#sandman drag race

[bludpudding]

hello and welcome to

the series where i take a bunch of sandman characters, throw them into a drag race simulator, and make stupid 100% biased commentary. that’s it, really. (now with the dead boy detectives!)

{Week 1}

quite the ball fondler, aren't we, thomas?

monty, I'm a bit skeptical. you were just born like. yesterday. and spent most of your life in a cage. not exactly sure that's the best option.

crystal? something tells me that her abilities might aid in doing impersonations,,,, maybe,,,, i have faith in her

very cat thing to do.

what's with the birds and rhytmic gymnastics bitch you're birds

she's gonna serve and she fucking knows it!!!

death are you even allowed to do that on stage

oh they're all gonna eat. charles i'm laughing at you (affectionate)

THEY KNOW WHERE THEIR TALENTS LIE

and if i said this was a dumbass choice

guys is he gonna carve himself a new face i'm scared

winning the idgaf war

LUCIENNE ABSOLUTELY GIRL YOU GOT THIS

ESTHER??? OKAY. WHATEVER

oh you know his ass is gonna do a dramatic reveal

CORINTHIAN WHAT DID I SAY. WHAT DID I FUCKING SAY

yk i really thought edwin's gay boy piano recital was gonna take the cake but i was right crystal's got some extra powers

i am. staring at my screen rn. i swear to fucking god. we cannot do this in the first fucking week corinthian don't expect me to give you a welcome home

yk. this is not the first time this match up has happened.

THANK FUCKING GOD SORRY ROSE CORI HAS TO STAY ITS FOR THE GOOD OF THE PEOPLE

desire do i even want to know

ABSOLUTELY NOT NIKO WOULD NEVER. WRONG. WRONG. ALL OF YOU ARE WRONG

Relationship Updates

Recap

saw my life flash before my eyes tbh corinthian you're on thin fucking ice

[tampire]

Lemon cosplays as The Corinthian in Canada’s Drag Race Season 1

[kdrawingblog]

This are the first 20 entries for this year's Inktober, from Jake Parker's official list. I'm so happy with how it turned out and for the fact that this is the first time I finish an Inktober.

As you can see, all of theme are fanarts.

1. Dream_Dream of the endless and Hob Gadling from the Sandman series (Netflix)

2. Spider_ The Widow Von'Du from season 12 of RuPaul's Drag Race

3. Path_ Lån Zhan and Wei Ying from the Untamed (the grandmaster of demonic cultivation/ Mo dao zu shi)

4. Dodge_ Just a Dodge Coupe 1949

5. Map_ the map to the Lonely Mountain from the Hobbit book and movies

6. Golden_ Baek Youngchan from the BL manwha Perfect buddy

7. Drip_ Namor's feet from the Black Panther movie (Wakanda Forever)

8. Toad_ the glamorous toad, Ginger Minj from Drag Race all stars season 5

9. Bounce_ Red, from Cow and chicken and also from I'm weasel.

10. Fortune_ Joo Jaekyung and Dan Kim from the BL manwha Jinx.

[critterofthenight]

ummm hey guys what the actual hell is going on here

[the-herdier]

Desire: "Is it me? Am I the drama? I don't think I'm the drama..."

Desire: "Maybe I am."

Desire: "Am I the villain? I don't think I'm the villain."

[bird-with-pencils]

Like I don't know shit about anything but is that the Corinthian getting his ass handed by Shangela?

[mrs-mayor-hancock]

I thought I lost you

Hancock x reader (fluff/angst)

Warnings: mentions of blood, guns, violence, and death

———————————————

The sound of gunshots is what woke you. Your husband jumped up and grabbed his gun, ordering his men to get outside. Goodneighbor was under attack.

You had never gotten dressed so quickly in your life. Racing down the stairs with your gun, you quickly shot down the raiders that had been trying to get into the Old State House.

You scooted against the wall and peeked around the corner, you spotted your husband and K.L.E.O fighting with a group of raiders.

While you were figuring out how to get to your husband, you didn’t notice a small group of raiders coming up behind you. They grabbed you, taking your gun. You screamed for your husband as they dragged you away.

Hancock came running, only to be met with a grenade being thrown at him. Luckily he wasn’t injured, just knocked back. When he came to, you were gone and the fighting had stopped.

————

You sat in a bunker, you had no idea how long you’d been down there. It could’ve been hours, days, maybe even weeks.

As the weeks went past, you studied the group that had taken you. There were six of them. After three weeks, you feared the worst that everyone in Goodneighbor was dead and help wasn’t coming.

————

“WEEKS! It’s been WEEKS since she was taken and not one of you has been able to find her!” Hancock screamed. He had searched everywhere, put out a radio message, and even contacted the minutemen. You were gone without a trace.

“Sir,” a guard approached, “I, along with a few others, think it may be time to consider the possibility that she may not be alive, it’s been three weeks, raiders don’t normally keep their captives alive this long.”

Hancock slowly turned and stared at this guard. He could feel his blood boiling. He threw a punch at him, knocking the poor guard out. “She’s alive, I know she is.”

————

You were able to lift a knife off of one of the raiders while he was passed out. Your heart pounded, if any of them woke up, you wouldn’t be able to fight them all off.

The sandman kills went easier than expected, none of them made a sound. You grabbed an old backpack, filling it with supplies, you grabbed a gun with plenty of ammo and opened the door to the building quietly.

