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teejaystumbles · 1 month

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Against all odds (part 4)

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Hob is woken by his alarm and instead of snoozing the damn thing like he usually does, he is sitting up in bed and looking over at the desk in barely a second.

His journal is not there.

He feels a weird mixture of elation and disappointment - elation because last night was not just a dream! His stranger was really here! And disappointment because there seems to be no answering journal entry yet, or the book would be there.

Hob wipes both hands over his face with a groan and finally stops his annoying alarm.

“Right. Might as well get up and make a cuppa.”

While he putters around his kitchen, Hob recaps the last night.

After writing his reply to his stranger Hob had gone to bed, feeling restless and tossing and turning for at least an hour before finally falling asleep. He had dreamed something unsettling about riding his Porsche down a lane that got narrower and narrower, and being unable to stop the car while the sides were being pressed in against him as the car was being squeezed between invisible walls. Hob had seen a mushroom cloud in the rearview mirror and suddenly a crackle like thunder in the distance had sounded - then he had woken up. And found his stranger leaning over his desk.

Despite having his back to Hob, he would have known him instantly even if there hadn't been a sliver of light from a street lamp illuminating the marvel cheek of his friend. (To be fair, there weren’t many black-clad figures Hob expected-slash-hoped to appear in his bedroom at night.)

Apparently his stranger had come to read Hob’s reply to his own entry, and Hob had surprised him when he woke up. Getting him to stay had instantly been Hob’s primary objective, because his friend had been ready to flee, that had been glaringly obvious.

Hob pours water over his tea and sighs, recalling the almost timid voice of his stranger.

“It is not you, Hob.”

“Your rooms are not uncomfortable to me.”

It’s not him. Hob is so fucking glad it’s not him. He believes his friend, he doesn’t think he’d lie about something like this. No, after 1889 it’s clear that his stranger wouldn’t have stayed if he felt any sort of discomfort or anger in Hob’s presence. It had cost him to say the words, to tell Hob the truth, but Hob is sure his stranger wouldn’t lie to him outright. Obviously the “I don’t need your companionship”-line had been a lie, but one his stranger had been telling himself as well, so Hob can forgive it. It can be hard to accept certain truths about oneself, he knows, and not being human might make his stranger even more liable to not accept any sort of weakness he might have. A hundred years ago he considered Hob, and their friendship, a weakness. What has changed since then, Hob wonders.

He picks up his tea and moves to his small living room, flopping down on the old Chesterfield sofa that he has lovingly kept in shape since the beginning of the 20th century.

The 80s have been wild and Hob is happy that his tendency to accumulate stuff from his past, like antique furniture and loads of tidbits, is part of the current interior design trend. All the posh flats in London look like his right now, jumbled messes of times long past. People are looking for warmth and comfort, for colour and modern form mixed with a certain nostalgia. He thinks it's going to turn around soon, though. It always does. Trends come and go and then are revived a few decades later.

Not that Hob has many visitors these days who would care about his flat’s interior. When he hooks up with someone he takes them to a hotel when he’s feeling generous and enamoured, to the back alley or toilets when all they both care about is getting off quickly. Hob hasn’t been in a long-term relationship in two years. He’s telling himself he’s taking a break, moving on quickly to spare himself and others the loss, after so many years of losing so many friends and lovers. Deep down he knows it’s because he knew which year was coming up, and he couldn’t help but want to be free and available for- anything, really, if his stranger decided to show up.

Now that he has, Hob has no idea what to make of his friend. It’s clear he has been through something traumatic, or he wouldn’t have mentioned claustrophobia as a new condition he’s dealing with. Hob hopes he’ll tell him, or write to him, rather. It’s fine, he thinks. If his stranger wants to continue writing to each other for a few hundred years then Hob will accept that. He’ll be happy to have an immortal pen pal. It would be more contact than he ever had with his stranger. He’s sure - he nods to himself and takes a drink of his tea - yes, he’s sure, his friend will one day want to meet him again face to face. Hob can wait. He’s got practice.

The journal shows up a week later.

Hob has surreptitiously checked his bedroom desk every hour when he’s at home and every time he comes back from work. Now, when he steps into his flat, glances into the open bedroom and finds the journal returned he immediately drops his jacket and bag carelessly to the floor. He rushes over to the desk and takes the book in his hands, flipping through it with his heart beating faster in excitement.

Two pages have been ripped out in between Hob’s last entry and the new one. Curious, Hob thinks and bites his lip, sitting down to read the new words his stranger has left him.

My friend,

I have struggled with deciding what to put down on these pages and I ask your forgiveness for vandalising your book. Nothing I wrote seemed to encompass what I wanted to tell you. I could not put into words the relief I felt at reading your words, at hearing you speak to me so gently the last time I visited. If you knew who I am this would seem laughable to you, as it does to me - to not find the words! It is unheard of for one such as I, and for me in particular. I have to put it as bluntly as I can then: I was afraid you would not forgive my rudeness, would not understand my need for distance and lack of enthusiasm to stay and talk with you face to face. I did you a disservice, dear Hob, believing you would hold a grudge like I would. I thank you most sincerely, for your patience, your understanding. It has lifted a big concern from my chest and I find myself looking forward to seeing you again. Still, these matters I have to tell you, they are not easy for me to talk about. I would rather write them down for you so you can digest them quietly and think about them for a bit before we see each other again.

In 1916, a man named Roderick Burgess tried to summon my sister, Death. His attempt failed, but he was still not wholly unsuccessful - he summoned me instead.

With the help of one of my own subjects who betrayed me he managed to imprison me. He and his son held me for 75 years. I was trapped, naked, robbed of my insignia and therefore powerless, inside a sphere of glass, barely large enough for me to stand in.

Roderick Burgess thought he could force me to give him back his dead son, and when he realised I held no power over such things he asked for immortality, riches, power.

There is a smudge in the ink at this point, as if his friend had been pressing the pen he wrote with too tightly to the paper so that the ink had left a blot.

There is so much in these few lines Hob needs to think about, he can’t start right now or he’ll spiral before he has even read half of his friend’s entry. Hob puts a hand over his mouth and reads on, the pages in his hand shaking as he trembles with horror.

I did not give him anything, of course. I did not acknowledge my captor, did not want to give him the satisfaction. In the beginning, Burgess’ youngest son Alex seemed amenable to help me, but he ultimately could not disobey his father and betrayed that fragile piece of hope I had put in him most viciously. I lost a dear friend, my raven Jessamy, to Alex’ cowardice. I can never forgive him for that, or for holding me even after his father had died, and I have punished him adequately - although nothing I or anyone can do will ever make the memory of the senseless death of my dear raven bearable.

A pale stain on the paper makes Hob wonder if his friend had been crying when he was writing these words. He would not be surprised, his stranger had sometimes seemed so close to shedding tears, him crying over a terrible memory like this is far too easy to imagine. Hob feels his own eyes water at his stranger’s tale. Imprisoned for so long, under such horrible conditions! Betrayed by one of his own! And losing a close friend!

Hob is actually glad that his friend chose to write this down for him instead of telling it to him in person. He isn’t sure what he would have done in the face of his friend’s misery and trauma. He isn’t sure he would have been strong enough to hold back from touching his stranger, from hugging him close and pulling his head onto his shoulder, isn’t sure he wouldn’t have taken liberties where it is clear now that doing so would be disastrous.His friend must be severely traumatised, having been stuck in an enclosed, far too small space for almost 80 years! Hob has been in prison before, back in the 17th century, and a few times after. The tower, a madhouse or war prison camps, none of these detentions had lasted nearly as long as what his friend had to endure, and still Hob had felt close to going truly mad every time, especially when he got stuck in solitary confinement. Even if his stranger is not human he seems not immune to such strains on the psyche, if his mention of claustrophobia is anything to go on. Hob will have to invite him to meet somewhere outdoors, at the park or the river. Maybe his friend will agree to that.

#there's more that will continue straight after this but it's too long and not finished yet #dreamling #the sandman fanfiction #1989 au #teejay writes

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cuubism · 10 months

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Hey, okay so I'm still very much ruined by your Dream with wings au and I love the overall theme with coming to terms with the loss of them and accepting it and being able to move on, but my brain is by angst like this immediately in the mode of I have to fix this, have to give him back what he lost in some way.

And yeah, here is what I thought could happen.

So the universe ends, Death closes up. But with every end comes a new beginning and so on. So new universe, all Endless are still there + Hob. But because there aren't any humans yet or maybe there never will be, Hob becomes something else, Hope for example, and grows wings because Hope probably has some. Hob is very much conflicted over that because of obvious reasons but then the first beings of this new universe begin to dream and something changes in Dream. He adapts to the new universe and the new dreamers and one day his back is in absolute agony, his wings have started to grow back because the dreamers of this universe need him to have them. And of course he is rather conflicted about this because he did accept his loss and learned to live without them but also he is so elated to have them back. And Hob is there with him every step of the way and it makes it a lot easier and the first time they fly together is magnificent. And maybe Dreams wings are not completely the same as his old ones as he is not the same he was then but he can fly again and cradle his dreamers close not only in his arms but in the safety of his wings as well.

And well this kinda got a bit sappy but hope you like it. Of course feel free to ignore this ramble if it doesn't fit with your idea of your fic it's just how my brain works. Loved your fic by the way if it wasn't obvious.

Oh this is sweet! Yeah I understand the impulse to want to make it better for him somehow. Dream could definitely regain his wings in a new universe with new dreamers.

I love that it's just Hob at the end. Just Hob and the fundamental concepts of the universe chillin in the void. NOTHING can stop Hob.

On that note--

The first thing Dream knows of the new universe is grief.

He had not expected to know anything. Everything had gone when the universe he'd known had finally succumbed to its ultimate entropy, and if, when, a new one came to be, he had expected to reformed utterly. New dreamers. A new Dream.

The thought of not knowing had given him peace. One could not miss anything when one did not even know one had had it. And Dream, at the end, had had much to miss.

Strange, that. Terrible, that.

Why, then, is he sitting on the shores of creation, wet sand sticking to his clothes, the Dreaming stretching out around him? It's empty, flattened, nothing but black sand and dark sea infinitely in every direction--but it's still the Dreaming he knows. Why? And why is he sitting here?

In the next moment, why ceases to matter. He is sitting here, in the reformed, empty Dreaming of this empty universe. And Hob is not.

He curls his knees up to his chest, presses his forehead into them, wraps his arms around his head. He doesn't want this sun, this sand, this Dreaming. He doesn't want this universe that doesn't have Hob Gadling in it.

He blocks it all from his vision and sobs, there on the beach where he'd once spent so much time creating. There is no one to hear. None of his creations remain. There are hardly any dreamers. He digs his fingers into his hair, wishing he could simply rip himself right out of this universe. Some other Dream can tend it. He's had enough.

A light hand lands on his shoulder.

"Go away," Dream growls. It can only be one of his siblings, new-but-not, and he does not want to see them. Cannot, yet. "Tend your own misery."

"What misery?" says a familiar voice. Dream goes still. Someone sits down beside him. "Don't you want to explore a whole new universe?"

Dream throws his arms around him. Hob catches him, laughing, even as Dream presses his face into his neck, still sobbing. "I care not for this wretched universe."

"What kind of attitude is that to start out with?"

"Hob."

"Shh, it's alright." He pets Dream's hair as Dream persists in trying to crawl into him until they're irreparably tangled together.

"How?"

Hob kisses the top of his head. "You've really got to learn the power of just saying no to stuff."

Dream lets out a hysterical laugh against his neck. He just may have lost his sanity when the universe was scrambled. But he'll take this insane universe that has Hob in it over a sane one that does not. "Just saying no?"

"I didn't want to leave you, so I didn't. Simple," says Hob, and Dream wraps his arms around him tighter.

"Destiny will need to invent a new form of logic to accommodate you, Hob Gadling," he says, and Hob chuckles.

Finally, Dream lifts his head to look at him. Hob looks much the same as Dream last saw him, but a new power thrums around him, an aura that's obvious to Dream now that he is looking. "What... are you?"

Hob tugs on his ear in thought, and Dream smiles inwardly to see that that affectation still persists. "I think I, uh. Don't get mad."

"There is nothing that could possibly anger me now other than losing you again."

"Well. I think I... stole part of your power? Not on purpose, really. It's like you said. When you tell Destiny no, things get... weird."

Dream lays a hand on his cheek. Yes, he can feel it, the hum of his own essence, swiftly merging with Hob's. "You've stolen nothing. But part of my domain is within you, now. Under your care."

"What part's that?"

Dream finally manages a tiny smile, even through lingering tears, at the thought. "I believe it is hope."

Hob studies him, eyes wide, then huffs an incredulous laugh. "Sounds a bit messed up, doesn't it? Me taking hope from you?"

Dream leans his forehead against Hob's. "You give me hope. Every day. By being here. And as I said. You have taken nothing. The power is still a part of me. Hope and dreams are inextricable intertwined. But it is in your care, now."

"Right," breathes Hob in wonder, cradling the back of Dream's head. "That's. Wow."

"'Wow,'" Dream echoes, and Hob laughs, cuffing him lightly about the ear in admonishment for the mocking tone.

Dream's hand is still on Hob's cheek, and he reaches for the power that's in Hob now, touches it, lets it flow through him. It reaches for him in turn, lights up his own power that feels so new and fresh and alive, in this newborn universe. He closes his eyes at the warmth, cries finally quieting in his chest.

Hob sucks in a breath. "Dream..."

Dream comes back to himself with a start. "What? What is wrong?"

Hob is looking over his shoulder. "Nothing." He reaches over Dream's shoulder. Brushes his fingertips along the-- along the wing that is now arched there, folded carefully over his back.

He had not even noticed them appearing. They are not physical wings, to whatever extent Dream has ever been physical. They are pure energy, shimmering translucent in the sun when he folds one around himself to touch it. The ghostly feathers spark with power at his touch, and brighter still when Hob lays his hand over Dream's.

"You're beautiful," says Hob, as Dream keeps touching the feathers in wonder. Hob swipes his thumb under his eye, and it's only then that Dream realizes he's crying again. Silent, glittering tears.

"I do not... understand."

"New universe," Hob says. "New dreamers?"

Dream leans his head on Hob's shoulder. "New dreamer. Have you been imagining me with wings all this time?"

"Couldn't help it," says Hob. He strokes a hand along the phantom bone of the wing, and Dream shivers. "Knew you'd be glorious." He strokes the wing again, in awe. "You're beautiful."

Dream tucks his forehead further into Hob's throat, overcome. "What will I do with you, Hob Gadling?"

Hob pets his hair. "Well, right about now I could really do with a hot bath, I'm absolutely covered in sand. Don't suppose you can make that happen, Dream Lord?"

Dream laughs, wet and aching. "If you had not noticed, we are in the middle of an empty desert."

"So? Blank canvas."

"I suppose... I could create something for you." He thinks about it more, the pain of the empty, desolate Dreaming ceding to a different feeling. Hope. "I suppose... I could create anything."

Hob kisses the top of his head. "Exactly."

