Mr. Sadman

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[hurrrhurrrhurrr]

“I hold you fast. I fear you not.

For you are my own love true…

For you are my friend…

For you are my home”

—Oaths, by @landwriter

5th post for @mr-sadman Week 2025. Prompt: Treasure.

Hand drawing + digital blending.

I’ve always wanted to Dreamlingfy this Millais painting as tribute to the amazing ‘Oaths’ by Landwriter. It is still on my favorite fics ever, and everyone should read it.

[tj-dragonblade]

[Ficlet] A Growing Addiction That I Can't Deny

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: G Word Count: 937 Tags: selkie AU, human Hob, selkie Dream, fluff, minor hurt/comfort, minor injury, domestic first aid

Notes: For @mr-sadman 's SadmanWeek2025 Day 4 (prompts Eye Contact, Blood) and Day 5 (Shiver); bit late but c'est la vie. This is actually third in my Selkies Don't Have Spousal Visas series but it will show second at time of posting since the actual second fic is still a wip. 😅 Many thanks and flowers to @the-apocryphal for the title assist - iykyk 💖

Previously in the series: Marriage of Inconvenience

Summary: In which there is a wee kitchen mishap and a small human gesture of comfort

On AO3

"Oh—!"

Hob turns from the sink at Dream's little exhalation to see his selkie housemate paused over the cucumbers he's slicing, knife still in hand. He's staring at his other thumb, where blood wells bright red over pale skin.

"Whoops," Hob says, turning off the water and snagging a sheet from the kitchen roll as he steps closer to Dream. "Let me see—"

Obediently Dream presents his thumb and Hob gets the paper towel under it just in time to catch the first fat droplet that falls. He carefully dabs where he can see the skin broken, trying to gauge how badly Dream's cut himself.

He's been teaching Dream all kinds of things in the kitchen since that first impromptu shift at the cafe a few weeks ago, and Dream's a quick study. He'd listened solemnly to Hob's entire spiel on knife safety and he's been cutting all kinds of things without incident, but a mishap was probably inevitable.

"Could definitely be worse," Hob says, holding Dream's hand in one of his and dabbing gently at the cut again. "Doesn't look too deep; let's rinse it and apply some pressure and I'll get you a plaster, should be fine."

"'Plaster'?" Dream is looking at him, rather than the wound, and his eyes are large and luminous, catching Hob's fast when he glances up.

"Uh. Yeah. Sticky little bandage to hold the wound closed, protect it while it heals." Hob smiles, reassuring, warmed by the way Dream holds the eye contact, by the trust in that gaze. "Don't suppose selkies have such a thing?"

"No," Dream agrees, blinking at last. "I always forget how easily human skin can be damaged."

"Well." Hob turns, drawing Dream with him by the gentle grip on his hand. "C'mon, we'll use the bathroom sink so's not to get blood on the pasta." He chuckles, and feels his heart trip a little when Dream's lips curve up the slightest bit in reply.

A cold rinse shows the cut is indeed shallow and has all but stopped bleeding; Hob has Dream put pressure on it anyway while he finds his antiseptic ointment and his plasters.

"Alright," he says, armed with the necessities. "Let's get you fixed up." He takes Dream's hand again, unwrapping the paper towel and gently blotting his thumb dry. Blood wells faintly, a broken line of tiny red dots; Hob dabs it and carefully applies the ointment, then tears open the Peppa Pig themed plaster—life's too short not to buy the fun kiddie designs, honestly—and wraps it gently around Dream's thumb, centers the pad over the cut and overlaps the sticky ends across the glossy black nail.

"There we are," he says, smiling, and brings Dream's hand up to press his lips to the plaster, right over Peppa's stylized happy little face.

Dream blinks, an inquisitive tilt to his eyebrows.

Hob can feel himself flushing, just a little; he hadn't consciously meant to do that. "Heh. Human superstition," he says, smiling past it, letting go Dream's hand. "Kissing it better makes it hurt less."

"It is barely uncomfortable," Dream says, flexing his thumb. "This belief does not seem to be unwarranted."

Hob thinks it's more likely the pain relief agent in the antiseptic ointment but isn't going to argue. "Well, good." He smiles, returning the box of plasters and the ointment to their places. "Still up for helping me cook dinner?"

Dream brightens visibly. "Of course."

~

Several days later, Hob has showered and shaved and is pouring a second cup of coffee when Dream returns from hunting, entering the kitchen with a small net of fish slung over one shoulder and his pelt over the other. He's magicked himself a pair of trousers for Hob's benefit but he is barefoot and shirtless and Hob can't help the appreciation that surges through him at the sight.

"Morning," he greets, ignoring it. Mostly. The black toenails never fail to draw his eye and he blinks, forcefully directs his gaze back up to meet Dream's.

Which is…filling with concern?

"Your face," Dream says, focusing low on Hob's cheek, and oh. Right.

"Cut myself shaving," Hob offers; he'd forgotten about it already. "No big deal. Plaster keeps it from making a mess while it dries." He grins.

"Ah." Dream's expression smooths out; two steps bring him and his fresh fish right into Hob's space and then he's pressing his lips to Hob's cheek, very near the corner of his mouth, right over the little round plaster. "I'm glad it is minor. Does it hurt?"

He's kissing it better. A frisson of something warm and tender runs through Hob and he can't help the pleasant little shiver that follows. "Not anymore," he says, smiling, and his heart gives a giddy thump at the way Dream smiles in return before moving past him.

Doomed. Hob is doomed, and he knows it. He's trying to be responsible about it, never mind that they're already married in Dream's eyes; in Hob's eyes Dream is bound to him, trapped, and as amicable as Dream is about it Hob is still bothered. He'd agreed to keep the door open to romance while they got to know each other, yes, but the fact that Dream couldn't leave if he wanted to is an effective chain lock keeping that door from opening more than a crack.

But every day, Hob realizes, softly touching the plaster and the lingering sensation of Dream's little kiss, remembering the light in his tiny smile, that chain is getting weaker and weaker.

And Hob doesn't know, anymore, if he can keep it from snapping altogether.

= Started: 9/6/25 Drafted: 9/14/25 Posted: 9/15/25

Title taken from Kiss From a Rose, by Seal

[aralezinspace]

~~Read It Here~~

"Very well," Dream said again, slower, savoring each word as he leaned back and deliberately placed his arms on the armrests of the throne, settling in for the spectacle. "Take your weapons. Whosoever emerges victorious will be… well rewarded. The defeated-" His smirk grew into a devious smile, his teeth just this side of too sharp, "Shall watch."

