#dreamling ff

[qqueenofhades]

Your tags on the Dreamling/Good Omens cross over have me frothing at the mouth and I just need you to know that if you were to write that “Crowley stumbles into the New Inn” fic, I would be highly supportive of your life choices

The place isn't otherwise busy. It's edging into the lull period of late afternoon, when the day drinkers have shuffled out and the evening drinkers aren't quite off work, when there are only a few tourists taking snaps for the 'gram and the bartenders are out back for a cigarette break by the bins. Hob is sitting at his usual table, confronted with a pile of papers, a brewing catastrophe about the autumn schedule that for some reason he is expected to sort out, three passive-aggressive emails from Philippa about the prospect of him becoming Head of School next year (not on your fucking immortal life, mate) and other mundane academic crises, when the door flies open and a bloke at the end of his rope staggers in.

Thing is, Hob knows this particular bloke, at least by casual sight. He's been in from time to time, has a drink, stares at the wall, looks moody, and goes out again, either to a vintage Bentley filled with houseplants or just the streets of Poplar. Hob has made friendly conversation with him a time or two, knows that his name is Anthony Crowley and he lives in Soho, and he has a husband/boyfriend/life partner of some description who often drives him bonkers (join the club? Though the Stranger isn't even really that). But from the look on Anthony Crowley's face, as much as can be discerned from beneath his ever-present black sunglasses (not really a fashion item one otherwise needs in London), this is a five-alarm fire, and Hob gets up in some concern. "Hey. Mate. Everything -- ?"

Crowley stumbles past him without answering, which is probably only what Hob deserves. He reaches the bar, and since the bartenders are still on fag break and nobody else seems around to do it, Hob scuttles around the back. "Get you something?"

"Beer. Whiskey. Drink. I don't care." Anthony digs in his wallet and flings the first assortment of bills he can find at Hob, which is far more than it costs for a drink even in this terminally overpriced city. "Make it strong. Want to forget my own fucking name."

"Right. Got it." Hob only worked the bar when the New Inn was first opened and they were still hiring staff, but he hasn't forgotten. He selects a Scottish whiskey, neat, and pours it into the bottom of a tumbler, sliding it across the bar. Anthony throws it back without even seeming to breathe and shoves the glass in search of another, and Hob frowns. "Oy. Take it easy."

Crowley mutters something about that being the last thing he intends to do, thanks, and Hob's curiosity, the one thing that has often propelled him through the centuries, gets the better of him. "Not my place," he says cautiously. "But is everything, y'know? All right at home? Your, uh, partner, is he -- "

The effect of this utterance is not dissimilar to waving a red flag in front of a bull. Crowley rears back, looks for a moment like he's going to bolt, and is only prevented by Hob strategically shoving the refilled whisky glass into his hand. He tosses it down the hatch without turning a hair, wipes his mouth raggedly with the back of his hand, and with that, and no further prompting, launches into an absolutely nutty jeremiad. Something about Heaven and Hell, something about Aziraphale (that's his partner's name, yes) being a stubborn angelic idiot who's going to get himself killed, something about people named Gabriel (also an angel?) and Beelzebub (also a demon -- wait, demon?) running off together and he just thought -- he thought -- like a bloody fool he thought they could -- but no. Nooooooooo.

"Er," Hob says at the end, blinking hard. "Sorry, I don't quite follow."

"Course you don't." Crowley heaves a heavy sigh. "Even though you're not an ordinary human, I suppose it's just too...." He searches for a word, slurs a little on the end (maybe that whisky, of which he has just chugged the third glass, is having an effect on him after all), and enunciates with bitter, drunk precision. "Ineffable."

"Wait. What?"

"You're Robert Gadling." Crowley tips his head like an owl, trying to size Hob up in his progressively more lubricated state, and his dark glasses slide to the end of his nose, revealing lucent golden eyes beneath. "The special one. The immortal one. Right?"

Hob opens his mouth. Hob shuts his mouth. He realizes vaguely that it's quite possible Crowley has not, in fact, been talking in convoluted celestial metaphors the whole time. "How did you...?"

"I know your boyfriend," Crowley snaps. "Bit bloody full of himself too, isn't he? He and Az -- Azz-- Aziraphale probably sit around having secret societies for technology-hating, stuck-up, idiotic, holier-than-thou, utter total fucking prigs who can't use their words and constantly deny their feelings, eh?"

"My boyf -- " All at once, Hob feels as if a grand piano has been dropped on his head from a great height, like something out of an old cartoon. Yes, things with the Stranger are going well-if-you-squint, ever since their last meeting here: the idiot actually turned up, he apologized, he smiled, they had a long conversation, there were definite sparks. Considering the last, er, six hundred years or so of dismal precedent, that's a low bar, but still. "Afraid," Hob says at last, "he and I -- well, we aren't exactly like that, but -- "

Crowley keeps staring at him like he desperately wants Hob to sit him down and give him a clinic in how to get with the fussy, standoffish, excessively rules-bound immortal being he has been, evidently, also bloody pining after for Christ only knows how long. "Why not?"

