#hob galding

[fishfingersandscarves]

1989

[reallydelicatezombie]

I made some memes because that is the only way I can properly relate my feelings about this show.

[fluffywolverine]

with all due respect corinthian, but the choice is obvious

[windsweptinred]

@zigzag-wanderer my darling, your Dreamling pic, as promised. Crammed full of so much symbolism Dan Brown could write a novel on it. 😆I hope you like it and Merry Christmas my dear. 💖💖💖

(Ps, I don't know why but at some point this pic decided to deviate wildly from the gothic piece I was originally planning. I promise I will revisit Hob and Dream, imposing archways and sweeping robes galore one day. 😅)

[ginjones]

“What did Apollo dream of?” Asks Hob, his voice a questing note which brushes the curve of Dream’s ear. He lies in naked warmth across the corded thew of his back, breathing life into marble. Breathing for them both. They had stayed this way for hours. Swathed together in the casual rituals of Sunday. An indulgent afternoon spent riding the blissful peaks of orgasm. Fragments of time dissolving into the peony blush of an August sunset.

Muscles tense beneath him and for a moment, Hob wants to swallow his words. The question has come too early. He should have waited. Let another century pass in quiet restraint for answers to fall unbidden. Then Dream moves under him with tectonic force, and every muscle rolls to bear his weight with ease. Impassive eyes stare blankly up.

“Music,” Dream states simply and then, after a pause “how the notes of a Lyre might soar and scatter their seed in the wheat fields of Crete. He dreamed the way God’s dream. With intent.”

“Oh.” Hob replies, “…alright.” He is not sure how to take this or for what answer he had hoped.

When Dream had returned to him in the bright glory of a June afternoon, had called him friend and sat in alignment on the seat of a twin chair, he had felt himself exalted. Then came the gifts of a name, several in fact, and the first offering of answers. That he had lain at the base of a glass sphere for 133 years. That he had missed the sound of birds taking flight. That blood will turn a dark sepia if left to stain a cold stone floor. Hob had felt the brush of fingers to his palm then. He had felt each subtle contact point of hands, of wrists, of legs. He had said nothing. Dream, he had told him, is in the process of rebuilding.

Hob gives himself freely to this process. By July the casual touches had transformed into weekly rituals where, in the summer heat of his flat upstairs, they had venerated each other in the arching of bodies, in the twisting of limbs. In warmth. In wetness. In light.

Dream looks up at him now, the light of ancient stars reflecting in his eyes. He smiles faintly. “I have had many lovers, Hob”. And he knows this. He knows. But he wants to know more. He wants to unwind the tangled eons of his being and find the subtle frays of conquest. To trace the heart line of his relations with the gods of another age. To wonder perhaps, what they felt like to this impossible creature who, after making himself a willing body, became the vessel for their dreams.

And his traitorous mind will not stop its reckless imaginings. Of perfect bodies mounting each other with graceful fluidity. Rutting for hours, decadent in the gleam of their own transcendent   splendour. He regards his own body then and finds it lacking. And yet, to trace the distant lands of Dream’s past is to know him, fondly, completely. He holds the envious blade to his heart and smiles. 

“I want to show you something,” Hob says, “Wait here.”

He rises from the alter of the bed to gather the offerings of books. Stories told by others to share. Hutton’s Queens of the Wild, a battered copy of Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classiciae he had bought second-hand in Cambridge. Human tales to dying gods who wait, in the tomb of the earth, for idolatrous rebirth. He places them down kindly and wraps himself again in the comfort of the bed.

Seraphic black eyes glance over the pages for the briefest of seconds before one is turned, then another and Hob realises this is how Dream processes information. So that entire books could be read in minutes; knowledge subsumed, taken inwards, and swallowed whole. Each story catalogued and reformed as a star in the nightscape consciousness of the collective unconscious.

“And what about Brigid?” Hob asks again, brushing a finger over the image of a woodcut in Hutton’s book. Dream’s body curves towards him; the pale crescent of a waning moon.

“Protection to those who would adorn her with the pearls of their words. Love given at a price. She was triple natured and dreamt of sacraments in milk and blood.”

He imagines the proud swell of her breasts and the lustrous warmth of her sex. How Dream might have laid her down among the richness of the living earth, her legs parting in mimicry of the unfurling of shivering leaves. How he might have bent to kiss the curve of her fruiting form and then, with the surge of yellow iris and bloodied poppies their consummation would sing in the arrival of spring.