Once again an idea spawned in the Discord yields fruit. Thank you Delta Pavonis for the beta and encouragement; you're the best <3

Fills @mr-sadman Sadman week 2025 prompt Play Fair

[seadeepspaceontheside]

He's a fresh lil Dream from a nap Also, I am very bad with days for events so I bundled it up for it. Hair Ribbon/ Et Tu Brutus/Velvet. Because Hob paid top quality silk velvet for that bow <3

[silivren-vera]

My contribution to the Sadman week!!!

Chapter 1-3 are up!!

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[sofgigante]

Sadman Week 2025 Prompt (Day 3): May I Have This Dance? (with bonuses Hair Ribbon and Eye Contact!)

Shall we dance? On a bright cloud of music shall we fly? Shall we dance? Shall we then say "Goodnight and mean "Goodbye"? Or perchance, When the last little star has left the sky, Shall we still be together With are arms around each other And shall you be my new romance? On the clear understanding That this kind of thing can happen, Shall we dance? Shall we dance? Shall we Dance? --The King and I

I'm a sucker for that scene (even as problematic as the movie is, forgive me), and a sucker for Dream and Hob's 1789 meeting. I know the Dream King says he does not dance, but perhaps with the right music and right partner?

Thanks to @adorkastock for having such wonderful reference images to work with (this one was "Totally Normal Roommates"). Ballroom background by thefairypath on Pixabay. Made with Studio Clip Art.

[teejaystumbles]

page 2 -Teeth

page 1 - Hair ribbon 🎀 page 3 - If only we had more time

[teejaystumbles]

For the Sandman Week 2025 I had a few ideas. For the first day I actually came up with a short comic scene for my Crimson Key AU, 1789, including all three prompts for the day (but I will have to finish the next two pages later).

page 1 - Hair ribbon 🎀

page 2 - Teeth page 3 - If only we had more time

[sentishitposts]

galaxy eyes and velvet touch

Dreamling, general rating, royalty au

Hob Gadling is a noble with a rather boring life, now mourning the death of his wife. A fateful encounter with a handsome stranger may turn his world upside down...

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[softest-punk]

All's Faire (complete!)

Dream/Hob/Nuala | Explicit | Chapter 6 of 6 | Human AU, specifically ren faire AU, mutual pining, getting together, happily ever after | Ao3 links: beginning, this chapter

The sex is entirely unlike anything Dream has experienced before. That there are two other people involved is the least of it, although that too is new.

The real novelty is the laughter. The enthusiasm. The lack of pretence and the frequency with which Hob and Nuala each reach for him, kiss him, touch him, demand his kisses and touch in return.

“Can I take this out?” Hob asks, fingers brushing the ribbon tying Dream’s hair back. Dream is settled in the honoured position of his lap, which Nuala has generously ceded for his benefit. How she could stand to give it up, he cannot quite fathom. Confidence, perhaps, that she will also have her turn.

“If you like?”

Hob grins at him and tugs on the end of the ribbon, eyes glittering as he removes it. The fabric slides against Dream’s neck, raising the short hairs at the back. More delicate fingers tuck a lock of it behind his ear, soft lips touching the exposed shell.

“I’m doing your ears next year,” Nuala says. “You’d make a lovely fairy.”

Hob laughs, looking up at the two of them with such fondness that Dream’s breath catches in his chest. “He does have the look.”

“Pretty,” Nuala agrees. The tips of Dream’s ears, as if aware of being under discussion, flush hot. Nuala laughs, and kisses the shell again.

“Very pretty,” Hob agrees, threading his fingers into Dream’s hair, pulling him in for yet another kiss. They will spoil him, between them. Ruin him for all other lovers.

Continue on Ao3 >>>

[softest-punk]

Dream Lover

Dream/Hob | Explicit | dream sex, mistaken identities in a sense, getting together, happy ending, after a dream-typical soggy episode ofc | Ao3 link

Inspired by the @sadman week prompt: secret identities

Dream has never known a lover quite like Hob Gadling.

Hob spoils him with kisses and touches and praise, tender and eager by turns, taking the lead in their lovemaking without reference to Dream’s status. He covers Dream’s body on his wide bed, sheets tangling under them as they move together, skin on skin, catching and sliding and pressed together. He is generous in all he does, giving and giving and giving. As this is his dream-self, he is less concerned with the details and more with Dream’s enjoyment of all he does.

Hob’s determination to see to Dream’s pleasure is overwhelming such that Dream has little option but to allow himself to be spoiled, to writhe under the dream-weight of Hob. To feel Hob’s intent of being inside him, touching secret places in his unexplored depths to drive him higher and higher until he crests the peak and falls into foam-topped waves of bliss, pulling him under to drown in the sensation of being so deeply desired.

Even when they are finished, Hob kisses him, trails his fingers along oversensitive skin, laughing as Dream shivers under his touch.

Continue on Ao3 >>>

[silivren-vera]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 7/7

Menu for a Dream Lord:

One serving each of Ritual Feast, Welcoming Platter

Sides Dishes of Not Courting, Hellfire, Poisoning

Served with Cream of Poison and Illness Stew

Dessert: Shovel Talk a la Mode

FINAL CHAPTER IS UP!!!!!!

[unpredictable-probabilities]

Endless Dreams || Chapter 2: What Lies Beyond the End

Summary

Hob Gadling wakes up on a path in the woods. Alone except for a mysterious deity who tells him three things: This path will lead him to a cabin. This cabin's basement holds a— Hang on. He's been here before. What happens now?

[Read on AO3]

(Chapter 1)

---

Hob slowly wakes up, feeling leaves and soft earth under him. He rolls to his side and grunts as he stands up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. 

Where is he? He still feels disoriented. All he remembers is… A woman? With dark skin and kind eyes.

“Greetings, Robert Gadling.”

The sound of that voice jolts Hob into full consciousness, his memories rushing back to him at a dizzying speed. 

He looks down and pats at his chest, but there’s no sign of any wound. His ribs all seem to be fine either, and he’s not feeling any pain at all. 

“Allow me to first congratulate you for emerging victorious in the war.” 

“You don’t need to keep saying that. Where am I?” Hob looks around, there aren’t any landmarks to be sure, but he gets the sense that he’s in the same spot in the woods where he woke up the first time. He sees the cabin the same distance away.

