#Hob Gadling is love sick

[obsessiveagony2point0]

Love Locket

"The locket signifies a special bond that is shared between two people."

Process Video

Original Post Date: February 21st 2024

Twitter/X•AO3•Pillowfort •Linktree•Bluesky•Ko-fi

[teejaystumbles]

Last Line Tag Game

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or however many you like).

I got tagged by @arialerendeair and had to think for a bit because I just recently shared something and haven't written anything new beside my Big Bang fic. Today I found a sketch I still haven't properly cleaned and worked over despite liking it a lot, so I'll show you that I cut out the background and made it look worse than before I guess, but I had to adjust the head sizes so that meant either redrawing/finishing it or cutting and erasing the paper coloured bg. because my photos suck. Digitalising traditional art is a pain :( Anyway

I think I haven't shared this before but as I might have mentioned before my memory is terrible so uuuugh. I might've? I really don't know. Anyway, I want them to be happy so I drew this some time ago :)

I'm sick with Covid and can't think very well so I'm not tagging anyone, please just. show me your stuff. you've got WIPs? I wanna see/read them. Do it. Yes you

[cuubism]

Hope for the Future

~2k, Dreamling, 1589 era, post-Eleanor's death, dream conversations and revelations. cw death in childbirth

Dream and Hob meet at Eleanor's deathbed, in a fashion.

--

Ages ago I wrote Patron Saint, a fic about Hob's friendship with Death. For a while I wanted to write a companion piece from Dream's POV since Dreamling is a background ship in that fic but their trajectory is different from canon. But lbr it's been 2 years and I haven't done that-- early on, though, I did write one scene from Dream's POV because I wanted to flesh out a potential moment that Death mulls on in Patron Saint, when she was visiting Hob after Eleanor and the baby died:

“So many babies die,” Hob says. “Mothers, too, I—” he runs a hand through greasy, disheveled hair. “Do you think it will be better in the future? Because I haven’t seen that much improved. Not in my time.” “I imagine so, yes,” Death says. Dream would be able to answer this question for him better. Dream would be able to tell him what doctors might be imagining solutions to the problem, what midwives were dreaming of new ways to care for their charges. Hope for the future is Dream’s business, whether he accepts it or not. She wishes Dream were here. She has a strong feeling Hob would find even his stoic pretense at apathy comforting. Caring for others is strange like that.

Anyway I wanted that scene, I wrote that scene, I didn't write anything else to flesh out a companion piece but I think it stands on its own and can be understood even without reading the original fic.

--

Dream would assert that he did not care about Hob Gadling. He was not interested in Hob Gadling, beyond a passing curiosity in his approach to humanity, sated every hundred years. He was certainly not thinking about Hob Gadling, or his wife and small child and knighthood and other life goals he’d managed to accrue in this century. 

And yet, as he felt a particularly vicious nightmare go for Hob in his sleep, not long after their last meeting, he took note. 

He wasn’t sure why he took note. Perhaps because Hob had been on such a disgusting high last they’d met, it seemed strange for this to happen now. Perhaps because he knew this nightmare particularly well, had crafted it from deep in his own soul, as he so rarely did.

He followed the thread of the nightmare. 

Hob was running. Both from and after something at once. A darkness chased him. And another darkness retreated from him.

“Wait!” he yelled, reaching for it. Smoke slipped through his hands. Hob heaved for breath, stumbling to a stop as he ran out of air. He leaned on his knees, panting and coughing. “Wait,” he sobbed, but the darkness did not wait.

The other wave of darkness caught him, knocking him off his feet so he sprawled on the ground, hands scraping on the dirt. It didn’t attack him, just hovered over him like a blanket of fog, blocking the meager light. 

“You weren’t supposed to go,” Hob said into the darkness. It didn’t reply.

It was not an unreasonable nightmare for a father to have, Dream knew well enough. But the sharpness of those dark shadows – this nightmare was not pure fiction. It was drawing more from memory than he’d thought.

“Enough of this drama,” he commanded the nightmare. “Show me the truth of things.”

The scene of darkness faded to reveal an ordinary, if well-appointed bedroom. An air of sickness hovered, and death also – Dream could feel the echo of his sister near. 

A sickly woman, heavily pregnant, lay in the bed, and it was she that Dream knew was calling Death forth. She, and the tiny baby cradled in her womb, not quite ready to be born, and now would never be.

And Hob – not dying, he couldn’t, but he looked about as close to it as a man could come. Ashen, shaky, trembling.

“I love you,” he was saying, kissing Eleanor’s hand. “You know?”

This was still a dream, and this had all already occurred, Dream knew. There was nothing he could do here, not that he would. He turned to go, feeling stiff and cold in a way he decidedly did not like, when Hob looked up, and saw him.

Dream had not meant to be seen.

“My friend,” said Hob, surprise temporarily wiping the grief from his features. “You’re here.”

“I… am,” Dream conceded, and, drawn in despite himself, sat in a chair beside Hob. 

“I’m grateful for it,” said Hob. Dream didn’t know what he could possibly be providing that Hob was grateful for. Then, “There’s no hope, is there? I mean. I don’t know why I’d think you would know.”

Dream looked at the mother and baby before him. Hob had called him friend. A friend, he thought, would tell Hob that there was always hope. But that was not what Dream believed.

“I do not think so,” he said. “I am… sorry.”

Hob sighed. He was still holding Eleanor’s hand. “I have to tell you, I– whatever I might’ve said to you at our last meeting, I’m struggling to feel any of it right now.”

“That is understandable.” More understandable, Dream thought, than his declaration of Life is rich! that Dream had found so hard to swallow.

“I’ve known others who’ve lost wives, children,” Hob said, and Dream looked down. Hob would have no way of knowing who those others might have included. “But I guess I always thought, not me, never me, never my Eleanor. Not until she was old and gray, anyway. But I guess everyone thinks that, don’t they?”

“Perhaps.” Dream thought he himself had always known the cost would come due. Destiny might have said that was one of the reasons it did come due. You make your own end. But that would not help Hob.

“It’s got to get better,” Hob asserted. “It’s got to. It’s got to stop some day, doesn’t it? All these children, and mothers dying.”

The instinct to sneer at his optimism jumped up Dream’s throat, but he managed to bite it off. He did not want to be… cruel, he realized, to someone who was suffering. Especially within a dream; dreamers’ minds were not for him to subject to his own feelings.