Looking around, you tried to see if there were any other raiders around. Only one at the entrance of the facility, it was a tiny bunker, a hideout you guessed. Quickly getting rid of said raider, you tried to figure out where you were. You wandered a bit, coming to a vault, it was hard to see in the dark but the letters read a clear 111. Your eyes widened in realization, you were near Sanctuary.

You started running and ended up tumbling down the hill towards Sanctuary. You got up and ran, finally coming face to face with Preston Garvey. “Y/N Hancock! Where have you been? Your husband put out a radio message to see if anyone had seen you.” You explained how Goodneighbor was attacked, how you had been kidnapped, and snuck your way out of the tiny bunker.

Preston called in a few minutemen who were able to escort you to the front gate of Goodneighbor.

————

Hancock was buying chems from Fred Allen outside of Hotel Rexford when he heard it. “JOHN!” He froze, instantly recognizing the voice that called his name. Dropping his chems, he turned around to see you running from the entrance. He had never run so fast to get to you. Tears streaming down your face, you jumped up into his arms, wrapping your arms and legs around him tightly.

You stayed like that for a while before he asked what happened. He started walking to your home, you explained what happened as he carried you up the stairs.

“I saw blood, and then I had a grenade tossed at me, which knocked me out. When I came to, you were gone and I was scared, I thought I lost you.”

You shed a few tears as you kissed him. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, rubbing your back while you kissed. The next few minutes felt like you were in slow motion. You stared at each other for a while, you yawned, signaling it was time for a nap. You were exhausted and hadn’t slept properly in the last few weeks.

Hancock lifted up the blankets, tucking you both under, he pulled you close until you were resting your head on his chest. “I promise no one will ever take you from me again” he said as he rubbed your back.

[immacaria]

In The Dark of The Night

This is my first entry to the @dreamlingnation's event for the Sandman's first anniversary! The prompt was 'darkness' and I hope you guys like it!

Tags: Vampire AU; Witch AU; Vampire!Dream; Witch!Hob; Fantasy AU; Blood play (kind of?? Just to be sure); Fluff; Cuddling;

When Hob opens his eyes, darkness surrounds him. He barely can see his own hand in front of his eyes, let alone the corners and silhouettes of the room he is in. However, the room is not unknown to him.

He knows that, at his feet, there’s an antique chest full of papers and books that holds many secrets and that, at the far right of the room, a writing desk stands filled with fountain pens, quills, colourful inks and blank paper. Next to the soft bed, a big wooden wardrobe half filled with his clothes accompanies a basin of clear cold water under a mirror. It’s not the room he grew up in nor the one he currently sleeps in, but it is his room because it belongs to Dream and they belong to each other.

Soft blankets wrap Hob’s body and memories from last night come back to him slowly. The jokes, the laughter and the shared caresses. It all comes back slowly to him and he knows that, if he reaches out behind him now, there will be a somewhat cold weight leaning against his back.

Dream’s arms are wrapped around his waist, bringing him closer to his chest, while his head rests between Hob’s shoulderplates. His skin is almost warm against Hob’s own, his blood still running inside the vampire’s veins and making the usually deadly cold body almost warm to touch. The thought of his blood running through the other’s veins is marvellous, it’s addicting, it’s intoxicating and Hob sighs contentedly at it.

Both of them have come a long way until they reached that point of familiarity and intimacy. Dream was scarred over past relationships, one worse than another, and Hob held too much responsibility into his own hands, a prejudice against each other’s races pushing them even more apart. But, somehow, they still ended up here, together and curled around one another with contentment.

He turns around on his lover’s arms, one hand coming to caress his face as his eyes stare at him. A smile appears on his lips as Dream presses against his hand, satisfaction clear on his expression. Like a cat, Hob thinks, thumb pressing against his cheekbone.

Where yesterday has been filled with hurry and laughter, the thrill of finally being together after days pushing them forward, today is filled with softness, love and rest. There's no need to hurry today, they aren't needed anywhere and, even if they were, Hob highly doubts they would go anywhere besides their bed and kitchen.

Because, yes, it's their bed now. Their bed, their kitchen, their sofa, their house, their home. After fighting so long to be together, just the fact of laying down here without the threat of anyone coming for them is a miracle.

And a miracle Hob is not willing to give back.

Pulling Dream closer to himself, he kissed the crown of his head, unruly hair tickling his nose. He keeps kissing him, his hand coming down to rest against his hips while he puts the other under Dream's shoulders. The darkness is quietly subduing around them, soft light beams coming through the curtains to wake them up. Outside, the city slowly comes to life as the humans fall asleep and the creatures of the night rise.

Dream's eyes flutter open, blinking unseeingly before focusing on him with the attention of a predator. Shockingly blue eyes look at every feature, even imperfection of his face as if trying to commit it to his memory and Hob smiles. Slightly sharp canines catch into his lower lip, drawing blood, and then his husband is kissing him.

His tongue drags over the blood before catching Hob's lip between his teeth and sucking. A moan escapes his throat as Dream's teeth deepens the cuts and more blood fills his mouth. They pull each other closer, legs intertwining as Dream pulls away to allow Hob breath.

"Good awakening, love," Dream says, voice low and raspy, and Hob kisses him again. His mouth tastes of copper and salt and home.

"Good night, duck," Hob answers, smiling at him and not noticing how the darkness disappeared from around them. The rest of the world doesn’t matter, for his whole world is there, right between his arms.