"Ah." Good question. Hob isn't sure. "It's complicated."

"Complicated." Crowley stares moodily at the mirrored bar. "Sure. Yeah. Six thousand bloody years of complicated."

"Did you say six thousand -- ?"

"Yeah." Crowley holds out the glass again. "More."

Hob's mouth is still open. He's going to say something, but he doesn't know what. Six thousand years? God's wounds. He and the Stranger, at their piddly six hundred, are practically fucking married.

(He gets Anthony Crowley another drink, on the house. Can't help but feel that the poor bastard deserves it.)

#anonymous #ask #good omens s2 #good omens spoilers #neil gaiman cinematic universe #ineffable husbands #dreamling #dreamling ff #see this is what i mean #when i say i am easily enabled #alas

[tringstarruuu]

Dreamling as Howl’s moving castle AU

#the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream/hob #dream x hob #dreamling #howl's moving castle #hmc au #a thing abt me is if i have a ship #im obligated to put them in this au #and i already have another one for them ffs #sorry to my ships but #ELDRITCH/COSMIC BEINGS X HUMAN #is my top tier fav ship dynamic #Illustration #digital art #my art

[ironic--maiden]

I want to meet someone who will make me feel the same way I feel while reading fanfiction, fluffy one, with characters just loving and pinning for each other.

#ao3 #archive of our own #fanfiction #ff #fanfic #fanfictions #wattpad #fanfiction.net #fluff #shipping #smut #reading fanfiction #destiel #dreamling #ineffable husbands #murder husbands #Avalance #shizaya #sabriel #Villaneve #gentlebeard #jonmartin #Clexa #and other ships idk this is what I read to feel loved #love #touchstarving #i just want to be loved #ao3 tags #ao3 fic #relationship

[athymelyreply]

people stop vagueposting in a misleading manner and approaching an important debate about fandom racism in bad faith and calling it a shipping war when it literally isn’t challenge 2k23

#Will elaborate later but like REALLY y’all #IT ISNT PRIMARILY ABOUT SHIPPING DREAMLING FFS #Banging my head against the wall #the sandman #the sandman discourse #idk what we’re tagging it as #fandom discourse #I need a talking tag #Hob gadling #Sandman discourse

[jollyjolly]

I love some sprinkle of fluff on my fics, but man, 31 chapters (with 900k words) of pure fluff, domestic fluff, cutesy, attempt at humour, and established relationship is just too much for me. (I found several of these types of fics, and they have thousands of kudos.)

Maybe it is because I like drama, and a little angst here and there... but yeah, those kinds of fics are like a cup of coffee with 25 sugars. A big nope for me.

#just ranting #oh ffs #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #confession #destiel #ofmd #the sandman #drarry #dreamling #wwdits #blackbonnet

[dreamscrawl]

dreamling fic idea:

“every hundred years” is a strict rule. meeting dream of the endless (any of the endless) out of schedule breaks the deal; revokes the wish.

when hob gadling accidentally meets desire, time catches up on his body—he started aging again. there was no way to stop it.

dream decides to spend the remaining years with hob—try and do everything the now-mortal hadn’t done yet, visit new and old places (go to disneyland), and more.

#dreamling #dream x hob #morpheus x hob #dream of the endless x hob gadling #the sandman ff #the sandman fanfic #the sandman fic #the sandman fanfiction #the sandman #fanfiction #i dont think i can write this :/ #if anyone wld like to write this go nuts #or if anyone had already written this. where? #MAKE THEM GO TO DISNEYLAND! #DREAM OF THE ENDLESS WEARING THAT MICKEY MOUSE EARS HEADBAND #WHILE TAKING A SELFIE AGSHDJD HOLDING SOMETHING LIKE A MICKEY MOUSE ICE POP OR SMTHNG #dsprompts #prompts #its angsty but fun #we love pain

[toolazytodecide]

Are there any Pynch beta readers out there interested in helping me with a fic? I’ve started writing a Pynch AU inspired by Dream and Hob’s story in the sandman. 

For those who haven’t seen The Sandman imagine the God of Dreams (Ronan) and his sibling Death (Declan) walk into a bar and decide to grant a man immortality to prove a point. Dream and the man (Adam) proceed to meet up every hundred years (and maybe fall in love) 

Message me if you’re interested. The fic is still a work in progress, but I’d like to find someone for when it is ready to be edited. 