“In Guangzhou,” he started slowly, the dreams coming to him like a light rainfall, “there is a doctor who has just crafted a new medicine to ease pain during childbirth. She has been dreaming of it for years. In Oyo, a healer is learning to tell earlier and earlier when a pregnancy is troubled, that they might intervene in time. A few months more, and they will have it. And down the street, here in London, a midwife is just planting the seeds for the hospital she will open to help unwed mothers with nowhere to turn.”

Hob stared at him. He seemed to be holding his breath.

“Dreamers abound,” Dream said, “but it takes time for their work to come to fruition.”

Hob continued to watch him. Something shifted in his eyes, as he looked at Dream. Dream wasn’t certain he liked it. 

“You know everything, don’t you?” Hob said.

“Not everything.”

“You know all of that,” Hob mused, “all these things that are happening. And… you still come to ask me if I wish to live?”

Dream bristled, and Hob raised his hands in surrender. “Never mind, never mind, forget I said anything. You’re entitled to your own feelings on the matter. Thank you, for those stories. It helps. Truly. And I’m glad that I’ll get to see it. One day.”

“‘One day,’” Dream echoed. “‘One day’ is a time when no children die and no famine walks the earth, when soldiers break their swords before the fight, and later bread with their enemies. One day is always one step into the future, Hob Gadling. Ever-moving.”

“Aye,” said Hob. “That’s the point.” 

Dream frowned. What pleasure could be derived from wanting and wanting, and never having, he could not fathom. He had crafted nightmares thus. What hope to find in hope itself continually being dashed?

“I look forward to seeing you every century, you know that?” Hob added. “No matter what else happens. Bad days, or good ones.”

Dream kept frowning, unsure of the connection.

“It’s important to have those things,” Hob said. He squeezed Eleanor’s still hand. “Even now. Especially now.” 

In Dream’s own… aftermath… he could not imagine finding comfort in anything. What help could some nebulous future date possibly be?

“If that is what helps you,” he said. 

Hob cast him a look like he just knew that Dream didn’t get it, and it rankled. But there was no true criticism in that look. Hob looked at him with an unfathomable fondness, always.

He turned back to Eleanor, just gazing at her face with an expression Dream found difficult to witness in its softness. Were this the waking world, she would have certainly passed by now. But moments could freeze indefinitely in the Dreaming.

“Do you think I’ll forget her?” Hob asked quietly, still looking at his wife. “The details of her face, I mean? Her voice? What she smelled like? My memory’s far from perfect, and there’s a lot of time for it to fade.”

Dream knew without having to actively make the vow to himself that he would be sending frequent dreams Hob’s way to ensure he did not. He should not do so. He should not interfere. 

But.

“There are some things one does not forget,” he said.

Hob swiped at his eyes. He was crying now. “S’pose you’re right.”

If Dream was any sort of friend – and he was not sure that he was, though Hob had declared him so – he would end this dream now and spare Hob any further torment of reliving this memory. 

Instead, he sat beside him, far longer than he intended. Sat in silence, listened to Hob’s breaths, his sniffles as he cried, the subtle movements of continued life. He stayed in this sea of human endings and sickness and grief. With Hob. Something unnameable sitting heavier and heavier within him. And more than once he told himself to rise and to end the dream, and he did not. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Hob finally said, when much time had passed and they still sat side-by-side. And it was this that finally reminded Dream that he should not be.

“I should leave you,” he said, standing abruptly. “This dream is–”

“Wait.” Hob took his hand. Dream should– Dream should yank it away in offense. He should take his leave of Hob instantly for the familiarity, the daring. 

He did not. He merely stood frozen as Hob pressed his hand between both of his own. His touch was very warm.

“Keep all those things in mind,” Hob said. His eyes still glittered with tears, but his words were steady. “Those infinite things you know about the world. Wherever you’re going.”

“I have much in mind at all times,” Dream told him. Hob had no idea how much. 

Hob smiled at him sadly. “I’m sure. Just think about it, okay? Those doctors in those faraway places. Alright?”

Dream studied him, but gleaned no additional information from it. “Very well,” he said at last.

Hob squeezed his hand once more, then let him go.

A friend might comfort him again, in these circumstances. But Dream was not certain it was necessary. He could see in Hob, even now, the spine of a man who would not break, even when he was so far down.

It was… curious.

Hob bid him farewell, eyes just crinkling at the corners. “Until we meet again, dear stranger.”

Dream stepped back into the comforting arms of the Dreaming proper, discomfited by the moment in a way he could not quite pin down, and by his own willingness to stay and engage in it at all. To involve himself in Hob’s life in a way he had not intended. 

“Until then, Hob Gadling,” he said, letting the scene dissolve around them, “this dream is over.”

[lostelfwriting]

Bury Me with a Rose, We Both Have Thorns (Prologue)

Rating: Explicit

AO3 Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Death & Dream, Dream & Hob, Dream/Hob Gadling

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Death of the Endless, Hob Gadling, Jessamy, Matthew, Corinthian, Lucienne

Additional Tags: NO Major Character Death, Hanahaki Disease, Terminal Illnesses, Thoughts about death and dying, Decaying Health, Refusing Treatment, Strong Language, Unrequited Love, Enemies to ?, Past Minor Characters Death(s), Protective Death of the Endless, Doctor Human!Death of the Endless, Alternate Universe - Human, Tattoo Artist Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Flower Shop Owner Hob Gadling, Blood, Angst with a Happy Ending

Word count: 32k

I'm posting the whole work here on the 1st of March, but I strongly reccommend you read it on AO3, where I will be posting one chapter per day. Either way, click Read More or go to AO3 to read the Prologue!

Written for the event @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang. With beautiful art by @five-and-dimes!

It is a slow day at the studio, so while he is waiting for his next appointment, Dream is – like he does almost all of his free time – sketching new tattoo designs to add to his portfolio and listening to music loud enough to completely shut out his own thoughts. He is sketching a snake, having no doubt that it will catch someone’s eye. There is always someone who wants a tattoo of a snake. He pauses to look at his progress and ends up snorting in disbelief.

The drawing is truly a snake, but the reptile is weaving among the stems of flowers instead of a dead branch like Dream had intended. And they are ugly flowers at that. He is pretty sure that he gave a pot of those flowers to his secondary school teacher, who always called him Murphy, even though he hated that nickname. He can’t resist snapping a picture of the flowers with his phone and trying to look up what they are, but once he finds the name – cyclamen – he refuses to look up their meaning. It would surely be something stupid, like forbidden love, or maybe hopelessness.