[myloveforhergoeson]

“when you said you were putting on some background noise to help you fall asleep, this certainly wasn’t what i had in mind…”

from the lighting panel by the wall, james raised an eyebrow, confused by her selection, as he switched the lights off in roxy’s room.

being able to fall asleep together was a rare occurance for the two, but mrs. knight was spending the night out with some of her friends from her romance novel book club and and shot a text to her teens that she wouldn’t be making it home for the evening.

seconds later, james, pajamas, pillow, and all had raced into his girlfriends apartment to kick off his precious eight hours of beauty sleep before the two had to get up early for work the next morning. roxy suspected kendall was receiving a similar visitor on his doorstep at the moment, considering his roommate was spending the night with her.

“what do you mean?” she asked, innocently batting her eyes in the moonlight filtering through the window while james sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling her body slightly roll to the side at the divot in her small mattress. though she spoke a bit louder over the music, she was sure the message was carried across regardless. “want me to turn it down?”

glancing over his shoulder, james just let out a little laugh. “i just thought you’d put on some nature sounds or whale noises… not ‘enter sandman.’”

“i can switch the song!” she shot up, reaching her hand toward the tape player to fast forward to the next song she’d recorded. “maybe, ‘dream operator’ or ‘your new twin size bed’ are more your speed? how about ‘daydream believer’ or ‘talking in your sleep?’”

“that last one certainly suits you-“

james didn’t get to finish his sentence; roxy had taken her pillow and smacked him on the back with it.

“well, if you’re the expert in falling asleep music - which i highly doubt by the way - what do you suggest?”

growing quiet as he thought, roxy switched off the tape player in the middle of the song and wound the tape back. soft whirring was the only sound in the room for a few seconds, before james crossed his arms and looked the other way.

he mumbled something she couldn’t hear.

“hm?” she prodded, collecting her pillow and placing it back by the headboard. “what’s that?”

“… the fan sounds quite nice.”

“the fan?!” dramatically, roxy flopped down on her back, letting out the largest exhale she could muster to show her disappointment in his sound of choice. “you’re a musician! how could you pick the fan over a soothing guitar solo?”

“nobody is calling any music made by metallica soothing, baby,” he informed her, though he did finally settle down beside her and pulled roxy into his chest. “how about we keep the fan on tonight and listen to a tape next time? and maybe you can pick one that’s less rocky and more sleepy.”

roxy let out an offended gasp, though didn’t make any moves to wiggle out of her boyfriend’s comforting hold. the fan above them continued to rotate, the swift sound of the movement washing a sense of calm over the room.

“i’m all for compromise, but question my music choices again and next time…” she dragged the sentence out, echoing his word choice as she brought her lips to his cheek for a goodnight kiss, “you’ll be sleeping on the couch!”

[blood-injections]

The funsandkid dyamic is just. A mess. Kobra and ghoul dragged sandman into their idiot mess of fighting eachother and keeping eacother sane because sandman also liked fighting but more for fun not to stay sane. And then ghoul and sandman just clicked like are both wacky cuddly mechanics and kinda had their own intense thing to the side so it was more of a love triangle?? Like it was kobraghoul and funsandy(™️. Its cute im calling it) going strong simultaneously in their ways but sandman and kobra didnt have much going on for them aside from their occasional adrenaline fueled hookup after a race theyre more just weird friends that kiss sometimes for the hell of it not a lot of emotion there like funkobra and funsandy but theres like admiration there for each i guess like they have secret crushes on eachother. but it turns out ghoul and sandman have been plotting and eventually they successfully drag Kobra into their constant fucking cuddling which unleashes the hidden clingy as hell side of kobra that he didnt even know he had and after that they're all on the same wavelength

[scifrey]

Cling Fast: Chapter Seven

By Losyark The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon, and Gaiman Cinematic-Literary Universe canon) Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus) Unfinished (tentatively 10 chapters) PG-13 (for now) Unbeta’d

*

Author's Note: Those of you who have been following along at home will note that Hob's co-owner of The New Inn is now named Patrick instead of Dennis. No reason for the change, except that there were too many 'D' names floating around and I was loosing track of who is who.

*

Hob wakes up with a splitting headache, but otherwise no other effects from his hangover. Except for the sinking feeling that comes with remembering that he screwed up his 1589 feast again.

Would it be pathetic to try a third time? Especially knowing now that Morpheus rarely eats, and when he can be persuaded to, it's never British fare.

Yeah, it would be pathetic.

Hob rolls onto his back and presses his hands to his face.

He doesn't remember drinking more when he got home, but he was definitely out of it when he hit the Dreaming. It felt more like somebody had slipped something into his water bottle, but he can't imagine that anyone on set would drug him. Besides, the fey food artist had kept an eye on it all day for him, and it wasn't until after they'd parted ways with a handshake that he really started to feel woozy.

When he turns to look at the clock, groaning and sandy-eyed, he finds a light dusting actual dream sand sprinkled on his bedside table, along with a glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol. The clock reads 4:13am, so Hob takes a pill, drinks half the bottle, and sweeps the sand onto his face.

One of these days, I'm going to scold that anthropomorphic personification of a concept for leaving his shit all over the place, Hob thinks. But not today. He sinks back into sleep, grateful for Morpheus' thoughtfulness, and spends the rest of the morning laying on his back in the grass of Fiddler's Green. He and Gilbert make shapes out of clouds, and chew on coriander stalks amid a bed of flowers that Hob calls foxgloves, but Gilbert corrects him and calls gillyflowers.