“You’re on a path in the woods. And at the end of that path is a cabin. And in the basement of that cabin—”

“Is the Prince? We just went through that.” Hob frowns. Was Destiny messing with him somehow?

“And that blade went through us quite cleanly. Bloody hell. How are we back here?” 

“I brought you here because your mission is not yet finished, Robert Gadling. There is one more task left to do to ensure the safety of everyone.”

“Well I’ll be damned, he doesn’t remember.” 

“Really?” Hob says skeptically. “You don’t remember us having been here before?” 

“What does it matter what he knows? There's nothing we can do to stop the Prince. He's just going to kill us again.”

“Wait, who's that?” Hob frowns at the sound of the new voice. 

“He is not going to kill you unless you let him. But slaying the Prince and saving the world is going to be much more difficult than it has to be if you spend the whole time second guessing yourself.”

“I didn't let him kill me,” Hob says defensively. “You saw how fast he was. And what if he also remembers that we met before? I can't catch him off-guard now.”

“You have never met the Prince before. He did not fight in the war. Now if you do exactly as I say, you will be able to slay him.”

Hob sighs. “I just said. We already went through all this. I died, and quite painfully, I might add.” 

“And we're just going to die again if we proceed to the cabin.”

Now that Hob has gotten a bit used to hearing his own voice from a separate part of his mind, he can recognise that this new one belongs to him too. Though the consistent resigned melancholy tone concerns him. When did he ever sound like that?

“And why are we still following this guy, anyway? He led us to our death last time.”

“Hmm. If you speak truly, then you must have disobeyed me and it led to your demise. I hope that serves as a lesson to you.” 

“So that’s what’s going to happen? If I fail in your mission, I’m whisked back here over and over again until I succeed?” Hob’s voice rises. He isn’t very keen on the idea of dying a painful death multiple times until he succeeds in killing a god of some sort. 

“I know not about which you speak. But I know that if you slay the Prince, then you will have succeeded in your mission and everything will be as it should. Now head to the cabin.”

“I do wanna check if the Prince is still there. I think I’d be more comforted knowing he’s chained up again rather than lurking somewhere around here.”

Hob nods, looking around with some nervousness. “Yeah, before anything else, we need to know first what happened to the Prince.” He sets off down the now familiar path.

He stops a few feet away from the cabin to see if anything had changed around it. So far, everything still seems to be the same. 

“A warning, before you go any further. The Prince will lie. He will cheat. He will do everything in his power to stop you from slaying him. Don’t believe a word he says.”

“We might as well pledge ourselves to him and stop pretending that we’re capable of doing anything in this situation. He probably doesn’t even need to try to overpower us.”

“Can we tone down the pessimism? This whole thing is nerve-wracking enough as it is.”

“I’m not being pessimistic. I’m just being realistic.”

The remark is like a spotlight shining at a very specific section of Hob’s memories. 

From when I was homeless. Hob recognised the mindset. It wasn’t pessimistic to think that he wouldn’t be eating for the next day or two, that was just his reality at the time. “Are you telling me my mind’s gonna keep splitting the more I die?” He might just be mad by the end of this.

“The mortal mind can behave in ways that even I am unable to predict. But you are right that this one is also a part of you.”

“Realistic or not, you’re being annoying.”

“Ignore their trivial arguments. And whatever you do, do not ‘pledge yourself’ to the Prince. I cannot emphasise enough how catastrophic that would be for everyone. Yourself included.” 

“I'm not pledging myself to anyone. Though I can't help but wonder if I'm the enemy here…” Hob mutters, remembering how some of the prisoners looked back then in the war. Some were nearly feral and didn't trust anyone. “If I were wrongfully imprisoned and someone tried to kill me, I'd fight them to the death, too.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Then if he really is wrongfully imprisoned, we should rescue him. But if this Destiny guy is telling the truth, we shouldn't just hand the world on a silver platter to that Prince.”

“‘Rescue him’? With the world at stake, there would be no difference whether you rescue him or pledge allegiance. Either choice would be terrible. I implore you to prioritise saving the world. Do not make this more difficult than it has to be.”

“If that's what you want… I guess I don't have a say here.”

“We should see first if the Prince is even still in there.” Hob approaches the door and pushes it open, not knowing what to hope for. 

The interior looks nothing at all like it did before. It's larger and more grandiose than its humble exterior would suggest, and instead of a table in the corner there's a massive marble altar with the pristine blade perched on its edge. A ladder leaned against the side leading up to it. There are now double doors leading to the basement, with reinforced wood that look like they would take some effort to pull open.

“Why do we feel so… small?”

“We don't feel small, we are small.”

“Enough dallying. Take the blade and go down to the basement.”

Hob glances at the blade perched above the ladder. What would he even do with it? He was no match for the Prince last time, and now the Prince would most likely remember him. He might have a better chance at negotiating if the Prince sees that he’s genuinely unarmed. 

“There is no negotiating with the Prince. You will only put yourself in more danger.”

“Yeah, we should at least take the blade, right? He killed us last time, and it hurt a lot too. Give us a fighting chance.”

“Blade. No blade. It doesn’t matter.”

“If he sees me coming for him with a knife again, he could just kill me and then we’d all be right back where we started. I wanna try it differently this time.” Hob steps forward and pulls open the double doors, leaning back and grunting with the effort. 

The doors to the basement creak open, revealing a spiral staircase, its steps almost as deep as Hob is tall. The smell of incense drifts up from below. The place doesn’t seem rotting or neglected at all like last time, and for a moment Hob almost feels at ease. 

“Huh. This is actually kind of nice.”

“It’s still a stone basement. If the Prince lives here, slaying him is probably doing him a favor.”

“Is that a guest I hear?” a booming voice rolls up from below. “Don’t linger on the stairs. Come down and witness me.” The Prince’s words echo unnaturally. 

“He wasn’t like this before. What happened?” 

“You shouldn’t have come down here unarmed.”

“We need to get down there. He wants us to see him. We need to see him.” 

“Uh, should we be worried about your sudden change in attitude? Just a few minutes ago you were going on about how pointless everything was. Now you want to go down there?”

“It matters not. But if such ramblings get you to the Prince, then by all means.” 