#just say no to mortality! the hob gadling ethos #this is the sappiest thing i've written in a while wow #dreamling #dreamling fic #hob gadling #dream of the endless #hob x dream #my writing #ask #autumnlibrarywolf #dream's wings

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film-in-my-soul · 4 months

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The Death of Translation | 10,968 | landwriter / @landwriter

Summary: One day, in spring, he comes to the Inn. Hob looks up and he’s there, and the relief is blinding. He thinks tu m’as manqué, fuck, because you were missing from me feels more true than I missed you ever has. English missing was ruined for him the moment he learned the French way of it. Longing is meant to be a reflexive verb. It would be a bad faith translation, even for him. He tells himself this is why he doesn’t say it. He thinks at last, and that’s a doable one. So he smiles, says, “You’re late.”

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Master Reclist · Personal Masterlist · Blog Nav.

#dreamling #dream/hob #dreamling reclist #reclist #fanfic reclist #the sandman reclist

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give-to-oblivion · 1 year

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Dream of the Endless, person vs purpose

Spinning this off of this discussion about Dream and Hob's 1589 meeting and the disconnect between their mindsets going into it.

(I'll try to make this coherent, but it's been a long day and I rarely write meta outside of D&D things, so I hope this is okay.)

I said, "Like some sort of fucked up velveteen rabbit, I honestly don't think Hob was a Real Person to Dream until he refused to give up in 1689. 1489? Not what Dream expected, but amusing. Hadn't experienced true hardship, though, so not so surprising. 1589? Successful, not interesting by Dream's metrics but of course he's not going to choose to die then. 1689 is when Hob does something so beyond Dream's understanding that he can't dismiss it again."

Here's the thing, though. Hob is the only being in history for whom Dream has always been a Real Person. The entire 600 years of their relationship, Hob never learns Dream's function. He never learns Dream's name, which means he never learns that those two things are functionally the same. Sure, if you knew about the Endless, you might look at Dream and go "yep, he's totally the anthropomorphic personification of the collective dreaming mind," but there's no way for Hob to know that.

In 1489 he asks if Dream is the devil, but when Dream says no, he doesn't push to learn what manner of creature he is. He must speculate, but what actually happens is that lacking any preconceived template about who and what Dream is, Hob simply settles on friend. He looks at this clearly supernatural, but still, essentially, wet cat of a man, and doesn't poke at all of the obvious power and mystery around him, try to take it for himself or lean on Dream to his own advantage. He just calls him stranger and friend. After all, Dream never asks anything of him except for stories about his life. They meet at regular intervals. His friend is aloof and reticent, but still obliquely expresses concern for Hob's circumstances in 1689 and 1789, and even gives advice the latter time, and seems minutely pleased at Hob's evolution by 1889. Hob doesn't know what his friend does outside of their meetings, but it's not hard to extrapolate from the way he asks about Hob's experiences that he doesn't have a lot of casual conversation or undemanding companionship. Which is why it's easy for Hob to identify him as lonely when they meet again in 1889.

And Dream is furious, but when he says "one such as I"? Hob doesn't know! I don't think Dream even realizes it at the time, because Hob is the only person in history who has ever divorced his idea of Dream as a person from Dream as his function. And Dream doesn't know how to separate those things. What does Hob see that allows him to make that distinction? No wonder he storms off rather than reciprocate; no wonder he doesn't offer Hob his name. (What if he told Hob his name and ceased to be Dream-who-is-first-of-all-Hob's-friend?)

And then he spends 133 years alone, cut off from his realm, his power, and his purpose. 133 years where he can't be anything except just himself.

I have to imagine he wondered about the person that Hob saw. I wonder if it was the first time he thought that there was enough of someone left without all of those things to still be a whole person in Hob's eyes.

@landwriter, @moderndaypandora, sorry if this isn't as coherent or in-depth a narrative as you might have liked, but I hope you enjoyed a little more elaboration on these thoughts!

#the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #dreamling #meta

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arialerendeair · 4 months

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Hi! 👋🏼 Happy Birthday!! BB!Dreamling prompt:

Hob is a teenage townie and Dream visits his seaside town to stay with his family in their fancy summer house.

Hob works at the country club and Dream is stuck up but fascinated by the boy who (respectfully 😉) doesn’t take Dream's shit (and who has a mouth that looks kissable and whose ass looks criminal in those uniform shorts).

Summer shenanigans and kissing behind the pool shed,,,and talking adulting on the golf course at night.

Thank you for the birthday wishes anon!!

The Dirty Dancing vibes of this particular prompt are immaclate and I love them so much. Hob should be in all of the short shorts, all of the time. Unquestionably. Put that man's hairy thighs on display, he deserves it!

I love the idea that Dream is fascinated by this boy who does not give him everything that he demands/wants the second he asks for it, who tells him no, and then laughs when he is indignant. Who, at first, Dream was disgusted by, how readily he was shirtless and sweaty and sun-kissed, only to, now, after almost three weeks in close proximity, is the leading star in all of his Dream's fantasies. He wants to devour Hob, wants to break him apart, give him another reason to be sweaty and to make him scream loud enough for the entire club to hear it.

It only gets worse when Hob is put on pool duty, and Dream stares hungrily at the bulge in those shorts for a truly inadvisable amount of time. He should be embarassed, but he wants, and he cannot remember the last time that he wanted as fiercely as he wants Hob. Of course, they're not meant to be, and he spends his days at the pool, and his evenings jerking off, thinking of Hob.

It all comes to a head when they are mostly alone at the pool (they are alone, everyone else had gone out drinking and golfing, a far superior way to spend time in their eyes) and Hob had bent over, the shorts puling higher, tighter, all in the name of cleaning the pool, and Dream hadn't been able to muffle the moan that escaped him at the sight.

Hob spins around, looking at him, and Dream is mortified, turned on, and afraid, all at the same time. It's only when Hob continues to stare, and he can see that bulge getting more and more pronounced that Dream realizes Hob might want him back. So he licks his lips and raises an imperious eyebrow. Hob comes closer to, so Dream can see the sweat trailing down his neck and he has to muffle down another noise.

Hob is smirking and Dream wants to wipe away that smirk with the weight of his cock.

"About time, was wondering if you'd ever say something," Hob said, tucking one finger pointedly in the edge of his bathers. "Do you know how many shifts I had to trade for pool duty for more than a week?"

Dream's mouth goes dry at the rapid realizations. Hob is half-hard and growing harder. Hob was here on purpose. Hob was slowly, steadily, tugging the bathers lower and lower, exposing the line of hair going down his navel, and Dream knows that it is obvious how turned on he is, but he can't make himself move.

"If you want your mouth on my cock, and want mine on yours, shut your mouth and follow me to the staff cabins," Hob orders, pulling his suit back up, before striding back across the pool. It takes Dream a precious few seconds to realize that Hob is packing up, and he scrambles to do the same his blood on fire.

Later, when Hob has fucked him boneless (and spends the rest of the week doing so), Dream admits that he wishes they could do this outside the club. That he wants more. That he wants Hob. But their assignations feel stuck here, no matter what he wants more. He isn't expecting Hob to laugh and take his phone to program in his number. Nor is he expecting Hob to promise to take him on a date the following weekend. But that is what happens.

A week later, after dinner, a concert in the park, and desperate kissing against the bark of a tree, Dream brings Hob back to the house that he lives in alone, too big, and too much for one person, and feels it light up with his laughter. It takes surprisingly little to make Hob agree to stay, to come back again and again.

(It takes even less to convince Hob to wear certain parts of his uniform for Dream so he can live out some... recurring fantasies.)

#Aria Posts #Aria Answers #Dreamling #Birthday Prompts #Apparently it is putting Hob in short shorts hours #NO COMPLAINTS #ALWAYS HERE FOR IT

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im-not-corrupted · 10 months

Note

21 or 24!!! give that concept of dreams boy a hug!!

Yes!! He deserves hugs. All the hugs, even. Going with 24 because it’s been on my mind since I saw the ask!

Soft fic prompt meme

—————

24. just really needed a hug sort of hug

“Dream,” Hob greeted brightly immediately upon seeing his friend stood in front of his door. The joy of that greeting--at the ability to say his friend’s name, now, a display of trust he hadn’t expected when Dream finally returned to him and now treasured dearly--was subdued somewhat, replaced instead by concern as he stared at his friend.

At first glance, one could be forgiven for thinking there was nothing wrong. His friend seemed the same as ever--he still held himself with that same unnatural stillness, still stared at Hob with those ocean-deep eyes that had a tendency to swallow him whole.

But Hob liked to think he was getting better at reading him now. They saw each other more often, and he'd learned how to tell when Dream was amused, or confused, or anything like that. It was all told to him through small expressions, the slightest tugging at his lips or the tiny furrow between his brows.

And this--this wasn't any of those. His friend looked tired, and sure. That wasn't unusual. But it seemed somewhat worse today, and he held his door open wider, concern eating at him suddenly. "Do you want to come in?"

Dream stared at him for a moment. He didn't speak, but he inclined his head in answer, and that was enough. He wandered into Hob's home as though he owned the place, because that's how he walked into anywhere, and finally sat himself on the edge of Hob's sofa. He looked--not necessarily out of place, but awkward. Too much tension in his shoulders as he hunched them slightly, as though the weight of the entire bloody world rested upon them.

Hesitantly, Hob sat next to him. They were friends now--Dream said so himself, a declaration Hob still repeated in his mind on occasion when spending time in his friend's company didn't feel entirely real--but he still walked around eggshells around him sometimes. The sight of Dream's back turned towards him as the being left him, rain falling around them as he stormed off, was a cautionary one. He didn't want to cause a repeat of 1889, didn't want to step over a line he wasn't aware was there.

But. Dream was his friend. And he wasn't quite so prickly anymore, more likely to listen and less likely to run away. So Hob asked softly, "Are you alright, my friend? You seem...tired."

Tired was putting it lightly, but that was alright. It got his point across still.

For a moment, Dream remained silent. That was alright, too. Hob could be patient. He had practice in being so, when it came to him.

Finally, he said slowly, as though struggling to find the words, "I am...I..." His shoulders slumped further, and it looked so terribly defeated on him that Hob's heart ached for him. "Yes. I am. Tired."

He didn't press his friend for answers. That, he thought, was likely to end terribly, and he wanted to avoid that. Instead, he opened his arms, an offering of comfort his friend could take or reject as he wished to. Perhaps it'd help, to be held for a moment. Dream didn't seem like the kind of being who received many hugs--part of the whole King of the Dreaming thing he explained last time.

Dream stared at him, brow furrowed somewhat in confusion as though he couldn't figure out what Hob was offering. The moment he realised was obvious, conveyed to him by the slight parting of his lips and the quiet devastation in his face.

Maybe Hob had been right, and wasn't that an awful bloody thought? Didn't Dream have anybody who'd offer him something as simple as a bloody hug?

When Dream didn't move, Hob almost lowered his arms, figuring that was a no. But then his friend moved, faster than he anticipated, into Hob's arms, like he'd been waiting for an opportunity. He pressed himself into Hob's side, tucking his face into his neck, and one of Hob's arms came up to wrap around his shoulders and pull him close.

He remained tense for a beat or two, but Hob felt the moment his muscles uncoiled, the tension bleeding away until Dream was somewhat boneless in his arms. His friend sighed, a heavy thing that tickled Hob's neck a bit, and the two of them remained like that for a good while. Time mattered little to them when they were both immortal, and Hob thought he'd gladly sacrifice every one of his waking moments to give his friend this.

Eventually, Dream pulled himself away, though he didn't go very far, still pressed against Hob's side. He still looked tired, like he could sleep for a year and only then find peace, but--he looked less tense, and that was good at least.

"Thank you, my friend," he murmured softly, and Hob smiled in response.

“You know,” he began, “if you ever need this again…I’m here. Whether it’s for hugs like this, or simply to talk, or just my company. My door’s always open to you.”

Dream didn’t reply for a good many moments, and Hob thought he simply wouldn’t, until he finally said, “Perhaps I shall take you up on that offer again, Hob Gadling.”

#dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling fic #netflix the sandman #the sandman fic #my fic #sorry this took a while i was very sleep deprived yesterday!!#soft fic prompt meme #eris writes things

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grabyourpillow · 2 years

Text

Just saying

I mean both Dream and Hob have me going insane for obvious reasons because 600 years of dates with a stranger and flirting and yadda yadda we've been over this. But I am going equally insane over Dream and Calliope like. The forehead touch????? The Aknowledgement of Growth? The lingering tenderness??

Like obviously, Calliope needs time to heal. A lot of time. Which good cause that's what they all have plenty of. And Morpheus needs time to grow.

If there's one thing Hob is pretty good at — besides the pipe organ and claquettes — it's reading people. So he manages to push reluctant Morpheus to Orpheus's grave and to get Calliope there at the same time (he did so by sending Matthew to tell her Dream is finally ready go talk).

And he just leaves them there as they stand in awkward silence in front of the grave.

Eventually Calliope raises her head. "You wanted to talk?"

And they do. There are a lot of tears. Years of old resentments and bottled up guilt and grief spill out. In the end, though, they are nothing more than crumpled newspapers, burning in a fire place. Maybe they have forgiven each other some time ago.

In the beginning Calliope is weary of Hob – who now wanders freely about the Castle, the Library especially, under the watchful yet kind gaze of Lucienne — Hob Gadling, a man, just like the one that kept her locked up all these years, just like Roderick Burgess who kept Dream in his basement.

Hob seems warm, and it prickles under her skin and makes her uncomfortable, for warmth, for the last hundred years, has been nothing but a tool for humans to get what they wanted out of her.

Oneiros is glacier ice and frozen water from Mount Olympus, the absolute zero of the universe and he expects nothing.

"χαῖρε Hob Gadling, farewell," she tells the man everytime nonetheless, and disappears before he can even open his mouth to speak.

Hob starts to write. Because his heart is warm, and he holds so much love he needs to put it somewhere lest it threatens to burst out of him and swallow him whole. He wants to do a little something for his students. Most are like he is, still wandering about, some without the same joy he has. He wants to give Morpheus a gift.

He writes and writes but the right words just won't come, clumsy blotches of ink under his feather (nothing has yet to replace the scrapy feel of the tip of feather on paper). What he is writing about is bigger than what his words can express.

When Calliope visits The Dreaming, she takes Morpheus's arm, a gesture of intimacy and trust, and Morpheus inclines his head in aknowledgement and seems nothing but grateful for it. Even from afar, they look regal, a king and a queen wandering about, taking long walks through parts of the Dreaming Hob can only, well, dream about.

Hob watches them as Morpheus bids his goodbyes, kneeling, and softly kissing her hand, reverend. For, once Morpheus has started loving, he never stops.

He usually comes back from these encounters teary-eyed, but light(er)-hearted.

Morpheus kisses Hob in the throne room.

Under the scattering light of the stained glass windows, he tilts Hob's head upwards as Hob stands a step beneath him, as they can never be equals, but Morpheus, Oneiros, Dream of the Endless and King of Dreams loves him nonetheless and Hob explodes in colors under the weight of that love. Morpheus kisses him and kisses him until Hob gets dizzy and drops to his knees.