Even the snake’s scales seem to actually be made of flower petals, and Dream rolls his eyes as he flips the page of his sketchbook. The downside to trying to tune his mind out is that he doesn’t notice when his subconsciousness begins to interfere with his process, and it has led to many flowery paintings in the past months. With a sigh, he starts copying the usable parts of the design onto another page until an insistent thought makes him pause mid-movement.

Just a few weeks ago, he would have been furious if this had happened. He used to tear those ruined sketches to pieces and then go outside into the late winter chill and glare at every passing person who dared to look his way. He wished they all felt as bad as he did, and most of all, his neighbour with his shop opposite Dream’s studio, with its bright, flowery logo.

Today’s drawing incident feels like just a small inconvenience. He feels zero anger, though he might still opt to destroy the sketch later, just for the miniscule satisfaction that the action will bring him. Or maybe he will keep it. Pin it to the wall next to his bed and look at it every night. He will look at the ugly flowers and realise with wry amusement and aching hollowness that he has finally accepted his fate.

He, Morpheus Endeles, is going to die.

He thinks about it and waits for anger or grief to appear, but they don’t. Good. He was getting sick of the self-pity. It has been months since he noticed the first symptom – the occasional cough – as something seemed to tickle his throat, easily blamed on a bit of dust. And then, a bit later, when he lay awake late at night and everything around him was quiet, he heard the soft rustle of leaves as he breathed. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him that he had the Hanahaki Disease. He tears the ruined sketch out and shreds it into tiny pieces, enjoying the bit of satisfaction that it brings him. Maybe he is still harbouring some badly suppressed anger. He doesn’t need a fortune teller to tell him that he has no chance of getting affection from the person he hopelessly loves. Because it is his neighbour, the owner of The White Rose, Robert Gadling, a straight man who rightfully dislikes Dream.

+*+*+*+*+

Cyclamen: resignation and good-bye

[seiya-starsniper]

25.finding comfort in their scent from the prompt list?

Whooooo I finally managed to put together something for this! I kept accidentally veering off into angst territory ahahahaha. I promise this is all straight fluff though 💖

blossoming romance writing prompts

---------

Hob knows the exact moment when Dream enters his flat.

He is sick as a dog, running a fever hovering dangerously close to 39C, and he’s fairly certain the cold medication has given him some sort of hallucination about betta fish swimming around in the air.

Even still, though his eyes are heavy and he cannot smell a damn thing through his congested nose, Hob is somehow able to smell Dream.

Dream smells of ozone and petrichor, of starlights and sunsets, and everything in the world Hob has ever loved or found beautiful. He wonders if the anthropomorphic personification of dreams is just supposed to smell that way, like some sort dream come true.

“Hob Gadling,” Dream’s voice reverberates from within his bedroom. Hob didn’t even hear him pass the threshold. “You are unwell, according to my sister.”

Hob snorts, remembering the time Death had spontaneously shown herself in the middle of their now monthly meetings at the New Inn. Hob had nearly fled out of his own skin once he’d realized who she was, which only made her laugh. She reassured him that Hob’s life was his own, and she’d only ever come for him if he personally asked for her. Then she’d left as cryptically as she came, only saying she had an appointment to get to.

“I’m not going to die from a cold,” Hob snuffles, peeking out from underneath the duvet. “Surely things can’t be that dire unless there’s something you’re not telling me, Dream.”

Dream huffs, and Hob catches the barest hint of a smile. “It is not Death whose realm you were visiting,” the Endless replies. “My youngest sibling, Delirium, sends her regards.”

Delirium. Hob thinks. Well, that would explain the flying betta fish.

Suddenly, there is a coolness on Hob’s forehead, and he realizes belatedly that it is Dream’s hand. He barely bites back a groan of relief. He hadn’t realized just how overheated he’d become.

“You are feverish,” Dream murmurs. “It would be best for you to take your rest in my realm.”

“Unless you can magically cool down my whole body my friend,” Hob replies cheekily, “I don’t think I’m getting to sleep any time soon. Hand feels pretty nice though,” he adds, his thought to mouth filter utterly failing him in this moment. 

“You underestimate me, Hob,” Dream rumbles, and before he even knows what’s happened, Hob drifts off entirely.

He wakes in a field of green. There’s no fever, no congestion, and more importantly, no overwhelming dizziness. It’s peaceful here, and despite never having seen this place before in his life, Hob knows he’s been here before. 

Hob catches a whiff of starlight, and then turns his head to smile up at his oldest friend. 

“Has anyone ever told you how nice you smell?” Hob asks, clearly no longer caring for propriety.

Dream’s lips quirk in amusement before he takes a seat on the grass next to Hob. “And what do I smell like to you, my friend?”

“Hmm,” Hob contemplates for a few moments. “I suppose you smell like the universe.”

“How utterly vague of you,” Dream replies, deadpan. “Clearly the fever has rendered you unable to articulate properly.”

“I’m serious!” Hob exclaims, playfully shoving at Dream’s shoulder. “There’s no words to describe you. How you remind me of stars and moonlight and thunderstorms all at once. How you smell like the night sky before light pollution ruined everything. Or how you smell like my mum’s homemade stew that I’ve long forgotten the taste of. You just…you smell like everything to me.”

Hob watches then as a pink blush crawls up Dream’s neck, before slowly blooming across the Endless’s face. 

“It has been some time,” Dream says, averting his eyes from Hob’s as if suddenly shy. “Since someone found comfort in my presence.”

Has it? Hob wonders. He’s always found Dream comforting.

“I’ve always found you comforting,” Hob hears himself voice aloud at the same time. In for a penny, in for a pound, he guesses. “When everything else faded or died, there was always you. That’s always comforted me, even on my worst days.”

“Then I must apologize once more for depriving you of that comfort 33 years ago,” Dream says replies, sounding morose. 

“But you came back,” Hob answers, smiling. “And that’s a comfort all on its own.”

They fall into silence then, simply content to enjoy each other’s company. Hob doesn’t know what it is, but he knows something has shifted between them, here in his oldest friend’s realm. The dream itself is shifting too. Where there was once only endless fields of green, there are now flowers springing up from the ground, beautiful and yet otherworldly in their appearance. He reaches out to caress the petals of one of the blooms, not hearing the slight gasp it elicits from right next to him.