"Two very opposite things," Gilbert says gently, through the rustle of the wind through the boughs of a nearby copse of French willows. Hob is reminded what the fey food artist said, that flowers scream their secrets.

"Never got into floriography," Hob confesses to Gilbert. "You know, back when it was all the rage and people were sending each other bouquets that said 'meet me in the garden at midnight', or 'my father says I am never to see you again', or 'I want you to do me dirty seven ways from sunday.' Maybe I should."

Gilbert's laughter is in the babble of a brook. The dream doesn't elaborate though, because Hob's alarm rudely interrupts them. All thoughts of tracking down a book on flower language fly from his head as he drags himself through a quick shower, and races down the back stairs of the New Inn while the transpo van idles in the drive and honks obnoxiously.

*

Hob gets to wear a few different costumes today, which is nice. He was sweating to death in the black velvet. They're filming all the scenes that need to happen in the study today, which will all be woven into the ten different episodes, so Hob's in and out of the wardrobe trailer on the front drive constantly.

That's why he notices that someone's left the outside door to the solar standing open.

This is one of three doors to the solar, the one that leads directly out into the back garden, where his bench and apple tree still blessedly stand. The other two doors are off the kitchen, so the maids could bring El her afternoon indulgences directly, and another that was knocked into the outer wall of the withdrawing room.

While the door is open, the heavy curtains are still drawn to protect the fragile textiles within from sun damage.

Hob has been desperate to catch just a glimpse of the eden he'd built specifically for his wife. He's seen the photos on the postcards in the gift shop of course, but it's not the same thing. Those pictures have it dressed for the Edwardian era, to reflect the last time the house was occupied by a family.

But the set-dec team has re-dressed it according to the descriptions in El's diary, and the merchants receipts for the fabrics, flowers, and furniture. They'd even found notes on what kind of pottery and dishware El had kept in there, a screed in the loveletters between Eliza and Will as the maid raged over the ridiculousness of having special dishware that the mistress will only take her supper on when it's being served in the solar.

Hob sneaks over to the door, and cautiously pokes his face in. Nothing is moving in the cool dark of the room, and he can't hear anything, so he slips inside and closes the door behind him. Not all the way, though, in case someone has just stepped out and left it open on purpose. He doesn't want to be caught where he shouldn't be.

Shouldn't be, he snorts to himself. I built the damn place.

The cameras are all in the study, nobody is here but him, so Hob gives himself permission to react. He feels his face crumple, and bites his lips to keep in the noise trying to crawl out of his throat. The study is right on the other side of the brick wall. He doesn't want the crew to hear him, or they may make him leave, and he's not ready for that yet.

God's Wounds, thank you, Hob sends up the prayer, but he's not sure to whom. He’s not sure it matters. Thank you for letting me have this.

The glass is different. It's newer, clearer, smoother; clearly a later addition. The small diamond-shaped panes have been replaced by long, modern sheets. But the size of the frames are still the same, wide as Hob's full arm span and at least ten feet to the ceiling. The windows are separated by a single row of red brick, the frames black metal, a dark red drape pulled across each of them. And the roof, which in Hob's day was thatched, is presumably now also made of glass, as there are light canvas tarps pulled taught on a winding pulley where the solar meets the rest of the house.

The floors are piled with carpets, to dampen the echoes that the glass had created, so El could hear herself playing. The ones the production has provided are far too modern in design, but the camera isn't going to spend a lot of time pointed at the floor, so it doesn't matter. 

What does matter is that the furniture is absolutely correct, and exactly where it used to be. The little cluster of a table and chairs, where El and Robyn used to do his numbers lessons together, where they'd snack on fruit and sweets while Hob was a docks, is in the corner by the door. On Sundays, when the three of them had just returned from church, Hob would sit on the bench under the apple tree with his pipe, and watch Eleanor pull Robyn into her lap at that table, and feed him bread pudding and tell him stories that would make him giggle and clap his hands.

Beside that, under the windows sits the long, skinny sofa. It has miniscule padding and none of the springs and memory foam of the modern version, but Hob fell asleep stretched out on it's welcoming yellow damask, listening to El pluck her way through a new piece she was learning more afternoons than he's ever napped on his current sofa. It's been recovered, but it's the same piece, because, when he runs his hand along the wooden arm rest, he can feel where Robyn scratched in an 'R' with a letter knife.

The brick wall opposite the windows is bare and exposed now, but there used to be a tapestry that, like the ones in the entry hall, have likely been removed for the sake of preservation. If they weren't thrown away or repurposed by the new family. They used to portray the bounties of the first Garden, every plant, and animal, every fruit and flower woven together in intricate, tiny detail. There had been black and red snake in the apple tree, and Hob had liked the little bugger immensely because he reminded Hob of his Stranger.

A furniture chest, what Hob would call a sideboard or a dish hutch today, stands against the bare brick. It's not the same one, that one had portraits of El's parents painted on the upper doors, but the style is similar enough that it's not distracting.

And at the other end of the solar, surrounded by massive potted ferns and an array of flowers that Hob had never paid much attention to, save for appreciating their perfume, is Eleanor's chair.

It's a grand, double-wide thing, with a matching footstool and only one arm, so El could play her lute comfortably without jamming her elbow against the side. He'd commissioned it specifically for this room and this purpose, having it covered in flaxen cloth-of-gold to match El's hair, and carved all over with little cherubs and their own heavenly instruments. It had been his wedding gift to her, and had lived first in the study, beside his desk, so they could spend their evenings together as he worked. But then he'd build this addition when he'd learned she was pregnant with Robyn, a thank you and a celebration, a little private Eden for Eve carrying Hob's new beginning, and new life.