Morpheus looks upon him through half-lidded eyes. Distant, but not unkindly. Above, yet not judging. Not unlike a God standing as an elevated statue in a stone altar in front of a worshipper.

Slowly, Dream removes his cape, the smooth, dark, velvety fabric of the universe gliding across Morpheus's moonlight shoulders. His other clothes are gone in the same swift, movement, and he stands in front of Hob, bare, his unfathomably deep vastness barely held together by the shape of his physical form.

Hob leans his head against Morpheus's thigh, and presses a light kiss there. He rises slightly and presses a kiss on Morpheus stomach.

Gods need worshippers because they are lonely. But it never really helps, does it. So Hob Gadling can not be a worshipper only. He arrives at Morpheus' clavicle. He kisses Morpheus's jaw, as his friend stands there, unmoving. Then, finally, Hob stares Dream of the Endless in the eyes, and he dares.

Hob continues to write. He tries to write of colors, of light and dark, of a cold press of lips and sinewy skin, and of the warmth in his belly. Most of the words are botched, and ugly. Some things are missing, things he doesn't dare write about. Because they're scary. Because they're silly.

"May the muses bless my writing this time," he thinks tiredly.

Only the silence answers.

___

The next time Calliope is in front of him, she looks at him with assessing eyes. "You have a question, Hob Gadling."

Hob shifts awkwardly, and scratches his cheek. "I didn't know if, I didn't want—"

"One is always allowed to ask."

"Okay. Well I'm trying to write, you see, and" he laughs, "I have read, many, ohh so many many great things. I want the piece I write" — for him —"to be beautiful, too." He wants it to be perfect. He raises her eyes at her. "Can you help me?"

She gauges him briefly, and Hob is a pond in a glass container. Springy fish play hide and seek between green aquatic plants, rustling in clear waters. There are glistening stones on his shore, that children from there bordering fishermen's town are happy to play ricochet with. Hob is the town, from which laughter and music and dancing is coming from as well.

The thumping from the villager's feet gets louder, and louder, too loud, and Hob realizes, it's the beating of his heart. The villagers's steps are trampling the skulls of the corpses buried deep, so deep under the ground one could almost pretend they were never there. The plants draw their roots in murky waters, fed by the detaching particles of silently decomposing corpses. But the dead are wailing, and refuse to be forgotten. Calliope sees all of him, and Hob gasps when she stops looking.

"Answer is no," she states, then disappears.

Hob sighs and picks up his feather.

___

"I do not understand." Calliope tells Morpheus one time. "He is just like the others."

"He is," Morpheus replies. "They are, all, human."

"What is it he has that holds so much value to you?"

Morpheus considers it. He is silent for a long time. "Time," he answers eventually. "And will. To learn."

Calliope observes the answer in her mind. Humans are like double faced coins. No, like a dôdekáedros, not with two, but with twelve, with thousand faces. Maybe the good ones outnumber the bad, for most.

She nods.

She catches Hob writing one time. She waits until he leaves the small wooden desk he has been hunched on for hours, at the warm light of an outdated desk lamp, and can't resist picking up the parchment.

She bursts into laughter, and when Hob comes back and leans against the doorframe, for the first time she looks at him. Really, looks at him.

"This is not very good."

"No," Hob concedes. He does not look offended, simply amused by her own laughter. It had been a long time. "It isn't."

There is a pause, a comfortable one.

"Ask me again," Calliope commands, before she can think about it.

"Uhm," Hob startles, searching her face. She maintains her will, eyes blazing like gemstones.

"Okay," he inhales. "Can you help me?"

"I..." Her chest tightens. It hurts. Still. She hates what Richard Murdock has taken from her. The ability to trust. The ability to give.

"No," she answers, and turns away.

___

Hob goes a long, long time without hearing from her. He hasn't given up on his little project, but the muses have told him no, so he does not ask again.

Hob knows Morpheus sees her though. He reads to Hob stories in Greek more often than not.

___

One day, Hob finds a little note, written in clear letters, a cursive with the reader in mind.

"I enjoy Oneiros's taste, but I do find even his lacking in some areas. You may find hereafter—

It is a note with precommendations. Songs, books, plays, and much, much more.

Sad ones, hopeful ones.

The note ends on,

"Writing requires a great offering.

It requires Truth.

Be honest, Hob Gadling."

___

Hob writes as in a frenzy. He writes anything and everything going through his mind. He writes down his dreams. He writes different endings to his favorite books where everything ends up alright. Painful stories his students have told him. Stories that make no sense at all. When he reads them, he sounds like an overly excited child, and it makes him happy. He is having so much fun.

"You are smiling," Morpheus remarks. He is sprawled lazily in the bed of Hobs tiny Bedroom, only his hair sticking out from the mass of blankets and he has no idea how this makes Hob's heart leap in his chest.

It definitely means "What are you writing?"

Hob knows his stories do not show up in the Library of the Dreaming, Lucienne told him so. Hob lays down his pen and smiles.

"I don't know yet."

___

Hob's home is now as much in the Dreaming as it is in the real world. He has become accustomed to small creatures flying in through the windows, and strange happenings.

Still, when Calliope hums appreciatively from behind him, Hob almost jumps out if his skin. The first time.

Then, it her appearances happen so often he becomes accustomed to it.

Sometimes, her eyes will look like murderous lightning spears, and nothing Hob writes works no matter how hard he tries.

After a three-day-long struggle where she refused to talk to him, he regretfully strikes out entire paragraphs, and starts anew. She smiles at him in approval.

She still can't help him, not really.

But humans have always been able to create on their own.

___

"I liked this one very much," Hob tells Calliope, pointing to a title on the list she has given her.

They are in Napoli, for a work visit supposedly. Hob has a meeting with a wine producer for the his tavern, pub, guesthouse, café, – he really isn't sure, despite being the owne.

Right now, they are seated on the balcony of the AirBnB Hob has rented, and though the owner had seemed surprised to see three people turn up instead of one, he had graciously accepted the change.

And that is how, Hob Gadling finds himself on the balcony, enjoying the warm summer evening, the sun sinking over the vast yet still clear evening sky, and the row of vignes and olive trees on the sandy soils of rocky mountains, and most of all, the company of his wonderful, wonderful friends, Morpheus and Calliope.

The wine makes them lively, and Hob lets himself be drawn in a literary debate with the Muse of Creation he knows he has no chance of winning, while Dream listens intently, for he was never much of a talker.

Hob manages to slip in that Shakespeare was never that good anyway and watched in satisfaction as a horrified expression crosses Calliope's Features, while an amused smile tugs at Dream's lips.

Later, Calliope tells them of her travels through the worlds, uniting her sisters in assemblies, gathering knowledge and experiences to change the unjust laws by which one like her can be bound like property.

Hob and Dream are utterly silent as she talks.

Only the flicker of a candle flame lights their faces when she finishes talking, fierce and angry, and hopeful, and herself.

Hob looks up at her in admiration, as she stands there, blazing with creation, and she looks at him. Morpheus fades into the surrounding darkness, leaving space for the story to unfold.

Calliope pulls Hob Gadling up, plants a brief kiss on his lips — her gift, freely given, finally hers again — and hauls him to the tiny wooden desk on the room, and seats him, his hand next to his favorite fountain pen.

"Pick it up," she orders.

"And now, γρᾰ́φου. Write."

Hob Gadling does.

___

Hob writes the story of a little girl called Naïma who loses the ability to dream.

***

Naïma is 12 years old and 4'2 and has impossibly big dreams like building an airplane that looks like Leonardo Da Vinci's so she can fly, and teaching her sister how to fight with a wooden sword, as she chases the yelling kid around to do just that. Naïma reads a lot of books that feed her colorful imagination, and every night, she has the most vivid dreams, filled with the flutter of bird wings, the scent of flowers after the rain, and magical creatures fighting epic battles.

You're a good girl, Naïma's parents and teachers tell her. Naïma and her friends write stories — that weirdly resemble the latest movie that is all the rage among the kids their age —and it's so easy and their characters are wild and free and flawed and perfect and the stories just pour out of them. Naïma is inspired, and the Muse smiles.

They read each others' stories in awe and they already dream of the day they will get their books published.

Naïma is 16 years old and has big dreams, but she also has a path to walk. Surely if she follows the steps, she will reach the sky and be able to fly with the birds.

Naïma is 18 years old and 5'0 and is so little and in a world that is too wide, and so many voices talk over each other that she forgets the sound of her own. The paths mingle and suddenly she has no idea where to go. She picks one at random.

Her teachers tell her she is clever. She feels like she knows nothing. Along the way, the dreams get lesser and lesser, and the walls on either side of the path get higher and higher, more inescapable.

Naïma writes a poem about rain. "The world is bright," she writes "And I am grey."

Naïma is in her twenties when she loses the ability to dream.

Speaking of walls, there is one behind her called Time, who keeps pushing her forward, not allowing her to slow down and look back. Without dreams, every day is the same, and the rest of her life stretches before her in a bleak, empty nothing. She lays in her bed staring at the starless ceiling, thinking "is this really all there is?" And "If it is so, doesn't Death seem kinder than life?"

***

Hob briefly sets the pen down, his hand trembling. He goes to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea. He breathes out, taking in the cool air of the night. Dream is sleeping in Hob's – their — bed, or something close to sleep, as far as Hob can tell.

Calliope is nowhere to be seen, but Hob feels this unrest, this trepidation in his fingers and push to keep going, the need to empty his mind and spill all his thoughts onto the page lest he is driven insane. He sets his cup down onto the desk — his hand now more or less steady —, and grabs the pen once again.

***

Death stands before Naïma, maybe in a dream, maybe not, and smiles upon her kindly. She seems fair and just, exactly like Naïma had pictured. The shadow of her wings grows and stretches until it is all encompassing behind her, eclipsing the sun.

"Do you want to go?" Death asks, and her voice is kind, but it is absolute.

Naïma hesitates, shifts on her feet. But this is weird. "I didn't think we had a choice in the matter?"

"Well, it's not your time yet. So you do."

Naïma lowers her eyes. "I..." Death gauges her carefully. "I don't know."

Death gives her a minute, but Naïma doesn't come up with another answer.

Death smiles, as if Naïma had somehow come up with the right answer and her wings are gone and the sun is visible again, and she takes Naïma's hand. "I need to show you something."

A flutter of wings and they are in a dark room, no, not not room. Space. For there are no borders. No floor Naïma is walking on. No walls. In the center of the space, are square, vertical panes, each the size of maybe four records, set up vertically next to each other, forming a a circle. A circle of these glass slices, floating. As Naïma gets closer, she can discern shifting patterns of colorful smoke inside of each square, pinks and blues and aquamarines.

"Pick one," Death tells her. Naïma looks at her, uncertain, but Death just signals her to go ahead.

So Naïma extends her hand, slowly approaches her fingers and, as they come in contact with it... colors explode everywhere, and the space expands and she finds herself in a nebula of holographic colors and glistening stars.

"Whoah," is all she can say. "What is that?"

"He, is called Laurent." Death introduces him "She spreads two of her finger and zooms in on a spot of the nebula, as one would navigate a touch screen. "This is his love for gardening. This here?" A particularly bright star. "His favorite meal. This?" She points to a black hole. "His mother's death." Next to the black hole is a ring of light. "He rekindled with his sister and met his niece. She remained the joy of his life, for the entire duration of it.

"These," Death double taps the nebula, and it folds in on itself as if sucked into a vacuum, back into is original square shape and place among the others. "These are all the people that have lived. Are living."

Death presses on one and once again, colors spread across the room. "This is the one of a man called Hob Gadling."

Where the other had had one or two dominant hues, this one had all the colors of the rainbow. It also had darker—

***

"Writing about yourself? Slightly pretentious."

"Jesus Christ," Hob jumps. Maybe not that accustomed to Calliope sneaking up in him after all. "You scared me. Could you, could you not look? This time? It's" He scratches this cheek and chuckles. "Embarrassing."

"I will know it all the same," Calliope answers.

"Is all of this yours?" Hob deflates. "Do you know everything I'm going to write?"

"It is as much yours as it is mine," Calliope answers. "And I cannot know until it is written.

Keep going, Hob."

***

This, glass panel had all the colors of the rainbow— more colored than any of the panels Naïma could see. Some of the colors were uglier. Less harmonious. Some were darker.

Death swipes the color palette away and Naïma stiftles a cry, as she could have kept looking for an eternity, but Death is already opening another.

"Now this one, my sweet, sweet girl, this one is yours."

Naïma flinches, and turns her head away. Death waits, patient, encouraging.

Naïma forces herself to look.

And, of course.

Her color palette is... unremarkable. Unfinished.

There are tiny specks of color, that look like nothing much really. It could have been pretty, once, but the rest of the painting distracts because... "There is absolutely nothing here," Naïma gestures, and she cannnot hide the disappointment. Compared to the other ones, this one was... Not enough. Her life was no good.

"It's empty." This was same black she saw every night in the corner of her eyelids when she pictured the future. She didn't need to be reminded of that.

Death shakes her head. "It's not," and she punctuates the word, "empty, silly." She flicks Naïma's forehead. "Quite, the contrary actually. It's full. With potentialities. Endless potentialities. Who knows which color you are going to put on there tomorrow?"

And Death gives her a minute to let that sink in.

"I'm going to ask you again, Naïma Goldenberg. It is not your time. Do you still want to go?"

"No," Naïma shakes her head. "No I don't think I want to."

Death smiles. And behind her, someone else, a man with pale skin, huddled in a dark cape, smiles as well.

***

Dream stirs slightly. He seems content. A good dream, hopefully.

***

Naïma wakes up to her dark ceiling. She pastes glow stars on it and turns on her bedside lamp, and suddenly it's not so dark anymore.

She can't dream but she realizes, she can read. She grabs the first book on her shelf, and suddenly Naïma is twelve again.

A year goes by. Naïma hasn't found her dreams but she keeps searching. She reads books that make her feel like she's dreaming and fill her waking life, listens to stories that people are eager to tell her. She fills her life with the dreams of others, and even tries some of them out, like slipping on a different gowns. Today she is Naïma the rock climber, nature conqueror who sleeps in a tent – she gets a cold, and finds slugs in her clothes. Yesterday she was Naïma the fancy, mingling with some high-society people, laughing along with them in her glistening champagne and feeling like this dream didn't fit her at all. The day before that? She had been Naïma the poet, reading books in a warm-hued Café enjoying a scone and a cappuccino, while occasionally gazing at the raindrops splattering on the window and on the pavement outside.

She learns more about herself. Or re-learns really. She learns that she loves rain and books, that she likes rock-climbing occasionally, and with friends, and that she really hates sparkling events where people talk too loud. That she really likes listening to stories. She likes writing stories too.

Naïma is thirty when she falls in love with a girl called Ζωή that is completely wild and colorful. Zoé loves with all her heart and crashes deeper and flies higher and takes Naïma with her.

***

Hob writes of music. He writes of laughter, he writes of pain, he writes of joy. He writes of a desire to do better.

***

"Goldenberg." A voice she has known forever, a voice she had missed, calls to her.

And finally, Naïma dreams.