#FF #Pynch #Beta reader #Fanfiction #Dreamling #I will be changing it to suit the characters better #so instead of the man drunkenly bragging about choosing not to die he'll overhear Adam say immortality is impossible #and its going to begin at the death of glendower #honestly the fact i havent seen this au before is shocking #Ronan is Dream #HE EVEN HAS A RAVEN #like did maggie stiefvater take inspiration or what

[wintersmitth]

tag 9 people you want to know better! 👯

tagged by the amazing @virgo-dream @mathomhouse-e @diemarysues

three ships: Dreamling because I am insane for them, then Bagginshield because The Foundation of Everything. Also I am so so mad over Yasmin Khan/Doctor.

first ever ship: God this is going to sound cringe in the year of 2023, but okay. I was a mad Harry/Hermione shipper back when I was a kid.

last song: Bat Noveau - The Cry

last movie: Glass Onion. Loved loved loved it!!

currently reading: Trying to finish asap The Museum of Unconditional Surrender by Dubravka Ugrešić, but it's hard because I haven't read a book in a while where the protagonist is so fucking judgemental of everyone and has such a fucking holier than thou complex. Still, reading more about Balkan wars is a thing for me rn (particularly since I spent 3 months in Croatia this year), and it is interesting. Also interesting to compare with my own experiences.

currently consuming: the Dreamling fanfiction tag on ao3. Seriously, tho, the amount of fanfiction I have consumed since Sandman came out can be compared only to 2013-2014 when I think I read at least 70% of the hobbit ff tag.

currently craving: Some french fries.

Tagging @quillingwords @maryallys @rivermint @surnumanaja @thegirlwhohid @theresonlyzuul @azfellie and anyone who wants to!

#sansael talks

[qqueenofhades]

May I ask about prompts 14 and 38 for Dreamling, perhaps?

Dr. Robert Gadling presently has ninety-nine problems, and students who cannot read the module handbook are, at a minimum, ninety-eight of them. (How did they finish school? Take their GCSEs or A-Levels, any of it, while being functionally illiterate? Etc. etc. dismal condition of British state education and indeed the entire British state under the Tories, but still.) He has just fired off a hopefully polite-sounding group email advising everyone to please have a proper look at the posted content before sending him individual queries, when there's a knock on his door and he glances up, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah?"

"Rob?" It's Philippa, again, which makes his heart sink on reflex. They've already had several serious conversations intended to make him consider the possibility of becoming Head of School when her term's up next May, and -- frankly, over his dead body, which in his case is not at all a metaphor. It turns out, however, that she's not here to harass him to take on more professional responsibility, but rather to attend to his personal life. "Your boyfriend's skulking in the foyer and frightening the freshers again. Make him knock it off."

"My boyfr -- ?" Yeah, yeah, all right, the gentleman doth protest too much. Hob hasn't felt up to taking Dream to any faculty functions just yet, but he did tell Amira the other evening at the welcome-back mixer that he was seeing someone, and the news must have spread as fast as any other juicy department gossip. Hob sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right. Thanks, Philippa. I'll tell him off."

With that, not sad to get away from the horror of his inbox, Hob pushes back his chair and gets to his feet, trotting out his office door and down the stairs. Even before he descends into sight of the foyer, he can tell where the problem is located. Dream is standing spookily just inside the door, in full goth-black, long-coat, pale-faced, looming-in-your-nightmares splendor, and students are indeed outright sprinting to get past him. Others seem to think he's some weird piece of performance art from the theatre department and are asking for selfies, which makes him stare at them even more. Hob swallows a groan, speeds up, and reaches the ground floor. "Oy," he hisses at the unrepentant King of Dreams. "What are you doing here?"

As per fucking usual, Morpheus haughtily disdains to provide a sensible answer (or indeed, any answer). Hob adores the skinny eldritch weirdo, he really does, but one problem he did not foresee now that they're officially an item is that Dream has gotten downright clingy. After going a hundred years between seeing each other, with each of those meetings usually ending in disaster, Hob's still getting used to the idea of seeing him regularly -- weekly, even. It's not like he minds. Variety is the spice of immortal life, and all that. But it does mean that they need to have a few conversations about boundaries, and this is definitely one of them.

"I'm busy," Hob says, doing his best to sound stern. "I've got work to do, love. Like we do in the human world, eh? Can't all sit around in magical throne rooms, brood, and spin magical stories."

Dream looks miffed at this lightweight estimation of his professional duties. He opens his mouth for some sort of pompous reprimand, but Hob holds up a hand. "Be back at five PM and save me from the emails, and we can jog off together somewhere, all right? But not until then. And stop scaring the students, or Philippa will have my head. Or make me be the Head, and I'm not sure which one's worse."

Dream once more appears about to object -- he still hasn't gotten in a word edgewise, which is probably for the best. But Hob looks furtively in either direction, then kisses Dream on the cheek, spins him around, and propels him out the exit, whereupon he looks very much like an extremely ruffled bird -- raven, probably, which Matthew is bound to find amusing. Mother of God, Hob's life is strange.

Biting a smile despite himself, he trudges back upstairs and dutifully applies himself to the remainder of the paperwork and otherwise makes sure that everything is in order. Then at 5:04pm, he gets up, grabs his things, and heads back downstairs, where Morpheus is waiting for him. "You are," he announces stiffly, "late."

"Only by four minutes. Pretty sure the world won't end." Hob grins crookedly. "Eager to see me, then?"

Morpheus, of course, cannot countenance actually saying this aloud, but it doesn't matter. He holds out his hand, Hob decides he doesn't care who sees him take it, and does so. Then all at once, the familiar surroundings of the Department of History stretch and ripple and fade away, and the next instant, they're not there at all, or London, or Earth. They're here, in Morpheus's home. The Dreaming.