And it's… it's all perfect.

Hob presses his hands against his chest, turning in circles to take everything in, emotion that he can't name pulling on his stomach and limbs like gravity. This place should be filled with laughter, and music, and sunlight. Instead the cool dark is as quiet as a tomb.

Hob gives into the pull of the earth and sinks onto El's foot stool, burying his face in the seat of the chair. She should be here. It should be her lap he rests his head on, like had so many evenings, where he'd perched on this exact same stool, back against her knees as she warbled in her thready, soft voice. Instead it's just fabric, and empty nothingness. Because his child killed her. His love killed her.

"Eleanor," Hob weeps, throat constricted. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you… or our son. Either of them… I'm so sorry I didn't protect him…"

"Hot mic?" someone says from the corner, behind the plants.

"No, I turned it off to change," Hob murmurs, and then realizes with a start that he's not alone after all. He jolts upright, wiping at his face. Makeup is going to scold him again. "Christ! I—sorry! I didn't see you there."

"That's fine," the voice says, barely more than a whisper. "I sneak up on most people."

A short, voluptuous woman that Hob charitably would call extremely beige, steps out of the shadows. Her hair is beige, styled in a stringy, unwashed bun. Her skin is beige, the kind of milk-pale White that humans get in northern Europe. She's wearing a set of boring beige overalls. The only color comes from the handful of embroidered throw pillows she's carrying.

Set dec, Hob's mind supplies. She's probably the one who left the door open. They're staging this space to film.

"I'm sorry, I should go," Hob says. "It's just that the door was open and I—"

"You can stay," the woman says, moving to distribute the pillows on the sofa. "They don't need you on set right now."

"I must look ridiculous," Hob says, "Sitting here in a costume, mourning a—" he swallows hard. "A woman I never met. I just… you know, being here, I really feel what Sir Gadlen must have—"

"It's fine," the woman says, and steps up beside him to deposit the last throw pillow onto El's chair. "Grief gets its hooks into you in weird ways. People try to avoid despair, but it can be good for you. Helps you get it all out. So you go ahead and cry."

Hob thinks she's going to pat his shoulder, but she ends up cupping the back on his neck. Her palm is cold, and a bit uncomfortably damp to be honest, the kindness in her touch as she grants him this permission is what undoes Hob.

He tips forward, forehead pressed against the seat of the chair, arms wrapped around his middle, and howls. 

He doesn't think he's cried this hard since Eleanor died, since her labors exhausted her, and even that challenging, stubborn spark that she'd always carried in her heart was extinguished. Since taking another breath became to taxing for her poor body, and as Hob petted her sweat-dampened hair back from her face, and kissed her temple, and told him how much he loved her, and begged her to just push, to just hold on, to just stay, please El, please, don't go, don't do this, don't leave me— Since poor wee John strangled in the womb, wrapped in his cord and stuck in his mother's body, dead before his first breath, went with her.

The set dec woman just crouches on the carpet beside him, rubbing his back soothingly, and making soft, encouraging sounds. She smelled revoltingly musky, which was the only thing that kept Hob for accepting the hug she was clearly offering. She'd probably spilled something on her overalls.

Hob sniffles and pulls a prop handkerchief from his sleeve to pat at his face. His head is throbbing, and he feels hollowed out.

But…but not in a bad way.

"Thank you," Hob says at length. "I think I… I really needed that."

"It was beautiful," the woman whispers.

Something in the way she says that is familiar.  

“I know you," Hob says, looking up at the woman blearily. "How do I know you?"

"We used to drink together," the woman replies. She smiles sideways, like the expression is uncomfortable on her face and wants to flee immediately. "Years and years ago."

"Oh," Hob says, and thinks, It must have been the early 90s, when I spent most of days fucked up on coke. She looks good for her age. But then again, so do I.

"Thank you—" he says again, but then her walkie crackles to life, and Celia's voice comes through.

"Anyone got eyes on Doc Bob?"

"Got him," the woman replies into the mic. Hob jumps to his feet, patting at his face with a prop handkerchief he hastily pulls from his sleeve. The woman shoos him toward the door. "He's traveling, landing in five."

Bob squeezes her shoulder in thanks and jogs over to the door between the solar and the study, letting himself in.

It's not until after the makeup assistant has fixed his face, and they're part way through filming a scene where Glenn—now playing the part of the steward that robbed him blind—that Hob realizes he didn't get his old drinking buddy's name.

When they wrap for the day, Hob looks around for the beige woman, but she's nowhere to be found.

*

Tuesday rolls around again, and Hob has to beg off his usual meeting with Morpheus to sleep on camera. Hob's already been filmed tossing and turning on the narrow cot in the printer's shop (a corner of another BBC production's period drama set, while they were off for lunch), and groaning with exhaustion in a fetid boarding house bunk (a hastily slapped together set of plyboard and just-dried paint that still smelled strongly when his nose was next to it).

Now they've retrofitted the actual bed that he used to share with Eleanor with a bunch of modern supports to prevent the ancient frame from cracking under his weight, and a modern mattress disguised to look like a feather tick.