She dreams of which songs, which plays, which adventures Zoé will show her tomorrow. She dreams of magic. She dreams of writing a book.

***

Hob writes and there is space between the lines of his love that needs to be filled.

Until the morning hours, Hob writes alongside Naïma. He fills the path she takes with new Dreams, new Stories, and that is how she paves her way until she meets Death again, in due time. (Not everyone can be like Hob, not even his characters).

For Dreams, Stories, and Art, Hob has found, is what makes it worthwhile everyday, to live for another.

That, alongside the smell of freshly baked bread, wine that is warm on the tongue, and the smile of a friend.

Smile, his friends do, when months later, he hands each of them a copy of the finished book he has bound himself.

Some threads hang loose from the cover and he is pretty sure that — despite his best efforts — some spelling mistakes are left in, and it is far from perfect, but it's done, and it's his.

"It has been a long time since anyone wrote a song for me," Calliope speaks, eyes glistening.

"The Library, will be honored."

Thank you, Hob Gadling, they both tell him.

The book is called "Ζωή."

The book is called Life.

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littledreamling · 1 year

Text

An Analysis of Power Dynamics Through the Ages (Part 2)

Part 1 | Part 2

The sequel, and we'll jump right back into the thick of it where I left off in part 1 so (again) without further ado, part 2:

1889

The sixth meeting. The worst meeting. You already know the drill, clothes first. Dream arrives very fashionably in his standard all-black, though the top hat is a particularly nice touch. It's important to note that Hob is back to his symbolic brown; he's gotten back in touch with his roots and he's found his empathy for humanity again. He's been humbled by his wrongdoings and growing through his acknowledgement of them. Interestingly, grey has been added to his wardrobe, a color associated with neutrality, balance, and (interestingly) loss. This could symbolize Hob's position between states; he is neither human nor Endless, but something in between, something old enough to see the big picture yet still inherently tied to humanity. It could also be foreshadowing, though I'm sure I don't have to spell out exactly what is looming on the horizon.

I'll preface the rest of this by saying that the power dynamics in this meeting shift repeatedly and rapidly, almost between sentences. This entire scene is both Hob and Dream (whether consciously or not) vying for some semblance of control in the situation, and we'll see that when I get into their actual conversation, but first, let's talk about Lou (though not as in-depth as I could, because this is going to be long enough as it is, but I love Lou and her place in the story). Lou is the first person that Dream sees during this meeting and she (in my opinion, though I'd love to discuss it with anyone willing) represents everything that Dream sees humanity as; quick to startle, quick to flirt, quick to anger, slightly flighty, and greatly damaged by fellow humans. And right off the bat, she puts Dream in a fairly uncomfortable position. Between her fear, flirtatiousness, and fury, it's pretty obvious that Dream doesn't know how to get past her (he's a King, he expects people to get out of the way when he walks up to them; the fact that she physically blocks his path is quite the insult, one that he's not prepared to deal with). He tries to assuage her fears and politely decline her advances, but neither of those work. I'd love to have seen what he would've tried next if Hob hadn't have stepped in, but that's the important part. Hob steps in. One could almost (without too much head tilting or squinting) see it as a rescue. He literally gets rid of a physical barrier to Dream's entrance into the tavern, one that Dream couldn't have gotten around himself (at least not within the confines of his experience and comfort with humans in the Waking). That automatically starts this meeting with Hob in a place of power.

It's a place of power that Dream almost immediately tries to take back. He already feels like he's on the back foot because of his interaction with Lou and his inability to deal with the situation himself, so he falls back on his reliable source of control: his knowledge, a cosmic knowledge that he knows no one else can compete with. There is power in knowing things that no one else does, and Dream knows everything about Louise Baldwin. It's a not-so-subtle grab for power, and it almost works. For a minute, Hob is in awe again. For a minute, Dream is back in control. But then he fucks himself over, because instead of giving even an inkling of who he is and how he knows such things (because god forbid Hob know anything about him), he changes the subject. Not once, but twice. He fumbles the ball by sidestepping Hob's questions, inadvertently showing a sort of weakness. But Hob allows it (because Hob allows everything his stranger does, for a great many reasons that I could speculate wildly on, but that's for another post). I want to emphasize, though, that this isn't Dream taking power, this is Hob giving power. He allows Dream to "brag" (though I'm not sure if that's the right word) about Lady Johanna's success in the task he gave her (for those who don't know, COMIC SPOILERS, that task was finding his son's head, the only part of his body that is still intact. Just a fun little fact for you all) instead of pressing where he very obviously has Dream in a corner.

And then he gets philosophical. And this is a big change. We've seen Hob at his proudest, at his simplest, at his most desperate. He's bragged about his money and raved about new inventions and made very questionable decisions. We've seen the best and worst of him, but never before has he been philosophical, at least not to Dream. And this is very important in a pretty subtle way: it shows that Hob (while still very much counting himself as a part of humanity) is starting to distance himself from his fellow man. He can't reasonably be considered equal to all humans, and I think this is the first time Dream really sees it. Remember when I said that Lou was everything Dream sees humanity as? Hob has grown out of almost everything on that list. No longer is he quick to startle. No longer is he quick to flirt. No longer is he quick to anger. He's not flighty and, despite the considerable damage that humanity has done to him, he's not resentful. He's understanding. He's empathetic. He's a good person. And suddenly, he's the wise one here. He's the one with knowledge. And Dream doesn't like it. Dream is used to being the smartest one in the room by a long shot and for the first time, Hob has more wisdom than him. Despite Hob's attempt to keep the conversation personable, to laugh at a self-deprecating joke with someone who he considers his friend (and has for the past 300 years), it's an undeniable and complete shift.

Dream tries one last grab for power, though I don't think it's a conscious decision (in fact, I know it's not): he points out the change in Hob. It's a reminder that, no matter how old Hob gets, no matter how separated he gets from humanity, no matter how objectively he can view the world and the people in it, Dream will always be able to do it more. He'll always be older, he'll always have more perspective, he'll always be able to take a bigger step back and see a far larger picture than Hob will ever be able to. And Hob allows that, too, because he knows that Dream is right. Hob is intrinsically human and he'll never be able to separate himself from that and everything that comes with it.

And if you stop it right there, it's a perfect episode. But then Hob flips the script again. He says "I think it's you that's changed" and that, my friends, is the first nail in the coffin. This is where Dream's defensiveness starts, and it's not because Hob dares to call him a friend. It's because all of the vulnerability that has been building in Dream, between Lou and his unwillingness to reveal anything about himself and Hob's newfound wisdom, is suddenly coming to a boil. He feels seen and he hates it. Hob had definitive control now. The conversation is his and Dream knows it.

The second nail in the coffin is Hob's body language. He leans in as he speaks, wanting to get closer to his stranger, wanting to share this with him, wanting to confide in him, but all Dream sees is an approaching predator, coming for his newly exposed underbelly.

The third nail: "I think I know why we still meet here, century after century." Hobs dares to presume to know anything about their arrangement. Hob dares to presume to know anything about Dream. It's a shockingly forward statement to make from Dream's perspective, considering the fact that Dream hasn't told Hob anything. Hob doesn't even know his life was a wager, nothing more, nothing less. So the fact that he's assuming things about Dream and his motives is... bold, to say the least. This is the point of no return as well; no mater what Hob says after this, the conversation is going south. There's no stopping this trainwreck.

The fourth nail: "I think you're here for something else." This is the same as above just... worse. Hob is straight up questioning Dream's motives. He's saying "I know you've told me that this is your only reasoning, but I think you're full of shit" and the fact that he's right only makes it worse. We can already see Dream shutting down by this point. He inclines his head, trying to maintain some dignity, and his voice has an edge of caution to it. It's giving strong "I heard what you said but I'm going to say 'what?' to give you the chance to chance to take it back because we both know you didn't mean to say that" vibes, except Hob definitely did mean to say it and it's far too late to back out now.

The fifth nail: you already know what it is. "Friendship. I think you're lonely." At it's core, this is an offer, not a judgement, but Dream cannot see it that way. He's too vulnerable, too exposed to be able to hear the kinship in Hob's voice, to see the loneliness that's painted across Hob's face, a light mirror. And his only defense mechanism is anger. He dons his rage like a suit of armor because it's infinitely better than the raw sensation of being flayed alive by Hob's gaze and his words and the stinging accuracy of both. Because Dream is a King. He's an Endless. He's only slightly younger than Time. He holds the entire human unconscious within himself. He is Above and humanity is Below, as much as he likes to preach to Desire otherwise. And Hob, despite just having proven himself otherwise, is most conveniently placed back into the grouping of humanity in Dream's mind. Dream is Above and Hob is Below, yet Hob is insisting on stepping up to Dream's level. It's an outrageous notion and fairly insulting to boot. (Aside: I want to clarify that I am in no way excusing Dream's actions, but when we start to see this situation from his perspective, when we acknowledge his feeling of powerlessness, we can start to understand at least where he's coming from, even if we don't agree with it)

The sixth and final nail: "Yes. Yes, I do." Hob doubles down. He doubles down hard. He has ripped the floor right out from under Dream and then he throws in a kick for good measure. If the third nail was the point of no return, the sixth nail is the burial. It's the end. Dream cannot stand to stay exposed for any longer; there is no option but to leave. In the moment, leaving seems like taking power back. Once again, he is dictating the parameters of the meeting, specifically when it ends, but he is at the mercy of his pride, and his pride is not his power. He just doesn't see this yet, and won't for about 100 years. In fact, neither of them have power in this moment. They are both simply passengers, reduced to watching the inevitable collision. Both feel hopelessly out of control; Dream feels skinned alive under Hob's scrutiny and Hob is watching the only constant he's ever had walk away. Power has crumbled in the face of anger. A hopeless situation.

1998

The meeting that never was. Hob is again wearing grey, leaning heavily into the sense of loss. He's shed his brown and the surety that comes with it. He's apprehensive about this meeting, or at least he's not excited about it. I'm not sure he even expects Dream to show up. Even when he says "I'm actually waiting for someone," his face screams doubt. He's watching the door like a hawk, but he's known his stranger's pride for too long to really be hopeful. And as the day drags on into night, that doubt, that sinking knowledge that his stranger is sticking to his guns, only grows worse. All the while, the lighting in the scene highlights just how out of place he is. London outside is (predictably) incredibly grey; the sky, the buildings in the background, the river, whereas everything in the White Horse is warm; from the sun slanting through the windows to the clothes around him to the orange glow of the lamps. The White Horse has always been a place of comfort for Hob, of warmth and security, but he's brought some of that outer greyness to it. He's a grey smudge smack in the middle, alone, ageless, other. He's irreparably separated from everything around him and he's realizing it. In fact, it's the point of the entire scene. This is Hob losing everything.

From Hob's perspective, Dream has the upper hand during this non-meeting, specifically because it is a non-meeting. He can't know that Dream couldn't make it, he simply thinks that Dream has abandoned him (I could write a whole separate post about the theme of abandonment in this show but that's for another time), therefore giving Dream the upper hand. Dream once again sets the parameters for their meetings; when he deigns to grace Hob with his presence, they meet, but this time he hasn't, so they aren't meeting. Simple as that (it isn't, but again, Hob has no way of knowing that). And Hob blames himself. He's let Dream's prideful and scornful words actually take residence in his mind and his heart, shaping the way he feels about himself and their relationship. He calls himself an idiot and puts the entirety of the blame onto his own shoulders, simply because he's given Dream the power to influence him in that way.

And then the other shoe drops, and Hob is losing the White Horse too. This is the ultimate loss of control in this scene. Hob has lost not one, but both of the constants in his life within a single day. Even if Dream decides to change his mind, there is nowhere left for them. It is truly the end of an era. For Hob, it must've felt like the end of everything. His entire life, at least everything in his life that has withstood the test of time, is falling like sand through his fingers.

2022

The meeting that never should've been. At this point, I could just copy/paste the post that @cuubism made about the shift in power pre- and post-imprisonment, but I'll at least attempt to put my own spin on it (you should go read their post though, it's a fantastic take).

This is probably the most dressed down we ever see Dream (begging Neil to give us shirtless-and-robe Dream from the comics next season). Every other century, he's been dressed in whatever that century deems to be formal wear, and so has Hob. They've always dressed up for each other. For this meeting, all of that formality, all of the layers of pride and distance and secrecy have been stripped away. Dream is (and I really shouldn't have to say this anymore) in all black once more, but his clothes are loose, especially around his neck and torso. He's relaxed the vice grip of his own making, he’s shed the rigidity he’s always forced himself to adhere to. He is approaching Hob only as himself, nothing more. He knows that he has lost all right to aloofness when he stormed out 133 years ago. His pride is bitter on his tongue but he's swallowing it nonetheless. Hob, for his part, is back to his brown. He's grounded again; he's found stability in this new life he's made for himself in the wake of their missed meeting. He's back to where he's truly comfortable, he’s found who he is outside of Dream, and he's donned his signature color to reflect that.

I’m going to split the behavior during this meeting into two categories; the power that Hob has over Dream, and the power that Dream has over Hob, because (contrary to popular belief) Dream does have power here, albeit not a lot. It’s a very subtle and nuanced scene in terms of everything power dynamics so I want to make sure I can include everything I want to in a somewhat concise way.

First, Hob’s power. When talking about power and control in their 2022 meeting, most would assume that Hob has all of it in the palm of his hand, and with good reason. Dream has essentially forfeited any upper hand he’s ever had and he knows it. There’s a hesitance with which he approaches the New Inn that shows this - he isn’t sure Hob will be there, he isn’t sure how Hob will receive him even if he is (miraculously) there. Hob could’ve fucked off to literally anywhere else in the world; without his meetings with his Stranger, Hob doesn’t have any concrete and lasting reason to stay in London (the fact that he presumably stayed in one place for 33 years is… telling, especially after the 1600’s and everything he went through because he stayed in one place for too long, but we’ll get there in a bit), but there he is! Dream turns the corner in the New Inn and Hob is right there, with his papers and his pint and his steadfast (brown! Again!) hope and loyalty. Hob holds a lot of the power in this situation and it's extremely evident. Dream is the one "crawling back" (though I think Hob would protest greatly at that description, especially after finding out why Dream couldn't make it in 1989). He’s fully admitting that he was wrong all those years ago (I could go on for another seven paragraphs about Dream’s inability to apologize verbally, but he definitely still apologizes to the people who he wrongs, he just does it through his actions instead. But that’s another post, I don’t have room here lmao) and he knows that Hob has every right to use that power against him. While 1689 was the ultimate humbling of Hob Gadling, 2022 is the ultimate humbling of Dream of the Endless. He's admitting defeat and surrendering, knowing that the power in Hob's hands could utterly destroy him. For the first time in his life, he's trusting Hob. There is no regaining control here, there is only reconnecting and for the first time, that is all that matters to Dream.