The last thing Hob smells before he wakes up is roses.

[valeriianz]

Dreamling Week June 7: 'Fake Dating' | human au

This was a mistake.

Dream sits outside the fitting room, back against a mirror as he waits for Hob to come out and show him his next choice. They were going to a wedding together, which in itself was fine, but the context behind it…

Dream should have said no. Should have scathingly told Hob to grow a pair and just deal with his family’s judgment. It wasn’t a bad thing to be single, but apparently in Hob’s family, being single at 35 years old, and for the past nine years, was a problem. 

Dream had often wondered how Hob had remained single for such a long time, he knew his friend was a catch. Charismatic, wicked smart, and roguishly handsome to boot. Dream couldn’t deny how he’d often catch himself staring at Hob, looking twice at him when they went out with friends, his smile wide and posture loose from a couple drinks. Or while Dream would help him build lesson plans, peeking sideways as Hob’s glasses began to slip down his nose and his hair would fall in his face. 

Or while he was trying on suits for his cousin’s wedding. Where they would be attending as a couple.

“Hob…” Dream had given him a flat look, controlling his features into something unreadable while his heart threatened to burst from his chest. “This is absurd. Could we not attend as we are– as friends?”

“That’s the easiest part!” Hob’s eyes were wide and imploring. “We’re already friends! They won’t even question it.”

And then he’d gone on a tirade that Dream was quite familiar with, having been Hob’s friend for so long, about how his family had moved on from being subtle to outright dogging Hob about his love life. Why hadn’t he settled down yet? Who was going to continue the Gadling name, if not their only son? At your age… With your talents and charms… Such a waste… on and on and Hob, understandably, was sick of it.

Any further complaints had died on Dream’s tongue. He should have tried harder to convince Hob that this was a stupid idea. That his family’s opinion didn’t matter. That Hob should keep living as he had been in spite of it all. Because honestly, in what universe could this possibly work? How does this not end with Dream vulnerable and weak and wanting?

Because Dream was head over heels obsessed with Hob. No, he wouldn’t say the L word. It wasn’t like that. He knew better than to fall into that trap again. It was easier, somehow, to be a little more deranged about it. A little unhinged… delusional.

Especially as he watched Hob walk out of the little changing room for the third time now, eyes stuck on the jacket around Hob’s shoulders, broad and strong, accentuating the lines of his arms and back, cinched slightly at the waist. His thoughts tripping and staggering as Hob’s long legs move to a full length mirror across from Dream, unashamedly staring at Hob’s thighs, firm and thick, and up to his ass, which the dark blue slacks hugged so well. 

Hob is pulling on the collar, turning this way and that, oblivious to the war raging inside of Dream.

“I don’t know about this one…” Hob is murmuring, tugging now on end of the sleeves. “Not sure if blue is my color.”

Blue is absolutely Hob’s color. Dream wants to say how fetching it looks against Hob’s golden brown skin, how it makes him look regal yet soft. How great it would look on the floor of the hotel room they would be staying at– oh fuck, Dream had forgotten about that. They’d be sharing a room.

Dream stood just as Hob kicked a leg out, looking down.

“And the pants are too long.”

“We can get that hemmed,” Dream kept his face impassive as he stepped up behind Hob, briefly meeting his eyes in the mirror before looking at the jacket.

He brushed his hands across Hobs shoulders, dusting off invisible lint, then down his back, straightening out invisible wrinkles. Before looking up again at the floor length mirror across from them.

They are nearly of height, Dream has maybe half an inch on Hob and can see how he stands behind Hob in the reflection. Can see how Hob has stilled and his eyes locked onto his. How he is staring back at Hob, his pupils shaking slightly, like he’s staring at something delicious. Dream swallows, letting his imagination wander.

He thinks about pressing up against Hob’s back, so his groin would slip comfortably against that perfectly round ass, how it might feel to get his hands on Hob’s waist, pulling so he could feel the way Hob’s shoulders fit atop Dream’s chest.

How Dream’s hands would slip around to Hob’s front, getting his fingers inside the fitted jacket and pressing them incessantly– intentionally, along the soft cotton of the white button down, how Hob’s skin might feel against it. How Dream’s hands would trail up to his chest, undoing those buttons as he went, revealing the thick dark hairs there and getting briefly distracted enough to comb his fingers through that mane, tilting his head to growl in Hob’s ear as he tightened his fingers and pulled just to hear what noise Hob would make in return. 

And while Dream’s lips were at Hob’s ear, he’d trail them down to his neck, biting into the unmarked flesh, tasting the salt and aftershave with his tongue, peppering kisses even lower as he pulled the fabric of the shirt and jacket off his shoulders completely and imagining the eager, wanton grown that would tumble from Hob’s lips as he tilted his head back, getting his own hand around the back of Dream’s head to pull him in for a sloppy kiss–

Dream blinked and found himself still standing behind Hob, who was fully dressed and looking back at him and– was he breathing heavy?

The daydream only lasted a second, just a flash of a fantasy Dream indulged in, but now he wonders if he’d been too obvious. He’s staring back at Hob, pupils dilated and lips parted slightly, like a panting dog about to pounce.

Dream clears his throat and looks down the length of the mirror, accidentally settling them on the seat of Hob’s pants and distractedly averting his gaze again to Hob’s back, the dark blue fabric before him.

“You look good, Hob.” Dream manages to force the words out, his voice lower than usual, hungry. “I think this is the one.”

“Yeah.” Why does Hob sound breathless? “Yeah I like this one.”

Dream nods and forces every cell in his body to step back, away from Hob and allow him to turn back to the fitting room. He keeps his gaze down, waiting until Hob is conveniently out of sight before he allows the heat he can feel crawling up his neck to make its way to his face.

[for @watercubebee and our shared obsession with seeing Hob in nice clothes and wanting Dream to tear them off of him *handshake*]

[dharmas-spam]

In wake of recent events and allegations against Neil Gaiman, I would like to release a statement that I know no one asked for. Because I have not been doing very well as of late, and this was the cherry on the shit sundae.

I hope you all understand that, in doing so, I do not mean to take away any attention from the victims. I just have to get this off my chest and clear the air I feel is polluted at the moment.

Here's my long-winded timeline of my interaction with Gaiman's work. Underneath will be my statement on these allegations and what I will be doing moving forward.

I first got into Neil Gaiman's work in June-July of 2021, around my birthday, although I had seen some of his work unknowingly over the years.