On the floors below him, Harriet is making herself comfortable on a bedroll by the bread oven, which as a kitchen maid she has to keep hot and ready at all hours; Glenn is in the servant's wing, enjoying a bed with a frame at least, but he'll still have to be up at dawn to begin his duties; and the graveyard shift skeleton crew are luxuriating in their campervans on the front drive. Robert Gadlen the Third gets to sleep until he damn well feels like it. Hob, however, has an alarm set for 8:00am so he can pop out to one of the campervans for a shower before reporting to wardrobe and makeup to begin a new day.

At least this shot is easy. All Hob has to do is stand alone in the bedroom, look into the camera mounted in the corner, remove his wrapper and cap, say a few lines, and crawl into bed. They'll then film him sleeping, and speed up the footage in post to provide a timelapse of his comfortable, cozy night's rest to juxtapose it against Harriet's and Glenn's restless one.

Hob gets the go-ahead from the crew manning the monitors outside over the walkie on the mantelpiece out of frame, claps loudly so sound can get a speed count and level on the boom mic that's mounted beside the camera, and then steps into the shot. The camera's red light blinks once, twice, three times, then glows steadily.

"For the master of the Elizabethan Manor, staggering to bed drunk and sleeping late was only for Saturdays and special occasions," he says, doffing his cap and hanging it on a peg driven into one of the posts by the head of the bed. "If he was a good god-fearing protestant, it was early to bed, and early to rise. Sunday mornings saw him, and his family, off to church or face a stiff fine. Work days for the Lord ended around sunset, no matter what time of year it was, unless he literally wanted to burn the midnight oil getting his accounts and correspondence up to date."

They had filmed that bit earlier in the afternoon, so now Hob peels off his wrapper, leaving him in only a tired old knee-length night shirt and his leather house slippers. Wardrobe had offered him a vest or pajama pants to wear under it, but Hob was quite comfortable. He'd worn something like this to bed for hundreds of years.

"But this particular lord," he gestures at himself, "has had a long day hunting, and riding, and I'd like to not waste candles needlessly. So, I'm off to count sheep. Sweet dreams."

Hob sits down on the side of the bed, swings his legs around, and pulls the blanket up to his chin. And then he screws his eyes shut because he's already had one emotional breakdown today, and he's not keen to have another by thinking too hard about how the canopy of his old bed has not changed. 

"Clean take, Doc Bob," some AD or other says over the walkie talkie. "It's in the can. We're done."

"Sweet dreams," Hob calls back as a sign off.

"Same to you, Doc," the AD says, and the walkie goes quiet.

Hob peeks at the camera, with it's red eye. It's still recording as agreed, so Hob, exhausted and genuinely sleepy, sinks into the pillows and closes his eyes.

He dozes for a bit, and comes back to awareness in an exact replica of the room his sleeping body is currently in. It takes him a second to figure out what disturbed him, and then realizes it's the sink and shift of the mattress beside him. For a second, he's terrified that he's dreaming about Eleanor. That he's going to roll over and find her laying there, dead and horrid, half-decomposed and skull-grinning on her pillow.

But a gentle voice says, "No nightmare would dare."

Hob lets out a breath of relief, and wriggles onto his side to smile at Morpheus. He is laying down over the covers, head on the pillow, face-to-face with Hob.

Incoguously, there's a single flower laid on the blankets between them, a small white-and-yellow daffodil.

"Hello, stranger."

"Hello, Hob. This is not your bedroom."

"It used to be," he whispers. "I missed you these last few nights. What brings you here?"

"You," Morpheus says plainly. "It is Tuesday."

Hob laughs. "Well, yes, I do suppose it is. But as much fun as it may be, Morpheus, I'm not spooning you in my dead wife's bed."

"Spooning?"

Hob snorts. "You know, for a god of sleep who has probably either seen or crafted every wet dream that every teenaged boy has ever rued, you are a bit of a prude, my friend." It's easier to joke about it in the Dreaming, when he is asleep and the pain is safely tucked away in the Waking world.

"I know what spooning is," Morpheus says drily. "I was simply unaware that you desired it."

"Hey, you're the one who popped up here." He gestures at the Dreamscape of his old bedroom. "You know, We used to share the bed all the time," Hob says. "Even the queen slept with her lady's maid when they were here, did you know that? This sleeping alone lark is a relatively recent phenomenon for us humans."

Morpheus gifts him with one of those ridiculous self-satisfied, haughty smirks. "I'm unsure if you've been paying attention, my friend, but I am the god of sleep—"

"Oh, shut up," Hob sasses. "I'm supposed to be resting. You know what, I've changed my mind about the spooning. Either get out or c'mere and give me a cuddle."

Morpheus looks reluctant to take Hob's invitation as a serious one, which absolutely cannot be borne. The skinny bastard is still touch starved, no matter how much pre-scheduled hand-holding they do on any given Tuesday.

Hob reaches for Morpheus' shoulders, attempting to push him onto his other side and snug up behind him. Morpheus resists, clearly deciding that as a celestial deity, it's his right to be the big spoon. The daffodil ends up above their heads on the pillow as they wrestle playfully.

Hob, who secretly has no problems at all being cradled by his Stranger, eventually lets Morpheus win.

They settle that way, Morpheus' hand played against Hob's heart, and he's suddenly quite glad that his groin isn't pressed up against his friend's arse when a puff of Morpheu's breath against his nape gives Hob some terribly naughty ideas.

And some places that they touch that Hob is pretty sure a body can’t–Morpheus seems relaxed enough to loosen his hold on on his human-shaped corporation. There are extra limbs tangling sweetly with his feet, a dark mist spilling over his shoulder like heavy incense, tangible but foggily opaque, the glow of stars in Morpheus’ eyes reflecting back at Hob from the canopy of the bed. It’s sweet, that he feels safe enough around Hob to be himself.