And thus, we've come full circle. I could wax poetic about how this meeting is a mirror of their first meeting, but @mimisempai beat me to it and said it way better than I ever could’ve in this post, so you should go read it! Anyway, Dream approaches his human stranger friend quite literally with his heart on his sleeve. For the last century, he has been utterly powerless, stripped of everything that made him an Endless, everything that gave him any modicum of control, and now he’s back to that. Even worse (maybe worse isn’t the right word, more meaningfully might be a better way of putting it) he is giving that power to Hob. And Hob. Hob uses all of this extraordinary power for… acceptance. Warmth. Comfort. Kindness. Welcoming. He could abuse the power that he has, he could’ve gotten angry or insulted or flat out left, and maybe in a different century, he would’ve, but he’s grown and changed, just like Dream said he had in 1889. This is a kinder, gentler Hob than we’ve ever seen before. Yes, he opens with a slight tease, a little sass, but the open joy on his face betrays the meaning behind his words. And thus, he actually gives some power back to Dream.

Now, I think Dream is not entirely without power in this scene, even from the very beginning. Yes, Hob is the one (as @cuubism says) arranging the meeting, Hob is unquestionably in control for the first time, but we also have to remember that… Hob could’ve left at any time. He didn’t have to stay in London (and now I’m circling back around to my earlier point) but he did. He stayed, and he stayed for Dream. That in and of itself is a power that Dream has over Hob; he is such an important part of Hob’s life that Hob would face the threat of discovery and risk his own life (because drowning in 1689 was bad, but I can’t even imagine what modern society would do to him if word got out about an actual, honest-to-god immortal) to make sure that his Stranger had a place to come back to, on the off chance that he ever changed his mind. But that is a power that is given by Hob, not one that Dream inherently has over him, which is also a sort of power that Hob has. It’s such a weird exchange and power play between them that, for the first time, they find themselves on somewhat even footing. There’s an understanding of a sorts; Dream knows that Hob could’ve been cruel but wasn’t and Hob knows that Dream could’ve kept him waiting forever but didn’t. They’ve both shown a piece of their hearts simply by showing up, and that mutual vulnerability is something they’ve never shared before, something that sets them up to actually begin to understand each other. For once, they see eye to eye, or as close to eye to eye as they ever have, and they’re taking the first (long-awaited) step towards true friendship

#the sandman #sandman netflix #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob gadling #sandman neil gaiman #neil gaiman

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gabessquishytum · 2 months

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Hi! Looong time lurker, first time asker <3! Want to tell you that I love your blog and how awesome concepts are born here, so I thought that I might try and share my own idea with you

Omegaverse Dreamling!

Hob is an alpha who has a successful career in academic and of course owns New Inn pub so he cannot complain, really. He feels a little bit lonely, but he doesn't specifically look for a mate. All his relationships kinda ended, it wasn't it. Hob have been going into his ruts alone for some time but he is fed up with it already. So he decides to go to a brothel and hire some omega prostitute to spend his rut with. He chooses kinda luxury Burgess' brothel.

Enter Omega!Dream. He hates his job and especially dealing with alphas' ruts so it's obvious that this bastard Burgess chose him to "assist" this new and green alpha in his first rut in a brothel. Dream is famous among the clients for his ethereal beauty but also for his snarky comments. That is why most alphas enjoy "taming" him. Dream supposes this one is not gonna be different. He couldn't be more wrong! Burgess warns him that he can't afford to lose this client, he seems rich and gullible, so Dream must behave because otherwise he is going to regret this! Dream doesn't need to be told twice, he knows very well that Burgess has a heavy hand.

When Hob enters the brothel he feels the first symptoms of a rut but when he is introduced to Dream he might as well go into full rut right now and then. What a beauty! Slender, dark-haired, with unblemished and pale skin and the most blue eyes Hob ever seen. Dream is used to being ogled but no one ever looked at him as if he hung the stars himself. He must admit the this Robert "call me Hob, please, nobody calls me Robert" isn't ugly. Quite otherwise if Dream may say so himself. And he smells so nice, even so close to his rut. He hopes that he isn't a demon in bed because he really isn't into rough sex tonight.

They go into the room, Hob is obviously the perfect gentleman and isn't treating Dream as a common whore so he is already alerted. Behind a closed doors Hob is still very polite and pleasent. He asks Dream if it is okay, if he really wants to do this, did he eat anything? maybe he would like to drink something or to talk? Dream is quite overwhelmed, nobody treated him like this ever.But he says he is okay, Hob goes to take a shower and they go into it. And...

Dream has never had since he had started working as a prostitute such pleasurable and overall good sex. Hob is gentle and caring and is treating Dream as if he was his longtime partner. Despite his rut Hob is controlling himself and is always careful to not hurt Dream. Dream might have orgasmed a few times... Fine, he orgasmed a lot, ok? But it isn't his fault Hob is so nice and skilled and has a such wonderful cock! While Hob knot goes down they cuddle and talk. Well, it is Hob mostly talking, because Dream is always withdrawn with his past, but for the first time that doesn't bothers Dream at all. Hob has such a nice voice, he could be listening to him for hours! Well, Dream is very fucked, literally and figuratively. People always told him that he falls fast and deep and this might have happened here. When Hob falls asleep he might even cry a little over himself, because there is no way that Hob would want to ever be with such an omega whore who smells of other alphas. Dream is gonna stay in that brothel as long as he is pretty and then... He fears to think, but it isn't a bright future.

Meanwhile Hob is freaking out because of course he fell head over heels in love with this gorgeous omega! Dream is perfect, in looks and in character and Hob will fight everyone who thinks otherwise.

Hob's rut ended and he went home heartbroken but he gave Dream goodbye kiss on cheek and asked if he would him to come here for his next rut. Dream of course said yes, not because Burgess was behind his back and he expected Dream to agree but because he came up with a plan! He is going to baby-trap Hob! He is now knowing when Hob's rut is going to come and he can stop taking his suppressants. It's a perfect plan!

So few months go by and when Dream sees Hob enter the brothel he immediately goes into heat. Fortunately, nobody notices and they share again a few wonderful days with Hob and surprise, Dream fallen even harder. When Hob again leaves him he only hopes that he knocked him up good. Of course it happens. But what Dream didn't expect is that he was gonna start showing so early. He hoped that he could keep it a secret till Hob will again visit him. Burgess is furious at first but then he starts selling Dream to the clients so they could imagine they knocked him up. Dream obviously said that he has no idea who knocked him up so he gained even worse reputation.

Time passes and Hob again goes into rut and to see Dream. Once inside he learns from Burgess that Dream is pregnant and if he still wants him. Hob cannot imagine his rut without Dream now, but he wanted to refuse, because he didn't want him to tire to much. But something irked him in a wrong way in this Burgess fella, maybe because he was talking shit about his Dream ( jesus, Gadling, pull yourself together) so he agreed to take Dream to the room. He wasn't planning anything sexual, he simply wanted to talk to Dream.

When they get into the room Hob starts telling Dream that he is happy for him and that he just wanted to spend some tome with him and they don't need to do anything sexual if Dream doesn't want to. And this is too much for hormone-ridden Dream. He burst into tears and starts wailing, because alpha of his pup is here and those few months were terrible, he was so sick all the time and he feels sore all over and lonely and overall terrible. But first and foremost he isn't whore! It's Hob's pup and he needs to believe him, he is sorry that he tried to baby-trap him but he loves him and Hob must now hate him, because he is a whore and he woulnd't want to be with someone so terrible like Dream!

Hob is quite light-headed after receiving such info-dumb but the most important news is still banging around in his head: he is a father! Of Dream's pup! Of course he believes Dream, he wouldn't lie to him, not while crying his eyes out, he knows that Dream is to prideful for that. So he kisses Dream partially to shut him up and partially because he loves him and he is so happy.

Dream can't believe what is happening but he isn't gonna complain! When they stop kissing Hob explains to Dream how happy he is and how much he loves him and please please please be his mate. Dream is in deep shock, but agrees, of course he agrees! So Hob takes Dream hand and commanders that they leave in this second. While leaving for good Hob punches Burgess in the face for trying to stop them.

Some time later Dream receives his so anticipated bitemark on the neck and the both of them couldn't be more happy!

Well, of course untill they go for Dream's check-up and learn he is pregnant with twins. Hob and Dream are both over the moon.

Ooops, it came out very long so so sorry for that and for any mistakes! Cheers

– AAA

Hello new friend!!! Thank you for sending this, it's so good and I love that it's a nice long one. Gosh, I feel for Dream so much!!!! The part about Burgess hiring him out to even more alphas while he's pregnant so they can fantasise about being the one who knocked him up gave me SO many ideas. Maybe one of the other alphas goes so far as to claim that the pup is actually theirs (either because they want Dream or because they just want to torture him) and Dream has to try and get out of that situation and explain how he knows that that isn't the right alpha, yes he's sure, he's not sure how he's sure he just is!! Anyhow, thank goodness Hob shows up when he does and rescues Dream from that terrible situation.

When Hob takes Dream home he puts him straight on bed-rest (after a nice long bath of course) and makes Dream promise to rest and recover. Hob will do EVERYTHING for him. Cooking, cleaning, bathing, he'll take care of his omega as much as possible. Its important for the twins but it's mostly important for Dream - he's been worked too hard and he still has so much to go through with pregnancy, labour, nursing. Hob wants to pamper him until he's at the peak of health. Dream has never been treated like this before. He keeps trying to sneak out of bed to help, and then Hob has to carry him back and cuddle him until he dozes off. Eventually Dream begins to get used to being spoiled. And resting is nice when his belly gets so big.

All in all Dream becomes a very happy omega, and his and Hob’s pups are the most loved and cherished in the whole world. Dream is so glad that he baby-trapper his alpha. And Hob is, too!

#AAA anon #the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw omegaverse #cw mpreg

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ihatecoconut · 1 year

Text

Lucy in the sky with Diamonds [Chapter 7]

Also on ao3!

Delirium pops back up a few days later, orange hair with one side shaved off but grown out enough to be fuzzy. It’s a Monday, so the New Inn is closed for the day and Hob is just doing some (admittedly unnecessary) handy work.

“Hi.”

“Hello. You’re back.”

Delirium nods and then, in a slightly more secretive tone, “Dream doesn’t know.”

Hob laughs, pulling himself out from under the sink and dusting off the dirt that he’s gotten himself covered in. “Yeah, he seemed a little upset last time.”

“Protective.” She supplies.

Hob frowns, confused.

“We’re not supposed to hold onto you for too long,” she explains, swinging her legs back and forth, “otherwise Dream gets mad.”

Hob leans on the bar as he processes this. “The reason I have such a high metabolism when it comes to drugs and alcohol is because… you’re scared of your brother?”

“Not scared.”

“But you… don’t want to make him mad.”

Delirium shrugs. “Death says he won’t admit—” she cuts herself off. “Nothing.”

Hob waits to see if she’s going to change her mind, and she focuses on the slightly dent in the wood of the bar. “OK. Maybe don’t imply that he wants to kiss me though? I think it made him uncomfortable.”

“Why?”

“Because he left quite soon after.” He swallows down on the part of himself that’s been in love with his stranger for longer than he could ever count, prevents the painful rejection from overtaking him and ignores any fantasies of them living a happy life together.

Delirium hums.

“And, I mean…” he pauses, gathering up the tools, “no offence, but it came from you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, I mean, the idea that he might love me back is one of my delusions, right?”

She doesn’t say anything for a very long time, almost to the point that Hob is expecting her to be gone when he turns around again – she’s not, still sitting on the bar and her eyes are slightly clearer than normal, like she’s trying very hard to focus.

“Death told him once that ‘You can have your pride, or you can have the joy of close, loving relationships.’ Because he’s bad at that.” The way she mimics a voice he doesn’t know does make him want to laugh, but the random topic change is confusing him too much.

“I am sensing a ‘but’ here.” Hob tells her.

She shrugs. “You too. You hide too much of yourself from everyone.”

“To protect myself.”

“He already knows everything.”

“I know that.” The misery at having everything he wants dangled in front of him bites out at her as anger and he immediately feels guilty about it. “Sorry, I just…”

“We’re not just our names.” She tells him, instead of responding to that.

He rubs his forehead and tries to follow the threads of a conversation that keeps jumping around, “Oh?”

“We’re also the opposite, so Despair is also hope and Death is also life and Dream is also reality, you know?”

When he looks up, she’s watching him closely, waiting for him to understand something. He isn’t quite sure what, but the next question seems obvious.

“What’s your opposite?”

“It used to be sadness, very simple, and it kind of still is but now it’s actually truth.”

Hob rubs very hard at the bridge of his nose. “So you are also Truth?”

She shrugs. “Or lucidity.”

He looks back up at her, the focused look in her eyes is starting to slip away again, but he thinks he understands what she means.

“You can’t see what people want?”

“Dream can. And Desire.”

He shelves that thought hurriedly before it distracts him. “But you can see… truth? And delusions?”

“Mmhm.”

“Just my truth?”

“Truth does not change.” A voice says from behind him.

Hob turns around so fast that he nearly hits his head on the same sink he had been failing to fix. “Dream.”

Dream nods at him in acknowledgement, but his attention is focused on Delirium. “Sister, you seem tired.”

The lucidity has completely gone from her eyes now, and her irises look a little like kaleidoscopes, which Hob decides is probably not a good thing to focus on.

“Tired.” She repeats.

Dream takes a cautious step towards her. “Is there a truth you need to share?”

“The Book can change.” She replies, vacant and floating a few inches above the bar top. “He can change it.”

And then she’s gone, leaving Hob and Dream alone in the bar with many things to think about – Dream probably more than Hob, considering that he has no idea what the Book is – but instead of voicing any of his questions, Hob looks up into the face of his oldest friend.

“You could kiss me, if you wanted.”

Dream’s expression goes slack with surprise for a few moments, and he kneels down to be at the same level. “If I wanted?”

“Well, I want,” Hob tells him, “and I’m willing to share.”

The tiny smile that he has coveted for centuries makes a reappearance, but Dream does not lean in to kiss him like he hoped.

“You are filthy.”

He looks down at himself and laughs. “Yeah. Kiss me when I’m clea—”

Dream cuts him off with his mouth, leaning forward with so much force that Hob does hit the back of head on the sink, but he doesn’t let Dream pull away, even as he can feel the shape of an apology on his lips.

“This is good too,” he mumbles, sliding a hand round into Dream’s hair – it’s as soft as he always imagined, “you could join me while I clean up?”

This time Dream does pull away. His pupils have expanded to show galaxies within them and Hob is fascinated.

“I would like that. Very much.”

“OK.” He can’t stop smiling. “Never done it in a shower before, but I’m willing to try anything once.”

#sandman #the sandman netflix #sandman comics #the sandman #delirium of the endless #delirium sandman #dream of the endless #dream sandman #hob gadling #hob x morpheus #hob x dream #dreamling #sandman fanfiction

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walk-the-dragon-wing · 2 years

Text

Cut Him Out in Little Stars Pt. 2

Part One

Busy.

That was the only word the Lord of Dreams could think of to describe the tavern.

Busy, far more so than one would expect for early in the afternoon. Though, perhaps it was some sort of day that the mortals liked to gather in a tavern? He didn’t know anymore, nor did he find he cared.