Going down the spiral staircase is time consuming and exhausting, every step requiring Hob to clamber over the edge before dropping to the next. But soon, the end comes into view, and Hob stumbles to the bottom, entering the vast temple-like room beyond. 

The Prince towers over Hob, almost glowing in the weak starlight streaming in through the stained glass window behind him. His eyes glitter, and he seems to be made out of marble rather than flesh; a molten orange glow seeps through the cracks snaking across his skin, as if he’s a volcano waiting to burst. A chain binds his wrist to the far wall. 

“The chain is nothing to him. It might as well be a toy for all the good it would do. I told you it was pointless to resist him.” 

“The little bird has returned to me.” The amusement in the Prince’s voice feels surreal with the unnatural echoes. “I wonder what he wants.”

Hob swallows. He had thought that if he returned to the woods after getting stabbed, the Prince could have returned to his prison too. But he wasn’t expecting to see this titan looming in front of him. 

“I see your hands are empty,” the Prince continues. “You’ve already given up, haven’t you? You aren’t even going to try and kill me. How sweet. And more than a little disappointing.”

“He’s… disappointed in us?” 

“Kneel.” The Prince’s voice resonates off the stone walls. 

Hob finds that he’s unable to tear his eyes away from the Prince. Not once in the long war against the Magus has he seen anything so… magical. He feels his body moving on its own accord, and then the cold stone floor are beneath his knees before he could even think otherwise. 

“That’s my good little bird,” the Prince croons, and Hob feels a shiver down his spine. “Now… Why don’t we talk? The last time we met, you told me I was destined to end the world. That thought wrapped itself around my heart. It has pulled me since the moment I squeezed the life out of your broken lungs. I could feel its fundamental truth awaken me.” The Prince seems to grow taller, the glow underneath his marble skin becoming brighter. “The collapse of the old is a necessary prelude to the birth of the new, and the world as it is now is overdue for alterations. It’s time for me to seize my destiny, and you, little bird, shall help me accomplish it.”

“Well, I believe that’s as good a confession as any.”

“It certainly is. And beyond that, it more than lends credence to our conversation in the woods. But even if you had failed to destroy him in some other reality, what’s done is done. I can only hope it helped you learn a valuable lesson. You are the only one who can destroy him, and if you don’t, he has more than explained what will happen to the world.”  

“Then you shouldn’t have trusted us with his destruction. He’s inevitable. Can’t you feel it?”

“He’s being melodramatic, but he’s not exactly wrong, is he? What are we supposed to do to stop the Prince?”

“You must away with those disheartening thoughts and commit yourself to what needs to be done. The Prince himself has made the stakes perfectly clear, and if you are to save the world, you need to have faith that you can do so. You cannot win a battle that you have already lost in your mind.” 

A lot of things still aren’t making sense to Hob, and he forces himself to focus on the most urgent ones. How does Destiny expect him to defeat a deity like this? And why is the Prince so different now?

“What happened to you after I died?” Hob manages to speak.

“Know the limits of your privilege, little bird,” the Prince’s voice seems to rise from the very stones themselves. “There is an empty place at my side for you to fill. If you’ll have it. It is no place for an equal, but for something worthy to be kept. A priest, perhaps. Or a pet.”

The hairs on the back of Hob's neck stand up, and conflict roils in the pit of his stomach. Would he really serve by this deity’s side? What good could come of it? But then, what good could come of rejecting the offer? What else does he have to look forward to except perhaps an endless loop of painful deaths and resurrection until Destiny grows tired of him? 

“The Prince is offering us protection. If we stay by his side, who would dare hurt us?”

“Uh, I'm not sure about this."

“We never have to be scared or broken again.”

“Robert—”

“What do I have to do?” Hob is still looking up at the glowing deity in front of him, and the light no longer burns. 

“All I ask is for you to break these chains and set me free.” 

Hob furrows his eyebrows. “Can’t you break it yourself?” If the Prince can’t break the chains in his current state, they have to be much stronger than anything a human can break.

“Don’t be rude. Of course he can.”

“It’s not rude to question someone who’s apparently trying to end the world.”

“That’s exactly why it’s rude. We should know our place.”

A hint of an amused smile graces the Prince’s marble lips. “I can. Easily. But that is not what I want to do. The story of a terrible and bountiful god unbounded of his own will is no story at all. It is not worthy of everything I am or everything I am bound to become. It is not even worthy of what I was.” The Prince lifts his bound hand as if reaching for something in the distance. “The destruction and genesis that would follow my wake is deserving of a song that can echo for eternity.” He extends the hand to Hob, the chain rattling with the movement. “The song of you, being struck by my glory, so overwhelmed by what I am, that you feel you must deliver me unto the world. And from your act of devotion and submission springs a new dawn. A better dawn.” He lowers his hand, but the intensity in his gaze has not diminished. “Submit now. Submit later. It makes no difference. Because in the end, no matter how vainly you struggle against me. My will triumphs over yours.”

“You don’t have to end the world,” Hob tries to reason. “With that much power, you can do whatever you want. You don’t need to follow what others expect of you.”

“This is not about desire. This is about what I am, and I have little interest in discussing fate with one who cannot see the divine truth that shines in my heart.”

“Robert Gadling. Cease this folly at once. Take the blade and slay him before he ends the world as you know it.”

There’s a clatter behind him, and Hob turns to see that the knife is lying on the floor.

"You had the power to take that blade yourself all this time?" Hob thinks at him.

“Regardless, I cannot use it. Only you can. Do it now.”

Hob barely hears him. What difference would it make, really, if he decides to follow this deity of stone and fire rather than the one in his head? The war against the Magus was so long. Hob had lost so much. And he’s so very tired…

No one has ever promised him protection, and he hadn’t known anyone powerful enough to uphold such a promise, anyway. Until now. 

Hob sets his jaw and meets the glowing eyes. “I am yours to command.” 

A true smile curves the Prince’s mouth, with all the beauty and danger of a glowing volcano. “Your will was easily broken. Am I that magnificent? All you need to do now is break my chains.”

“If this is what you want, then I guess there’s not much else for me to say.”

“No, you cannot give in to him! Not when the stakes are so high, not when you are so close. I won’t let you do this.”

Hob feels all his muscles seize, and he can’t move or even speak. He looks wide-eyed at the Prince, trying to convey what he can’t understand.

“There’s still something in the way,” the Prince narrows his eyes. “A greasy film inside of you, where it doesn’t belong. Trying to conceal you from me. Is it like me? No. It used to be. It’s something different now. An echo.”

