#robyn gadlen

[fishfingersandscarves]

thinking about eleanor and robyn

#my art #fishfingersandscarves #the sandman #the sandman netflix #hob gadling #robert gadling #doodle #cries about them forever #eleanor gadlen #robyn gadlen

[scifrey]

you requested more Keepsakes prompts, and I have to say, I LOVE the way you write Eleanor. perhaps some little scene from her married life with Hob? general domestic bliss? or something less blissful, like getting into their first bad argument and figuring out how to deal with it?

alternatively, Hob and Morpheus go on holiday and Morph is very bad at taking vacations...

xo @hardly-an-escape

Oooooooooh. What an excellent prompt. Thank you!

Keepsakes: A Kissing Bough

Fandom: The Sandman Series: Hob Adherent Series Rating: Slightly Spicy. Please curate your experience accordingly. Pairing: Hob/Eleanor

Hob and his wife have been charged with finishing the decorations before Christmas Morning and the start of the Twelvetide celebrations.

Eleanor's parents call her 'Nell' at home. It is a common enough diminutive for Eleanor, as common as 'Hob' had been in the mid 1400s, when it seemed that every Robert he met went by it.

The problem is, Hob didn't know that was her nickname. They'd been married eleven months, and he'd been calling her 'El' the whole time.

But how was he to know? The Giffords only ever called her Eleanor in public, and called him the full 'Sir Gadlen' or, 'my son-in-law', even after his marrying into the family.

No friendly "Robert-my-boy!"s from Master Gifford as Hob had secretly hoped for, as his own father had once chortled while thumping him playfully on the shoulder. The man still resented Hob for his lack of old-family connections, for all that he'd mellowed toward Hob after seeing how seriously Hob took his duties as Husband and Father. And where Master Gifford led, his wife dutifully, dolefully followed. 

Not even a nice cordial "Robb dear" from Mistress Gifford in all those months.

So it is quite a surprise when, after the elder Mistress Gifford's after-supper lamp had finally burned down, and she declares her old eyes too weary to continue her needlework by firelight alone, she calls Eleanor 'Nell'.

Her husband had gone straight to bed after their meager supper, grumbling heartily about the privations of the Advent fast and how a morning of eggy pies and the Twelvetide feasts could not come fast enough.

With no husband to chivvy along before her, Mistress Gifford rises from her stately chair by the hearth in the Great Hall, and bestows each of the three Gadlens arrayed on the piled furs on the floor before it a fond kiss on the forehead. One to Hob, who helps steady her with a gentle hand on her elbow as she stoops, her own hand on his shoulder, to offer the kindness. Then one for her daughter, sat opposite him. And the last to her grandson, dozing with all the abandon of a small creature who knows that it is utterly safe and utterly loved, in his moses basket beside Hob's knee.

 As she kisses them, she murmurs, "Happy Christmas Robb, Nell, my wee little Redbreast."

"Nell?" Hob asks, as soon as his mother-in-law has creaked her way out of the room. "Why have you not told me you are called Nell?"

"It is grim," she pouts. "It sounds very much like knell , wouldn't you say?" This is accompanied by a theatrical shudder that makes her bosom jiggle, and so burns its way into Hob's memories for that alone. "Death knell."

"Ah, never mind that. Death's a mug's game," Hob says, and cups her fire-warmed cheeks in his palms to bestow his own kisses on his wife. "I'm never going to die, so you shall never need ring out for me." Eleanor giggles as he digs his fingers into her hips for leverage, and scoots her closer to him, so he can bury his face against the pleasing softness of her neck. "Though you may keen in other ways for me, should you like."

"Hob!" El laughs. "Pray, do not leave a mark , we have to sit at the top table with my father in the morn—"

He had promised El that he would tell her his secret when they'd been married forty years, but here, sitting by the fire in the Great Hall, surrounded by warmth and plenty, the proof of his devotion to this life wheezing out the sweetest little snores a babe could make, he was tempted to break that oath and confess all.

There was something about the Twelvetide that encouraged confession, even now as a Protestant celebration, without a confessional to be had in a Catholic church.

"Enough," El gasps at length, pink-cheeked and panting prettily. "We have work to do, and if you wake Robyn I will be very cross with you."

The elder Giffords had left their daughter and son-in-law, with their youthful energy, to finish the kissing boughs before Christmas morning. It was well on midnight now, the feeble light from the rush-tapers dwindling and the fire in the big stone hearth beginning to fade to nothing but toasty-red coal. It was just the right sort of fire for toast.

Hob says as much.

"It is always one appetite or another with you," El huffs with a roll of her eyes, but rises. "I shall go to the kitchen, but I will share not a morsel with you when I return if these last boughs are not woven when I return. And do not throw the remaining greenery into the fire to make it look like you finished, Robert Gadlen," she scolds, catching him thinking that very thing. "There are to be twelve Crowns of Green, and I know how to count."

Hob plucks the hem of her skirt off the furs, and brings it to his lips for a revenant kiss. "As my Queen commands." 

She frees herself with a smirk and an imperious tug, and sways away to the kitchen.

"There, Robyn my lad," Hob says to his son, who has opened his dark eyes just long enough to take in the spectacle of Hob's oath. "That is how you keep your wife happy. Learn the art from me, my fine wee apprentice, and you will make of me a very indulgent and biddable grandfather in no time at all."

Robyn smacks his lips, clearly unimpressed with his father's training, and returns to sleep.

Hob is in the process of tying off the ribbons of the final garland when El returns with a napkin bundle consisting of a fresh bottle of wine, an old loaf of bread, and a tiny pot of new butter. 

Hob prefers old butter, likes the tangy burst of salt on his tongue, and his darling wife knows this. As such, she has also nicked one of the leftover bundles of sea salt that are meant to be gifts for her father's servants at his annual St. Stephan's feast, so Hob can powder his toast as he likes.

This is what love is, he muses, as he cuts them slices of bread with his belt-knife, and El retrieves the toasting forks from their hook by the hearth. Old bread, and stolen salt, a sneaky taste of butter before the advent fast is officially over, and a babe sleeping with his little milk-pout mouth gaping open like a little boor.

As Hob threads the bread onto the fork tines, and holds them carefully over the coals, El busies herself by tidying up the leftover sprigs of greenery. Bringing the winter growth indoors to remind the world that no winter lasts forever, that life persists and waited under the snow even now, is a tradition older than Hob himself.

He's seen Twelvetide traditions come and go, but this one persists, as immutable and comforting as knowing that in a year ending with eighty-nine, Hob's Stranger will be waiting for him.

It is nice to be younger than something.

El bundles her posy of leftover holly and mistletoe, finishing it with a crimson-red ribbon, then stands and dangles it over his head to coax a kiss out of Hob. He leans back against her legs, tips his chin up obligingly, and lets her fold down to meet him.

"If you continue to distract me, I will burn the toast, dearest wife," Hob murmurs into her mouth.

"That would be a waste," El agrees. She releases Hob to his duties, but does not relinquish the posy.

They eat toast, and brush away the crumbs and butter grease on the napkin, and share the bottle of wine between them, and laugh, and whisper in hushed voices. El holds the posy over the moses basket, and they kiss Robyn's fat cheeks. She dangles it over her head, and Hob kisses her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the dear swell of her chin. She loops the ribbon on his belt, and takes him in her mouth. When he has come to his pleasure with his fist jammed in his own mouth to prevent waking the baby, he hooks the posy on her belt and breaks his fast in the cool darkness before the dawn.

In all, they have quite a splendid Christmas morning indeed.

Like her mother before her, El chivvies her boys up to bed before the night grows too light. Robyn wakes long enough to whimper for his own break of fast, and Hob cuddles El up between his legs on the bed so he can hook his chin over her shoulder and watch Robyn's eyelashes flutter as he drinks his fill.

Morning will come soon enough.

The Christmas cake would be served to mark the official end of Advent, Hob's father-in-law would get his eggy pie, and they would all go to church so Eleanor could show off her new son to her old parish. The days of the Saints would be filled with acts of charity, feasting, dancing and delight. Someone would find the Bean in the Bread and be named the Lord of Misrule, and they would play silly games, and drink too much, and wrestle, and jest, and sing. On the Twelveth Night, Hob would gift his wife with the handsome leather-bound notation book he'd commissioned for her, a place for her to record her favorite composition. To Robyn, who was too young to know what presents and Twelvetide were, he would gift a handsome toy duck he'd spent the Advent carving. It had slappy leather feet attached to little wheels with hobnails, which clattered and flapped when one towed it along on a string.

And then the decorations will be removed from the house in order to preserve the good luck accrued through the Twelvetide, and the Gadlens would bid the Giffords a Happy New Year, and tromp home to their estate on the unfashionable south bank. Hob would review the profits for the year with Mr. Fletcher, his steward, and visit his warehouses with a gift of ale and an afternoon's leisure for his dockworkers, and come Candlemas, he'd join his groundsmen in rolling up their sleeves and readying the fields to feed the estate anew on Plough Monday.

But for now, Hob will keep his peace.

Christmas is not a time for such a confession as the one that teased at him.

"Dearest Nell," he says. "Darling Nell. My sweet call to ruination."

"No, no, you brute, stop calling me that," she gasps as he wriggled the three of them down into a comfortable nest of feathered pillows and thick wool blankets.

"My ruin?" Hob asks, mouth resting against her nape as Robyn stretched and unlatched, offering his fist to his father now that his tummy is full and he is ready to be spoiled in other ways.

Eleanor rolls over to hand the baby to Hob to wind.

"That name, you wretched, wretched man," she complains, burying herself into his side as he pats Robyn's bottom obligingly. "Call me Nell again and I shall really make you regret it."

"If that is your command, my queen, my wife, my Eleanor." He kisses her crown, her forehead, her shoulder with each oath. "Sweet El."

He expects her to reply to him with haughty teasing, but when she does not, he shifts Robyn out of the way to look at her face. She is already asleep.

"You see, my wee lad?" Hob whispers to his son. "That is how it is done."

