contribution. Then how will we ever show our faces in the village again?”

“Oh, you know the church will have ale and bread enough to buy without you arriving at the village square baring a fortune of caraway and rosewater, you louche spendthrift,” Eleanor teases. But she does make for the bathing room, where Hob has already left her a pitcher of hot water. She sheds pieces of her clothing along the way in a trail that any tempted tracker could easily follow.

Hob is very tempted. He is also very determined to make a good showing at the village this year, and steps stockingless into his boots and throws on an oiled canvas coat to protect himself as he rakes out the coals, butters and fills the baking cups, and puts the biskets in in the oven.

He may be immortal, but a red-hot ember would damage his skin as easily and painfully as any other mortal man. It would ruin the day, the honeymoon, and if it was a truly terrible injury, his plans to ensure that Eleanor really and truly loves him (and has done so for at least half a human lifetime) before he shares the truth of his nature with her.

The coals raked and left in the hearth to cool, the biskets in the oven, a cup of cider poured for himself, and fine clothes to don, Hob feels content and charitable. He loves his life. He loves his wife. He loves his home, and the fruits of all his labours.

And, he muses as he listens to Eleanor singing to herself over the splash of the water as she washes, he has so much to live for. The world is a good, good place, and there is nowhere to go in it but up.

#

A Couple Centuries Later…

It’s not a surprise party if Hob knows it’s happening, and Hob knows it’s happening because Delirium is terrible at keeping secrets.

But he doesn’t want to ruin her fun. So when he returns from the university early that evening, he allows himself to be redirected to the back garden by floating koi that only he can see, and laughs with genuine delight when Del pops out from behind his little brick-and-iron firepit and shouts “HaPpY BIrThDaY!”

A merry little blaze is already going strong in the wrought-iron bowl, not quite a bonfire to rival May Days of old, but a wonderful nod to the tradition. In place of a maypole, someone has decorated the Inn’s downspout with ribbons and flowers the likes of which the Waking doesn’t often see. But the tradition of a sideboard groaning under the weight of fresh, green food (either naturally green or not)

Hob can’t help but hope that someone is planning to put on the traditional Robin Hood panto. He’d sell a finger to see Matthew in green tights.

Hob relinquishes both his briefcase and a kiss to Morph, who was lingering in one of the shadows of the bramble hedge (old habits, and all that). Patrick hands him a can of London Pride, and Hob is hustled over to one of the loveseats parked around the fire to accept the congratulations of the partygoers. 

He’s perfectly happy to be steered around, and to let the party come to him. It was a long day of lectures and student meetings, including one poor student who’d burst into tears when Hob had assured them that he’d be very happy to offer learning accommodations if they’re struggling.

The outdoor sofas are comfortable, the food is good, and the company is wonderful, the strains for music coming through from the pub are mellow, the beer is cold, and Hob is a tired old man who is absolutely delighted to be sitting down.

All told, Hob’s six-hundred and sixty-eighth birthday party in the back garden behind The New Inn is significantly less of an ‘affair’ than his six-hundred and sixty-sixth had been. Lucifer, for one thing, has since returned to Hell so is unable to attend. But all of his in-laws are here this time (in varying degrees of believable mortal guises), along with his mortal friends from Elizabethan Manor. Harriet, Glenn, and Shami have all shown up with their partners and kids. 

And the Otherkind of London have stayed away, probably terrified to be in the presence of any of the Endless, never mind six of the seven (plus one former entity). Except for his former PhD mentee who is, apparently, currently dating Bod.

(Hob looks forward to a time when Daniel is powerful enough to step into the Waking as Dream. For now, he’s just started kindergarten in New Jersey, and it’s too long a jaunt across the pond  for just an afternoon’s celebration.)

He’s plied with well wishes and booze, flower crowns, kisses on the cheek, and a plate piled high with Dee’s beautiful culinary efforts. It’s a wonderfully casual party, people mingling, drifting in and out of his orbit, and no time freezes or Celestial sneering.

“Prince Biskets,” Harriet says, holding one up to show Hob as she plops into the seat right next to him, newly vacated by Shami. “Childhood favorite?”

“Oof,” Hob says, laying a hand over his heart. “I weep for your writing team if your math is that bad. Childhood. Robyn’s childhood, not mine.”

All the same, Hob takes one of the offered biscuits from Harri, and bites into it.

They’re softer than he remembers them being, likely due to Dee’s fiddling with the recipe, but the burst of caraway and rosewater against his tongue brings tears to his eyes with the sudden overwhelming sense memory of those glorious four weeks at Glade Estate. 