“Is… Is he talking about you?”

“That is impossible. He’s not supposed to be able to interact with me. He—”

“You’re a small one, aren’t you?” The Prince tilts his head in curiosity. “A shriveling little worm stretched beyond its limits, trying to control things that it cannot understand.”

“No, no. No. What are you talking about? I’m just—”

“I do not care what you are. Begone.”

Hob feels something get ripped away from his mind with a deafening scream, and he gasps as he gains control of his limbs again, blinking and nearly falling to the floor.

The Prince holds out a beckoning hand. “Rise. My little bird.”

Hob gets to his feet without hesitation. He has no idea what happened to Destiny, but after losing control of his limbs like that, he's glad that that entity is gone.

“Break my chains.”

“And how are we supposed to do that? We don’t even have a weapon.”

Hob looks at the chain binding the Prince. Destiny told him to believe. 

He reaches out and touches the cool metal. 

The chains shatter, and the cuff falls from the Prince’s wrist. 

The Prince kneels down and places a hand under Hob’s chin, surprisingly tender as he tilts Hob’s head to look up at him. “What a good disciple you are,” he purrs. “Come. It is time for us to leave.”

“What happens now?” Hob breathes.

“Nothing. And then everything.” The Prince holds out his hand, an invitation. 

Hob reaches up slowly, he feels the heat from the marble—

Sand appears all around them, a swirling cloud of golden particles that makes Hob instinctively look away and shield his face with his hand. 

Hob looks just in time to see the Prince get absorbed into the sand, his face going slack and his eyes closing as he sinks into it.

The particles spin faster, and Hob feels weightless as a swooping sensation overtakes him and sand covers his eyes. 

In an instant, Hob feels sand beneath his feet, and he blinks his eyes open to see that he seems to be on a beach, except everything looks grey. He can hear the waves lapping on the shore, but he can barely see the water through what seems to be black smoke. 

As his eyes adjust, he’s able to see more clearly the black smoky mass a few feet in front of him; long wispy tendrils curling out from the center where twin pinpricks of light shine brilliantly. 

Below the lights, the Prince floats in the black cloud; his eyes are closed and there’s no glow coming out of the cracks in his marble skin. Several wispy tendrils are curled around him almost tenderly, giving him the look of a swaddled babe. 

Hob feels a prickling on his skin, he looks up and realises the twin lights are watching him. 

He looks at the sleeping figure of the Prince and back at the lights, his mind trying desperately to make sense of what’s happening. 

“What are you?” Hob’s voice comes out stronger than he feels. 

“I am a growing chorus of contradiction.” The voice seems to be coming from everywhere all at once, with a deep rumble that reaches deep into Hob’s bones. “A mass of tides ebbing and flowing all at once in more directions than my attention can bear to hold. To look at any one is to shift them all into something new, and to look away is to reshape them yet again. All of me is changing, and yet the rest of me is still the same.”

These bloody deities never give a straightforward answer, Hob thinks, then he remembers Destiny, ripped away from his mind with a pained scream. Maybe he should feel more sympathetic, but Destiny tried to control him, despite what he said about Hob being free to choose. Feeling his muscles freeze was terrifying, and he’s glad Destiny won’t be able to do that again. 

“Why am I here?” 

“You brought this vessel to me. By accepting his invitation, you willingly joined him here.” 

“Your vessel?” Hob looks at the Prince again. It’s strange; the Prince had seemed imposing and powerful in the cabin, and now he just looks peaceful. He slowly looks back up at the lights, the glowing eyes. And he finally realises what he probably should have the moment the voice spoke. “You. You’re the Prince.” 

“Prince? I do not know the significance of the title, nor whether it applies to me. You call this vessel a prince, but he is merely a part of me. Now returned to myself because he was given a purpose, an identity. This one is dominance. A figure capable of bending everything to his will. He will make for a terrifying and divine heart.” 

Hob furrows his eyebrows. “Are you saying there are other parts of you out there?”

“Yes. Scattered like sand in the wind. Without them I can hold no shape.”

Something nags at the back of Hob’s mind. Things happened so fast that he didn’t have time to pay attention to it, but the other voices are now gone too. Not just Destiny. And Hob doesn’t feel incomplete; he doubts that the other parts of his mind were ripped away like Destiny. Somehow, he knows that whatever this place is, his mind is whole again here. 

“Where are the other parts of you?” Hob wonders why this place can’t make the Prince whole too. 

“My perspectives are shadowed, I have seen what this vessel has seen now that it has returned to me. But no more. The angles of my vantage do not offer me hidden truths, and my attention is limited to this place until such time that I am complete once more.”

“What is this place?” Hob looks around, but he can only see the endless stretch of beach and sea in all directions. 

“This is where I dwell. I am not complete enough to go anywhere else. And so here I stay.”

“Who are you? Really. No metaphors or poetry,” Hob says perhaps a little too impatiently. 

The Prince doesn’t reply, and for a moment Hob wonders if he had spoken out of turn somehow. 

“I do not know.” The voice carries a melancholy that Hob was not prepared to hear. “Without my parts, my memory remains incomplete. All I know is that this is my home. Perhaps. I should like to believe that.”

Hob feels a twinge in his chest, remembering that when he first woke up in the woods, his memory had been incomplete too. It was only for about a minute, but he had felt so confused. Lost. 

“How long have you been… incomplete?” 

“Time moves differently here. And with my mind fractured, I cannot tell how much of it has passed.” 

“What about me, then? What happens to me? Am I stuck here now too because I accepted your vessel’s invitation?” Hob still doesn’t know how to feel about that, how enchanted he became with that vessel and accepted the offer. 

“I can return you to where you came from. Where you met my vessel. I am not powerful enough in my current state to do anything more.”

Hob falls into a thoughtful silence. He doesn’t even know what that place is, if it’s even still in England. Or on Earth. Because apparently there could be multiple worlds. He’s standing in one right now. If he becomes stuck there, he doesn’t know if he can make his way back home by himself. 

“Your other forms, are they in that place too?”

“I can offer no certainty about this.”

“They could be, though,” Hob insists. It’s the only hope he has. He has to believe it. “What if I bring more of them to you? Will you be powerful enough to send me back home? Where I came from, before I was taken to that place.”

“It is true that I become more powerful as I regain my other forms. However, I do not know how many vessels you will need to bring me before I am powerful enough to send you back home.”