Robyn spits up on his shoulder to show his appreciation for the lesson.

#j.m. frey #losyark #hob gadling #lord morpheus #eleanor gadlen #sir robert gadlen #robyn gadlen #dreamling #the sandman #sandman #fanfic #sandman fanfic #centennial husbands #centennial boyfriends #cling fast #cling fast adjecent #the hob adherent series #hob adherent #keepsakes #fic prompts #I am so overwhelmed by the love for this series

[immacaria]

Fluffbruary: February 6 - Trust

Tags: Fluff; A wild appearance of Robyn and Orpheus; Humans AU; College Professor AU; Parent Trap AU; Yes, Robyn and Orpheus are trying to get their dads together; Mediaeval History Professor Hob; Psychology Professor Dream; I’m using my very limited experience on this, be kind; Crack

Please ignore that I am three days late for this one and enjoy Robyn and Orpheus trying to make their dads date. Also, this is for @firemandeanbuck just so you can see that I still write fluff, it just takes longer than the angst.

  "Walk, walk, walk, old man," Robyn says behind Hob, pushing him out of the movie theatre with all the force he had. He has been doing this since he was a kid, pushing or pulling Hob with all the force he had in his little, puny arms.

  Doesn't mean he is letting his son win any time soon anyway.

  "Hey, hey, now, young man, who do you think you are talking with?" Hob says, leaning back against him and bracketing his feet.

  "Would you trust me this once, Dad? We are going to lose the freaking cab!" Robyn has turned around, his shoulder replacing his hands as he tries to make him move. "Old man, move!" With all his force, Robyn pushes him and Hob starts to laugh, loud and clear as he stumbles ahead.

  The people getting out of the theatre look at them out the side eyes, but Hob doesn't care. His boy is rolling his eyes at him, the smile on his face too much like Eleanor's and his heart is full. Robyn has grown up so much since her death, changed so much and it's so good to see him smiling like this, open and wide, happy.

  "I love you, Robyn, you are my pride and joy," he says, his hand coming up to Robyn's cheek.

  "Thank you, Dad," he says, voice soft and gentle and Hob knows he knows it's true.

  Ever since Eleanor's death, Hob did everything he could, possible and impossible, to make sure Robyn knew he was loved. All the time he could find, he passed with him. School meetings, doctor appointments, all the hobbies.

  He tried to do everything he could for his little boy, letting the grief appear only when he was alone. Their kitchen had hidden his tears one too many times until he learned how to live with the hole in chest. Robin, thankfully, turned well, maybe a little bit too much like him but Hob thinks Eleanor would have liked that.

  Robyn is in college now, English classics like his mother. He is living at the dormitory, despite their  house being only three hours away and Hob going almost every day there because of his classes. Almost every day they see each other at lunch, just to talk or sit together.

  "This address, please," Robyn says to the driver, showing the address on his phone the moment they got into the cab.

  "Why don't you say the address, boy? Where are you taking me?" Hob says, leaning against the door and lifting an eyebrow.

  "It's a surprise, Dad," Robyn says, sitting back down and rolling his eyes at him. Grey eyes stare back at him, one more thing he inherited from his mother, and Hob makes a face at him, pulling his upper lip up and scrounging his nose. A laugh bursts out of both of them when Robyn does the same face, crossing his eyes and shaking his head to the sides.

  People tend to say, when they see both of them together, that they do not look like father-son, but rather two friends. Not only because Robyn looks more like Eleanor than like him, but because they apparently joke too much together to truly be father and son. Hob particularly finds that bullshit, it's not because they joke together that there isn't respect between them.

  The only one to understand that has been Robyn's roommate's father, Morpheus. Like him, he is a teacher at the college the boys study, one of the big names of the Psychology department. The first time they met was an accident. Robin and him were lunching together when he saw his roommate from far away and called him to sit with them. Morpheus appeared along with him.

  After that, there were few occasions when they found each other again. Once when Hob was running from one lecture to another and found the man in the hallway, looking utterly lost, he had to stop to help him. Needless to say that he was late for his second lecture. There was another time where they found each other, but none of them were lost this time.

  He liked Morpheus. For the few times they talked, he seemed like a decent guy who loved his son more than anything in this world. More than that, the man was beautiful as fuck, the type to inspire tells and stories about his beauty and eyes.

  "How is Auntie Pru?" Robyn says beside him, taking him out of his thoughts.

  "Prudence is alright, I think. Didn't see her much this week," Hob shrugs, turning to him. "And you? What have you and Orpheus been up to?"

  "Nothing much, studying, planning, plotting. Why didn't you see Auntie Pru these last days? She found a boyfriend?" He asks, both eyebrows up and staring at him with shining eyes.

  "That I know of, no, I was just too busy with classes," and thinking about it now, most of his week was spent either in class or talking with Morpheus. "Why do you ask?"

  "Oh, look we are here!"

  Behind him, the facade of one of the most expensive restaurants in London shines right into Hob's face. There are couples coming in and out, families standing at the side while they wait for the valet to bring their car. All of them are wearing designer clothes, some of which he is sure would cost a year of his salary.

  This is not a place they usually go and certainly not one he inured Robyn to frequent. So, why the fuck are they here?

  "Err, Robyn? What are we doing here?" He asks as his son climbs out of the car and pays the driver, waving goodbye to him.

  "C'mon, Dad, it's a surprise! Trust me on this one!" Robyn says and waves for him to get out of the car.

  "Everytime you say that, I get more and more afraid of what you are doing," he is shaking his head, trying to decipher what the hell is his son doing when he hears a voice that gives him goosebumps down his spine.

  "Afraid of your own son, Professor Gadling?"

  "Of his machinations," he says, looking up to see Morpheus standing between Orpheus and Robyn. His hair is as wild as ever, but his clothes seem more soft and casual than Hob has ever seen him using before.

  Orpheus is smiling beside him, waving to him, and Hob feels his eyebrows furrow. There is something wrong here, but he can't point out exactly what it is. He just knows there is something wrong.

  "What a coincidence, right, Dad?" Robyn says and Hob squints his eyes at him.

  "Yeah, what a coincidence..." he says through his teeth and turns to Morpheus. "What are you doing here?"

  "I could ask you the same thing," Morpheus retorts, a smirk on his face, as he helps him out of the car.

  "Oh, then the two of them can have dinner with us! We just arrived," Orpheus says, hands deep on his pocket, and turns to Morpheus with a smile on his face. By the look on Morpheus' face, he is finding this just as strange as Hob.

  "If you two are hungry, we wouldn't mind," He says slowly, still looking at him.

  "Amazing!" Robyn says and then promptly wraps his arm around Orpheus and turns to the restaurant. They watch as the two of them walk in the restaurant talking with the woman at the front - God, Hob doesn't even know what he should call her - and point to them, saying some thing more and nodding before finally disappearing inside.

  "What do you think they are doing?" Hob asks, still watching the restaurant in front of them warily.

  "I do not know, but it does seem like they are trying hard to make us spend some time together,"

  "Should we tell them that we are seeing each other?" Morpheus shrugs by his side before shaking his head.

  "No, let's see how far they can go with this." And after a beat, he adds. "Do you want to have dinner with me?"

  "Oh yes!" Hob nods and then follows him up to the restaurant.

  Let the kids figure out what they want. They have their own plans.

#my writing #macca writes #fluffbruary #fluffbruary 2023 #dreamling #dream of the endless #orpheus sandman #hob gadling #robyn gadling #robyn gadlen #dreamling nation #dean this is for you #i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed yours #you are amazing dean #you are simply amazing

[avelera]

LINK

Chapters: 6/? Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless & Hob Gadling Characters: Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, Lucien | Lucienne (The Sandman), Death of the Endless, Robyn Gadling

In 1689, Hob Gadling and Dream meet once more, after Hob has lost everything. That night, their meeting goes on longer than expected when the conversation turns to what it means to live, to lose, and to be the fathers of dead sons. Unable to bear the thought of sending a man who so echoes Dream's own grief back into the night alone, Dream breaks his own rule and invites Hob to stay with him for a time, at least until he can get back on his feet.

The story of two grief-stricken, divorced, and widowed fathers to sons they lost too young truly seeing one another and there, at their lowest point, doing their best to put themselves and each other back together.

Thank you so much @thornfield13713 and @pellaaearien for the beta work! And thank you @mandolinearts for the gorgeous banner!

--

Ch. 6 is up! Not gonna lie, this is the first time in a WHILE when I made myself sob with my own damn story so... enjoy?

#the sandman #dreamling #hob gadling #robyn gadling #robyn gadlen #dream of the endless #hobmurphy #dream x hob #1689 fic #my writing

[quecksilvereyes]

songbird.

Sir Robert Gadlen is a brute and a cheat, and you have, in common tongue and common mouth, always been too beautiful by half to be his son. His hands are calloused where they hold you, and his hair is ever coarse. There is laughter in his throat most days, too loud and too sharp to be anything but a dog's bark, and his table is never clean.

Fine damask, finer silk, golden thread and silvered claws, a dog is still a dog no matter how you dress it. The teeth will not be filed, not by sugar nor decadene or courtly love. The muscle will not melt, not in heat nor years or little boys with scraped knees and hands made of cashmere. The claws do not dull, and the fur, groomed on iron-soaked fields and steel shavings, does not change its colour.

It is still brown, shorter by the throat than is fashionable, longer by the hind limbs than is decent, a coat made for scrapping. A dog, says the girl with the dark eyes and the pearl-stitched cap who once made of her palms an offering for your mouth to drink from. A mutt, says the steward, when your mother has retired and your father has taken the bow from the wall, hands twitching.

Mouth laughing.

Too much money, says one of the kitchen girls, red-aproned; red-mouthed, not enough sense. Her eyes are bright things, and her freckles stretch from the bloom of her forehead to the spread of her shoulders. Red-dotted, red-chested.