I will never forget the first time I watched Good Omens, and I will never forget the joy it made me feel from the first few frames. I finished the show soon after. The message of the beauty in individuality and the inherent neutrality of humanity made me feel hopeful for the first time in a while.

I read the book in October 2021 and was officially hooked. I started engaging in the fandom and found a place online where I felt wholly accepted. I made fanart, read/wrote fanworks, etc.

I then expanded my Gaiman-Verse knowledge in April 2022 and began reading American Gods, Anansi Boys, Trigger Warning, etc...and found great inspiration and solace in these works as well.

On August 5th, 2022, I watched Sandman the morning it released on Netflix, beyond excited, and then bought one of the large books with the first few comics complied inside after finishing the show.

My love for The Sandman universe only grew, and I gained new outlooks on life inside the character's words and actions. Death of The Endless and Hob Gadling were two characters that helped me better understand how to truly appreciate the world around me and the time I am blessed to have in it.

I received the full collection of The Sandman comics for Christmas 2022 and nearly cried with elation. I read through them like a beast and was given more of the extended works in the series (like Death's solo comic) later that same holiday. I was also given The Ocean At The End Of The Lane, and finished it in two days flat. I loved Mrs. Hempstock and her words on humanity.

As time passed, my passion for Gaiman's literature/media didn't waver.

I started dating my partner on June 1st, 2023, and Gaiman's work was part of what helped us bond, in addition to our already-lovely chemistry.

The EVERY kiss spoiler leaked and sobbed with excitement, lol.

Good Omens S2 was set to be released a few days after my birthday. However, I was very sick on my birthday and was rather miserable.

My parents went out of their way to make me Good Omens cupcakes in secret, and it was one of my best birthdays, purely because my father put in the effort to design them, despite my never letting him watch the show (which has since been amended).

That Christmas, I was given quite a bit of Good Omens and Sandman merchandise and started growing my collection of copies of Good Omens.

On April 25th, 2024, I watched Dead Boy Detectives the day it released, having been excited for it since November 2023, and found another media in the Gaiman-Verse that I adored and saw myself in.

Flash forward to tonight, July 4th, 2024, and I am devastated.

I spent the majority of my teen years consuming Gaiman's content and engaging in the fandoms. During the time, I found true happiness and felt comfortable in my identity, and I refuse to lie and say my self-discovery was not aided by the media he created.

I know this is not about me, but about the victims, and I know the allegations have been brought to light by many shady news sources, but I must finish my piece with this:

When J.K Rowling exposed herself as a TERF, I had not realized I was queer yet, but I was still deeply disturbed for reasons unknown to me. I separated the art from the artist, as I had loved Harry Potter since I was seven, and it was a way my mother and I bonded during hard times. It also helped me get through the height of quarantine and the horrors of puberty.

When I discovered Gaiman's work and the fandoms his work's inspired, I felt relieved: here was a white cishet person who cared for minorities and who created media for minorities.

If the allegations are true (which they likely are), it turns out my hero doesn't deserve his cape.

I will do as I did with J.K Rowling, with a much heavier heart. The fans deserve the joy and inclusion Gaiman's work has created, even if he himself is vile. I will continue to consume his work indirectly and in no support to him.

I encourage everyone in the fandom to stay calm during this time.

It is okay to be angry, sad, and confused. However, it is not okay to ignore the allegations altogether or the trauma these women have experienced at the hands of Gaiman.

This fandom is a safe space for many people, and I beg that it will remain that way.

I send out much love to the women who were hurt, and I hope you both find contentment.

[obsessiveagony2point0]

Sweet Babies ❤️ Hob is so in love

Process Video

Original Post Date: March 16th 2024

Twitter/X•AO3•Pillowfort •Linktree•Bluesky•Ko-fi

[gabessquishytum]

It's very weird, but lately, any person Hob has dated has been going ~ insane. Like in an asylum, tasting colors, petting invisible animals, pulling their hair out in chunks, insane.

Up until recently, Hob hadn't noticed, not really. His stranger was back, and visiting Hob more frequently and spending time with Hob. So he hasn't had much time to pay attention. 🤷🏽‍♀️ To be honest, when Dream ('eeeeeeeh, a name, Dream) came back to him, Hob pretty much dropped everything & everyone whenever he deigned to darken Hob door.

So it took a while to notice. But he was supposed to meet Rory to catch up last week and Gwen for post trip drinks a month ago, and neither showed. When Hob finally got around to asking after them, he found out they were under a doctor's care. Indefinitely. It's so bad/so many of his past lovers have seemingly wound up in an asylum, that Hob is scared for Dream! Maybe knowing Hob drives a person crazy!?!

Ah, no that would be Dream,,,,,using his dreams and nightmares to chase away any demands on Hob's time, that is not spending time with Dream(, and Dream guesses his students; Hob's teaching is fine, he loves it so ~ but that school's administration better watch out. If Hob comes home mad one more time.)

AKSJDJFNFN this is very mean of Dream tbh. But he just wants Hob all to himself! Doesn't he deserve nice things after all that time he was captured?

Delirium is very cross with her brother indeed. He's getting far too close to crossing into her realm, and she doesn't approve of his reasoning. She likes Hob Gadling as much as anyone, and driving all his friends and lovers to madness is so unkind! She tells Dream all this to his face and warns him that she's going to return those poor people to their right minds. Dream’s going to have to find another way to keep his human's attention.

Dream is very annoyed but there's nothing he can do about it. He glumly shows up for his next meeting with Hob and sulks the entire time. Hob is equally glum because he's convinced that he's driving people to lunacy. He's so worried about it, he even warns Dream about it - "if I was you, I wouldn't hang around too long. I think there's something seriously wrong with me. I mean, it can't be a coincidence! I'm definitely making people go mad. My head of department has been signed off on sick leave and I'm sure it's all my fault."

At this point Dream realises that Delirium may have been correct. Hob does look rather miserable. So: no more madness inducing dreams and nightmares. He'll have to find another way to secure Hob’s attention.

And his solution? Next meeting with Hob, Dream shows up in the sluttiest little outfit he can imagine. He’ll have to do this the good old fashioned way and make sure that Hob can’t think of ANYTHING or ANYONE except for Dream.

Delirium approves, tbh.

[cuubism]

Enchantment

"Hob," Death greets, and Hob has never heard her voice go tentative like that - though it is, as always, still friendly and kind. "You called for me?"