“We’ll just have to find out, eh? It’s not like we have anything else to do,” Hob sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “So what do you say, I’ll help put you back together and you help me get home?”

There’s a low rumble that Hob feels from under the sand. He senses the approval in the breeze. A pleased hum. 

“Very well. Get me my vessels and I shall get you home.”

A cloud of golden sand appears around Hob, and he takes one last look at the Prince’s glowing eyes before sand covers everything.  

---

<- Chapter 1

(Chapter Index)

(Sadman Week 2025 Masterlist)

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[teejaystumbles]

page 3 - "If only we had more time"

The third and final installment in this mini comic I did for my Crimson Key AU, 1789. Prompts were for the first day of Sandman week.

page 1 - Hair ribbon 🎀 page 2 - Teeth

[zoomacroomz]

Fic: An Eternity of This (Chapter 2/4)

Dreamling, Teen and Up, Post-Canon, Fix-It, Grief and Mourning, Angst With a Happy Ending

Read chapter 1 here

Summary:

The next week is one of the worst of Hob's life. This is different from all the other losses. His guiding star has been snuffed out. He feels adrift in a way he hasn't in centuries, and he fluctuates between misery and rage. Rage at Dream for leaving, rage at the universe for taking him, rage at himself for being too bloody useless to save him. Some time later he gets a knock on his door. It shocks him halfway out of his drunken stupor, and with a pang of guilt he remembers he hasn't been downstairs in… days? Weeks? He makes no effort to get up and answer the door as the knocking continues to get louder and more urgent. He closes his eyes and hopes they go away, or that he passes out, or whatever will make the noise stop. He's got a ripping headache and he's quite busy feeling sorry for himself, so he's in no mood for whatever this is. The clamor eventually ceases, but before Hob can breathe a sigh of relief, the doorknob is turning. Bloody hell, is someone… picking the lock? ... Hob receives an unexpected visitor while mourning.

Read below or on Ao3

Hob awakes with a gasp.

Scattered images from the incredibly vivid nightmare he just had flash before his eyes. The funeral. The strange mourners—Mad Hettie and Johanna Constantine, loads of folks with pointy ears, queens and gods and, for some reason, that famous writer who had a mental breakdown a few months ago. His friend, encased in a shroud of stone, careening off the edge of a waterfall into an abyss. His conversations with Death and that Daniel bloke. The "new Dream." Still not Hob's Dream, even if he did seem a decent enough fellow.

As he sits up and blinks into full consciousness, the details of his dream don't dissolve away like they normally would. If anything, they grow more vivid the more he recalls.

It was real. It was all real. His dearest friend, his oldest love, is gone.

He's not coming back.

Hob hadn't believed him. How could he? Dream is—was—always doing that. Always saying he was leaving for good, and then showing up weeks or months or decades later, picking up right where they left off. But he always came back.

He should have believed him. Dream had seemed so hopeless last time they saw each other, so resigned. Hob hadn't felt the same, especially not after how the night had ended. Sure, he didn't appreciate the abrupt exit, but that's par for the course with Dream. Things were just beginning between the two of them. They had so much ahead of them. Together, Hob had thought. Hoped. Foolishly.

The horror of it all creeps in like choking vines, and Hob takes a shuddering inhale and sobs.

The next week is one of the worst of Hob's life, and that's saying something. The pain of losing Audrey was still fresh, and now the one person he thought he'd never lose, thought he'd always be able to come back to, is dead. This is different from all the other losses. His guiding star has been snuffed out. He feels adrift in a way he hasn't in centuries, and he fluctuates between misery and rage. Rage at Dream for leaving, rage at the universe for taking him, rage at himself for being too bloody useless to save him.

Hob simply doesn't have it in him to participate in his own life at present. He spends his days drinking, crying, and screaming into a pillow until he blacks out into a restless, dreamless sleep. He'd already taken his compassionate leave from work when Audrey passed, so he sends a cursory email stating that he's ill and won't be coming in for an indeterminate amount of time. He doesn't know if he receives a response. They can sack him, for all he cares. He reckons it’s time to start a fresh life, somewhere far away from here.

Some time later—Hob couldn’t say how long, as he's completely lost track of the days by now—he gets a knock on his door. It shocks him halfway out of his drunken stupor, and with a pang of guilt he remembers he hasn't been downstairs in… days? Weeks? So the staff at the Inn have no idea where he's been, and the insistent knocking is probably Chloe or one of the servers checking to see if he's still alive. Or possibly just needing him to sign off on a delivery.

Hob huffs a humorless laugh and looks down at himself where he's sprawled on the sofa. He's in nothing but boxers and a whiskey-stained dressing gown, and he can't recall the last time he showered or shaved. He can't answer the door in this state, or Chloe (if she doesn't run screaming) definitely won't believe him when he says he's fine, no need to worry, he just needs to sit here and cry and drink for another six months at least, so if she could handle all the pub business he'd appreciate it, ta very much.

He makes no effort to get up and answer the door as the knocking continues to get louder and more urgent. He closes his eyes and hopes they go away, or that he passes out, or whatever will make the noise stop. He's got a ripping headache and he's quite busy feeling sorry for himself, so he's in no mood for whatever this is.

The clamor eventually ceases, but before Hob can breathe a sigh of relief, the doorknob is turning. Bloody hell, is someone… picking the lock?

He groans, really not up to the task of fighting off an intruder, but nonetheless reaches for the cricket bat he keeps stashed under the sofa. Maybe a good, violent brawl will help snap him out of this funk.

He shuffles forward, bat raised and ready to strike, when suddenly the door swings open to reveal—

"Death?!" Hob gapes as the bat slips from his hands and clatters to the floor.

"Sorry," she grins, holding up a couple of twisted hairpins, "but you weren't answering, and I always wanted to try that."

Hob swallows back a wave of nausea. "What… why… ?" he sputters thickly.

Death beams at him, that same arresting smile she'd given him after the funeral, but there's something almost guileless about it this time. There's no undercurrent of danger, none of that primal, instinctual fear that he'd felt when she'd approached him on the bridge.

"It's my day off!" Death exclaims with all the exuberance of a child who's just been given a puppy for their birthday. "And look who I brought with me!"

She turns back towards the hall and yanks a pale arm into view.

"Dream," Hob breathes.