Your teeth are dull. Your hair is fine and soft with oils, the roof of your mouth is glutted on sugar. In the turning of your hands lies a childhood cushioned with care, and in the curling of your mouth lies a bird's song. In the flush of your skin lies your mother's legacy - a splotched blush, a spread of moles.

Little bird, says your father, his mouth pressed to the crown of your head. Little bird, flap your wings. His beard is wiry - sharp - and his voice is rough. His hands, callouses and all, are soft, soft things. Close your eyes. Laugh with him.

-

Lady Eleanor Gadlen is a marvel and a beauty, and you have, in truth and sleepless nights, always been too hot-headed to be her son. The parlour is never locked, no guest is turned away. There is ever ale in the pantry and soup on the stoves, and when asked for hospitality, the lady laughs and offers. She is, by grace of her husband, gold-capped and finely embroidered, cherished and warmed by the hearth lit in the dog's maw. She is, in spite of her husband, a noble thing, swan-delicate and fair as the first spring day of a cold year.

In the evenings, she curls into the roughness of Sir Gadlen like a homecoming, and drinks from his mouth his ever-present laughter. Hob, she says. Dearling. Into the undoing of her cap and the spill of the fine hair you both share, she does not flinch from claws or rough palms.

When she has warmed herself by the fire until the heat drips from her fingertips, she runs them through your curls. You rest your head against her chest, the beat of her steadfast heart. One-and-two.

Too good for him, says the girl, and the pearls drop from her cap into your parched mouth. When she smiles, they dissolve on your lips. A shame, says the steward into the frantic rush of the working kitchen, when your mother has donned her good riding boots in pursuit of your restless, chainless father.

She could have had her pick, says the courtier whose name is the same as the five men who have come to lament before him. Well-bred, and comely as she is, she might have had something pedigreed, instead. Your knuckles are wet and swollen by morning, and the courtier's throat is thick with bites only dull teeth can press into pompous skin.

The Lady Eleanor's smile is dimpled at the edges, and her hands are fine-boned and soft in the way of a woman who has never known labour. When she takes her dog to church, she talks with the parish after the service has ended, swaying skirts and sunlit eyes. Gifts smiles as easy as bread. Sir Gadlen lets her.

Lets her write and hunt and pick. Lets her collar and leash him. Laughing mouth, crow's feet around his eyes.

Your chest is bruised. Your lip is split. Your dull teeth have long since learned how to mine for copper in the depths of gossipping mouths. Your nails are short and bend where they grow, but your fingers are strong and your tongue is vicious.

Little songbird, says your mother, red-chested and crowing, will you sing a song of loving?

-

Come on. Open your beak and sweetly sing. With your ribs in bloom and your mother's soft hands wrapped around a dagger's end, with your father's brutishness in a sick boy's throat:

The wooden planks underneath you have had their fill of your blood. Soon, they will swell beyond a nail's grasp and leave stumbling blocks in their wake. The boy between your teeth makes a sound as a wounded, rabid thing does when it is trapped - thin wire and white-foamed mouth.

Let me go, he says. Let me up.

His hands are soft where they touch yours, trembling knuckles and sharp, sick steel. Your palms are all torn by now and every breath is a rattle. Drag him down, little songbird, and drink the foam from his lips. His mouth is a flood of ale and bile. His skin is cracked with salt.

Is this not a homecoming?

#the sandman #hob gadling #eleanor gadling #eleanor gadlen #robyn gadling #robyn gadlen #the sandman fanfic #the sandman fanfiction #the sandman 2022 #hello welcome to larissa rambles while sick and feverish #robyn reflects on his parents #and himself #in which eleanor took one look at hob and said i want this one please #and hob proceeded to buy her the moon and stars #parent child relationship #death tw #canonical character death #fun fact young robins dont have red chests #so uhhhhhh heres how robyn got his red chest

[tired0artist]

| robyn gadling - the sandman |

a quick redraw of (my sorta OC) robyn gadling from the dreamling fanfic “the moon will sing a song for me”. it’s basically a what if robyn died within the dreaming and morpheus allowed him to stay. although in this piece he’s still alive and in the human realm, i might do another one about how he looks in the dreaming. the fic is on hold but i do plan on coming back to it in the near future <3

open for close up!

#the sandman #the sandman netflix #robyn gadling #robyn gadlen #hob gadling #lord morpheus #dreamling #dreamling fanfic #dream x hob #based on fanfic

[questing-wulfstan]

It's implied in the show that Hob got dispossessed of his portrait of Eleanor and Robyn at some point between "being drowned as a witch and getting out with his skin and little more" and "things getting worse and worse and ... worse". But he explicitly states in the comic that he had to pawn her portrait some 50 years before their 1689 meeting, and that he doesn't remember what she looked like anymore and that is honestly exponentially more devastating

#the sandman #hob gadling #eleanor gadlen #robyn gadlen #the sandman comic #LISTEN #Hob loved his Eleanor and little Robyn so much #and he was so proud when he showed their portrait to Morpheus in 1589 !! #and I've explained in that one meta post how significant it is for his relationship with Morpheus that he lost his son so young #and so close to the loss of his wife too #but it doesn't mean that it doesn't HURT *sobs on the floor* #we got Dreamling but at what cost ?? #it's late and I'm getting ridiculously emotional over fictional characters awesome

[kittynannygaming]

[The Sandman] Tous les chemins mènent à Hob

Original Post

I’ve posted a prompt, not too long ago (see the link above) and @entropy-mephit​ and I began to answer back and forth, creating a mini-story.

So here is the deal. I’ll post the text here and if you want to add to it, you’re welcome to do it. I would prefer you add your text to the other post to keep this one as a fic (I’ll add your part as soon as possible) and its comments. If you have any question, please let me know!

I'll probably post it on AO3 so if you contribute to the story and have an AO3 account, let me know so I can.

Now, let’s enjoy the story!

What if Fawney Rig, property of Roderick Burgess & before him of Lady Johanna Constantine, was at the beginning the property of Sir Robert Gadlen aka Hob Gadling? What if Dream after escaping Alex, find Eleanor & Robyn mausoleum? (Original Prompt)

Dream is standing frozen, staring at the portrait of people he tried to not watch too closely (because he promised Hob to not interfere) but he still couldn't forget from back then when he expected the tragedy to finally break that man. He never could quite banish them from memory. And now he stood by the resting place of mortal remains, and his mind has drifted to what was left of his own son, and grief pinned him in place.

He had no intention of lingering but his mind was in tumult, made even worse by how frayed his connection has became. There was only his own grief, unable to dissolve into millions of unconscious minds across galaxies.

And then there was one, just single but connected to same thread of grief, looking at something so similar to the portrait that had caught him into the memory in the first place.

Pain shared, echoing, but finally Dream could feel, at least for short moment, he was not alone.

Instead of the Dreaming, he went to his friend instead.

Reaching trough dreams, path forged out of longing, the guidance turns out surprisingly gentle. Dream barely registers jagged edges of broken fantasies he passes trough, carried by current of patient anticipation.

To visit Hob was not fully conscious decision, but Dream is of subconscious more than anyone in Waking. It just felt right, to drift along and let himself visit.

Dream appears near the New Inn, he has barely any strength to conjure some clothes and, unconsciously appears as he has been beaten. Hob appears in his vision range and he calls for him. Hob turns his head, saw him and run to him. Dream is barely conscious when Hob carries him (bridal style) through the New Inn entrance.

Dream relaxes into soothing aura of the place, shining with stories and daydreams and he drinks in the ambience. Feeling just a little stronger for it.

Some people are sleeping nearby and he could just slip away into dreaming through their minds, but arms around him are too comfortable. There is voice he can't focus on. Saying something to him as he is brought to new room.

Dream smiles, letting himself file in changes in familiar man.

Such devotion, from the man whose he rejected the offer of friendship in quite a spectacular and dramatic way. He had time to think, time to regret. Dream was laid on the soft surface of a couch, moaning quietly when the warm embrace disappeared. A blanket took the place of strong arms and it smell so much of Hob that Dream wanted to get lost in it.

Then there was warmth and wetness, with a gentle touch of cloth wiping at his brow. he could vaguely feel a tiny bit of his self, fashioned from Night, come away, clinging to the material. Enough for him to open a single eye and try to perceive as mortal senses would have it.

He saw Hob, leaning over him with worry, reaching to clean his wound. On the cloth there was a smudge from drop of liquid darkness with wayward light of distant memory of a star that wandered into it Half mind present Dream calls the droplet back to himself, hovering it above his finger before he *looks* at Hob. Human is staring at him in wonder, suddenly silent and Dream instantly misses sound of his voice.

And with another impulse Dream spins this droplet of himself solidifying it into tiny orb of crystallised thought. Drops it into his palm and instantly reaches out, still too detached from human language to speak as he offers this little gift.

New wave of worry emanating from Hob washes over Dream like a river, swirling around edges of his physicality with man's attention checking for the wounds and taking account of bruises. There us feeling of fingers clenched tight around the marble just made. The warm blanket shifts. Even warmer hug comes, first tentative, then firm and grounding. Dream hums against Hob, enveloped in care and more affection than he could imagine. Blanket suited for one like himself.

Finally, the Dream gets feeling human enough to figure out words muttered

#KittyNanny Original Post #KittyNanny Original Work #Author: entropy-mephit #Author: kittynannygaming #Multiple Hands Writing #Fanfiction #The Sandman #Caring!Hob #Child Death (Mention) #Gift #Grief #Alex Burgess #Dream of the Endless|Morpheus #Eleanor Gadlen (Mention) #Lady Johanna Constantine #Robert 'Hob' Gadling #Robyn Gadlen (Mention) #Roderick Burgess #Dream of the Endless|Morpheus/Robert 'Hob' Gadling #Dreamling

[gabessquishytum]

Eleanor Gadlen is most certainly not stupid.