"Hey, hon," Hob says, or croaks, throat dry and overused. "Yeah, I did, but I meant it in more of a do you think you could help me get out of this situation sort of way, not like, you know." He makes a slicing motion across his throat with his free hand. "Off me."

Death chuckles, crouching before him. "Yes, I see that now. I admit I was concerned, for a moment."

"To be fair, this is not exactly not concerning," Hob says, gesturing to his bound wrist, the frankly alarming amount of blood all over his body, and the situation more generally. "But what's one more dungeon rescue among friends?"

Death touches the binding on his wrist with light fingers, considering. Try as he might, despite having one hand and both legs free and considerable experience in picking locks, Hob has not been able to get it off. It must be magical in some way. "You did not call for Dream?"

Hob sighs. "Listen--" he starts, and Death snorts.

"Didn't want to be responsible for the leveling of the entire street?"

"Dream has not exactly--" Hob shifts and winces, that cuff is starting to burn under Death's touch-- "proven himself capable of moderation."

"And he won't, if the past billions of years are anything to go by," Death agrees, with the fond exasperation of an older sister.

She leans in close, studying the metal chaining his arm to the wall. "You couldn't have known, but I think you've prevented more than that in calling me instead."

"What's that thing say?" Hob asks. "I couldn't make out the language. Looked old."

Death runs her finger along the runes encircling the cuff. Hob winces again as the burning sensation flares. "It's a spell. A trap for Dream. Drawing on your connection to him."

"What?"

"I don't think it would've been powerful enough to work as intended." Death's lips purse in displeasure. "But that doesn't mean it would have no effect."

"What effect?" Hob asks, sick at the thought of Dream snared in another trap.

"As soon as he touched the binding with the intent to free you, it would have hooked into his power; the more power he used to pull away, the tighter it would have wound, like a finger trap. It is an enchantment that..." Death hesitates, "draws on emotion."

"Oh." Hob scrubs a hand through his ruined, greasy hair. "Fuck."

"It is fortunate that you called me," Death says grimly.

"It's not going to hurt you, is it?"

"No. But I doubt this will be comfortable."

Hob braces himself. "How will you break it?"

"All things have an end," Death tells him, pressing her fingertips to the runes. Hob feels each touch through the metal like a brand. "Even non-living things die. I've found the loose thread of that end, and now I will unravel it."

She twists the cuff around his wrist counterclockwise, and Hob yelps, cringing back against the wall, not entirely sure she hasn't burned his hand right off. The enchantment flares brighter than the sun, then disappears, leaving smoke behind.

She undoes the cuff easily after that.

Hob's wrist is intact, though terribly burned. That'll take a while to feel any better, unfortunately. He holds it against his chest. "Thanks, hon. I owe you a pint."

Death laughs. "No, you don't, but I won't turn it down. Do you want a ride home? I'm heading that way anyway."

"That's disturbing to think about," Hob tells her. "But sure."