As usual, the place looks eerie, magical, mystical, and lovely, and Hob is getting somewhat more used to the abrupt transition between worlds, so he only swallows hard a few times and then is good to go. They ascend to the castle, he and Lucienne greet each other warmly, and then Morpheus jealously squires him up to his rooms at the top of the tower, beneath the vast dome. The great bed is a temptation, and doubtless they will end up there before too long, but a supper is already laid, glimmering in the fey candles, and Hob blows out a relieved breath. "Could eat an ox. You're a lifesaver, darling."

Morpheus looks the usual blend of awkward and pleased he always does when Hob casually uses endearments or expresses affection. "Does this make up for me alarming your pupils, then?"

"More 'n." Hob sinks into the chair and tries not to wolf down everything in sight. "But still. Don't do it again."

They eat (here in his own realm, in his own stuff, Morpheus eats too). They drink, they talk. It's like old times, and more. Afterward, they go outside to gaze at the stars, a thousand times brighter and more brilliant than anything on Earth, and Morpheus's tousled dark head sinks slowly onto Hob's shoulder, like a feral cat finally becoming close enough with one trusted person to let itself be petted, let itself be loved. Hob bites another smile, this one unspeakably tender, and leans in to kiss Dream's hair. Aye, his life is bloody strange, and it always has been. But he would not trade it for the world.

#anonymous #ask #dreamling #dreamling ff #fic prompts #spooky season

[youcanseethecosmos]

62 (for any fic), 73, & 78 for FF asks

ah sorry i got to these late!

62. In [insert fic], is there a deleted scene/idea you wish you could have included?  Why did it get cut?

You asked me to choose a fic so I'll choose string of pearls (by fate's design) since it's the longest fic I've posted (so far 👀)

The scene I wanted to include at first was me detailing how Alex Burgess dies. I got to write Roderick's death but I purposely made Alex's death more vague. In certain angles, it could even seem like he's still alive because no one knows the full story. Except for Hob and Dream. I decided to cut it because, ultimately, Alex is unimportant in the grander adventure Hob and Dream will have together. A mere stepping stone to their inevitable union.

TL;DR - The story isn't about him <3 So he doesn't get the satisfaction of even one more scene where he kicks the bucket.

73. What do you tend to get complimented on the most about your writing?

I haven't posted enough to notice anything. Or maybe I'm just dumb.

78. What motivates you during the writing process?

Friends from the dreamling discord server! They're my biggest cheerleaders. Also rewards I give myself like "finish this part and you get to watch another ferdie movie" and that works 80% of the time because any excuse to see ferdie's face is damn good motivation for me !

You can still send me writing asks!

#writing ask game with sky #asks #string of pearls (by fate's design) by sky

[ironic--maiden]

English as not your first language is great sometimes. Like you can spend all day reading ao3 fanfictions and just tell everyone, including yourself, that you are actually practicing your English this way. No, I didn't read smuts all day, I studied.

And the best part is, you can really learn something this way.

#it's not like I read dreamling all day and now I need excuses for being lazy bitch #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #archive of our own #ships #non-English speakers #English #today i learned #learning #practicing #Tbh I learn more bc of ff and shows than from school #polish #dreamling #destiel #johnlock #mystrade #fanfic #fanficion #shitpost #sabriel #gentlebeard #meme #corintheus #shizaya #idk I put all the ships I've been reading today #wattpad #fanfiction

[pastelphantasia]

CONT!NUED... MORE GWEN BANGLES... M!NE WOULD ALSO SAY TH!NGS L!KE: !NTEREST!NG, D!FFERENT, AND QUIRKY. MEL!NDA KATE BROWN. MEL!NDA KATE MCGREGGOR. LET'S TALK ABOU MEL!NDA KATE BROWN. PASTEL EXOTYKKA MULT!-COLORED ROSES, LOLA'S COAT ROSES OF PASTEL, PASTEL JOSEPH'S COAT ROSES, PASTEL LOLA'S COAT ROSES, COOK!E CUTTER, LAVENDER, THE MOONL!GH TR!BE, L!LAC, PHANTASIA, FANTAS!A, PHAUNTASIA, PER!W!NKL*, MAGENTA, NOMADYKKA, WANDERLUST, LUSTRE, UNDERS!DES, LYN!NGS, DOLLY, TRANQU!L!TY, SEREN!TY, PURP*L, THE MOONSTON* TR!BE, THE PEAR!W!NKL TR!BE, CURLER SETS, L!PST!CKS, !'M SHY..., ! ONLY L!KE BOWS !FF THEY'RE NOT BOWS, L!N!NGS, FREE SP!R!T, FUSCHIA, W!SHFUL, THE SPLENDOROU TR!BE, ! CARRY A LAVENDER CRESCENT MUUNE W!TH ME !N MY KNAPSACK EVERYWHERE EYE GO!, BALLADS,