The little cottage, regrettably, is no more—just some stone walls slowly tipping over under the weight of climbing ivy and time, lost to Hob along with everything else that was stolen when Sir Robert Gadlen the Third was drowned. The fields have long since been absorbed into the nearby farms. The garden and orchard had grown wild enough to fill up the forest glen. 

That place is gone.

But the taste of it, right here, is heavy and sweet on his tongue.

He chews slowly, swallowing around a lump growing in his throat. The back of his eyes burn with emotion.

“The last time I had these,” Hob confesses softly, “I was on my honeymoon with El. We made these for May Day. She gave me a handkerchief that damn near got me hanged for my birthday.”

“Hanged?” Harriet asks, eyes lighting with academic curiosity. She’s the biggest fan of Hob’s hot tea, even more of a gossipmonger than Matthew, because she doesn’t care that the people in his stories have been dead for centuries.

Hob leans back against the loveseat cushions, cranes his head up to take in the rich splash of twilight colour lingering over the hedgerow ringing in the garden in an effort to keep the tears that threaten from falling.

“El was too clever by half for her role in court,” Hob tells Harri with a fond, faraway smile. “She got bored easily, which turned her into a bit of a magpie. She had a little notebook, and she’d write down snatches of song, or funny jokes and conversations, or pretty pieces of design.”

He catches Morph’s eye across the fire, knows his husband is listening in, and knows that there is no resentment or envy in the former anthropomorphic personification of the Human unconscious when Hob speaks of his first spouse. Only interest in Hob’s stories of her, and compassion for the way he loves and misses his mortal family. 

Hob beds forward and with a finger, makes some squiggles in the fine sandy gravel ringing the firepit. “She embroidered the design she’d overseen on the hanky herself. She was so proud of it, and she’d kept it a secret from me the whole journey. Throckmorton told her it was a new border for his waistcoat, and she’d believed him.”

Harriet’s mouth drops open. “That’s Mary Queen of Scot’s cypher.”

Hob brushes the code away with the bottom of his shoe and raises the remaining half of his biscuit to her with a lopsided grin. “And guess who rolled up to court five weeks after his marriage flashing it around every time he had to wipe his nose? Both sides wanted me dead for that. Elizabeth called me traitor, and Throckmorton knifed me in my sleep. Didn’t take, obviously.” 

Hob meets Morph’s eyes over the fire again, and finds his husband is smiling, affectionate and heavy-lidded.

���Dear lord, what happened?” Harri begs, breathless in her curiosity. “How did you talk your way out of it?” 

“Good Queen Bess’ spymaster Walsingham confiscated my snotty hanky and used it to break open the plot,” Hob says. “He never quite believed that El’s interest in the design was innocent, but it got me out of the noose, at least.”

Harriet whoops in delighted laughter.

Morph rises, skirting around the fire to drop himself right onto his husband’s lap. Human though he may be, Morph is still cool as night. “Today is a day of celebration, my husband,” Morph says. “No more tales of loss.”

“No,” Hob agrees, holding remaining bite of Prince Bisket into Morph’s petal-pink mouth. “You’re right, my husband.” 

Hob knows himself well enough now that he woos through acts of service, through cooking and feeding, through gifts, through quality time given. Through biscuits offered, and baths drawn, and workspaces built. Through solars and speciality drafting desks.

Morph rolls his eyes, but accepts the bite. “You are still so determined to fatten me up,” Morph complains after he’s swallowed. “One of these days, I will be too plump for your lap.”

“Never,” Hob promises, and grabs a handful of Morph’s skinny arse in pointed appreciation.

Harri laughs at the indignant expression that crosses Morph’s face, like a petulant cat, and all is right with the world.

There’s nowhere to go but up.

And Hob has so much to live for.

[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

[bobbole]

Tagged by @tickldpnk8 and @windsweptinred thank you :)

How does Pinterest see you? Search up:

- fashion: I like this sm!

- pantone: beautiful

- mood: I'm currently watching Banana Fish (the show, because suffer for the manga isn't enough) so yeah sob sigh screaming someone help me!!!!

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tagging @valhargreeves @besthany-smurftano @dream-of-the-bitchless @nuala-luna @thail if you want :)

[notallsandmen]

Tag Game

@ml-nolan thank you for tagging me!

I haven’t used pinterest in ages, but this is my most recent haul (I am clearly also goth-regressing)

first celebrity, outfit, quote, and aesthetic pic on pinterest / camera roll is your vibe ✨

Tagging @chaosheadspace , @academicblorbo , @aeon-of-neon , @beholdme @beatnikfreakiswriting @valeriianz @reallyintoscience @tickldpnk8 @duckland