"Hob Gadling," Morpheus says gently, "Are you well? Only your sleep has been tumultuous."

There's no point lying to Morpheus, especially here. "It's a lot. It's—" Hob starts, before interrupting himself with an unexpected hiccough of a sob. He's cried enough for today, though, so he swallows it back. "It's just so much harder than I thought it would be."

The confession shreds his throat. Shame crawls up his face, flushing his cheeks and making his ears tingle with the heat of the horrible blush. He curls in on himself, a miserable comma. Morpheus presses himself in one long line against Hob, probably trying to comfort but instead making Hob tense and hyperaware of every place that they touch.

"Hob…" Morpheus says again, worry tinging his voice. "I did not mean to push you into an situation that would cause distress."

"And you haven't!" Hob assures him. "At least not on purpose. I just… it's a lot, is all. I had a good cry today, and they’re right, you know. It does help with the–" he does the pulling-heart-out-of-chest-squish motion. “I hate every second of it, but I’m glad of it, you know? It’s good pain. It’s… pain I’ve put off feeling for too long. A goodbye that I’ve let linger for centuries.”

“Like a nightmare whose lesson you ignore, it will only continue to plague you until you listen,” Morpheus murmurs, and Hob can feel his lips movings against the collar of his nightshirt which is absolutely unfair.

“Yeah,” Hob agrees, swallowing hard and pretending that the dryness of his mouth is from the old building, and not his situation. “And I mean, I feel like I’ve been gutted, you know. All my insides scooped out. But that’s okay, because maybe it’s time for something new to take its place.”

You, Hob lets himself think, but doesn’t dare say out loud. I wouldn’t mind if the emptiness was filled with you.

Morpheus raises his free hand, and gestures into the air. Dream sand sparks into existence in an arc, but instead of falling onto them, it hovers there, swirling and pulsing. Like a snowglobe, the sand moves in the open space beside the bed, forming figures and landscapes.

"Shall I tell you a bedtime story to soothe you to a more peaceful slumber then, Hob Gadling?"

"Bedtime story?" Hob says, sitting up. "Wait, aren't I already asleep—"

The door to his chambers pushes open. Hob's sore and swollen heart leaps into his mouth at the noise.

"Bob?" Henrietta calls into the darkness. "Are you still awake? I was doing my video diary and I could hear your voice through the chimneys and I… what," she hisses, freezing a few steps inside with her eyes the size of saucers, "the absolute fuck."

PREVIOUS | NEXT

[bludpudding]

hello and welcome back to

the series where i take a bunch of sandman characters, throw them into a drag race simulator, and make stupid 100% biased commentary. that’s it, really. (now with the dead boy detectives!)

{Week 2}

yk i do believe she could make a mean wig. out of the human hair of little girls probably but that's neither here nor there

THANK GOD corinthian's making a comeback i was about to file for divorce for like the 9th time this year

since this is a dance competition i feel like we should give them grace because one of them was made human about a week ago and the other is a pumpkin. but NOBODY listens to me

THATS RIGHT DAY TIME DRAMA MAMA. TOP 3 MILFS OF THE DAY

oh it's because she's goth isn't it. mhm. mhm. i see.

THATS RIGHT. THATS RIGHT. IMMEDIATE VENGEANCE NOT FUCKING AROUND TODAY NO MA'AM

see now what did i say about monty getting grace for being a bird. don't get any fucking opinions in this autocracy

you think jenny brought the cleaver on stage

like i cant say im surprised. but. yk. survival of the fittest. bro got butched.

wait is jenny being a butcher a pun on

no.

i'm mad now

carrying on

who's after morpheus? most people i think. me included

is this foreshadowing something

Recap

edwin and crystal are tied for 1st place, corinthian is trying to avoid sleeping on the couch tonight

[tampire]

We shine on and we really really really like you. Loved meeting Synthia Kiss from Canada’s Drag Race Season 2 Bratpack and also Juice Boxx whom I go way back with and I unintentionally cosplayed Lemon’s Corinthian reading outfit with them  lol. Love these queens for doing a free meet and greet with me <3

[kdrawingblog]

My first proper reel! Here is the first part of my entry for this year's Inktober #inktober2023

#inktober #draweveryday #fanart

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First part of this year's Inktober, it was so much fun!

[themirokai]

Tag 9 people you want to get to know better. Or however many. Whatever.

The lovely @tlonista and @electrawasright tagged me in this one and I haven’t done it in a while soooo here goes!

Three ships: Dreamling (Sandman), Jayvik (Arcane), Rinch (Person of Interest)

First ever ship: I’ve given this answer before but new followers since then so… I didn’t find online fandom culture until later in life (2020 to be exact) and the first ship I stumbled into was Mystrade from Sherlock. Mystrade shippers are lovely people and gave me a fantastic intro to online fandom.

Last song: (not counting stuff on tv shows) Man Down by Rihanna. I would really love to share my Spotify “Happy Music” playlist but I don’t think I can do that without doxxing Surfski (we share an account).

Last movie: I honestly can’t remember the last time I watched a movie.

Currently reading: Sandman: The Wake. And lots of fan fiction.

Currently watching: We cycle through a bunch of shows which is why it takes me forever to watch something. At the moment: Succession, Ted Lasso, Person of Interest, Interview with the Vampire, and we’re doing old seasons of Drag Race as the thing we have on during workouts.