ASYMMETRICAL HORNS, ST!RRUP PANTS, POM, AER*LA, PAER*LA, MOG &&MAG, MOG*LA, F!N💜, EPHERVESC, EPHERVESCENC, EPHERVESCENCE, RELACS, ODES, RARE ENT!TY, RARE DE!TY, OPALESCENC, OPALESCENCE, !DEAL!SM, !DYLL!C, PEARL!, HARSHLA, SHYLA, MYLA, MAYLA, B!ND!, TH!RD EYE, ORCH!D, SUND!AL DREAMS, CH!NESE DREAMS, ! HEART LAVENDER, LAVENDREA: LA V EN DREA*M, ! SEA LA V EN PASTEL EXOTYYKA, !T !S AS !F ! AM LOOK!NG AT THE WORLD THROUGH LAVENDER T!NTED GLASSES AND !T SAYS EVERYTH!NG ! FEEL, BEAU*D!FFUL, UNUSUAL T!M!NG, FLOWERS ! W!SH WERE SHELLS, CH!NESE CHECKERS, RAR!TY, !CON!C, MUSE, THE PARAD!S!ACA* VOYAGERS, THE PEARAD!S* VOYAGERS, TAH!T!AN, DEJA VU, SEREND!P!TY, KNAPSACK UNDONE™, BEWHILDERED, MAGNET!SM, MAGNETYZ*M, SLOTH, THE MOONLIGH* VOYAGERS, LA*Z, LAZY DAYS, LA*Z DAZE, EASY, E.Z., E*Z*, MOODY, MYSTERYE, THE W!SHFU* TR!BE, THE W!SHFU* VOYAGERS, LOLA'S CALL!NG. LOLA , WHERE ARE YOU?, OFT* TO SEE THE WIZARD, OFFT*, OUGHT*,

NEVER LEAVE THE HOUSE NOT !N PAJAMAS..., NEVER LEAVE THE HOUSE NOT !N A ROMPER..., THE.NUM!NOU* TR!BE, NUM!NOUS, STARGAZELY NUM!NOU*, S!GHBER!A BR!LL!NG, PEARAD!S H!ND! M!ST!

NEVER LEAVE THE HOUSE W!THOUT YOUR KNAPSACK..., !F SHE COULD ONLY TOUCH THE P!NK L!GHTN!NG... "! LONG TO TOUCH THE P!NK LIGHTN!NG..." LE!LA SA!D., ALWAYS WEAR COLORED FALSE LASHES, NEVER A DAY !N BLACK MASCARA, FEMALE LOCHNESS MONSTERS ARE THE NEW POLKA-DOT., TR*OUGHT*LA, !T'S NOT A SEKRET UNLESS YOU SAY !T OUT LOUD, OPTYMYZ*M, OPT* PHOR THE OPTYMUM, RAREBREED, RARE BLEND, PAST!MES, PASTEL, W!CKED, FASH, SELPH REL!G!ON, STR!NG-F!GURE GAMES, 7 SEAS, COFFEE @ M!DN!GHT, !RREGULAR, ENCHANTED UTOP!A, MASQUERADE, HIGHLIGH™, LET'S TALK ABOUT MEL!NDA KATE BROWN™, LET'S TALK ABOUT LOLLAKA™, LET'S TALK ABOUT LOLA DUSK™, DREAML!KE, DAZEL!KE, THE PARADISIACAL TR!BE, DUSK, T!GRA, HORNA, REL!G!!, !NF!N!TE, !NF!!, VEGAN, ENV!RONMENTAL!ST, LO*Z, Z*RO, Z*RO HELL, Z*RO DEATH BY ELECTR!C CHA!R, Z*RO WAR, PEARPHECT, PEARFEKT, POM, BLACK BALLOONS, JONAH*: BR!NGER OF BAD LUCK, PAST*L, RENDEZVOUS, BEAUDY, PREDDY, SATURNAL LULLABY...

[heartillian]

psssst im gonna work on replies here in a bit but hey pls follow mio (@dreamled)​ bc she’s my oc & i’m trying to revamp her and i love her...she’s ‘modern’ verse but i have an ffviii verse & am very willing to write more ff-based verses for her too >:^) anyw i love this muse n i don’t want her blog to fizzle out so if u like ocs, pls give her a look even if the blog is dash only at the minute!

#☆彡 sʜᴏᴏᴛɪɴɢ sᴛᴀʀ ⌇ (OUT.) #tbd #heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeurghrgrgrhrhhghghg

[qqueenofhades]

One of my favourite Sandman lore pieces I absorbed via tumblr is how, when Dream is having great sex, all the dreamers get to have glorious lustful dreams. Dream really is getting laid and making it everybody else's problem. Magnificent.

Dr. Robert Gadling is whistling an extremely cheery tune as he unlocks his office door -- which, if you had had the night he did, you would be whistling too, or possibly even clicking your heels like a demented leprechaun and wishing top o' the morning to everyone who passed. He's not doing that, but he's definitely feeling extremely good, and he sails inside, pulls up the blinds, boots up his computer, and prepares to answer some emails while he waits to see if anyone's actually going to come to office hours. It's always hit or miss, and then four days later they send a panicked question at midnight that they could have just, you know, asked. In person, in a timely fashion, when he definitely will not bite. He will never understand undergraduates.