He's going to have to do some cleanup here later. But for now, he'd just like to get out of this blasted place.

~~~~

"Hob Gadling."

Dream appears in his living room a few hours later, when Hob is ensconced on the couch with his laptop, trying to figure out how he's going to clean up this whole mess without alerting the authorities. Dream looks stricken, and Hob feels abruptly bad about not calling for him, even though that had been a fortunate bit of foresight, in the end.

"Hey, love." Hob sets the computer aside, and Dream comes over to him, sitting lightly on the couch at his side. He takes Hob's bandaged wrist in his hands. "Sorry about all that."

"Sorry?" Dream echoes, voice tipping up a note in what Hob can only read as the infliction of a wound. "I would have come for you."

"I know you would." Hob lays his hand over Dream's. It adds uncomfortable pressure to the burns but he doesn't let go. "I just didn't want--"

But it wasn't really about maintaining the peace at all, was it? It wasn't about Dream's overreaction, not deep down. It was only about Dream.

"Didn't want you hurt," Hob says quietly. "Not again."

Dream's jaw tightens. "Do not decide what risks I should take."

"They wanted you, did Death tell you that part, too?"

"She did. Do you think so low of me as to expect that would change my decision?"

I don't think low of you at all, Hob thinks. "That's not what I meant. Death just seemed the more... practical... choice at the time," he says, which is a weak argument, but Hob stands by his decision. Dream is safe, not trapped, and that's what matters. Outcome over intent, he's learned.

"Practical," Dream repeats. "Yes. I see my presence is unneeded. I will--"

Hob catches him by the wrist before he can stand. "Don't. Please."

"Considering you are no longer in peril, and do not wish for my help besides, I fail to see what purpose I am serving here," Dream says, still tensed like he means to jump up.

"No purpose needed," Hob says. "I just don't want to leave it like that. I know you're upset. And I know, I know, I would have been upset too if you were in trouble and didn't ask for my help, so don't even bother saying that--"

"You would?" says Dream.

Hob looks at him, both eyebrows raised. Yeah, obviously.

Dream raises a single eyebrow in return as if this is not, indeed, obvious.

Funny, Hob thinks, that silent communication. Hob is a talkative person by nature -- too talkative, more often than not -- but Dream is not and so Hob has learned to read him like this. The confusion in the way his brow pinches tighter, the way his body settles just so back into the couch, listening again, no longer on the verge of flight.

Surely he knows. Surely there's no way he doesn't know.

"I'd want you to call for me," Hob says. "I wouldn't want to leave you trapped."

"This was a trap," Dream says.

Exactly. "Did Death describe the enchantment?"

"Try to escape and tangle yourself further," Dream says. "Yes. I understand."

Do you? Hob thinks. Do you know why it would have worked on you?

They haven't actually gotten there yet. Hob can feel it approaching, though, with the inevitability of the moon reaching its perigee above the earth. He hasn't felt the need to rush it. Each careful step Dream takes towards him is a gift.

"There are many such traps in this world," Dream says, studying Hob.

Each careful step is a gift, and Hob hates the thought of that progress being used against Dream, those painstakingly untied feelings employed to trap him all over again. He can picture Dream tangled and bound and trying to pull away from him, and he hates it so much that he makes probably the exact opposite decision he should make, takes Dream's face lightly between his hands, tosses their careful timeline out the window and kisses him, right there and then.

Dream makes a surprised sound against his mouth, which means he really must be telling the truth about not looking in on Hob’s dreams because Hob has not been subtle in his dreaming. Dream wraps careful hands around Hob’s wrists, once again bracketing where the cuff had burned him. Holding Hob to him. His kiss is sweet with just a nip of fire, which is what all moments with Dream have felt like since his return, really.

Dream leans against his cheek when they part, hair brushing Hob’s temple. “When my sister told me you had called for her, it— I believe you would phrase it as ‘gave me a heart attack.’”

“I’m sorry, love.” Hob runs a hand through his hair, and Dream leans into the touch. “I would never do that to you, okay? Even if I did choose Death – which I won’t, but – I wouldn’t just disappear on you without saying anything. Alright?”

“Very well,” Dream agrees, though Hob doesn’t think he really believes it. Truly believing in Hob’s relentless commitment to life is a tall ask for Dream at the moment, but it’s okay, Hob has plenty of time to convince him.

“Believe it,” he says, and kisses Dream again.

[roguelov]

Entangled

Summary: A recently turned immortal, and a witch, your life becomes entangled and thrusted into the life of an immortal, Hob Gadling. However, Hob soon introduces you to his oldest friend, Dream of the Endless. And over the coming centuries you find yourself falling in love with each of them, but how will it end?

Word Count: ~8k

Reader: Afab/fem

Warning: Mostly fluff, mutual pining, mentions of drowning and death, angst(ish) cliffhanger

Part 2 - (smut included)

Strangely, this story began with a drowning.

The ravenous crowd cheered. A man tied to a sturdy, recently chopped, tree thrashed in the chilling river water. Bubbles escaped from his mouth letting the freshwater in.

Blood. They wanted blood. They beckoned out to Death, hoping for her to grace their presence.

The crowd brought the man up to the surface ignoring his gasps and pleas to spout insults and allude to his devil worship; then instantly forced him back under.

Hob Gadling had one thought in his mind: how much water can fill my lungs? When one cannot die, then what do you do when someone is actively trying to kill you?

His lungs were on fire as precious air was forced out. He would clamp his mouth shut, yet his body and survival instincts rejected it. His need for air opened his mouth allowing more water to rush in. It burned as it poured down his throat. It pained him in every way.

He was choking.

But, he was not dying.

And it was odd.

The thought of dying - actually dying - ran through his mind, yet he knew it would never come. Hob loved life, he loved it all dearly, but for a single moment - in complete weakness - he wished for death. A fleeting thought which was drowned out by the intense ringing in his ears.

Soon darkness overtook him.

Commotion erupted on land.

The murderous crowd scattered, like dogs with thier tails tucked between their legs.

A figure darted out of the surrounding woods and plunged into the river.

You.

You dove in.

With a knife in your mouth, you swam to the man and started sawing away at the rope. He was slack, unmoving and at the mercy of the current. Dead or unconscious. You couldn't tell, but you hoped for the latter.

After a few more slashes, he was free from his restraints. You tucked the knife into your boot and grabbed onto the man’s slippery, wet clothes. You pushed off the bottom of the river and dragged his sopping body to the surface. You broke gasping for air, then swam with all your might to the creek bed.

Huffing and puffing, you hoisted him up and out of the water. You touched his neck, feeling for a pulse. However, miraculously, the man started coughing up water.

You breathed a sigh of relief. He was alive.

He cracked open his eyes. Water dripped off his eyelashes, following the curves of his face. Looking up, the sun - still high in the sky despite believing hours had passed - glared viciously, blinding him. He hissed. But, he enjoyed it, enjoyed the pain and heat. It was far better than the cool unforgiving darkness of the river.

You smiled sadly down at him. “I’m sorry,” you brushed his wet locks out of his face, “they were after me.”

He coughed up more water. “You? They were after me.”

You blinked. Him? I thought …

Each of you assessed each other in utter confusion. Slowly, the man pushed himself up, swaying side to side to properly look at you. “Why … why would they be after you?” He asked.

“Same as you, I suppose.” Standing up, you stretched a helping hand towards him. “For being a witch.”

He graciously accepted your offer. Clasping your hand, a pleasant chill ran down his spine. Your skin, although damp, was far warmer and welcoming than his own. Standing on his feet, he stumbled back and eyed you up and down. You raised your head, and did the same.

“A witch? A genuine witch?” He asked, almost in disbelief.

“And are you not a witch?”

You assumed given your recent activities - healing the sick, collecting plants, muttering to yourself what people thought to be gibberish, walking around at night, and more - stirred the nearby town’s fears. You assumed this poor soul was caught in the middle of your battles. But, maybe not.

“In a way, I guess I am, or at least to those lovely folks.” He huffed, which turned into a cough.

You stepped back, getting a real good look at him. A hum resonated within him - a hum of the supernatural. You met his eyes. “You are immortal, are you not?”

He blinked, eyebrows shot up.

Which all but confirmed your hunch.