Currently consuming: Nothing, it’s bedtime. But the last thing I consumed was peanut butter from the jar while making kiddo’s lunch.

Currently craving: Time off from work that won’t result in me feeling guilty or more stressed when I get back.

Tagging some lovely folks from my notifications with absolutely zero pressure (seriously if you don’t want to do this for any reason, just don’t. you don’t owe me an explanation). @jinkies-21 @epoxide @amn159 @handahbear @porthos4ever @ununpredictableme @janimoon @melmey

Also tagging my beloved @the-real-surfski in his first tag game with a pass to skip the shipping questions if he wants. 😘

[bi-bard]

But I'm Flying Like a Bird to You Now - Joanna Constantine Imagine [The Sandman]

Title: But I'm Flying Like a Bird to You Now

Pairing: Johanna Constantine X Reader

Based On: Shrike

Word Count: 929 words

Warning(s): presence of a drunk character, mention of break up

Summary: Johanna and (Y/n)'s relationship crumbled because of Johanna's obsession with work and issues with trust. The realization of her mistakes causes Johanna to show up on (Y/n)'s doorstep out of the blue.

Author's Note: I know that it has been far too long since I wrote for this challenge. I'm sorry.

WASTELAND, BABY! - HOZIER WRITING CHALLENGE MASTERLIST

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

After Johanna and I broke up, I had expected her to simply leave me alone.

She had more important things to worry about. Her practice, research, saving people, stopping demons. She made it clear to me that I didn't fall very high on her list of priorities.

I had no reason to suspect that she would ever find her way back into my life.

And then, she showed up on my doorstep. Drunk.

I pulled the door open to find her leaning against the doorframe with a lazy smile on her face.

"Johanna?"

"Hi," she grinned at me.

"What are you doing here?"

"I... I was working and I got... I got bored," she explained. "Wanted to see you."

I almost rolled my eyes at the idea of being the solution to boredom. I knew that she didn't mean anything bad by it, but I had put too much work into accepting that I was worth so much more than that. It was hard to hear the person who I had spent so much time with say that I was something that was meant to be some... activity.

"You look so pretty."

I sighed.

I couldn't close the door on her. If I did, I would be constantly worried about her. I would be scared that she got hurt somehow. I couldn't have that idea on my conscience.

I stepped to the side, waving her in.

Johanna smiled, wrapping her arms around me as she walked in.

I closed the door before shoving her arms off of me. I locked the door.

"I wouldn't be able to deal with the guilt if I left you to wander around in this state," I muttered. "I'll get you a blanket. You can sleep on the couch."

She plopped onto the cushion as I walked over to my closet.

I dropped the blanket onto the couch. I was going to grab a glass of water and some pain medicine for the next morning.

I didn't very far before Johanna grabbed my hand. She pulled me over to stand in front of her.

"I love you," she said. "I... I never said it enough... I can say it more. I can say it every day if you want. I love you."

I yanked my hands from hers, my eyes snapping shut. "Go to sleep."

"(Y/n)..."

"Stop it," I snapped. "Go to bed."

I walked away before she could speak up again. After placing some ibuprofen on the end table, I went to my room and curled up under my covers.

I didn't sleep well that night. I barely slept at all.

My mind was racing. I was just thinking about everything that had happened in the past with Johanna. Good moments, bad moments, everything in between. It was all just rushing back. It played on my eyelids every time I tried to fall asleep.

I relented at about five. I finally dragged myself out of bed and accept that I wouldn't get any rest that night.

I walked into the kitchen, starting some coffee.

It was maybe an hour later that Johanna finally pushed herself off of my couch. She looked over at me.

"There's some Ibuprofen on the end table," I said, nodding over at it.

"Thanks," she grumbled.

She walked over to the small island in the kitchen.

We stood there for a few moments. It was an awful silence. One that crept under my skin and buried itself in my bones. I didn't know what to do other than shift my weight on my feet while sipping at my coffee.

I would have given her a cup, but I honestly didn't want her to stay. I just wanted peace.

"I meant what I said last night," she finally mumbled.

"Johanna, please don't," I begged.

"No, we need to talk about this-"

"I tried! That's how we ended up here. I have nothing more to say to you. There's nothing to talk about."

It went silent again.

I was about to tell her to leave before she spoke up again, "I love you-"

"Stop saying that," I muttered, closing my eyes and looking down.

"No," she replied. "I'm not going to stop saying it until you believe me."

"I don't want to believe you!"

That seemed to stun her into silence. For once, she was listening.

"It's too late, Johanna," I explained. "I... I wanted this to work so much. I wanted to love you, but you couldn't love me back. And that hurts. God, it hurts. And listening to you try to make up for it doesn't help. You didn't truly love me until I walked away. I... I can't go back to that life."

"So what? You just want to leave me behind completely? You're the one that promised to never give up."

"Effort goes two ways," I replied. "It's not giving up if the other person was never trying in the first place."

"I get no chance to prove myself?"

"You had over a year to prove yourself," I shrugged. "I'd like you to go now. Please."

Johanna stayed quiet as she finally relented and walked toward the door. I took a deep breath as I watched her.

She stopped in the doorway, looking back at me. "I know you don't want to hear it. But I want you to know that I do love you."

I didn't reply.

"Maybe in another life, I'll do a better job showing it."

As the door closed, I let one more thought about Johanna cross my mind with no fight.

Maybe...

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