Hob keeps the door propped open as usual, thus to project a warm and welcoming attitude, and after he's trudged through the first tranche of emails, he glances up to see one of his students loitering in the hall as if she's about to come in -- then, catching sight of him, turning scarlet and racing off at top speed. This is bewildering, since she's usually among the more talkative of the bunch, but Hob writes it off. At least until he sees several more students hovering in the hallway, who all vamoose the instant he sticks his head out to see if they need anything. This is decidedly peculiar, and he sighs deeply, grabs his mug, and heads down the hall to the faculty lounge, thus to raid it for a cup of coffee. Even more emails (and oh joy, expense reports) await, and he could use the fortification.

When he steps inside, his colleagues Bryan (Economics and Politics in Modern Germany) and Amita (Women, Caste, and Religious Practice in Precolonial India) both immediately turn bright red, clear their throats, and engage in a slightly too-loud conversation about the weather (which, given as this is London, is exactly what you think it is). Hob eyes them curiously, since while bizarre behavior is understandable from students, it is somewhat less so from lecturers. "Hey, guys," he says. "Anything up?"

"Er." Bryan is staring fixedly at the floor, while Amita has become unaccountably fascinated by the raindrops rolling down the window. "Nope. No. Everything normal, Rob. Entirely usual."

"Right," Hob says slowly, having the feeling of a man who has walked into a cave and found something large and furry that he should try not to disturb. "That's just me going, then. If I could sneak past you for the coffee pot, that'd be great -- "

He pours himself some coffee, departs in haste, and almost bowls over Philippa, Head of Department, in the hallway outside. They spring backward like a pair of opposing magnets, he manages to avoid dousing her in boiling hot coffee, and as he apologizes, notices that she is likewise determinedly not looking him in the eye and addressing a spot in midair over his head as she insists that it's fine. What the actual hell. Has everyone in Goldsmiths lost their bloody minds?

The insanely weird character of Hob's day, and the fact that even the clerk at Superdrug seems to cough unaccountably while ringing him up, remains a mystery until he gets home, finds an eager Dream Lord waiting for him already, and they get extremely distracted even before Hob can make dinner. Afterward, as they're lying half-clothed and decadent on the bed, Hob murmurs, "Well, glad you at least can stand to look at me, love. Had a very odd time of it today."

Dream's expression assumes a furtive, guilty quality. He rolls onto his back, head still pillowed luxuriantly on Hob's stomach, and stares up at the ceiling. "Ah," he says, after a very long pause. "About that."

(Two minutes of a deeply humiliating explanation later, Hob screeches, "YOU BLOODY DID WHAT?" Dream apologizes profusely and promises not to do it again. Hob does, of course, have classes and commitments for the rest of the semester, but hopefully it's not too late to change his name, once more fake his death, and move to Australia. Except, of course, they dreamed of him there too. Horrible.)

#anonymous #ask #dreamling #dreamling ff #i absolutely did see that post like 'nobody can look hob in the eye after he and dream first get it on' #so yes a+ bless

[qqueenofhades]

May I ask for new year’s eve Dreamling watching the ball drop because Hob celebrates every year, Morpheus isn’t the sort of person who cares at all, but Hob forces him to celebrate and wear the dumb paper glasses and stuff anyway

"Hob," Dream says, not for the first time, in a deeply pained tone. "I simply do not see why this rigmarole is necessary."

"It's necessary because I say it's necessary, you joyless git." Hob dulls the sting by leaning over to plant a kiss on Dream's cheek, adjust the 2024 cardboard glitter crown from Tesco that is perched atop the dread dark head of the immortal King of Dreams and Nightmares, and throw an arm over his shoulders -- all of which Dream suffers with the tense, bristled wariness of a cat suddenly subjected to excessive snuggling. "Plus, there's going to be a general election this year -- fucking finally -- and the Tories are going to get thrown out on their kleptocratic arses. Good as any reason to celebrate, if you ask me."

Morpheus mutters something under his breath that Hob can't understand but doesn't sound particularly complimentary, but for once in his eternal-ageless-stubborn-bastard life, decides not to press the point. He's already been horribly traumatized by enduring the New Year's Eve party and being forced to socialize with Hob's friends from around London and the South East and colleagues from Goldsmiths and all the other strays he's picked up over the years (indeed, very much like Dream himself). All right, socialize might be a stretch. More like lurking ominously with a single glass of prosecco and giving the other guests a fright when they come round the corner too fast, but at least he hasn't run screaming into the night or huffily evaporated into the Dreaming never to return, so Hob is going to optimistically count that as a success. Besides, it is tacitly agreed between the two of them that Hob's love language is cheerily bullying Morpheus into taking part in normal human courtship activities and Morpheus's concession is to act like this is the worst thing to ever happen to him in literally eighty billion years, but still grudgingly put up with it. Baby steps, Hob thinks, taking a swig of his own bubbly and looking back at the television. Baby steps.