She had asked Robert, long before they were wed, in what year he had been born. It was a reasonable enough question for a woman to ask the man she very much intended to marry, and she had been rather surprised by his faltering smile. He had said I don’t remember, and his face had flushed. It was strange to see him lie so openly, but at the time she was too much in love to let it bother her. After all, he couldn’t be more than 30, and he seemed even younger than that. Eleanor herself was 25 at the time, and ready to be married. The matter passed from her mind as their betrothal was finally secured and eventually followed by a wedding.

Now, she sits across the fireside from her husband, and observes a face that hasn’t aged. He has grown his beard in accordance with the fashion, and his hair is less wild than it might have been a decade ago. But the face beneath is the very same. His body is no different, still as firm and strong as the night she first saw it.

Robert Gadlen hasn’t aged a day in all of the time that Eleanor has known him. Eleanor’s body has changed meanwhile, shaped by their child and by the passage of 10 years, and she is beginning to wonder why his has not.

He loves her just as ardently as he did on the day they married. Each night he takes her in his arms as though he can’t believe that she is his. His eyes have never strayed toward another woman. He always desires her, sometimes too openly for her modesty to allow. His ways are strange, sometimes. He drifts into long daydreams where he feels unreachable. And yet he always comes back and presses his kind face to Eleanor’s breast in search of comfort.

She wonders, occasionally, as she watches him. He is so human. Clumsy, loud and foolish. No demon has ever tripped over a doorstep and smacked its forehead into the wall in the way that she has seen Robert do, over and over. No witch or familiar has ever held a child in the way that Robert holds their little Robyn.

A fairy prince, then? That seems just as unlikely. She feels herself smile at the mere thought, and Robert catches her eye from the other side of the fire. His smile is just the same.

In her dreams Eleanor sits beside the same black-clad stranger each night. They both watch Robert, together. Eleanor thinks that this stranger must be a friend, because she sees the way he looks at Robert. Wondering, surprised, amused. He, too, is trying to figure out the puzzle.

Sometimes she is sure that her Robert is no more and no less than a man. And that, after all, is why she loves him.

Dream of the Endless, in all of his wisdom, can only agree.

#the sandman #dreamling #hob Gadling #eleanor gadling #dream of the endless #hob x eleanor #dream x hob #sandman meta

[valiantstarlights]

Enlightenment

CW: angst

If there's one thing that Hob's Stranger taught him that night in 1889, it's that he, Hob, has never had a single friend in his entire life.

Oh, he's had fellow mercenaries and comrades-in-arms, a wife and a son, torturers and shipmates and people he'd occasionally fuck, but he doesn't have friends.

And Hob, after a few months of being devastated after his Stranger leaves, finally gets it.

After 500 years, he finally gets it.

He is simply not friend material. That's all.

His fellow mercenaries from 1389 want him with them because he's good with the blade. The people he apprenticed for in the 1400s kept him on because of his good work ethic. The courtiers who flocked to him in court do so because he's polite in his savagery, and it amused them.

His purest relationship had been with the stray cats of London in the 1600s, who sometimes give him dead rats to eat, and who only used him for his warmth during winters.

And then it's back to being used by people again. His fellows in the shipping business like him because he doesn't ask questions and keeps his head down. And in 1889, Hob realizes that his Stranger is also just using him for the stories he tells. Not that he's any good at telling stories either.

Gods, but his Stranger must have been so bored, alone in his godly realm, that he'd stoop to listen to a dumb human go on and on about chimneys.

At least he found Shaxberd interesting.

In fact, why didn't his Stranger make Shaxberd immortal? If he had, the world would have been blessed with so many more wonderful plays. But instead the world gets Hob, who hasn't contributed a single good thing to society, and even took part in making good people suffer a lifetime in chains.

Hob thought about it, and the only reason he could think of why Shaxberd hadn't been made immortal is simply because he refused. His Stranger must have also offered him the chance to live forever, but unlike Hob, Shaxberd has the good sense to remain mortal, have a normal life, and die when it was time.

And when he refused, his poor Stranger had no choice but to continue meeting with Hob.

If only Hob had even the smallest bit of Shaxberd's storytelling prowess, his Stranger would have treated him better. He would have touched Hob's shoulder and walked close to him as the two of them exit the tavern, their heads bent together, already in deep conversation.

Shaxberd wouldn't have subjected his Stranger to shallow, meaningless talk about how the Queen stayed over.

Hob goes through life like a ghost, those first few weeks after he realized all this.

He would have had friends, he realizes, had he been less himself, whatever it is about him that made people not want to be friends with him.

As it was, he is only a tool for people to use. His skills, his money, his reputation--all of those make him someone worth tolerating. And stripped of it all, he is worth nothing.

Hadn't he learned from the 1600s? Why did it take for his Stranger to walk out on him before he realizes all this?

Then again, Hob has always been incredibly stupid.

His sham of a marriage with Eleanor proved that.

He thought she loved him. Or at least, liked him enough to want to spend the rest of her life with him. But she was using him, too.

She had been pregnant with another man's child when they wed. Hob hadn't known. Not then, anyway. He was too elated with the prospect of being married to a beautiful lady to even count the months when they had been wed to the month when Robyn had been born. No wonder Eleanor said yes to his proposal quickly.

And no one, not even the most gossip-loving servant, told him about their suspicion. What good would that have done? And anyway, they were probably too busy laughing behind his back.

The poor Sir Robert Gadlen. He has everything in the world but the good sense that God gave a turnip.

Hob thinks of all this, collects all the evidence, and eventually reaches an irrefutable conclusion: he is simply just a tool to be used, then quickly discarded after his usefulness expires. There is no redeeming quality about him. He is not smart, interesting, or good enough to be considered anyone's friend. The fact that he even thought he's worth befriending is laughable.

Of course other people would pick anyone else over him. Didn't his Stranger prove that when he left Hob for Shaxberd?

--

A hundred years later and true to his word, his Stranger does not show up.

A hundred years later and Hob finds out from the current barkeep that the place he and his Stranger have been meeting in is going to be torn down and renovated to something better. Something more useful.

'Finally,' Hob thinks. 'It's about damn time.'

The White Horse Tavern, like him, has ceased to be of use.

Hob doesn't even know why he thought to wait. Of course his Stranger wouldn't come back after he walked out on Hob in 1889. Why would he?

Hob is nothing to him.

#dreamling #the sandman #my writing #OP needs a hug because she's not okay 😊 #but she hopes everyone is doing well! 🖤 #the title is from what OP called the day she realized the same thing hob did #OP's own enlightenment day happened 7 years ago #anyway moving on 😊 #the story doesn't end there but OP is too sad rn to edit the rest #sorry 🙇‍♀️ #fic: enlightenment

[littlekatleaf]

Fly down into the endless mysteries

So, what happens when one goes on vacation and instead of checking out Greece ends up checking out the ceiling of the hotel because one is stuck down with The 'vid for the first time ever? One finally finishes the Sandman fic they've been working on for *ahem* ever. Dreamling, with a visit from Desire. @prismaluv - Better late than never? Maybe?

Suddenly the flower Has fire-colored eyes And one of the shadows vanishes. Clearly, now, the flower is a bird. It lifts its head, It lifts the hinges Of its snowy wings, Tossing a moment of light In every direction ~ Mary Oliver, “What is it?”

It’s near enough to last orders when the bell above the pub door rings that Hob almost calls out that they’re finished serving before he looks up and it’s only luck (of some sort, he can’t say good or bad) that stops him. Someone pauses just inside the door, a burning vision of scarlet and gold. Raindrops glitter in their hair and dapple the velvet of their jacket a deeper red and Hob swallows, struck silent. 

An almost-memory teases the edge of his thoughts like a word on the tip of his tongue. Familiarity, though he can’t place why. The sensation is hazy, indistinct, maybe dream rather than memory? A fever dream? For an instant his skin flushes hot. Restlessness burns along his muscles. Longing floods him - for the savor of his father’s venison stew, the curve of Eleanor’s breast under her nightdress, the sparkling notes of Robyn’s laugh, the warm weight of his mother’s arms around him when he was very, very young. Over it all like a watercolor wash a wordless aching to be needed. It clenches his stomach, tightens his chest, snagging the softest parts of him with barbed hooks. Has anyone, ever, honestly needed him, in his particularity? Not for position or role - husband, son, soldier - but his deepest, truest self? If you have to ask… the song on the jukebox echoes his thoughts.

They slide into an open spot at the bar, which seems to have freed up just for them, and give a smile that somehow feels sharp as a knife blade. It cuts; he’s not sure where, but pain slices through him. He resists the urge to retreat, reverts to script. “What’ll you be having?” 

They look at him and their eyes spark amber, feline. “What would you suggest, Robert Gadlen?” Their tone is rich, smooth caramel. He has the unsettling sense they know this isn’t his name. 

“I’d wager you’re one who appreciates the finer things.” His fingers itch to toss back a shot. Or to reach out and touch their cheek, see if their skin is as rosepetal soft as he imagines. Ghost fingers squeeze his heart; yearning shivers through him like the echo of a struck bell. He turns away, ostensibly to pluck a bottle from the line behind him. The Glenmorangie Signet isn’t a whiskey he offers to just anyone, but the liquid is the color of their eyes and tastes as spicy sweet as he imagines their lips would. He pours out a couple drams, striving to ground himself, to focus on the clicking of billiard balls, the murmur of conversation, the movement of breath in his lungs. 

Hob slides the drink across the bar; they reach for it; fingers brush. Feverflush blooms through him again. 

A smirk hovers at the edge of their lips. “Why don’t you join me?” They raise the glass and take a long, slow draught. Hob watches their throat move as they swallow and finds himself wanting to press his lips to the hollow. 

Instead he pours himself a healthy measure of a significantly less expensive whiskey and tosses it back before he can taste it. Even so, he coughs once on the burn. 

“Better?” 

The word implies question, but Hob hears the demand in it and his body responds, muscles going loose. A pleasant blur settles over his senses. He nods and refills the glass. He’s going to need all the help he can get. 

“You don’t want to sit?” Hob could have sworn someone had been beside them just a second ago, but the chair they indicate is empty. 

