#tom tuesday

[lenreli]

[marlowe-zara]

Tom Sturridge in character

Art by Yuyu on IG and X

[thememoryofadream]

Even though I'll run out of pictures before I run out of obsession, I'm enjoying this bit of Daily Tom, so I'll keep going. Enjoy the beauty...

[sammacgarben]

Peak Hotness...

[mlabyrinth]

He's so pretty! 😍 and gosh, he simply cannot sit still even for a second 😆

Tom Sturridge for Fandom Entertainment [⏳]

Please don't repost my gifs on Twitter or elsewhere without giving credit. Thank you.

Note: I have only recently started to watch The Sandman interviews (yes, I am very late to the game 😅) and I know a lot of [amazing] gifs have already been made from the many interviews out there and so I am sorry if my gifs may look similar or a complete copy/paste of anyone's work 😓.

I didn't steal nor copy anyone's work, I just didn't add watermark to the above gif-set because it decreases the quality of my gifs for some reason 😩.

[the-cloudy-dreamer]

Tom Sturridge + Turner paintings / watercolors

it’s Tom Tuesday somewhere still right? feel free to use them 🖤 I’m just enjoying make this!

[amoramtnr]

😄

[secondjulia]

Dessert

Oh my god... it that 1.2 seconds of Ferdie getting felt up in Silo that can fuel an entire Dreamling fic?! It is? It is!

Rated: M for pretty clear implications Warnings: None Ao3 link

Dream gave a tiny, unimpressed sigh, his eyes flicking imperiously down toward the square of chocolate cake. 

Hob had spent centuries pining after that lordly, impossible-to-please face. And despite his efforts to drag his dignity and self respect into the twenty first century, there was still a small part of his heart (and certainly other places) that leapt to attention at the sight of Dream’s distain. 

Still, it seemed a bit harsh for a simple piece of chocolate cake.

“That was not the dessert to which I was referring, Hob,” Dream said, sounding as disappointed as he had when Hob shared the news of his knighthood.

“Well, the cookies are gone,” Hob said defensively, pushing the plate into Dream’s hand. “And this isn’t half bad. ’Bout as good as you can expect from a work party—“

Hob stopped abruptly as Dream’s free hand brushed his arse. 

Dream’s other hand set the offending cake aside where it might as well have disappeared into the void at the end of the universe. “I wished for… a different sort of sweetness.”

Hob swallowed hard as Dream’s long fingers more firmly explored the juncture at the top of Hob’s left thigh. Dream’s other hand moved to his right side. Hob glanced around at his coworkers milling around the History Department’s atrium in stupid holiday sweaters and availing themselves of the free food and wine. But he couldn’t keep his eyes off his horny boyfriend for long. 

“Dream.” Hob leaned in close and kept his voice down. “Did you learn how to use innuendo?”

Dream scoffed in the lowest, most dignified way a person could possibly scoff. “I am Prince of Stories, Hob. I know how to employ metaphor.”

“Yeah, but you don’t. Not here. Not like that.”

Dream shifted in his seat and pouted. “People’s wishes are… clearer in the Dreaming.” He looked up at Hob in that way he always did when struggling to explain exactly why the little absurdities of the waking world were so absurd. “I may craft stories, but even those things that pass the Gates of Ivory have a clear purpose. The waking world has more rules about what is said and what is not.”

“And you’ve decided to learn the ropes,” said Hob. “Brilliant!”

Dream’s left hand crept around Hob’s backside in what Hob could only assume was retribution for his snark and for underestimating the Prince of Stories. Hob’s breath caught as Dream’s long fingers pressed almost into the crack of his arse. He glanced around again at the lackluster party. It was not nearly crowded or exciting enough for an extended grope by the dessert table to go unnoticed. The front of Hob’s jeans was starting to feel uncomfortably tight. And the smirk that had replaced the imperious expression on Dream’s face said that he’d noticed.

“Perhaps,” said Dream, “with your… instruction… I might learn a great many things about the interactions of waking men.” He gazed up at Hob with a smoldering look which would have been abundantly clear even without the glaringly obvious words and absolutely lascivious tone.

“Yeah,” Hob breathed. “I could teach you a thing or—“

“Robbie! Robbie’s boyfriend!” An exuberant mass of dark hair appeared beside them. A bit of wine sloshed out of a plastic cup and onto Hob’s shoe. “Hello!”

“Hi, Jess,” Hob managed, making a valiant effort to smile in the natural and totally not-intensely-aroused manner appropriate for a work function. He wriggled slightly out of Dream’s grasp. He didn’t know if he should be grateful for the sheer quantities of alcohol academics could put away when they finally got a fucking second to relax. Or if he should be afraid of the tongues that might wag being loosened by it. “This is Morpheus. Morpheus, Jess.”

“Indeed. I hope you are enjoying the festivities,” Dream said, standing. “We are just taking our leave. Ho—Robbie was about to show me to his office. It seems he has left some of his… duties… as an instructor undone.”

“Of course! Holidays are the worst!” Jess rolled her eyes. “Can’t we ever get a break?”

“Never,” Hob said, taking Dream’s hand in a punishing grip, which his lover returned in full. “At least enjoy the food!”

And then he practically marched Dream out of the History building atrium and away from the prying eyes of his colleagues.

“You know I don’t have my own office,” Hob said as they wound through the deserted halls. “Seven other people have the key.”

“Hmm.” Dream looked thoughtful as Hob led him to his office anyway because what else was he going to do with a boyfriend who’d suddenly decided to use his indomitable power of words for such purpose?

When Hob opened his — thankfully empty — shared office, Dream paused in the doorway. Then in a swirl of sand, Dream was suddenly holding a shiny black mechanism.

“What is that?” Hob asked.

“A lock fashioned from the dreams of a master locksmith. No one in waking existence has the key.”

Hob’s breath caught as, in another swirl of sand, a part of the door dissolved into dreamstuff and Dream set the new lock in place and — more sand — reconstructed the barrier. The bolt slid shut with a hard, heavy sound.

And then Hob was being backed into the edge of his desk and there was no mistaking the meaning behind Dream’s questing hands nor the nature of the desert Hob would be serving his love tonight.