It's already the New Year in Oz and the rest of Down Under, and five hours off yet in New York, where they're still greasing up the ball drop in Times Square, but it's just about time in London, the fireworks over the Thames are all set to go, and Hob and the ten other people in his flat (hardly an excessive number, not that you'd know it from Morpheus's face) lean forward in eagerness. The bloke on the BBC leads a countdown, it rolls over to 00:00:01 GMT, 1 January 2024, and everyone lets out a boozy cheer, raising glasses to salute each other and making more please-God-help-us jokes about the Tories. Hob, meanwhile, turns to Morpheus, who gazes expectantly back at him with those luminous, star-flecked eyes, and leans in to kiss him -- quickly, chastely, nothing to make the silly goose come over in his melodramatic conniptions all over again. "Happy new year, darling."

Dream huffs, but he does look slightly pleased. (It's a subtle art, reading his expressions, and to the untutored looks no different from "mildly constipated," but Hob still knows his Stranger well.) "Happy new year, Hob Gadling," he allows, after a long moment. "I still do not understand why you feel it necessary to celebrate all this. Have you not seen so many that it is no longer special?"

"See, that's exactly why." Hob should get up and refill the pigs-in-blankets tray, as there is evidently nothing that British academics love more and it has been descended on like starving vultures, but he doesn't feel like it, not yet. He grins at Morpheus instead, lowering his voice, not that there's much risk of anyone overhearing. "A bloke born all the way back in God's Year 1356, and I'm still here, ringing in the fucking year 2024? That's a bloody miracle, you ask me. And with you, no less? What else would I want in the whole world?"

Dream's expression melts a little, despite himself. A faint pink flush climbs into his elegant ice-sculpted cheeks, and he huffs. "You are quite the flatterer, Robert Gadling."

"Eh." Hob takes a more comfortable position, settles deeper into the couch cushions, and feels, with great vindication, Dream's head tip and lean and rest on his shoulder, snuggling closer entirely of his own volition. "You love it."

#anonymous #ask #dreamling #dreamling ff #dreamhob #winter prompts

[qqueenofhades]

would you ever write a modern/no-powers au for dreamling/sandman?

"Look, Mee," Hob says, for the fourth or fifth time that conversation. "I'm sure your brother is, uh, great, but I'm not sure -- "

"Come on," his best friend says, also for the fourth or fifth time that conversation. "Honestly, you'd be doing me a massive favor. I can barely get him out of the house most days, so I figured that at least the two of you could faff off and be really pathetic together?"

"Thanks." Hob switches the phone to his other ear and glares suspiciously out at the garden; when you've got two small children and it's quiet, you figure something's gone terribly amiss. Robyn and Alison haven't burnt the place down or gotten run over in traffic, but they're playing with something small, muddy and possibly still alive, and Hob debates whether he has to sprint out and save them from certain death. "You're a great friend, truly."

"I know," Morticia says airily. That does, bewilderingly, seem to be her actual name (were her parents massive Addams Family fans or something?) but with Hob and the rest of her friends, she generally goes by Mors, or Mee for short. He looked it up once. Ancient Roman god(dess) of death, which made him laugh, at least when it didn't kick him in the teeth. "You can thank me later."

"And I want to spend time with your brother... why?"

"Because." Oh God, here it comes. He can hear her trying not to say it, the same way everyone's tried not to say it in the going-on-eighteen months since his wife went into an ordinary central-London NHS hospital to give birth to their second child and didn't come back out. "You know it would be good for you, Robbie."

"Right." Hob's voice turns wry. "Can't have me wallowing alone in my misery? You know I've got the kids to look after, and they're talking about extending my contract at Birkbeck. I'm keeping busy."

Keeping busy. It always sounds stupid, even if it's the truth. Like you can chase overwhelming, soul-crushing grief away just by getting out of bed and making breakfast for the kids, holding Robyn's hand as you trundle off on the school run and tell him to have a good day, the thousand and one ways you think you're massively arsing this up and Ellie would have been so much better. Every time the doorbell rings or someone comes up the walk, he thinks -- for a stupid moment he thinks -- and then of course it isn't. You think about women dying in childbirth like it's something out of medieval times, or some third-world country. Not in England in the twenty-first century. Not in London. Not as if your daughter is beautiful and bright and alive, and every time you look at her, you remember that her mother isn't, and the happiness you feel is poisoned by grief again, cold and blue and endless as the ocean. You laugh with the kids at some Disney cartoon one moment, and the next, you're crying alone in the kitchen, in bed, in the silent darkness. And no matter how much you ask, she doesn't answer. You think she does, sometimes. You're just fooling yourself.

You know, Hob thinks. Maybe it would be good for him. At least it would let him spend time with (if Mee's account is anything to go by) the one man in all of London more pathetic than him. It doesn't have to be anything more than that. Even if she is trying to set him up, she wouldn't admit it. She isn't, surely? Trying to match her brother off with her best friend, widowed-single-dad-part-time-lecturer who's clinging onto sanity by the bare edge of his fingernails? Right? Fuck. Should never have told her that he's bi. Doubled her meddling possibilities at a stroke. And yet. He's so lonely, he almost doesn't care.