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. Warning prickles the hair at his nape.  Heedless, he slides into the seat. Sounds muffle and recede, a bubble of privacy encases them. The air is heavy with the sweet scent of summer peaches.

They tilt their head, take in the room at a glance. “You have built an inviting space, Robert. A place for the lonely to find companionship; a home for those who lack one.”

Their unexpected understanding startles a laugh from him. “It’s my aim,” he says, shrugging. 

“You strike me as someone who has seen and experienced much in your years. Doubtless you understand the importance of family.” Layers of meaning in the words and Hob is off kilter, certain he’s missing nuance. After six centuries of practice he usually has a better grasp of a person. 

“I recognized the need in my first year teaching uni. So many students couldn’t go home for hols…” Kids who couldn’t be themselves; kids who had been rejected for who they were, for who they loved. “I couldn’t be what they lost, but I could create a haven, of a sort.”

“Blood kin plunge their dagger in the most secret corner of our hearts.” Their eyes go distant, shadowed with sadness, but only for a moment and they smile again, bright as sun reflecting from glass shards. “Chosen family can be suture and balm,” they add.

Their fingers brush Hob’s, then trail over his inner wrist. A shiver runs through him and he could swear they also shudder, cheekbones and nose suddenly stained with a light flush. Even as Hob notices, they raise a finger and rub their nose once, twice, then sniff delicately.

“It’s what I hope to provide,” Hob says. Don’t stare, he admonishes himself, but can’t seem to look away. 

“Excuse me.” Their voice pitches up, breath catching. They turn, pulling a linen handkerchief from an inner pocket of their jacket, fold it over their nose and mouth and wait. Hob waits too. 

They breathe in, slow, deep, their shoulders hunch and “Ht’chff! T’chh! Hih-t’shhew!” 

“Bless you.” He hopes the words sound more normal than he feels. He’s fairly certain his face has gone redder than theirs. 

They flash a look of gratitude over their still raised handkerchief and hold up a finger, their eyes losing focus again and drifting closed. Hob forces himself to look away; take another drink.  

Then they hitch a sharp breath and his attention snaps back. Their brows crumple and they stifle two sneezes. A third and fourth follow near on top, escaping their hold with small sounds, and the fifth breaches their defenses completely. “Ht’chesshiew!” They shake their head slightly on the exhale. “Pardon me.” Despite the contrite words, their expression is sly, eyes alight with teasing. 

Hob waves away the apology. “No need; are you quite alright?” They don’t know… do they? How could they? He’s told no one in lifetimes. He’s had too much to drink on an empty stomach. Firelight and shadow are playing tricks on his eyes. He’s imagining things.

“I’m afraid I seem to have come down with a chill.” As if to prove their point, their voice rasps over their words and they muffle a cough in their shoulder. In the aftermath, they suddenly look delicate, vulnerable, in need of protection and Hob wishes, somewhat desperately, for a chill of his own to douse the fire that licks along his skin. 

Then, almost as a prayer answered, a hand comes down on his shoulder, cool and steadying. “I believe this establishment is closed.” Dream’s words are frost-rimed, crackling.

“Good evening to you as well, my brother.” The knifeblade smile is back; their eyes flame. “I could be offended you have not yet introduced me to your … companion.”  They tsk tongue against teeth. “After all of these years. Could you be ashamed of something?”

“No.” Dream offers nothing more, arms crossed over his chest, face still as a carving. Even so, Hob can feel the tension in him.

“Why don’t you join us?” The invitation spills from Hob before he considers the wisdom. He really needs to stop doing that with Endless siblings in pubs. He tries to recover with another drink and he can feel Dream’s coming refusal in the set of his jaw.

Before he speaks, though, his sibling cocks a brow and their teeth glint, putting him in mind of a shark. “Yes, why don’t you?” The challenge couldn’t be clearer if they’d dropped a gauntlet on the bar.

Dream slides a chair between them and sits, stiffly. “Why are you here?”

“Come now, can’t a sibling want to meet their dear brother’s paramour? To have a drink and a friendly chat?”

“Delirium? Maybe. Death? Regularly. Even Despair, occasionally. But not you, Desire.”

Hob holds his expression carefully neutral. Desire - well, that explained things then, if their realm followed the pattern of Dream and Death.

They lean back and away, take a sip of their whiskey, and as they cast their gaze down, dampness shines along their lashes. Sadness flickers in the corner of their quirked lips. “Perhaps not me,” they admit with a sniff. “Perhaps I just needed shelter from the storm.”  Lightning flashes through the windows behind them. Thunder cracks and rolls. They shiver and Hob only stops himself from offering his coat at the last moment. They won’t actually need it, will they? 

“You bring the storm with you,” Dream says, giving no quarter.

They cough a mirthless laugh, and it’s followed instantly by a heavy sneeze, belatedly caught in their handkerchief. “I do,” they agree, blowing their nose. “You are not the only one in the family who appreciates melodrama. And I know an appreciative audience when I see them.” They dip their head to Hob, toss back the last of their whiskey and stand. “Relax, brother mine. I merely wished to see who you find more compelling than one I created. And he is, indeed, delicious. When you exhaust his patience with your eternal melancholy, I do hope you’ll send him my way. In the meantime, maybe loosen the stranglehold you have on your reins.” They lean forward, abrupt as a striking snake and press a kiss to Dream’s cheek and they are gone, only the jangle of the bell as the door closes to mark their movement.

In their absence, the pub seems darker, somehow. Colder. The rain on the windows hisses and branches tap the panes. Hob  blinks. “I… didn’t know you have other siblings,” he says, rather bemusedly. It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Dream, seemingly equally nonplussed by their unexpected departure, doesn’t reply. 

Hob takes up the empty glasses, Desire’s stained with candyapple lipstick. He resists the urge to run his finger through the gloss as he slides it into the dishwasher. He wants to ask about Desire, ask what they meant ‘the one I created.’ But before he can figure out how to phrase it, there’s an odd squelching sound. 

He looks up to find Dream hunched forward, shoulders practically to his ears as he pinches another sneeze firmly to near silence. “Bless you?” 

“Th-thank you… ht’Gnxxt!” Neither this one or the several that follow seem to offer any relief. Even in the brief pause between contained explosions, he stays hunched into himself, as though he could hide in the middle of the room. 

Hob’s torn between wanting to offer assistance somehow, and just wanting… He compromises, presses a tissue into the hand hovering lightly curled under Dream’s nose, which has gone an endearing pink, and lets his other hand linger on Dream’s back in comfort. Not to feel the muscles tense and relax as another set seizes him. “Httnxxt! N’xxt!  Hih-N’xxtch!”

“Bless…”

“Hih…ht’Issh! Issh! Hih-Isssh!” He gasps a breath, two, and dissolves again. “It’chh!  Ishh!  Issshuhh!” At first he’s careful to keep each fit relatively contained, but as the sneezes keep coming he is gradually overcome, eyes tearing, nose running, and the last couple burst free. “Huhusssh!  Ussshuh!” 

For a long moment, in the silence following the outburst, Hob can only stare at Dream as he blinks fuzzily in the aftermath, undone. “Are you…” He’s not sure how to end the sentence. Finished? Okay? 

“It seems my dear sibling has left me a parting gift,” Dream says, consonants blurred with congestion. 

“Gift?” Hob echoes and his voice cracks like a bloke hitting puberty, before realizing Dream is being sarcastic, of course he is. Why would anyone think that was a gift.

Dream wipes the moisture from his eyes, blows his nose, and studies Hob so closely he feels uncomfortably like an insect under glass. Slowly any lingering hint of embarrassment is replaced with a different flush. His eyes go black and starry and his voice, when he speaks is deep in the way that makes Hob’s knees weak. “Only you know the answer to that, Hob.”

Hob rubs the back of his neck and grins, a little rueful. “Well, if you’re ill, you’d better come to bed.”

#snezfic #look i managed a shortfic #s/andman #d/reamling

[fishfingersandscarves]

brb crying over robyn and hob in and in the waking world we wait and want by @qqueenofhades

#my art #fishfingersandscarves #the sandman #doodle #robyn gadlen #hob gadling #fic rec #robert gadling #qqueenofhades

[cuubism]

So here's the link for one of @banjosandmoonlight's drabble: https://www.tumblr.com/tharkuun/707549340312502272

If the link isn't working here's the text:

"Hob never talks about it but on that fateful night Robyn died he was not the only dead man in the alley behind that tavern.

"By gods wounds I saw him twitch!"

"Shut up!" Tam hissed over his shoulder, panting with exertion. He wiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, then, satisfied, he stabbed the shovel into the ground.

"Isn't that too shallow?" asked his lackey again, watching concerned as Tam climbed out of the hole.

"What if the river floods again and washes them to the surface-"

"We won't be anywhere near by then," Tam said. "Come now, Ichabod, make yourself useful."

They dragged the younger in there first, into that pit of distinct shape in the middle of old Walter's wheatfields. Robyn Gadlen was a fair man even in death: his skin not bearing as much as a single scar, his hair black as night and soft with spicy oils - many said he did not bear much resemblance to his parents, that he was a changeling, mayhap some fairy with his sweet voice and sweeter words, his odd way with all animals, especially ravens.

'I have a fairy godfather,' Robyn said jokingly, whenever someone brought it up, not minding the odd looks he got.

For a strange creature he bled all too human and died like any man, Tam thought with grim satisfaction once Robyn fell with a dull thud onto the bottom of the pit, his neck, bent at an unnatural angle. It was almost too easy to hold him down, to snap his delicate, bird-like bones.

His father though, the old codger put up a decent fight for a fancy lordling: it took the five of them, Tam and four other boys to hold him down. Even when Ichabod ran him through his sword he fought like a wounded stag, his mean left hook more fit for a highwayman than some fancy ship merchant. When Tam grabbed his ankle to drag him to the grave he still felt the ghost of a pulse throbbing there.

"The fuck," he muttered.