He searched around the bar first, in a casual way. A few glances so it wasn’t obvious that’s what he was doing. The immortal was not among the mortals sitting at the barstool.

He frowned in disappointment. But this development was okay. They’d never met together and sat on bar stools. They’d always sat round a table, right?

So he checked the tables next. The ones by the windows and door, dipped in sunlight like apples in caramel. Gadling was not there either…

That was fine too. They’d never dined at a table in the sun. That had never even been an option, if he was remembering right.

The tables in the back and the corners, he had to be there. So that is where the Dream Lord checked and… That vulnerable flutter started back up.

Sitting in the back corner was just the man the endless had been looking for. Hob Gadling.

He’d changed over the years, blending in with the time Morpheus supposed. His hair, a rich brown, was longer than he remembered it. Now it was the perfect length for getting in the way, or being brushed back into place by someone’s tender fingers. Hob leaned over the table, his eyes intently studying the papers lying every which way across the table. One of his hands, clutching a red marker, scribbled over the pages, one at a time giving them more attention than they deserved. It might have been Morpheus’ imagination (it wasn’t), but he thought he heard the man humming as he worked.

Determined, yet casual and calm and certainly not skipping because that would be most undignified, the Lord of Dreams navigated the tavern’s busy floor to walk over to the table. Then he just stood there and watched, letting his shadow fall across the immortal man as he worked.

Hob’s hair really had gotten long and it took more than a little self control for Morpheus not to reach out and gently tuck it behind the man’s ear, before even saying hello.

It took a moment for the stalked man to feel the creeping sensation of being watched and when he did, he glanced up. His muscles tensed for a fight, if that was necessary. It wasn’t… In the second it took for him to recognize the figure standing above him, the preparedness vanished with a smile.

This smile was one of a kind. It engulfed his entire face in joy. Said joy was blended with an ecstatic excitement reserved for a close friend who visited unexpectedly. The man tapped his wrist as though checking a watch, yet his eyes did not stray for a second from his stranger. “You’re late.”

The Lord of Dreams gave him a small smile. “It seems I owe you an apology.” He sighed, a deep low rumble that might have shaken the earth were he not careful. “I’ve heard it’s impolite to keep one’s friend waiting.”

Hob Gadling smiled even wider (if that can be considered possible). There was a brightness dancing in his eyes, a contagious brightness that even you, dear dreamer, might catch if you’re not careful. Morpheus did his best to avoid this blinding brightness as he gracefully sat down. Upon relaxing back into the chair, he found the brightness bringing a smile to his lips.

“Friend, eh? I’m glad you feel that way.” The unspoken ‘it’s about time!’ lingered in the air behind his words, though Hob would never say as much.

“I do, truly.” The Dream Lord nodded calmly to the unspoken. “I’d like to apologize for how I acted before, as well…” Necessary as those words were to say, he hated the way they sounded. “So tell me, Hob Gadling, what have you done this last century?”

Hob shrugged his shoulders. Of course he noted the change of subject, but after last time, he decided not to fight it. Something his mystical friend would have to thank him for later.

The immortal man gestured at the papers strewn across the table, offering the Dream Lord to take a look. The papers appeared to be tests, history tests to be precise.

“I bought an inn!” Hob smiled with his teeth, something strangely not threatening on his face. “Became a history professor too. Imagine it, me a professor!” He laughed. “It’s all so amazing. And moving so fast! You wouldn’t believe all the crazy new stuff invented, even in just the last twenty years!” He took a deep breath, calming his excitement and lowering his voice. He’d gotten loud enough to draw some curious looks. “So, my friend, what happened to you?”

Morpheus smiled at him, the patient smile one would give to a child who wasn’t understanding something obvious. Accompanying this smile was a small shake of his head. “That is not how this works.”

“You know, friends share things.” The mock hurt in his tone cleverly masked the real hurt he still carried with him. The Dream Lord wanted to ignore it. He couldn’t meet Hob’s eyes. Instead he looked around the tavern, remembering again that there were other people there. So many people, all with their own unique dreams, ones he knew nothing about. He’d been gone for so long…

That was besides the point, something new to be added to his list of things he didn’t dare dwell on. His current problem, did friends share things? He didn’t know.

Across from him, Hob sighed impatiently. “Fine then.” He slid out of the booth, drawing Morpheus’ attention fully back on him and his every move. “I did more than just buy this lovely place for us. I figured out who you are: My Lord of Dreams…”

Hob bowed low to the ground, a bow reminiscent of a different age. The Dream Lord fought back a bubbling laughter. So his little immortal thought he was clever, did he? “How did you-”

Gadling held a finger to Morpheus’ lips for silence, drawing blush from the endless and eyes that lingered on the finger as it pulled away. “I know more than that, my friend. I know why you’re late. And it’s not out of pettiness, like I first believed. I know what happened. Who…” Hob’s smile twisted with rage into a frown. “...captured you.”

Both endless and man were dragged down into the depth of memories, tied together by a memory they shared in fact. In a meeting long passed, Morpheus had uttered something similar. ‘But you can be hurt or captured.’ The irony of the repetition was lost on both of them (though not us, dear dreamer).

The Lord of Dreams couldn’t swim away from memory’s current, couldn’t help but remember the cage. His cage… With the memories flooding his mind, an involuntary shudder shot through his body. He looked away again, not able to meet his friend’s eyes, not when they were so close and concerned.

“Lord, I’m so sorry about-”

“How dare you pretend to understand?” He looked back, the helpless feelings he so hated replaced with rage. Rage was easier, always easier. “You think I require your apology!?”

Hob flinched, stunned for a moment. But nothing more than a moment. He wasn’t about to lose his friend out in the rain again. “You don’t have to pretend around me.”

The last of Morpheus’ rage, if there was any left to be counted, faded away to reveal the despair and hopelessness that had become his reality. Hob saw it in his companion’s starlight eyes and it gave him a start.

“Then why… If you knew…” The Dream Lord trailed off, too prideful, even now, to finish his thoughts aloud. He didn’t have to.

Hob’s eyes slipped away, finding a place down on the floor. He liked that floor. It was nice, catching him whenever he tripped. He’d thrown up on it in drunken fits a few more times than he cared to count, but still, he did like it. Wooden, pretty, almost shiny where it wasn’t scuffed. “I didn’t find out till recently.”

He looked up from the floor, but not to return his eyes to Morpheus’. Instead, he turned his attention to the pocket of his jeans. He reached one hand inside the pocket and pulled out a crumpled newspaper clipping. It was fairly recent, dated only a few days or so before. Hob carefully set it on the table as the Dream Lord leaned in to take a closer look.

The paper contained an article. Just one, with only words and no pictures. It was fairly unremarkable, really. Not even an interesting or engaging read. It was clearly sensationalized, with talk of demons and cults and the likes. You, dear dreamer, being the clever consumer of media you are, would not believe any of the article to be true. You’d have no reason to keep such a piece of fiction in your pocket like a priceless love letter. But that’s exactly what Hob had done… How curious.

The title of the article read as follows: “Alex Burgess sleeps as many victims wake, coincidence?”

It went on to explain the mysterious sleepy sickness and who the Burgess family were in their days of glory (rich, powerful and the founders of a cult). The most interesting part of the article was a paragraph dedicated to a strange eyewitness account about the family. The witness, who’d chosen to remain anonymous for obvious reasons, claimed they had seen the devil trapped in the Burgess’ basement. And, as if the article wasn’t outrageous enough, it tried to connect the devil in the basement to the sleepy sickness and the Burgess family’s wealth/long lives!

Clearly the journalist had been on some serious drug when they concocted this story.

Yet, one had to wonder, if any of it was to be believed, where had the devil in the basement gone? Was it still trapped down there? Or… Had it finally escaped? He had, hadn’t he?

“I knew something had happened. Even you know better than to stand someone up like that, especially after a century plagued with such destruction… I had some theories, but… By the time I had read this and knew for sure, it was too late.”

For all intents and purposes, the Lord of Dreams wasn’t listening. He was studying the tattered paper, giving it every drop of his focus. If his eyes had grown a little more watery than usual, it was from how intently he was staring, nothing else.

“Lord? Are you alright?” Hob misread the unshed tears for those of sadness, a mistake any common man would make. But the Lord of Dreams wasn’t sad. Not about this. He’d put the past behind, where it belonged. Right? “Lord-”

“It’s Dream,” his annoyance shared with a soft sigh. He could not have his only friend addressing him like one of his subjects would.

“What is?

Dream shot him a glare. He wasn’t about to repeat himself.

So Hob was forced to puzzle through it. And, like the good clever human he was, he was going to figure it out. “Wait…” Excitement surpassed his worry, his smile returning full force. “Blimey… Dream?”

Morpheus nodded reluctantly.

“Dream!” Hob ran a hand through his hair as he rolled the name around his tongue. “Of course it’s Dream. My stranger’s name is Dream! And you’re telling me after all these centuries, Dream?”

“It is but one of my many titles,” he replied with a scowl, his eyes narrowing to little slits. He didn’t say anything else, for what response could he give that would counter such a disarming smile?

And wow, was that smile disarming. Hob’s smile was always bright, but this one was next level. It was so bright, he might have been the sun. You, dear dreamer, would not have been able to tell the difference. Dream, with all his power, could barely tell the difference. How he wanted, oh yes he truly wanted, for Hob to be the sun (his sun). For the immortal to become the light in the dark night sky that was the King of Nightmares. He wanted the smile, the hope, the…

…the dreams.

“Dream?” the immortal asked him.

“Hob?” he whispered back, unsure if his talking would break the spell and turn the sun back into a man.

“It seems I’m at a disadvantage again.” Talking hadn’t broken the spell. In fact, it blended the sun and the man into the magnificent entity that was Hob Gadling. The same man Dream had kept at arms length for centuries for fear of getting burned. For fear of being hurt again, of having his heart “captured” by this immortal…

“Oh?” Dream raised an eyebrow, begging Hob to continue.

“Well… You see. I…” Hob grew flustered, his words mumbled shyly together. He shook his head and started again. “You know my dreams, don’t you?”

A subtle, wary nod. Where was the immortal going with this?

“I don’t know yours.”

To this, the nod became a gentle shake as Dream’s expression grew ever more stormy. “I…”

Hob stepped closer. He was almost too close now, leaving the Dream Lord with a creeping feeling of being trapped. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Not again, right? He was with Hob, who was safe to him. Hob’s movement, if noticed by anyone else, would have been clocked as protective, not threatening.

Protective or not, Hob had a personality Dream preferred at a distance. A smile so infectious it almost made Dream want to smile back, to smile away his gloom and tears.

But Hob wasn’t smiling. Not anymore. He had a look of growing concern. It filled the endless with dread.

“What is it, Gadling?”

“Do you… Do you not have dreams? Everyone has dreams.”

Oh yes, Dream of the endless, the Lord of Dreams, very well knew that. It was the exact reason why he didn’t have time to dream.

“Dream…”

“What?” he snapped back.

Hob sighed and when he spoke again, it sounded as though the weight of the world rested on his conscience. That makes two of them. “All things must dream. Even you.”

The Dream Lord found his lips twisting into a snarl. “Really? And on what authority do you, a human, have to tell the King of Dreams this?”

A shrug that infuriated the endless. “I guess I don’t have any authority. It’s just a suggestion for a friend. How… How do you not dream, Dream? It’s literally your name. Did they take your dreams from you while…” And he stopped, realizing what he’d started talking about. He knew it wasn’t his place to force Dream to talk about it, not till the endless was ready.

“You dare…”

“Don’t. Not again, please,” Hob warned, reaching out a hand to stop Dream should he try to leave. He quickly retracted the hand, not liking the fearful look that had crossed the endless’ face. “Look, I’m just trying to understand you.”

The Lord of Dreams exhaled angrily, shoving away his desire to storm away in an equally angry huff.

“Please. Help me to understand.”

So he did.

“Immortality.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“That’s what they wanted. Power over Death.” He laughed without humor. “They got me instead.”

Hob’s eyes went all melty, his fingers twitching as he kept them from reaching out to comfort the endless. “I’m sorry.”

“They took my tools, bound my powers and left me to rot in a cage for over a century.”

“I’m sorry.”

“All the while they begged me to give them gifts that are not mine to give…”

“I’m sorry, Dream-”

“He killed my raven. In front of me, while I could do nothing but watch… My Jessamy…” On display behind the glass, he had cried for her like no one was watching. His tears had dripped down his cheeks, mirroring the path her blood made down the glass. They’d been hot as they tumbled down, endless as his torment seemed to be. And there had been only regret for Jessamy, she was under his care and shouldn’t have had to die. He still hadn’t had a chance to bury or grieve for her properly…

He cried for her again, now. Tears fell slowly at first, gentle as rain from a blackened sky. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine the clouds outside tremble and darken in response (they certainly did in the dreaming). The lights in the room seemed to get just a little dimmer. The air just a little less cheery, a little less friendly. The Dream Lord reigned his emotions back in before it could get any worse, though he was too late to stop the tears from being noticed.

One of Hob’s hands reached up and tenderly brushed away a few stray tears. When Dream didn’t smite him for this, Hob caught all the rest of the tears in his fingers and swept them away with gentle care.

“That’s… You’re one of the first to touch me since my imprisonment…” Dream laughed, again lacking the humor so necessary for a laugh. His next words came out as a choke. “Maybe I am lonely, huh?”

Hob’s hand pulled back and he stared at the endless in blind shock. Had he admitted what he thought he had?

“Fuck… Dream…” The immortal pulled him into a hug. Arms carefully wrapped around his slightly trembling shoulders. Fingers running tenderly up his back and through his hair. Head nestled in his shoulder like it belonged there. It did, didn’t it?

Dream was too shocked to imagine pulling away. So he pulled the man closer, letting his desperation for such reassuring touch show.

“Dream… I’m so sorry. I should have done this sooner.”

There was no stopping the emotions now, no stopping the tears and the thunderstorm that began to pound outside. Mortals rushed in fear to the windows, but the two stayed in each other’s arms. Sadness, despair, regret… All Dream’s festering wounds laid bare across his skin. It was all too much, always too much. So many dreams and nightmares flashing through his mind. He could not handle it all, not along with his own traumas.

He let out an undignified whimper, to which the immortal responded by pulling him closer still. “You’re safe now. I promise you, Dream, I won’t let anyone else hurt you. Take a deep breath and let it out. You’re safe.”

Dream did as the immortal commended, taking a deep breath in and exhaling his fears out. Then he did it again. And again. All the while Hob drew reassuring circles into his back and he felt safer then he’d ever been in the immortal’s arms.

Gradually, the raging storm outside quieted down to a little dreary pitter patter. The confused mortals returned to their seats in confused wonder.

“Thank you, Hob.”

“Don’t mention it.” There was a sigh in his ear, like a little breath taken as one falls asleep. “Actually, this is what I dreamed you’d do for me, after the first world war. The second one too, really…”

“I should have been there for you…” Dream mumbled back, guilt bubbling up inside of him. He took a few deep to coax it all back down. Hob waited till he had before he responded.