"Fine," Hob says resignedly. "I'll see if I can get a sitter for the kids. And it better not be that grotty brewery in Shepherd's Bush you dragged me to last time."

"No." Mee sounds like she's laughing at him. She probably is laughing at him, or else she thinks he's become such a pathologically undatable freak that his only chance for happiness ever again is with her equally pathetic little brother. "Nice new Asian-fusion place. Hammersmith. Fifteen minutes from you on the Tube. Don't chicken out, Robert."

And with that, well --

There's pretty much no choice.

Hob finds a sitter for the kids, promises to pay her twenty quid an hour (it's London, after all), and grumblingly picks out some clothes. He's not good at this. It's been almost ten years since he was dating anyone, and Eleanor was from a rich enough family that there was no chance of ever impressing her parents; he could have turned up in anything from Savile Row to a bloody dishcloth and they still would have hated him. Then he finds himself fucking around to the point where he's going to be late, the Tube will be a nightmare anyway, and panics again and rushes out the door with barely a word about what to feed the kids and when to put them to bed. Is nice Olivia from down the street judging him? She almost surely is.

Hob grimly toddles off to Hammersmith, exits into a light rain, and spends an inordinate amount of time searching for the restaurant. When he finally steps inside, he's not quite sure who he's looking for. Mee texted him a picture of her brother, but Hob has trouble believing that such a pale, pasty, and terminally uncharismatic twink could ever be related to her. One of them has to be adopted, and he's laying money on this one, whose name is -- no, seriously -- Morpheus. Morticia and Morpheus. What is wrong with their parents? Determined to doom their children to an eternity of primary-school torment?

Hob contemplates turning around and leaving, but now he's come this far, Olivia will definitely judge him if he returns within the hour, and frankly, he's judging himself. Even worse, he's fairly sure he's just spotted his man. Morpheus (come on, really?) is sitting by himself at a corner table, looking appropriately dark and broody, in his emo-goth dark coat and toilet-brush hair. Just like the photo. He's admittedly not bad-looking in person; he's got a pale, chiseled beauty that is briefly arresting, almost unearthly. Still, though. Definitely a wanker.

"Hello," Hob says, deciding to bite the bullet. He strides over, hand outstretched. "I'm Robert Gadling, and I think you're the bloke I'm supposed to be meeting? I know your sister."

Morpheus's mouth makes a small lemon-sucking motion. He rises to his feet, regards Hob's hand as if not certain what to do with it and/or wondering if he can get away with not touching it, and finally shakes it, brief and cold and dry. "I am," he says curtly. "You may sit."

Well, good. Glad they got His Majesty's permission. No unauthorized sitting happening here, no sir. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Hob puts his bag on the floor and slides into the chair across from Morpheus. Like every Londoner at a loss for a better opening line, he reaches for the weather. "Shame about this piss, isn't it? And it was all the way up to twenty degrees last week. Did you have to come far?"

"No," Morpheus says, still not displaying any particular delight in being forced to spend this evening in the presence of another human being and looking as if he is very much hoping the floor will suddenly open up and swallow him. "Not far."

Hob waits, in vain, on the chance that Morpheus might elaborate. He does not. Well. This is going swimmingly. Are they on a date? Did Mee tell him that they were on a date? Is Hob sure this isn't an extremely elaborate prank, and she just plucked one of her single friends from the vast and bewildering mystery of her acquaintances? Truly, it is no wonder that Morpheus is, in fact, unattached. He's got the personality of a soggy rag and the face of -- well, not that. He is pretty. But Hob is not that shallow. Thanks very much.

Conversation suffers badly until they order drinks and food; or rather Hob orders, and Morpheus says that he'll take just a glass of wine. He does loosen up slightly as they talk; Hob does most of that, but Morpheus listens with cool, intent attention. From time to time he asks a question, but he doesn't interrupt, and finally Hob, trying to make it as light-hearted as "my wife died eighteen months ago and this is the first not-date I've been on ever since" can possibly be, admits it. He braces for Morpheus to get up, to run, to fire off an indignant text to Morticia or anything else, but he doesn't. He just nods once. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I know that it is... difficult."

All of a sudden, Hob is forced to consider the startling and unsettling possibility that Morpheus himself knows something about this. He can't say why or how that might be, but life is full of mysteries. "I -- yeah." It's an abject relief to say it and to have someone acknowledge it simply and matter-of-factly, not smother him with sympathy or cluck about how hard it is. "So if I'm off my game, that, uh. That's why."

Morpheus thinks about that for a long moment. Then all at once, out of nowhere, he smiles. It completely transforms his face, it twists like a fishhook in Hob's gut, and all of a sudden, he wonders in alarm if he is, in fact, entirely that shallow after all. "Believe me, Hob Gadling," Morpheus says. "It has very much been my pleasure."

#anonymous #ask #fic prompts #dreamling #dreamling ff