He must have imagined it though for when he looked up Robert Gadlen was still carved up in the belly like a suckling pig in the autumn fair, his head hanging limp as Ichabod held him under his arms. Gadlen dropped into the pit with a heavy thud, landing on the top of his son's corpse. His eyes were wide open, the whites blood-shot around his iris. It must have been rigor mortis but he looked like he was smiling.

"Don't just stare, give me that bloody shovel!" Tam scoffed at Ichabod and, eventually, when he did not move, Tam grabbed it himself. He couldn't get a shovel's worth of soil back when lightning flashed across the sky and it started to rain.

"Tam," whispered Ichabod. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"You don't say, mate," Tam scoffed. "Hold my coat."

Oddly it took him more time to cover up the grave than to dig it. The soil felt unyielding like pure iron, the shovel heavy like a stone in his hand. Funny thing is, Tam almost felt relieved once it was all covered up. Just when he was about to turn to Ichabod, tell him to go home a caw stopped him. There, in the pouring rain a raven perched on top of the freshly turned ground.

"The bird of the devil!" Ichabod cried as the raven cawed once more then took off to disappear as quickly as it came.

"Come on, mate, let's go," Tam said, tense, spying the misty horizon. Suddenly, a fear in all children of things unknown in the dark was gnawing at him despite being a man of four-and-thirty.

By the time he made it to his house on the outskirts of the village Tam had almost forgotten about all that though, his thoughts too preoccupied with warm stew, women and all the fine things he would buy from old Gadlen's gold pouch ("It's ill fortune to take money from a dead man," Ichabod warned him. "Well, he doesn't need it anymore does he?" Tam shrugged, pocketing it away.)

Tam lit a candle in the small hut he called home. There were muddy footprints across the wooden floors, leading to the old armchair Tam got from his ol' pa, a highwayman himself. Maybe it was a trick of light, but it looked almost as if someone sat there, hunched in the dark corner.

"Dear boy," a voice rasped - ancient and full of gravel. "You really should have dug deeper.""

awesome thank you! i know at least one person was looking for it

I made this unrebloggable b/c I feel a little weird about being the root post for someone else's fic, esp when they deactivated, but hopefully people can bookmark if the readmore in the original post isn't working

#ask #anonymous

[scifrey]

Cling Fast: Chapter Five

by Losyark

The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon, and Gaiman Cinematic-Literary Universe canon)

Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus)

Unfinished (tentatively 10 chapters)

PG-13 (for now)

Unbeta’d

The next week flies by in a flurry of fittings, script meetings, emergency calls from Dennis when he’d janked the ordering list, a daily visit to a stable and archery range so Hob can practice both skills, and late nights with Shami as they walked Hob though the time-consuming and careful process of scanning El’s diary and Robyn’s sketchbook. Hob drops into bed each night sometime after midnight, falling asleep to the sound of The New Inn going through its closing routine, and waking to the harsh jangle of his alarm clock just after dawn.

Either out of pity for his exhaustion or because he had duties of his own to prioritize, Morpheus doesn’t appear to Hob during his sleeping hours in this week. Hob only manages to concentrate enough to relocate himself to the castle only the one night. He finds himself alone in the throne room, and enjoys the opportunity to spend some time with his own company, after so many hours being crowded by the rest of the Historics team.

Hob has more respect for his friend than to sit on his throne, but he does walk to the top of the dias to admire the three arched stained glass windows behind it. The symbolism is lost on Hob, but each window depicts a different object. The first: a fishhook on a ring, held aloft by a rat. The second: A heart in an intricate mirror, leaning against the sleek black flank of a cat. The third: A fish with delicate flowing fins against a swirl of light. Each of the images moves slightly, the animals each turning to look at Hob as he approaches.

“Hello,” he greets them kindly, but they don’t reply, so Hob supposes that these aren’t dreams or denizens.

Hob sits behind the throne, leaning his back against the cool stone, and settles in to admire the artistry. He wishes Morpheus was here to explain it to him. Hob misses Morpheus when he’s away, and the desire to see him rings like a silver bell across his nerves and in every waking breath.

The rat, the cat, and the fish look at one another, and then resume ignoring Hob. Hob, in turn, simply watches the colors in the stained glass shift and kaleidoscope until he wakes up.

*

While television isn’t generally filmed in order, Hob’s first scene of the shooting block is his talking head introduction. The crew hasn’t finished setting up at Gadlen house yet, so Hob is being filmed in the study-cum-meeting room where he’d originally met Harriet, being prompted through questions about his field of study and awareness of his relationship to Robert Gadlen the Third.  

Harinder, the director, keeps reassuring him every time that Hob pauses before answering. He thinks that Hob is camera-shy. What he’s really doing is weighing his answers very, very carefully. Good thing they can edit out his thoughtful pauses.

The other reason Hob keeps pausing is because, while they’re shooting against the bookshelf, they’re asking him to talk and dress at the same time. The wardrobe department has recreated the outfit he wore in his solo the portrait, the heavy black velvet and scarlet number. And once again, it’s the sweltering peak of summer, and the aircon can only do so much to offset the heat of the studio lights, the extra bodies hovering close, the effort of dressing, and weight and number of layers of the clothes themselves.

It doesn’t help that the wardrobe assistant they’ve picked to help him on camera is getting a bit… liberal with their touches. It’s the glamorous one with the amber-brown eyes, the blond pompador, and a smile like they’d like to unhinge their jaw and swallow him whole.

He’s sitting on a chair with his leg up on an ottoman, trying to give Harinder everything he needs to explain why Doc Bob’s never visited Gadlen house before, while the assistant rolls his stockings up his bare calves far slower than is necessary. Hob’s wearing a swanky pair of loose modern-day boxers, but they’re lost under the billow of his shirt tails, and he knows that there’s at least one of the three cameras focussed on his nude thighs right now.

He’s not ashamed of his body, and is actually quite proud of the muscle definition the return to horseback riding has given his legs, but those hands are getting a bit frisky.

"I'm perfectly capable of tying up my own stockings,” Hob says, shooing the assistant away when then kneel beside the ottoman. “I think it’s fine if I–get your hand away from my codpiece!" Hob yelps.

Harinder clears his throat warningly, and the assistant sits back with their hands up, like ‘don’t shoot’.  

“Please don’t SA our presenter on camera.”

“What about off camera?” the assistant asks Hob, flicking a look up at him through their mascaraed eyelashes.

“I recognize and appreciate the, uh, appreciation,” Hob says softly to them. “But let’s keep this strictly professional, yeah?”

“Fie,” the assistant purrs.

Far be it for Hob to play the I have a boyfriend card, especially when the one person he’d like to attach that label to doesn’t seem to be interested in him like that. Still, he says: “I’m taken.”

“Oh, are you?” the assistant asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Is that what you’d call it?”

“Yes,” Hob replies, not entirely sure what they’re asking but certain he wants to draw a line under this whole flirting business.

“Understood,” the assistant says, and something about their whole demeanor changes, like they’ve become an entirely different person. “Why don’t you stand, and we’ll get this doublet on you.”

For the rest of the day, they’re completely professional, not a touch out of place. Hob appreciates their understanding, and the rest of the talking head interview flies by. He feels comfortable enough to focus on what he’s saying, letting the assistant move his limbs and skim in and out of frame to wrangle him into all the remaining layers and accessories.

Working around a valet while simultaneously maintaining a conversation comes back to Hob frighteningly easily, even though it’s been at least eighty years since he’s needed someone to dress him.

“Last touch,” the assistant says, holding up the replica ruff like it’s a serving platter full of champagne glasses.

“Absolutely not,” Hob says, making sure it’s loud enough for the mics to pick up. “You and I both know that that darn thing is too scratchy and too fancy for everyday wear. He would have only worn it for the portrait, or at court. I’ll take that picadil over there, instead.”

“As the Prince Consort commands,” the assistant murmurs with purring good humor, and Hob laughs as they fling the ruff out of the shot like a frisbee.

“Just a knight, if you please,” Hob says, tapping the embroidered badge over his heart. 

As they button the high, stiff band of fabric around Hob’s throat, a precursor to the starched collar and cravat of the later ages, they murmur something. Hob doesn’t quite catch it, but thinks it might have been: “Not for long.”

He doesn’t have time to ask for clarification, though, because then they’re stepping back with a ‘tah-dah’ gesture at his outfit, and Hob has to smile for the camera.

*

Costumed and filled with a hasty lunch, Hob, Glenn and Harriet are packed into the back of an anonymous van with a few other crew members, and driven to Hither Green. It takes just under an hour, and Hob uses the time to learn how to read his call sheet from Harriet, while Glenn takes a nap against the window.

Clover, the sweet-tempered mare that Hob’s been training with, is waiting for him by the front gate to the estate when Hob is kicked out by transpo. The van lingers just long enough for the driver to sign off on the delivery of talent to the first AD Celia, and Hob is grateful that it’s blocking his view of the house.

All he can see right now is the wide, well-manicured lawn of Manor House Park, a rolling brook in the distance, and the golden gravel of the drive. This part of the Park is hemmed in with a wrought-iron fence, which is definitely of a more modern style than it would have originally been, and Hob can’t recall exactly if this boundary has moved at all in the last few centuries. He feels like it’s closer to the house than it used to be, but it could just look shorter because there’s a fleet of trailers, tenths, vehicles, and great metal storage containers filled with equipment between the gate and the entryway fountains.Those are definitely newer. It used to be a lily pond.

Hob takes in the landscaping–the orchard is gone, is the apple tree he’d planted out the back still here–but his gaze skitters off the house itself. He’s not ready yet.

When he sees Gadlen House again–for the first time since he was dragged backwards, literally kicking and screaming out the kitchen door–he wants to do so deliberately, purposefully. 

Lovingly.

Forgivingly.

Clover lips at the replica ostrich plume on his flat-cap beret as the van drives away. Hob turns his face into her tawny-golden neck to give himself a moment to breathe and get his feet under him. He scratches her cheek in thanks for the help and she lays her head on his shoulder, the sweet old thing.