“No shoulds there.You’re here now. We’re here now. In fact…” Hob sighed again. Then he chuckled softly. “Dream, I’ve dreamed of getting to hold you since the moment we met…”

“I know…” Another whisper as he tugged Hob closer and tighter. New tears began to sparkle down his cheeks, landing to fall on Hob’s shoulder, as he realized that this was what he’d been missing. This is what he’d refused to imagine was possible all these years. No, all these centuries.

“Right. Of course you do.” Hob sounded equal parts bitter and awed. “My stranger is apparently the King of fucking Dreams.”

Responding to his name, Dream nodded into the immortal’s neck. There were others watching them, their eyes having returned from fearfully gazing out the window. The eyes belonged to mortals, sure, but they were watching just the same. Yet, for once, the endless didn’t think about them. He didn’t care. For once, he let himself be comforted by another, by the immortal. He let the pain thrashing about inside him doom his eyes to tears. Let himself melt into the safety and comfort of another’s arms.

“Hob…”

“Yes, Dream?” The use of his name, so tender on Hob’s lips and utterly unlike when it came from his captors, gave Dream a bit of a start. Perhaps he should have told the immortal his name sooner.

“It was a mistake, leaving you in eighteen eighty nine.”

Hob chuckled weakly, echoing back, “I know.”

Together they stayed, comforted by each other and close as they had always wished to be. Centuries of the universe plotting for their happiness finally blossoming into something beautiful.

Around him, his dreams became so potent they filled the air. Like an early morning fog, they surrounded Dream in swirls of power. Though he did not examine them too closely, he could feel their desire and love, a feeling good as rays of sunshine on his skin (maybe Hob really was the sun?). He wanted to take those dreams, to trace them out across his skin. He wanted to paint them in the sky so that Hob should see them and know they were his own.

More than that, Dream wanted to take the dreams and blend them with his own. He wanted to take them and use them as guides for how he should dream.

For why shouldn’t the Lord of Dreams be allowed to have dreams of his own?

Why shouldn’t he dream?

- - -

Do you wish me to continue this tale? Do you plead? Beg? Perhaps even threaten me for more?

Regardless, I answer no. Sadly, dear dreamer, you must be left to wonder if this is truly the end of our story. You must wonder if the star crossed lovers (pardon my Shakespeare) can truly stand the test of time.

Though you wish I could just tell you, wish we could invade the Dream King’s privacy for just a bit longer, no. Our time together draws to a close, regardless of wishes and pleas. It is time for you to wake up.

Remember that bed from before? You must imagine it again. Imagine how it exists in your world, the same world you must exist in. I understand it can be hard to return there, to leave this world of limbo, but return you must. Push off those warm covers you’ve snuggled under, stretch your weary limbs and wake up.

You must wake, for all dreams, the good or the bad, come to an end.

#dreamling #hob x dream #heartfelt reunion!#The Sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #Not sure if his emotions can actually control the weather in the waking world #but it made for good imagery #so I guess it works...?

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thenightling · 4 years

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The Dodged Bullet

Warning: This is deliberately bad!

The dodged bullet:

The following is the horrific notion of what would have happened if The CW, Fox, or Syfy adapted Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman instead of Netflix. This is going to poke fun of common tropes of Fox and CW shows. See if you can spot them all.

I am going to deliberately write this very, very badly.

The generically attractive young man in his early-twenties walked toward the crime scene. He wore a long leather jacket, designer sneakers, expensive brand-name jeans, and a stylish and perfectly fitted black polo style shirt under the jacket. It was rumpled but just so as to hint at what a great body he had under it. He had thick, dark brown hair. Brown eyes, a smoldering gaze and a dazzling smile. He’s Caucasian and generically attractive. He’s thin but not rake thin, more like sexy male model thin. He’s got muscle tone.

At the moment he looked stoic, hands resting in his pockets. He crosses the yellow crime scene tape without anyone stopping him. No one questions his presence but he is not invisible. This is “grounded” in reality, folks.

The Sandman solves crimes! The Sandman is a private investigator with a secret. He is a real Sandman! Hidden in his jacket is a leather pouch which will probably get used maybe once or twice an episode (budgetary reasons). And he gets confused by certain social cues and pop culture references but otherwise he’s just a generic hot guy.

He’s probably portrayed by a Tom Mison type. He might be American. There’s an English accent but it’s so slight (so hidden by Americanisms) that it’s almost undetectable. He approaches the pretty, ninety-pound, college age female detective with perfect, blond hair. She looks up at him.

“Hey, Murphy.” She says in a friendly tone. Yes, Murphy is his alias. She thinks he’s just eccentric and thinks he’s The Sandman but he gets results!

“Detective Walker.” He smiled with obvious affection. He crushes on her, pines for her. But she mustn’t ever know the truth. It is forbidden for one of his kind to be with a mortal. Even if she is a Vortex. And her great power may one day destroy the world… or save it! That’s the real reason he was here, to watch her. He had never expected to fall in love with her…

The show has almost no scenes in The Dreaming and when there are it’s about 90% CG over green screen, like the Enchanted Forest sets of Once Upon a Time, or the under-whelming Hell of Lucifer. There’s probably a throne room with a starry night sky behind it, and an under-whelming “vast” library on par with Belle’s library in Once Upon a Time that will be shown very rarely.

“We’ve got another one.” She said gravely. “Eyes torn out. Pretty girl. Whoever this creep is- this predator must be stopped!” The implication here is the victims are all damsels who have been targeted by an evil man targeting them for misogynistic reasons. But don’t worry! The show is totally not sexist! Detective Rose Walker kicks ass! And in season four she’ll be raising her own long-lost little brother! Even though it’ll take her at least five seasons to learn Murphy’s secret (if she ever does).

“I thought the ‘me too’ movement would have at least reduced some of this.” She said with a shake of her head in disappointment at the world.

The line of dialogue doesn’t actually really make sense under easy scrutiny. Why would “Me too” actually make a serial killer reconsider his life choices? Oh, well, the audience doesn’t have enough time to question it.

“Me too?” The adorable, awkward, pretty “Murphy” questions.

“Boy! Where have you been? In a cave?” “Actually I was trapped inside a prison cell for a hundred and five years and before that I resided in another dimension.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not this again. Tell me you can at least figure something out with your ‘Dream powers’” she said cynically. He might have been insane and socially inept but he got results!

Morpheus knelt down next to the body and placed his hands on the corpse. There isn’t even any SFX for this. He’s just sensing something. He grunts in a sexy portrayal of sexy CW level pain.

“What? What is it?”

“I think I know who did this…”

“Who?”

“Corinthian…”

(Opening credits here. Maybe the opening riff of Enter Sandman by Metallica. No, wait, Fox and CW can’t afford that. It’s Mr. Sandman by the Charlottes! It kills the mood but everyone knows the song. You’ll be sick of it by episode five if you weren’t already. And it will get a LOT of use since the song is cheap / practically public domain.)

The next scene is not present day. It’s a flashback. And by flashback I mean a hastily put together set in Vancouver Canada. It’s probably someone’s private stables being passed off as a medieval village. No, wait. Its eighteenth century. There’s a sexy other character wearing slightly anachronistic style sunglasses hiding his eyes (No CG here, the production team figures the glasses are enough). In fact his eyes might not even be weird at all. He just likes sunglasses! There, that’s better, no wasted money here. He’s wearing a badly fitted white wig over white hair.

“My king,” the sunglassed man says with a bow. We have to be blunt for our easily distracted audience, so there’s the reminder that this is the dream king. “Thank you for letting me accompany you to the waking world. There are such delicious things here.”

“Yes, the food is rather pleasant.” Morpheus replies. His costume is decently fitted but obviously borrowed from another show, possibly a left over from Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Those props and some period costumes still get use. Isn’t Morpheus adorably oblivious, though?

Morpheus is wearing a dark blue frock coat and lace. His trousers are exceptionally tight to show off the actor’s perfect ass.

The Corinthian’s costume is cream colored. There was a behind the scenes fight and as small victory for the one crew member who actually read Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman in getting the cream outfit. Others working on the show wanted the costume to be black to make it more obvious he was the bad guy.

An attractive, tall, black man (probably American), under the age of thirty, is behind Morpheus. This is his loyal manservant, Lucien. But it’s totally not racist making the dreaming librarian / butler black when the show hasn’t had any black characters yet. No, it’s inclusive!

The attractive black man speaks. “My Lord, I think he intends to do harm to the mortals here.”

“Nonsense, Lucien. I’m certain it’s fine.”

The Corinthian wandered away from his master and he soon drags off attractive young female into an alley, hand over her mouth. No, The Corinthian isn’t gay anymore in this version. But it’s okay. Hob Gadling, Morpheus’ immortal friend (who now runs a bar for some reason) is gay! He’s very gay. In fact that’s the extent of his entire personality. But isn’t this diverse and inclusive?! And there’s no more problematic gay nightmare, even though in the original comics The Corinthian gets uncreated and the second Corinthian is a relatively decent guy for a nightmare.

After some persuasion Morpheus finally listens to Lucien and walks down into the alley. He stops in his tracks when he sees The Corinthian has killed the girl and his licking his fingers, having obviously already eaten her eyeballs (gotta keep that TV-14 rating!) He lets out a gasp. “Corinthian, what have you done?”

We cut back to present day and “Murphy” is walking into the bar owned by his friend, Hob Gadling . Hob sees him and smiles. “Murph, oh, honey, you look like Hell! Come sit down and tell me all about it. You know I love juicy gossip.” He says in a naisly, lisping voice.

Imagine this scene was written by some very straight guy whose only exposure to gay people were 1990s Will and Grace reruns.

Hob places a shot glass in front of Morpheus and Morpheus downs it quickly. “Have you seen Matthew?”

Matthew was Morpheus’ straight human friend and roommate. He had learned Morpheus’ secret in the pilot episode when Morpheus rescued him from a car accident using his dream magick. Ha! And you thought we’d have talking birds in this thing. Lol! No! Grounded, remember?

“Matt? Oh, sweetie, you can do better than him. I keep telling you, he’s just not your type.”

Morpheus raises an eyebrow but says nothing about the implication about his sexual identity. There will be a LOT of queer baiting on this show without confirmation in regard to his sexuality.

“I need to talk to him. One of my nightmares is loose in the city.” You can tell this was written by a New Yorker because they take for granted “The City” to mean New York.

“One of your Nightmares? Why couldn’t it be one of those sexy wet dreams?” Get it? Because if the character’s gay he has to always be horny!!! Ha-freakin’ –ha.

(Please know I don’t actually feel this way. I’m mocking bad TV writing. This whole thing is a spoof.)

There’s an awkward pause intended for the viewers to laugh.

“I don’t believe any water nymphs have escaped The Dream dimension.” Morpheus replied in confusion.

He calls it The Dream Dimension in the show because “The Dreaming” didn’t sound hip enough according to some executive.

“I’m afraid it’s The Corinthian. So now I have two problems.”

Hob nodded sympathetically. “The detective you might have to kill…”

“And now this.” This is an idiot proofed recap for people turning on the show late or just watching it in passing while doing other things or playing on their phone. CW does this sort of in-story forced, shoe-horned exposition all the time.

The episode plays out a little bit like an episode of Lucifer mashed into an episode of True Blood.

While they’re trying to find the killer, Detective Rose Walker meets Murphy’s roommate, Matthew, and the two hit it off while chatting about Murphy’s weirdness. They decide to start to date. As Morpheus has feelings for Rose that he won’t admit to this causes a strain between him and Matthew Raven (There’s that bird reference! What? That should be Lucien’s last name? Naw!) And between him and Rose Walker.

Morpheus lashes out rather than admit to what he is truly angry at and he and Matthew argue over something petty and this leads to recovering alcoholic Matthew to start drinking again as sad music begins to play.

Morpheus eventually finds The Corinthian and is forced to destroy him. He had to kill his own creation so he is kneeling in angst crying prettily while the sand left over from the uncreation slides through his fingers. Some new female cover of Queen’s Who Wants to live Forever? Is playing in the background. The original version is “too old” and too expensive for use. So here’s a very generic sounding cover done in a style that makes it blend in with every other pop song played during the forty five minute mark of a CW show’s run time (including commercial breaks).

The song plays as we cut to Matthew drinking alone sexily in an alley. He’s sweaty and wet, but he just looks like a wet fashion model. Morpheus is sexy crying over the sand that was the Corinthian, and Rose going to sleep prettily in her bed, no bed head here. Oh, and she sleeps in perfect makeup! There’s no scene where she even remotely looks like she’s out of makeup.

She’s having strange dreams but they look pretty mundane. Like real-world mundane. It’s her living room set that we probably saw a few minutes ago, just dimmer lighting and some haze to make it clear this is a dream. Because even with a show about The Dream Lord, dreams have to have an old fashioned camera fringe haze. Murphy is there with his back to her. He looks sad. He turns to look at her and she gasps. She sees a star (lense flare) from Murphy’s eyes in the dream as he looks at her in surprise like he wasn’t expecting her to see him. She wakes up with a gasp, and everyone in her apartment building also wakes up at the same time, signifying that their dreams were connected.

And so ends what was probably the third episode of CW (or Fox’s) The Sandman.

And that is pretty much how CW or Fox would have done The Sandman.

#The Sandman fan fiction #The Dodged Bullet

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downeystarkjr · 6 years

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The Swan and The Ghost chapter 6

Emma Swan was never one to believe in ghosts or in any superstitions of the kind. However, her beliefs are soon to be tested when she moves into the beautiful yet mysterious Jewel Cottage. The manor known to be the home haunted by Captain Killian Jones.

The story can also be read on AO3 here

(This is one of the two stories I was working on for the Captain Swan Big Bang - it’s still a WIP but I have quite a few chapters complete that I really wanted to share)

Other chapters found here: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Chapter 6

The new inhabitant of the house jumped, the colour draining from her face. She hadn’t expected to get a response. This time, Emma couldn’t deny what she heard. What was she supposed to say to him? The ghost who she now lived with. Who Mr Gold tried to warn her about? “Well then uh…if you’re quite finished, I hope you won’t interfere again while I boil the pan of milk,” Emma tried to hide the nervousness in her voice, using the flashlight to make sure she could see what she was doing when trying to light the hob.

Thankfully the Captain gave Emma the chance to put the milk on a low heat, only for her to get the greatest shock she had experienced during her short time in Jewel Cottage so far. There, standing a small distance from her, by the kitchen table, was the figure of a man. Captain Killian Jones. Emma, surprisingly, found herself compelled and with a nervous gulp, she stepped closer to the apparition, holding the flashlight up at him and was met by his ocean blue gaze. He wasn’t quite what Emma imagined a ghost to look like. She never thought he would look quite so dashing – the portrait Emma found during her first visit to the house didn’t do the Captain justice.

“Well?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, doing his best to hide the smirk creeping up on his expression. The Captain was well aware of the handsomeness he possessed, even as a ghost. It was at his simple questioning remark that Emma realised she had yet to say something in reaction to seeing the ghost. “Just bear with me… I need to take a moment to get accustomed to the fact there’s an actual ghost in my kitchen…You're Captain Jones?” she finally replied, recognising the man from his portrait.