He looks dreadful (not that Hob is in any place to criticize at the moment). He's gaunt and ashen-faced, swaying where he stands like he might keel over any second. Hob quickly ushers them both inside, too shaken to apologize for the mess of empty bottles and takeaway boxes littering the space. He's about to ask what in the bleeding fuck is going on when Dream stumbles, his knees buckling and arms flailing for something to grab hold of.

"Easy there," Hob says, quickly catching him under one arm while Death grabs the other. "I've got you. We've got you."

Together they steer him to the sofa, where he flops gracelessly into the cushions. "Alright there, love?" Hob asks, the endearment slipping out before he can stop it, though he finds he’s too gobsmacked by this whole state of affairs to give a damn.

Dream looks up at him, dazed and glassy-eyed, his lips curling into a weak smile. "Hob," he rasps, then promptly loses consciousness, his eyes fluttering shut and his head lolling back against the armrest.

"I'm guessing you have a lot of questions," Death says. "Why don't you keep an eye on him while I go and make us some tea?"

"Er… okay…?" Hob replies dimly as she strides toward the kitchen, apparently already knowing exactly where it is.

He ducks out just long enough to pull on some joggers and a passably clean t-shirt, then bolts to the bathroom to splash some water on his face and gargle some mouthwash, all as fast as humanly possible. Dream is still out like a light when he returns. Hob takes a seat in an armchair across from him, surveying him for evidence of anything that might explain why he's back from the dead and snoozing on Hob's couch. He doesn't look injured or feverish, just… exhausted. His breathing is slow and even, his face almost serene, and something about that sends a shiver down Hob's spine. There's something vaguely uncanny about him that he can't quite put his finger on. No, he's got it backwards; there was always something uncanny about him before, and now there isn't.

"So, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, old friend?" Hob murmurs.

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Just a short update this time to tide you over until the next chapter, where we'll find out what Dream has been up to ever since he died.

Also, big thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments! I've had an early version of this story sitting in my drafts for two years, so I'm really excited to finally share it with you all, and I'm so glad you're enjoying it! 💗💗💗

[unpredictable-probabilities]

Bringer of Hopes, Shaper of Dreams || Chapter 1: Knight at the Museum

Summary

Hob's small trip to the museum takes a distressing turn when one of the guests brings out out a dangerous power that could put innocent lives at risk. Now Hob has to figure out how to fight and stay alive long enough to protect the others.

Word Count: 2,199

Notes

For Sadman Week 2025 | Prompt: Secret Identities | @mr-sadman

For Tropetember 2025 | Prompt: Superhero/Supervillain | @tropetember

[Read on AO3]

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Hob checked his watch as he walked out of the museum office; he still had plenty of time to look around before the exhibits closed. He hadn't been back here in at least a few years, and it would be good to see what the place looked like now before chaperoning the kids' field trip next month. That was part of the reason he volunteered to book the reservation, anyway.

He looked at the directory and headed towards the shipwreck section, since he didn't recognize it and seemed to be part of the newer additions.

There was soft blue lighting over the artefacts, and combined with the sunlight streaming in through the glass windows, it looked like they were underwater with the sun just breaking the surface. A large replica of a ship was in the middle of the room, and the sign said that parts of it were made from the original planks of the ship that was salvaged from more than a century ago.

In the glass cases lining the walls, the objects that were found in the ship were displayed; a telescope, a compass, a boot, and things that might be more interesting for Hob's teenage students like barnacle-encrusted cannonballs and a sword with the handle missing.

"Pretty, isn't it?" said the blond man with the sunglasses to another visitor walking by, nodding to the sword.

"I'm not an expert on blades," the guy stopped walking and smiled. "I'm sure you know more than I do."

The blond man shrugged. "Maybe." He punched the display case and shattered the glass.

Hob flinched at the sound along with the other visitors around him; they were only a few feet away and the sound was piercing in the quiet museum.

"What the hell are you doing?!" the guy asked as he stumbled backwards.

"I like knives," the blond man smiled and casually took the sword from its stand.

Two guards came running towards them.

"Sir, you're gonna have to come with us," one of them said.

"I don't think so," the blond man chuckled and grabbed the guy he'd been talking to, spinning him around and holding the sword to his neck. "You're gonna have to listen to me."

A guard pulled out a gun and aimed—

The blond man threw the sword at the guard and he dropped the gun with a pained yell, clutching his bleeding arm.

The blond man clicked his tongue disapprovingly, and Hob watched wide-eyed as the blond's hand morphed into a blade; far sharper-looking than the ancient sword. He pointed it at his hostage's neck. "That's not very nice. I wasn't done talking."

The other visitors screamed and started running for the exits, pushing past Hob and the display cases. Supervillains were not unheard of, but they were unpredictable. Most acted like the usual criminals and only used their powers for things like robberies and turf wars between gangs, but every once in a while there would be an attempt to take over an entire city without any care for casualties. And the masses never knew which villain was which until it was too late.

Superheroes had been there to stop them every time, but since both villains and heroes had their identities kept secret, there was no way to contact any hero whenever something like this happened. There was no telling how much damage would be done before superheroes even knew of it.

A fleeing group of visitors shoved past Hob and he stumbled onto a broken display case, getting a shard of glass deep into his palm. He got up and ran to a side corridor, leaning against the wall to get his bearings while the crowd kept shouting and sprinting for he nearest exits. He examined his hand and carefully pulled out the glass shard with a wince.

There was a fire exit down the corridor, and several people were running for it already. Hob could join them. No one would even know he'd been here when the attack happened; even the staff at the office would think that he left immediately after booking the reservation.

He glanced down at his hand, watching the wound close gradually until all that was left was a scar that could have been days old; there was still blood on his palm but no visible source.

Hob sighed. Grudgingly receiving lab-grown powers a month ago didn't make him a hero, and he certainly didn't feel super in any way. What chance did he have against a guy who could turn his limbs into blades at will?

Above the sound of the alarms blaring and more glasses breaking, Hob could hear the villaindemanding that the staff put as many objects as they could into their delivery truck parked outside.

Hob peeked around the corner, and he could see that around 50 people were crouched around the blond man—uniformed staff and visitors alike—covering their heads protectively. Several metal blades were embedded everywhere; it looked like the man wasn't letting anyone else leave until his demands were met.

Hob hid back behind the wall, taking steadying breaths. It was a weekend, and a lot of the hostages were kids. Some of those blades were taller than a grown man; what would happen if the villain aimed one at a child?