As soft chirrup from the nearby stone fencepost catches his attention. Over Clover’s back he can see Matthew shifting from foot to foot.

“That bird has been hanging around all day,” Celia says, following Hob’s glance, and giving Matthew the stink-eye. “It better not be a bad omen.”

“It’s a raven,” Hob says. “They’re symbols of intelligence, and new experiences. I think it’s a good sign.” Matthew tilts his head at Hob, clearly amused by this description. “So long as they don’t interrupt our takes, and don’t steal anything shiny.”

“Caw,” Matthew sneers at him.

The camerawoman, who is finalizing her shot setup, whips her head around to stare at him. “Did the bird just say ‘caw’? Like, in a human voice?”

“Corvids are excellent mimics,” Celia says. “I bet a lot of people say ‘caw’ at it.”

“Well, whyever it’s here, I appreciate the moral support,” Hob says, staring right at Matthew. “And seeing as I’m about to make a fool of myself, I’m sure it’s going to be very entertained.”

Celia’s walkie-talkie crackles, an order comes from the house, and she says: “Okay, good Sir Gadelin. Mount up. We’re ready for your first exterior shot. When I call action, ride Clover up to the front door, and get off–an extra playing a groom will lead Clover away, and you approach the door. You don’t need to open it, we’re not set up for that shot. Just walk up to it and reach for the handle. Got it?”

“What kind of speed are we looking for here?”

“Uh,” Celia says. “Not slow but not fast?”

“A trot, got it,” Hob chuckles. 

He positions beside Clover, making sure she’s aimed in the right direction without raising his eyes to the house.

“Uh, before we start, um–” he looks over at the camera. “Sorry, I never caught your–”

“Melia,” she interrupts.

“Melia,” Hob repeats. “You can call me Bob. Melia, I um, not to tell Celia how to do her job but I, um, before I start Clover going I’m going to take a second to just… look. Is that okay?”

“Why?” Celia asks.

“Well, I—I’ve never seen the house before,” Hob lies. “I’m not much of an actor and I thought, you know, I thought it might be nice for my real reaction to be–”

“Yeah, yeah!” Celia is saying, “Smart, yeah, hold on let me just let the guys on the other side know there’s going to be a delay before movement starts, yeah,” and then she’s pacing away a bit, relaying this into her walkie.

“Let me try something else then,” Melia says, repositioning the camera on the tripod to capture more of the drive, and shrugging quickly into another one mounted onto a steady-cam contraption that looks nothing so much like a baby carrier.

Coward, Hob tells himself as they scramble to set up the new shot. Matthew caws again, this time distinctly more bird-like, and Hob flashes him a watery smile.

“Alright, everyone good?”

“Good!” Melia confirms.

“Good,” Hob echoes, and gets his hands in place. Clover snorts, busses his arm ribs with her soft nose, and seems to settle into her role as well.

“And… action!”

With one last deep breath, Hob jams his boot into the stirrup, and in a smooth arc, heaves up and swings himself into the saddle. He takes a few long seconds to adjust the reigns. Then he looks up. 

The house is the same, and different at the same time.

He can’t deny that it’s been beautifully preserved. Made of red brick, it stretches three stories up, with matching octagonal turrets on either side of the front door. Each turret is fitted with a door and a stonework Juliet balcony, though they didn’t call them that then, which opens off of one of the bedrooms. His and El’s to the left, the nursery and later Robyn’s chambers to the right. There are small led-mullioned windows to either side of the turrets, four to a side. Intricate overlapping designs in the brickwork gives the frontage the illusion of being made of red lace. And the proliferation of chimneys is a direct nod to Hampton Court palace, and a physical ode to one of Hob’s favorite of humanity’s inventions. 

It’s amazing, but it’s not what he would call elegant. In later years, when glass became a real statement purchase thanks to crafty old Bess and her Hardwick Hall, Hob had added an entire room at the back of the house for El with as little brick as his architect could get away with and still create something that wouldn’t fall in on itself.

It is a braggart’s house, boorish and proud, sturdy and loud. But he knows every capstone, every sill, every smoke-tanned rafter. He knows the size and smell of every room, remembers haggling with the designer late into the night to get the details just right. He remembers how to get to each hidden back stairway, built twice as wide for the serving staff as was common, because Hob’s served table and he remembered what a nightmare it was to clank up and down dark passages with clattering platters.

Beside him, Melia pushes in tight, lens aimed right at his face, but Hob can’t spare a thought for her. He’s too busy swallowing his heart back into his chest.

The front door is a different, a metal thing the deep blue of an aegean sea. It’d been black in his day, built of sturdy oak and iron rivets. A fountain, likely added by some fanciful Victorian, stretches along the frontage, and what was once just a plain gravel dive is now a circular path curving up to the door and dotted with a riot of wildflowers and roses.

Hob’s clutching the reins to his chest, patting the too-full space over his heart, before he’s realized he’s moved.

He loves this house.

He forgives it.

“Got it,” Melia whispers, which Hob takes as permission to go.

He blinks hard, hoping the camera doesn’t pick up the moisture in his eyes, and clicks Clover into motion. Clover trots for the first few paces and then, fizzing with joy at this bizarre homecoming, Hob knees her faster. Clover picks up speed, cantering by the cameras they have set up by the drive, and his hat flies off.

Hob doesn’t care. Even if he has to redo the shot a hundred times because of it, he doesn’t care.

He’s too damn happy to be home.

A sharp kraa! catches his attention, and he glances to the side to see that Matthew has decided to join him. The raven soars along beside Hob’s head, firmly on camera. His eyes sparkle with delight, and Hob breaks into full-body laughter.

It’s going to be a hell of an opening shot.

*

It’s Tuesday, so when Hob has finished scrubbing off the makeup and smell of horse, he ambles downstairs in fresh clothes and damp hair. Dennis has staked out his usual spot on the long banquette, at the tiny two-top closest to the door that leads up to his apartment. 

“Cheers,” Hob says, when the new kid brings him a pint unasked.

He takes a long deep drink, and flops down onto the seat. Did he ever arched this much back when he was riding daily? Surely the inside of his thighs and the small of his back can’t have been this sore on a regular basis.

I mean, sure, half of the reason he hurts like this is because he and Matthew borked the first take so spectacularly. He'd had to do it about a dozen more times, all at varying speeds, and by the time they'd gotten a shot they liked, the'd lost the light for anything more than walking up to the door.

Hob hasn't even been inside the house yet.

The last time these muscles had hurt this much, he’d stumbled–dehydrated and disheveled–from an hours-long lovemaking session with one of the Ladies of the Night who’d frequented the White Horse in the 1890s. Not Lou, no, he'd helped her find stable housing, and employment in something she actually enjoyed.

No, it had been the one who liked sex work. Who'd chosen it for the freedom and control over her own life, and finances and body. She'd been what they'd call trans now, blonde with hilarious fake tits that she'd slapped him around the face with as they both giggled. She'd pegged him better than he’d ever had before (or since) happy to help him drive away the thought of his Stranger and happier still to see gold for it.

Hob frowns a little at the memory. Why on earth has he been so damned horny today?

And not just in the sexual sense, either. Everything had been enticing, and exciting, and gravitationally fascinating. The food at craft services had tasted amazing, he’d gone back for thirds when he rarely does so. He’d caught himself stroking the velvet of his doublet, marveling at how soft and fine it was. He’d run his hands over the textured wallpaper in foyer, and satiated every whim smell the roses, gazing in joy and horror at the way the generations of owners who’d come after Hob had added to the facade. He'd taken Clover on an extended gallop around the park between setups, and begged to brush her down himself before she'd been loaded back into the trailer for the sleepy trip back to her stables. 

He had wanted today, and hadn’t denied himself.

Maybe it was just the excitement of being back at the house again, miraculously and thankfully unshadowed by the grief he expected to encounter in every stone, but it did feel like getting everything he’d never known he’d longed for, all in one afternoon.

Well, not everything, Hob thinks as he catches sight of Morpheus slipping in the front door.

The Endless flows his way through the joyous gatherings between Hob and door.

All the tables gilded with happy people, and shot glasses, and laughter. Maybe Hob's not the only one feeling revved up tonight, because the air practically shimmers with whatever gold dust it is that's been simmering in his veins since he arrived at Broadcasting House.

Hob licks his lips and swears he can taste it.

And Morpheus just looks so good. There's something different about him tonight, something more self assured. He's always moved with liquid grace, completely comfortable being folded up into this corporation of his choosing in the Waking world, and offhandedly aware that the body that everyone sees, no matter how differently they see him, is an undoubtedly attractive one.

But tonight, Morpheus looks satisfied in a way that Hob's never seen before. He looks pleased with himself. Sure of something. Before he's always looked like being the Waking world is vaguely itchy. Now, he looks like he's been slathered in calming skin oil, glistening with relief and damp with…

Christ in his heaven, no daydreams!

Humanity parts before Morpheus like a heaving inhale, and then every single head swivels so people can watch him pass by, blissfully unaware that they are doing so.

And then Morpheus is folding his lanky frame into his usual seat. The heat of a bar full of bodies in summer must be getting to even him, because there are two bright spots of pink high on his cheek.

“Hello, Hob,” he says, voice even more like chocolate and sin than usual.

Get a grip, Gadling! scolds himself. Another image comes to him and he adds, Not like that, and not in public, you dirty old man.

“Hello, my friend. Where’ve you been lately?” Hob asks conversationally.  "I haven't run into you in the Dreaming."

Morpheus’ face twists in displeasure. “I regret that I was forced into negotiations with my siblings over a matter that I would rather not discuss.”

“For a whole week?” Hob clarifies, waving politely at Dennis for service. His co-owner doesn’t even bother sending over a server to ask what they want, just walks over and drops off a fresh beer and the vinosanti himself with a welcoming nod to Morpheus.

Morpheus indulges in a gulp of the sweet wine, which is a greater indicator of his lingering irritation than anything he might say. “Desire has an unfortunate tendency of hostility toward me, and where they lead, their twin would follow. It makes arbitration of this sort tense.”