Dream watches him closely with the subtle glimpse of a frown. His features correct themselves back to unspoilt marble. He glances back at the book.

Hours pass, or maybe days, and Dream is feeding him grapes. He watches with fascination at the ripe burst between his teeth. He places one perfect finger to the corner of his mouth and Hob takes him in. They make love again. Dream edging inside gently; a curtesy that belies the sheer strength of him. His shoulders are the roll of Atlantic waters, his corded muscles the terrain of mountains. Every quiet command to sit or bend down or open for me is the distant promise of a rainstorm. A body made for the pleasure of the divine. In the drop after the rising heat of release, he is reformed in bliss and made anew.

 “And Saturn?” He asks, once more.

It is midnight now. Time hangs suspended from one day till the next. His throat is the frayed edge of a salt slicked rope. Language has come back to him slowly and with it, the recollection that he wants to learn more. He has been placed under soft, dark sheets and held in the willowy bough of cool arms. His world has shrunk to hold nothing but the senses; the smell of his own body, juniper and vetiver. The glow of orange lamplight casting shadows on the wall. The delicate ache of muscles. The sound of distant voices rises thorough the stone of buildings, the wood of floorboard.

Dream is under the blankets with him too. He opens his eyes; sapphire bright.

“Unwavering devotion despite the hardships of capricious seasons. To be fed the rich loam of toil. Saturnalia was a decedent celebration, but his worshippers did not sleep. They turned away from my realm to follow the ghost of his words.”

“And you’re okay with me not being…Like; you don’t mind if I’m not someone one who could…”  Be a god for you, He thinks. Be better than I am. Be good enough to keep you.

Dream graces him with the rarity of a true smile and moves to close the distance. He is pulled to rest his head in the cove of a moonlit scapula. He is held there in silence; Dream placing a hand to the soft warmth of his stomach then tracing the thick trail of chestnut hair that leads down towards his pubis. He nuzzles into the crook of his neck and Hob can feel the subtle sensation of air. Dream is breathing him in. In this sanctuary they have created for themselves he is reminded of several moments. Where Dream, bathed in morning light, has watched him butter bread, or rinse dishes, or change tracks on a playlist to find a favourite song. He has watched him water plants, watched him eat. Has asked, several times in fact, to place a hand to the bob of his throat when he swallows. Sometimes, when he has woken from the swell of sleep, he finds Dream’s attentions on the aura- space around him. His eyes lit from the inside, tracing the phantom movements of some unseen, imperceptible thing. Half asleep still, he has seen Dream move a hand through the gloaming air in a dextrous swirl of intent. Capturing something, examining it, then looking back at him. You dream such wonderful things.

And here, resting together, Dream’s voice brushes the curve of his ear.

“You are more than a god, Hob. You are human.”

@softest-punk

[sainamoonshine]

Okay but like… I know we all make jokes about Dream dumping Hob for Shakespeare the moment Hob mentioned a wife and kid but like… I understand why he lost interest. In his mind, the moment Hob said that, Dream probably saw the inevitable coming: Hob’s family would eventually die, and under the weight of the grief, Hob would want to stop being immortal.

We know that until their next meeting, Dream just CANNOT imagine anyone actually wanting immortality. Up until that moment he’s casually interested in Hob, but isn’t letting himself get too invested. And when Hob mentions his family, Dream just completely disconnects. He thinks it’s game over and there’s no point staying and listening to Hob’s experiences if he’s just gonna call off the whole thing at their next meeting anyway. So he fucks off with Shakespeare.

Next time comes around, he still shows up because it’s the decent thing to do and Hob deserves the chance to ask to be let off the ride… but then Hob doesn’t. And Dream absolutely did not expect THAT.

And from that point on he actually allows himself to get invested. Because now Hob isn’t just a curiosity, he’s interesting.

[hitorimaron]

Inspired by you cannot save me (you can't even save yourself) by @theseancequeen

[emomensimp]

Dream on his way to meet hob/or his sexy ex-wife

[roguelov]

Hobs love is loud and boisterous. It's tight hugs, strong touches whenever possible, fast and passionate kisses. It's shouting his love for them from the rooftops. Talking about them to everyone who will listen.

His love is blazing red. His love is like the sun.