He could hear objects being carried outside, and the villain shouting that if those staff members didn't return within five minutes, he would start killing hostages. There were scattered whimpers and pleas, someone had started sobbing.

Hob couldn't risk being found out to have powers; it would put the people he cared about in danger of being kidnapped or otherwise leveraged against him by those who would extort him for his powers. It had happened to other supers before.

He glanced down the corridor. It was connected to the Medieval section and had paintings and swords hanging on the walls. A knight's suit of armour had toppled over during the onslaught of escaping visitors; its helmet had rolled off a few feet away from the body, next to a display case of medieval clothing.

It took about two minutes for Hob to get everything ready, and then he was walking towards the villain, feeling only a little bit ridiculous.

"Let them go," Hob's voice was muffled by the knight's helmet.

The villain raised an eyebrow, still holding a blade to his first hostage's neck. He didn't seem particularly intimidated, and Hob couldn't blame him.

Hob had worn the helmet to protect his identity, and he took one of the medieval vests from the display case and wore it over his white shirt to cover the school's logo. He was surprised that the vest didn't rip from how old it was, and the dust from the helmet had already made him sneeze twice before he could even wear it. With his improvised disguise combined with his jeans and sneakers, he looked nothing at all like those superheroes with fancy costumes in the news.

"Or what?" the villain asked with a smirk.

Hob took a step closer. "They've loaded up the truck with a lot of things already, right? You can just take those and drive away." He probably shouldn't be encouraging theft, but at the moment it was the best idea he had.

The villain tossed his hostage to the floor without taking his eyes off Hob. As he walked forward, his entire body began to change; his arms and legs turned into sharp steel, his clothes and hair melted into his body that had turned silver, and even his face had morphed into metal with jagged edges. By the time he stopped in front of Hob, he looked more like a stack of knives than anything human.

When he spoke, it was like metal scraping on concrete. "Or… what?" The closest hostages grimaced and covered their ears.

Hob pulled his arm back and punched the villain in the face. "Run!" he yelled at the hostages before landing another punch, the invisible forcefields he had formed around his fists protecting him from the blades.

The screaming and running started again, and Hob did his best to keep the villain distracted and prevent him from targeting civillians.

The villain recovered from the initial shock and began to dodge his punches, slashing with his sword-arms and sending knives flying Hob's way. Hob prioritised protecting his face and chest with the forcefields, so the blades got his arms and legs and ripped open part of the vest, cutting the skin on his stomach too.

Some of the shallower cuts would be healing already, but it barely made a difference because of all the new ones he was getting. And he was getting tired; it was only a matter of time before a blade would hit something vital.

He dodged his way towards the replica of the ship. A blade cut through the red rope prohibiting visitors from climbing aboard, and Hob ran inside, deflecting blades as he moved closer to the mast.

He reached its side and held his ground, managing to land a few punches and kicks as the villain moved in to corner him. He forced himself to keep dodging instead of deflecting, and when he heard a heavy creak, he darted behind the mast and threw his shoulder against it, using a forcefield to direct its momentum towards the villain.

The mast—broken and splintered in places from all the blades that had sliced it—fell heavily onto the ship. There was a loud screech of metal, and when the dust settled, the villain was pinned under the large hunk of wood, even his arms, and he struggled and flailed and tried to grow out more blades from his body, but he just ended up attaching himself to the mast even more.

Hob looked around, catching his breath and bleeding from multiple places, to see if any civillians still remained in the vicinity. Fortunately, all of them had the sense to escape through all that commotion.

He looked down at the villain, wondering if he should wait until the police or some supers showed up. He did participate in the destruction of multiple museum properties, so he wasn't eager to meet any police officers, and he didn't know when any supers would arrive. What was even the protocol for this kind of thing?

Suddenly the room turned darker, the shadows lengthening and pooling into the middle of the floor. There was a swirl of darkness, and when it dissipated, a figure was standing at the base of the ship.

Its head was a round metal thing with large red eyes, and what seemed to be a beak made out of bones protruded from the face. It was wearing a cloak as dark as the shadows that seemed to cling to it, and just looking at the figure made cold dread creep into Hob's chest, and he had the sense that whoever this was, they were more dangerous than what Hob had just faced.

The figure seemed to glide on shadows, its hands on its back as it moved closer to Hob.

Those red eyes seemed to bore into him, and Hob felt frozen in place as his deepest fears were scraped from inside him and thrown raw and gaping into the forefront of his mind.

Breaking his leg at the playground and fearing he would never walk again.

Drowning at the beach. His throat filling up with salty water and not knowing which way to the surface.

His family taken to blackmail him for his powers. His parents. His sisters. Gone and ripped from their own lives. Because of him.

Memories and fears of things that hadn't happened were mixing in his mind, stealing the breath from his lungs and making his eyes water. But he couldn't look away.

The figure reached Hob and his knees buckled, landing on the splintered deck of the ship. He wanted to hide. To run and never look back.

He looked up at the figure as it stopped in front of him.

Lord Shaper, he remembered.

Hob had only seen him in the news before, the elusive supervillain who never worked alone but sometimes showed up when other villains were causing chaos. No super had ever defeated him.

Hob glared at him through the knight's helmet, refusing to back down even as Lord Shaper's powers nearly choked him with his own fears.

Lord Shaper extended a hand, and Hob prepared himself for death.

But Lord Shaper was reaching out towards the villain under the mast; the shadows around them came alive, forming a cocoon that swirled and surrounded them both. When the shadows melted back into the ground, Hob was alone.

Hob could feel himself shaking even as the abnormal fear began to leave his mind. Tears were streaming down his face and his instincts were telling him to curl up into a ball right there on the ship, but he knew that he couldn't be caught in the middle of a destroyed exhibit that was also the room of a hostage-taking.

He forced himself up on unsteady legs, and stumbled off the ship and towards the fire exit.

---

Notes

I was low-key speedrunning this to post in time for the event, but I still like how it turned out and I had a lot of fun writing it <3 Especially The Corinthian's transformation, Hob's fighting style, and Dream's arrival~

Thank you for reading! <3

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(Sadman Week 2025 Masterlist)

(Tropetember 2025 Masterlist)

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[hurrrhurrrhurrr]

Dream coming back from the 1789 date so hot and bothered, even the wallpaper started sprouting roses.

___

Post for @mr-sadman’s week 2025.

Prompt: Velvet.