“Yikes,” Hob says sympathetically. “But did everything turn out the way you wanted to?”

“Death was able to mediate a satisfactory arrangement, yes,” Morpheus says. “I got more than I gave, and I wanted what I got.”

“Don’t think that I don’t notice you’re quoting Lin-Manuel Miranda at me, Prince of Stories,” Hob laughs. “Fine, you don't have to tell me. It'd probably be over my little human head anyway. I’m just happy that you’re happy.”

“I am,” Morpheus concedes. His expression is soft, when he meets Hob’s eyes, pleased and easy.

Hob’s mouth goes dry. His own gaze sinks to land briefly on Morpheus’ parted lips, before jumping back up to more polite territory.

He clears his throat to cover the awkward pause and then says, "So did Matthew tell you what we did today?"

"He did not," Morpheus admits with a self-satisfied smile. "He knows that I prefer to hear it from you directly."

That's all the encouragement Hob needs. "Well!" he starts.

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[avelera]

So by 1589, Hob has pretended to be his own son twice to cover up his immortality.

And I’d bet anything he went by “Robert” each time, not like there’s much reason not to. First of all because he shows bonkers levels of lack of caution for an immortal, especially at this point.

Hob also strikes me as the type in 1589 to be, shall we say, a bit arrogant and self centered. Certainly enough that it seems entirely likely that his actual son “Robyn”’s name is a diminutive of “Robert” because that man definitely named his firstborn son in over 200 years after himself.

… which is to say, it’s entirely possible that Robyn Gadlen’s REAL, FULL name is Robert Gadlen the Fourth, and that his family reached this number because 3 out of 4 Robert Gadlens were Hob.

#the sandman #sandman meta #hob gadling

[mimisempai]

You don't have to hide your tears anymore

Summary:

Dream goes to meet Hob at the end of his classes and is surprised to find the door closed, learning that his lover's classes have been cancelled for the day. Worried, he is joined by Death who tells him where Hob is.

or 

Some days are more difficult than others when year after year, they remind you of loved ones lost hundreds of years ago and Dream realizes the pain that is hidden behind Hob's smiles.

Notes:

Emotional hurt/comfort and caring for each other are one of my favorite trope and as always Death as supporting character of their relationship is amazing.

On AO3

Rating T - 1641 words

Once Dream arrived in front of the door of Hob's classroom, he was surprised to find it closed.

A small sign was stuck: Professor Gadling's classes are canceled for the day.

"Sir?"

He felt someone tugging at his sleeve and when he turned around, he recognized one of Hob's students.

"Prof-Professor Gadling is not teaching today. It s-seems like it’s the case every year on this date."

Dream nodded, thanked her and headed for the exit.

He worriedly wondered if something had happened and automatically took the path to Hob's apartment when he felt a presence beside him.

"This is the wrong direction, little brother. He's not home." said Death's voice softly.

Dream stopped and looked at her puzzled, "Where is he? What happened to him? Don't tell me you-"

Death put her hand on his arm to soothe his brother, "No, it's not what you think. But I'm kind of responsible for his state of mind."

"What do you mean?" asked Dream abruptly.

Death took his hand and answered, "Come with me and you'll see."

They teleported and found themselves in a cemetery, under a tree, surrounded by old tombstones. Scanning the area, Dream gasped when he saw Hob, kneeling in front of a tombstone with a white rose on it.

He gasped again when he saw what was written on the headstone.

A life, like any other, completely unlike any other.

Eleanor Gadlen

May 10, 1565 - September 16, 1601

Mary Gadlen

September 16, 1601 - September 16, 1601

Robyn Gadlen

January 24, 1586 - November 19, 1606

Dream whispered, "Death, what day is it today?"

Death replied, squeezing his arm, "November 19."

It was the anniversary of the death of Hob's son.

"I lost it all. My land. My gold. My Eleanor. She died in childbirth. The baby too. My boy, Robyn, died in a tavern brawl when he was 20."

How well Dream remembered that day.

That day when he had realized that the prospect of not seeing Hob again was dreadful.

That day when Hob, in spite of his unbelievable suffering, had chosen to go on living.

Condemning himself to remember the loss of those he had loved for a hundred years and another hundred years...

Until today, once again.

He saw Hob's pain in his prostrate figure in front of the tombstone, indifferent to the rain that had begun to fall. He felt all this pain but was unable to make a move to console his lover.

His pain reminded him too much of his own pain, the loss of his own child, Orpheus.

He turned his eyes to Death and said with a tightness in his throat, "Can you please go help him, I... I can't, I can't do it."

Death nodded, understanding, then hugged his brother, "It's going to be alright..."

Then she let go of him and walked slowly toward Hob. She put her hand on his shoulder and when he looked up at her, she crouched down beside him. 

Hob said softly, "Ever since I found out what you do, there's been something I've wanted to ask you."

Death nodded, motioning for him to continue.

"Was it... was Robyn... how was he when you took him?"

Dream answered him softly, "First as usual, a little revolted, then very sad because he kept saying you would be alone and didn't deserve it. And finally he said that even though his life had not been long, despite your reversals of fortune, he was happy to have known for twenty years the love of a father like you."

Hob whispered in a broken voice, "Thank you..." and Death put his arm around his shoulders as they stayed like that for a long moment.

Then Hob stood up, imitated by Death, and whispered to him again, "Thank you... I... I think I'll go home now."

Death nodded and hugged him once more before walking over to her brother, whom she also hugged.

She whispered in his ear, "It's up to you to take care of him now, little brother." Then she disappeared.

Meanwhile, Hob had already started walking back and Dream followed him from a distance, still not sure how he should intervene. 

What comfort could he bring? 

Would he even be able to comfort him?

He had to try anyway, he owed it to Hob, to his unwavering loyalty and remembered Death's words.

"I realized I need them as much as they need me."

There was no hesitation in him as he arrived near the building where Hob had just entered.

Hob needed him and Dream would be there for him.

He waited a few more seconds before entering himself.

He opened the apartment front door and was not surprised to find it dimly lit. He looked around for Hob and quickly discovered where he was when he saw the curtain of the balcony door trembling under the breeze that came through the open door.

Dream walked to the balcony and found Hob leaning against the wall, his face lit only by the glow of his cigarette. With his eyes closed, his lover exhaled for a long moment, the smoke swirling around him. 

Dream was a bit surprised, he didn't know this habit of Hob's at all. 

It was probably a habit related to the circumstances, because even in the pub where they often met now, he had never seen Hob have a cigarette.

"How did you find me?" Hob asked quietly after a few minutes as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him.

"I came to wait for you when you finished class and then Death showed me where you were." answered Dream quietly. 

Hob turned his head towards him and asked curtly, "And why are you here now?"

Dream watched him for a few moments, he knew Hob's attitude was purely defensive and he understood it all too well so he didn't take offense to his off-putting attitude and simply replied, "I'm here to support you, to help you, to provide you whatever you need."

He slowly reached out his arm toward Hob, trying to gently touch his cheek. But before he could touch it, Hob stumbled back and replied harshly, "Don't try to fix me. I'm not broken, I'm not made of porcelain. I'm not something you can fix just with a little magic sand."

Dream didn't let either the tone or the words throw him off, because everything in Hob's eyes told him otherwise.

Please help me.

So Dream slowly approached him and just stood next to him, against the wall. He slid his hand down Hob's arm until his hand touched Hob's. After a few seconds, Hob's slightly trembling fingers intertwined with his.

He felt Hob exhale at length beside him and did nothing but hold his hand.

After a moment, Hob's head rested on his shoulder and he whispered, "I'm sorry...".

Dream replied softly, "You have nothing to be sorry about, Hob."

Without letting go of Dream's hand, Hob turned to him and said hesitantly, "I... I don't want to talk about it. Not right now. Will you... will you kiss me... just to make me forget for a while?" 

Dream didn't answer and gently taking Hob's head in his hands, he leaned in and pressed his lips against his lover's in a kiss that was incredibly soft, caring and passionate. 

Hob brought his hands up to tangle his fingers in Dream's hair and all he wanted was to get lost in that kiss. 

Dream was so tender and Hob just wanted to be surrounded by that tenderness. That was all he needed. He pulled him closer until there was nothing between them and he ran his hands down Dream's back, clutching at him with all his might. 

Sensing his urgency, Dream moved back just a bit and whispered against Hob's lips, "Let it go, my Hob, I promise you I will catch you. Just let it go." 

It had been so long since Hob had known the comfort of someone's arms around him, the unique comfort of someone's presence close to him that Dream's words broke something inside him and he felt tears welling up. Never-shed tears that he didn't try to stop as Dream wrapped his arms around him.

Hob buried his face in Dream's neck as his tears continued to flow. Over and over again. 

Unable to hold them back now that the dam had broken. 

Dream simply continued to hold Hob, kissing his hair from time to time or whispering words of comfort.

At one point they slid against the wall, sitting on the floor, and stayed that way, Hob in Dream's arms until his tears subsided.

After a few moments, feeling Hob relax against him, Dream inquired softly, his mouth in his hair, "Are you feeling a little better?"

Hob looked up and with a shaky smile, he pressed a light kiss to Dream's lips before whispering, "Yeah... a little better... thanks... I'm s-"

Dream shook his head and replied, "Shhh... no need to apologize. You have the absolute right to express your pain and I'm glad I was there to help you deal with it even if only a little."

Hob nodded, slowly getting used to having, for the first time in forever, someone to lean on who understood him perfectly.

Someone who accepted everything, his weaknesses, his mistakes and even the bad days like today.

Someone with whom he didn't need to hide his tears.

Someone who saw his wounds behind his smiles.

He snuggled back into Dream and whispered into the crook of his neck, "Tell me tomorrow will be better."

Dream wiped away one last tear that had escaped Hob's eyes and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead before tightening his arms around his beloved.

"I promise you, my Hob, tomorrow will be better."

And Hob believed him.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Dreamling Masterlist here

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