“Aye.” Captain Jones nodded, meeting Emma’s gaze. “And on the contrary, the canine isn’t going anywhere. This is his home and where he belongs.” He added, with a gesture to the ground.

The American furrowed her eyebrows and glanced down to see the shaggy-haired dog now sat by the ghost, wagging his tail happily as if Captain Jones was his owner. “Are you saying he’s yours? I’m sorry, but I’m not going to keep a dog just because a ghost told me to. This is my home.”

Captain Jones chose not to make a remark about Jewel Cottage being her home. No one had the right to call it that but him and he did a wonderful job of keeping people away for years. Until the stubborn Miss Swan had to insist on moving in. “Where the bloody hell is he going to go? A man is entitled to having a pet as a companion. Only a heartless soul or a…coward, could send an innocent animal away. What harm could he possibly do?” Quite frankly, Captain Jones found that the animals he thought of as his pets over the years as a ghost were far better company than humans.

“I'm sorry I called you a coward,” Emma recognised the ghost’s words were a direct reference to how she insulted him earlier. “Until tonight, I refused to believe you even existed... Anyway…uh…It must have been embarrassing to you.”

“Pray tell, why love?” The latter part of Emma’s reply confused the Captain, and he quirked an eyebrow. She noticed his puzzled expression.

“Well, I mean because of the way you died,” Emma thought it was obvious and shrugged, still trying to come to terms with how she was talking to a ghost.

“The way I died, my lady?” Captain Jones was clearly still as puzzled as before. Which only made Emma feel awkward, she didn’t want to make the situation even more uncomfortable by mentioning the Captain’s rumoured suicide.

“I…well…I mean because you committed suicide,” she reluctantly explained, looking away from the ghost’s alluring blue eyes. However, Emma didn’t expect him to refute her claim. She prided herself on having a superpower to tell when someone was lying to her. There was something about Captain Jones’ following reply that made her consider that the rumour regarding his death was incorrect.

“What made you think I committed suicide?” he scoffed at the very thought of taking his own life.

“But Mr. Gold, the vendor, he said— “Emma began in her defence and glanced back up to face the Captain. Seeing his neutral expression change to one akin to frustration at the mention of Mr Gold.

“Gold is an imbecile, just like his predecessors,” Captain Jones uttered beneath his breath with a roll of his eyes. He held disdain for Gold’s ancestral family and hated how the present Mr Gold of Storybrooke was put in charge of selling Jewel Cottage, the Captain’s pride and joy. Captain Jones was not intending on telling a woman he just met the truth behind his death. It was nothing to do with her.

“I went to sleep in front of that confounded gas heater in my bedroom...my foot kicked the gas on while I slept. There was a storm brewing outside and I did what any sensible person would do and went to close the window before falling asleep. You’d have done the same wouldn’t you love?”

This time Emma suspected the ghost was lying to her. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said quietly, wondering how she could get the truth out of the captain. For now, she stayed quiet to allow him to continue.

“The inquest settled on a decision that I took my own life because my blasted housekeeper testified that I always slept with the windows kept open. How the devil should she know how I slept?” the ghost went on, rather impressed by the tale he had concocted to fool Emma. The true events of his death couldn’t have been any further from the tale he spun.

“Oh, I'm so glad,” Emma didn’t fully trust the man’s story but she was glad that he didn’t commit suicide. Her words brought about a perplexed look on Captain Jones’ face that made Emma attempt to stifle a laugh.

“You do have a strange sense of humour, Swan,” Captain Jones shook his head. In all his years, alive and as a ghost, he was yet to meet anyone quite like the newcomer to his home.

“I meant that I’m relieved you didn't commit suicide...” Emma was quick to correct, she didn’t want to offend him any more than she already head. However, a thought then crossed her mind. There must have been a reason why Captain Jones existed as a spirit. “But if you didn't, why do you haunt this house?”

“Because I have plans for Jewel Cottage that don't include strangers barging in and making themselves at home, in my house,” that was partly true. The Captain didn’t want anyone else to live in his manor – taking over what was rightfully his. Even if he had been dead for a long time.

Emma gave the ghost a disapproving glare. “Then you really were trying to scare me out of here?”

“You call that trying?” The Captain chuckled as if Emma was joking. “I was barely getting started. No, that was enough for most of the others. They didn't want any part of it, and ran out from fear,” he laughed, but saw that Emma didn’t seem to be very impressed. “But in your case, I'm prepared to admit I charted the course with regret,” The Captain confessed honestly and gave Emma a flirtatious smirk. A personality trait of his that not even being a ghost could erase. “You're quite a beautiful woman Swan, you know... Especially when you're asleep,” he winked.

Emma gasped in realisation, the memory of what she thought was a dream returning to her. She thought she recognised the Captain’s voice from somewhere. “So that was you in my room this afternoon?”

“My room, love.”

“I thought I'd dreamed it,” Emma didn’t bother to reply to the Captain’s correction. “While I slept… I swore the window was opened, did you do that to frighten me?”

“I opened the window because I didn't want another accident with the blasted gas. It was very foolish of you to have not opened it,” he countered in a sterner tone.

However, Emma was always the headstrong type. “You, of all people, should not have brought that up,” she didn’t hesitate to confront the ghost and subtly get him to come out with the truth about his death. Or in the very least get him to imply he had lied to her.

“That’s bad form Swan,” the Captain figured out what Emma was up to. How he died was his personal tale and he was sticking to the one he explained to her.

“Sorry,” she mumbled and looked down to the phone in her hand. “If you’re talking about bad form, you could at least – “she started, referring to the lights in the kitchen that the Captain switched on before Emma could complete her sentence. “Thanks, I guess.” She bit her lip and looked back the Captain.

“Well, what's the matter now?”

“I just wanted to see if you were really there,” Emma said and turned off the flashlight on her phone.

“Of course I'm really here...” The Captain found it rather annoying whenever people referred to him as ‘The Ghost’. Before taking the form of an apparition, he had lived quite the eventful life. “I'll continue to be here when you've packed up and gone.” He smirked with confidence.

Emma did not let Mr Gold or her parents talk her out of moving to Storybrooke and into Jewel Cottage. She most definitely was not going to be put off by a ghost. “If you had intentions for this house, you should have said so in your will.”

“Lady Swan, I advise you to have caution. You don’t know anything about the matter, so let’s leave it at that,” the Captain warned, becoming increasingly annoyed. “And if you continue to live here, you have to be careful not to pry about things that don’t concern you love.”

“What?” Emma was about to argue with Killian further before taking in what the ghost actually said to her. “If I continue to live here...?” she asked as if seeking confirmation. “Do you honestly mean it? That I can stay?” she queried again, her expression lighting up. Emma must have been the one of the few people that the Captain allowed to stay in his house. Or perhaps, the only person.

“Well…” he cleared his throat. “You may stay. But on trial,” the Captain agreed but stepped back when Emma was about to hug him. “Keep your distance, Swan. I had no intention of making you happy. I merely want to do what's best for the house and I can see that you love it, not as much as I do, but you do love it.”

“So… I guess now that you know Jewel Cottage is in the right hands., you’ll stop haunting and leave us alone?” Emma suggested, but the ghost clearly had other ideas.

Captain Jones disregarded Emma’s question with a laugh and folded his arms. Why would he leave just because a woman wanted him out of the way? “I’m not going anywhere. Why don’t we make a bargain? Leave me bedroom as it is... and I'll promise not to go into any other room in the house if you ever have guests?” he offered with the air of a gentleman about him.

“But hang on, if you keep the best bedroom, where would I sleep?” Emma stepped back, not liking where the conversation was going. Especially after the Captain’s following response.

“Why, in the best bedroom of course,” he shrugged like it was nothing to be bothered about.

“But...”

“Bloody hell Swan!” he exclaimed, more amused than angered. “If it hasn’t dawned on you, I'm a ghost. I have no body. I haven't had one for years...is that clear?”

“But wait, how can I see you?” The blonde mentioned, this was never how she or anyone else imagined ghosts to look like. “I can’t look straight through you and there’s nothing eerie about you. If you don’t mind me saying so?”

“Oh love, you really have confused fact with fiction,” he chuckled softly, leaning on the edge of the kitchen table. “Ghosts don’t look like spirits from a Dickens novel, take it from me, I am a ghost. Anyway…don’t make me regret my decision Swan, prove to me I’m not making a mistake by being a fool to trust a helpless woman in my house.”

“I'm not helpless,” Emma frowned, it was now her turn to take offence. It didn’t help seeing Captain Jones smirking at her.

“If you're so confoundedly competent... you'll notice your milk's about to boil over.” The Captain made a gesture to the saucepan on the lit stove and chuckled when Emma rushed over to tend to the hot milk.

“You shouldn’t have distracted me Captain.”

“Well, you can be forgiven, I do have that effect on women,” Captain Jones did enjoy flirting with women. He saw no shame in flirting with the woman who was going to be living with him at his home. Needless to say, he was disappointed when Emma just rolled her eyes while pouring the milk into a mug.

“Oh, one thing more,” the Captain thought it best to change the subject. “I want my painting hung in the bedroom... the one you saw on your first day here.” Despite Emma not knowing it, the moment she found the portrait was the first time she saw his ghost. He had to admit, Captain Jones thought Emma was rather interesting from her initial visit with the way she refused to get scared off.

“Must I?” The woman cringed, still working on her hot beverage by stirring cocoa powder into the mug. “I mean, it doesn't do you justice and-“yet again, the ghost took it upon himself to interrupt her mid-sentence.

“Oh I know, it’s a challenge to capture all my charm in a portrait,” he wasn’t able to resist the flirtation and saw his efforts were working, what with the blush that crept up on her cheeks. “Besides, it's my painting. I didn't invite your criticism. I make that part of the bargain. I want you to put it there now, tonight,” Captain Jones decided, refusing to take no for an answer.

“It doesn’t seem like I have a choice,” Emma chose to compromise with reluctance as she brought the mug of hot chocolate and cinnamon to the table. “Since we’re going to be living together…not in that way…” she stammered, figuring it was a sensitive topic to mention ‘living’. “You know what I mean… you probably already know my name is Emma, but what do I address you as? Captain Jones is a little too formal don’t you think?”

“Aye,” the Captain didn’t put up an argument against the American. “Don’t worry Swan, Killian will do.”

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valdesfraost · 7 years

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Heal the Womb…. with a Yoni Steam?!

Every now and then I pick up a product I’m not sure I should write about. I’m all for alternative therapies when there is evidence-based fact to back them up (even if it is the placebo effect. If it works, who cares how?!) but when is little or no substantiating evidence to back something up, I always err on the side of caution.

And so on to today’s subject of Yoni Steams…

I picked up my Heal the Womb sample at the last CAM Expo ever. To be fair, it was attached to some very interesting literature about fertility massage therapy and Womb Awareness Week (who knew!) On reading this I learnt a few interesting facts:

the womb is approximately 3 inches long, 2 inches broad and 1 inch thick.

the womb can double in weight during menstruation (from 1-2oz to 2-4oz) putting pressure on any organs the womb rests against.

On a more serious note, it is estimated that 80-90% of us women have a misaligned womb, and there are several potential culprits including high heels, poor seating posture, weak core muscles and running, aerobics and weight lifting in the pre-menstrual phase. I was shocked to read this, so all ladies who go to the gym avoid heavy lifting three days before and during your period.

I was also shocked to read that pain, although common, is not a normal part of menstruation. I tend to have a constant ache during periods, and although not intense it is tiresome! For me I’ve found getting as much magnesium as possible into my body really helps (as well as eating magnesium-rich foods, injecting, bathing and oral supplements – any way I can get it!) and this month I was taking Essential Woman by Barlean’s and my period woes were lessened to an extent, though I’m not sure if it was down to this product or the perfect timing of my magnesium shot.

The bizarre practice of Yoni Steams came to light in recent times through dear old Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop, but has been practised for thousands of years in Eastern medicine. That said, there are precisely zero clinical studies to back up this ritual, and plenty of doctors saying negative things about vaginal steaming. I did however find a medical doctor, a gynaecologist no less, saying more positive things about the procedure and how you should listen to your body. You can read more here but I would like to thank Lissa Rankin MD for speaking out against the rest of the noise and I am ordering your book to have more of a read!

I’m not going to harp on about the health benefits or dangers of yoni steams, because I can’t tell you what is medical fact or fiction, but I am going to tell you about my experience. Someone who went in very dismissive of the whole event and came out more open to it all. First up, many health experts and non-health experts have said that a vaginal steam could be dangerous to your lady bits; causing disruption to your flora and the like. But hold on a minute…. we have saunas, we have steam rooms, we have jacuzzis, why not the concern about these? Sit with your legs open in a naked sauna (how uncouth!) and what have you got?

Heal the Womb Yoni Steam Herbs

I think one of the reasons I was put off partaking in the v steam for so long was the fact I had been reading the name printed on pack: “heal the womb” as “heal thy womb”. I was thinking this pack sounded a bit up its own ass, never mind getting up in my vee-jay-jay! But one night recently, possibly because I have moved to the countryside and Mr BB was out (and there’s not all that much to do in the countryside- I love it!) I took the plunge and put the pan of herbs on the stove to boil.

I have an electric hob now, and had a bit of an accident – you just don’t have the same control as gas! So excuse the mess but admire the action shot of the water bubbling!

The herbs you see boiling up inside are Lavender, Chamomile, Yarrow, Jasmine , Marigold, Rosemary, Rose, Mistletoe & Lemon-Balm.

I hopped over to the website and this is the description I found:

“The energy of this blend focuses on fertility, love, purification, healing and unlocking a closed root chakra. Helping to connect to spirit, encourage prophetic dreams & assist with those wishing to connect and bond to their future babies.

The energy of herbs connects to the 4 elements; Air, Fir, Water & Earth, the Masculine & Feminine energy, the Sun, Moon & Venus and Goddess Isis.”

Hmmm…

After boiling up the herbs I decided the easiest way would be to use an old bowl in a small insulated cardboard box and stick it in the toilet bowl, one of the recommended ways online. There are quite a few “DIY ottoman” projects online for the experience but I ain’t got time for that, my herbs are already boiled and steeped! A few comments online had me thinking that the steam would be incredibly hot, potentially posing a health threat to my lady bits.

The eventuality is that the vaginal steam was nowhere near as intense as a facial steam is for me. The warmth is comforting (don’t worry, Mr BB was only away for one evening, I’m not so lonely in the sticks that I’m seeking comfort in a yoni steam) and there is certainly some sweating going on down there (am I just stating the obvious here or what?!) but the heat is never unbearable or even close to it.

As for the aftereffects… I was not expecting to feel any different post treatment, certainly not any closer to my future baby, and I didn’t initially notice anything at all. But the heat and steam obviously brought more blood flow to the area, and with more blood flow comes more feeling, and completely anecdotally, I have more feeling down there than before. And even anecdotally, that’s got to be a good thing, right?!

If you’ve made it to the end of this 1000+ word blog, you deserve a bonus! And here it is, I found this video whilst researching yoni steams. You’re welcome!

Heal the Womb…. with a Yoni Steam?! published first on http://www.biteablebeauty.com

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