Dreams love is quiet and subtle. His touch is soft. Almost hesitant. His kisses are slow, but no less passionate. He whispers his love for them in the dead of night, when it's just the three of them in their own little world, with no one to overhear.

His love is dark blue. His love is like the stars.

Y/N's love is both loud and quiet, it's boisterous and subtle. They reciprocate Hobs touches and kisses with the same enthusiasm. They kiss Dream back just as slowly. Touch him just as softly. They show off and talk about their partners proudly any chance they get. They profess their love for them in the calm, quiet moments throughout the day.

Their love is vibrant purple. Their love is like the moon.

WHAT???!!!!!? OH MY GOD I LITERALLY HAVE NO WORDS THIS IS THE CUTEST FUCKING THING I HAVE EVER READ AND OH IM KICKING MY FEET AND GIGGLING!!!!!! THIS IS JUST GORGEOUS AND JUST CHEFS KISS

… I need to go lay down now oh my I love them so much 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

[orangechickenpillow]

So.... Dream and Hob met because Hob called Dream's sister stupid and she took one look at him, looked at Dream, and said "yup this one's a keeper"

[corinthian-og-begay-docrime]

Hob giving Morpheus affection

Morpheus hissing: What is this?!

Hob: Affection

Morpheus: disgusting…do it again

[meganmaherstoryart]

Posting extremely late, but this is the Christmas card I made for @missingrache ! ^_^ It’s Dream and Hob on a Christmas date with Dream making it extra festive with images from Clara’s dream of the Nutcracker World! ^_^ While my only knowledge of Sandman is from friends squeeing about it + researching for making cards for Rachel, I feel like these two have become one of those ship-in-laws for me. Aka even though I'm not in the fandom, I really love their ship dynamic and enjoy seeing the fanart of them when it crosses my dash. ^_^

[myidlehand]

I would like to write a fic to explore the fact that Dream is the ONLY person who really knows Hob.

And I would like to explore how melancholic it would make Hob to realise that the only person who knows him, doesn't actually know much at all. I mean technically they've only spend a few hours together despite the fact they've known each other for a very long time.

I would like Hob to realise this and try to spend more time with Dream in a sort of desperate attempt to be SEEN for once in his very long life. As an immortal he had to keep a low profile. Has to disappear after a while and come back as someone else. He can't afford to live a remarkable life. He can't afford to be remembered.

Dream however is immortal too. He knows Hob real name. I've seen Hob's ups and downs. He's seen Hob grow as a person. He remembers Hob.

And Hob desperately wants Dream to see and know everything there is to know about him. All his fears and hopes. All his sorrows and joys. Every little emotions and moments that makes Hob who he is.

He wants the intimate feeling you get when you have a partner who knows and see you completely and without judgement.

[windsweptinred]

So, the great 'RULES' of the Endless. I know they're meant to be there for their own and everyone else's 'good'. To avoid cosmic imbalance blah blah blah. But look at them from a slightly different angle and they smack of far more insidious Divide and Conquer tactics.

Don't interfere with each others affairs. I mean, technically speaking all your purposes are so deeply interwoven with each other, it's more unnatural to keep them forcefully divided. But if you all could just stay in your own realms, do your own thing and interact as little as possible. That would be grand! Whatever you do, don't work as a cohesive unit!

Don't spill each others blood. Who doesn't want everyone to stay alive and unharmed? Right? But it also handily protects Ma and Da from any form of retaliation. A convenient way to defang the children...Just saying.

And finally don't love mortals. Yes. Please do keep your emotional distance from the very beings whose subconsciouses form and sustain you. Loving a mortal... Uff, that would be like you having a full working understanding of the core of your power. Then sticking your cosmic charger right on in there for a XP boost. The horror!

Seems to me someone really doesn't want the Endless siblings as the united, powerful front they could be... 🤔

Can someone get Hob in here to call bullsh*t on this please?

[superdogbiter]

Hob:”You’re being impossible.You’re not the God i married”

Morpheus:”Fine then,we’ll get a divorce.And i’m taking Matthew”

Matthew the Raven,pushing away the Monopoly board:”Maybe we should stop playing”

[amadgirlintheuniverse]

Shout out to the person who picked the three songs that we heard when Hob is waiting for Dream in 1989

1st: Happy (Hob arriving at the pub)

2nd: Heartbroken (Hob waiting for hours)

3rd: Resigned (Late at night when he talks with the bartender about the fight with his friend)