You chuckled to yourself. “Please, we can continue this discussion some more, but allow me to care for you first. I have some dry clothes back at my home.”

He didn’t argue.

You guided the drenched man as he leaned heavily on you back to your little shack in the woods. It rose through the parted pine trees, tucked away from the world. It had cracks and holes in the foundation, and the roof barely kept out the rain or nightly chill, but it was enough. You weren’t necessarily planning on staying around in these parts much longer anyway.

Pushing open the rickety door, you hobbled across the room to the creaky bed and carefully sat the man down.

He didn’t fight. He didn’t have it in him.

His clothes stuck to his freezing skin, his hair clung to his forehead, while his eyes stared vacantly ahead. The weight of his situation, what he just experienced, now perfectly clear in his mind.

You frowned. You left him be for a moment and started to make a fire.

Hob’s eyes slowly trailed over you and your home.

Jars filled with dried herbs neatly placed in rows on a thin, poorly made counter. Plants, both herbs and flowers alike, were scattered about in various pots on the floor, on the single round table in the far corner, or either in the windowsill behind him.

You darted around the tight space, collecting herbs and throwing it onto the fire. You constantly mumbled under your breath, like a haunting song. Hob inhaled deeply. The aroma was dizzying. However, it distracted him from the freshwater and algae that threatened to suffocate him. In fact, he started to feel more and more at ease with every passing second. The ring in his ears vanished, replaced with the crackling of fire. His body had stopped shivering minutes ago, and his muscle had finally relaxed. The danger had passed.

Walking over, you bent down at the edge of the bed pulling out a small trunk. You rummaged around before pulling out a bundle of clothes. You eyed him then the clothes and smiled. It would fit.

You set them beside him and stood directly in front of him. He slowly peered up at you. Your kind, gentle eyes soothed every worry he ever felt. He was safe at last.

“I know you may not be capable of catching a cold, but please allow me to look over you,” you asked softly.

Hob nodded.

You smiled, your eyes crinkling. “If I make you uncomfortable, please tell me.” You pressed your hand to his chest. His face scrunched up and glanced down in confusion. “Breathe in and out slowly.”

Hob cocked his eyebrow, but obliged.

You immediately frowned. Water was still trapped in his lungs. You could feel it: the faint swishing and hum of gurgling.

You sighed, stepping back. “You have water in your lungs.”

Hob’s eyes widened.

“But, not to worry, I can get it out. However, you must stay completely relaxed and calm, and listen to everything I say.”

He nodded adamantly.

You smiled again. With the tip of your finger, you gently tipped his head back so he stared directly at the chipped roof. Your thumb carefully pushed on his chin, opening his mouth a bit. You looked through the window. “You are lucky, it is a clear and dry day.”

Hob tried to respond, but you silenced him.

“Inhale deeply. Take in the smell of herbs.”

He did as he was told. It made his mind hazy, his thoughts hard to grasp.

“Good, now don’t resist.”

Fear should have spiked, but he was at ease.

You leaned over him, and began to mumble. Hob couldn't understand a word you were saying. Yet, it was the same as earlier, an eerie haunting lullaby. Your words swirled around his hazy mind, drifting him further and further into a relaxed state.

Something slithered.

He flinched.

Your hands cupped his face, as your thumb calmly stroked his cheek. You never wavered.

The cool, wet sensation slithered out of the pit of his stomach and up his throat.

Again, he should have panicked. His eyes darted around and locked onto your. Your eyes were closed in concentration. The sunlight, the soft yellow, danced over your damp skin. Your hair stuck to your face. Water dripped down off the tip of your nose.

It dawned on him in that moment the lengths you went through to save him, to save a complete stranger.

Something swirled in his mouth. The distinct taste of algae and mud glided over his tongue. It was water. Fear finally reached him. He wanted to choke or throw up, but he instead froze. The water floated out of his mouth and hovered in a suspended bubble inches above his face. His eyes widened.

A dented tin cup appeared over his face, catching the water.

He blinked.

You took the cup and chucked the water outside. You turned around smiling widely at him. “There.”

He dropped his head, staring in awe. “You really are a witch.”

“Did you have doubts?” You teased, setting the cup on the table.

“I - I suppose I did. I … I just haven’t met others similar to me.” He struggled to string his thoughts together.

“You mean ones part of the strange and unspoken parts of this bizarre world?”

“… yes?”

You smiled, shaking your head. “You have lived a closeted life, or you have turned away from it all.”

He threw you a lopsided smile. “Really?”

You smirked, and moved on, refusing to reveal the many secrets of this world. “So, immortal man, how long have you been wandering the earth?”

“Since the late 1300s.”

You blinked, surprised. “That’s nearly 300 years?”

“Yes, but most say I don’t look my age,” he cheekily replied.

You snorted.

“And you? I now know you are a witch, but are you also gifted with immortality too?”

“I am.”

He cocked his head. “Because you are a witch?”

You shook your head. “No, all witches, magic users if you wish, live and die for that is life.”

“Then why you?”

You smirked. “And why would I tell you such secrets?”

“Because you saved my life? I would like to know my savior.”

“Saved an immortal’s life? Irony at its finest.”

He smiled, chuckling to himself. “Cheeky.”

“I will say a deal was struck, however, when my deal was struck? It was not as long as you probably think or hope, it was all fairly recent compared to your lifespan. It was only about half a century ago.”

“Ah,” he hummed.

But, unlike what you suggested, he wasn’t disappointed slightest. How could he? He has met another immortal, one more aligned with humanity compared to his other dear friend.

He smiled, practically beaming. “Where are my manners? My birth name was Robert Gadling, but please call me Hob.”

“Hob Gadling,” you repeated. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, (Y/N).”

“And the same to you, although I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Ah,” he waved you off, “I wouldn’t wish it any other way.”

You blinked, then laughed. “You are a strange one, Hob.”

“Says the witch.”

You smiled, “Cheeky.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

At that moment, an idea popped to mind. “Hold on,” you ran over and opened your trunk again, digging through clothes and other assortments. Hob leaned over peering down at you, but you instantly jumped up with a smile. You held out a plain golden locket. “Here.”

Hob stared down quizzically. “What is it?”

He knew the obvious answer, but given your occult tendencies he wanted to know more.

“A locket.”

Hob glanced up at you unsure.

You huffed. “It was a gift to my sibling.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s charmed. It is connected to me. If you hold it and speak my name I will know. It was a way for my sibling to call me when they were sick or in need.” A frown tugged on your lips. “They unfortunately passed away last winter.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hob muttered. Loss was an old friend, one he never wished to see again.

“Thank you, I’m okay, but I wish for you to have it.” You offered it out to him.

“Why me?”

“I found you drowning in a river, I feel as though I should not have to explain any further.”

Hob smiled sheepishly.

“And I wish to stay in contact with you.” You took his hand and placed the locket and the chain in his. “A start of a new friendship.”

His fingers curled over the jewelry. He smiled up at you. “Okay, for a new friendship.”

Yet despite the hopeful promise, he never called.

It was only until decades later that you finally saw him again.

Under the pale grey sky, the air thick with the impending storm to come, you strolled down the busy sidewalks as carriages and horses trotted by. You glanced down at the scrawled list. All of it basic necessities, some of which your garden could not provide hence your trip into town.

“Move it!”

You glanced over to the commotion across the street. A man, in tattered rags and covered in dirt and grime, stumbled through the flow of people. Most covered their noses, as a few gagged. They all glared at the man and some even shouted at him.

You frowned.

The man was pushed and forced up against a building as people bumped his shoulder. He glanced around, trying to look for something. His beady sunken eyes peered through his scraggly hair that fell in front of his face. He slowly sunk down, as people crowded around him. The man threw his hands over head to protect himself.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Without any regard for passers in the street, you darted across. You worked your way through the crowd, shooing them away. They scoffed and gave up. A few eyed you oddly but you paid no attention to them.

Your heart raced as you approached. You dropped to your knees. “Hob?”

The man snapped his head up, looking through his greasy hair. Shock overtook him. He dropped his hands and looked at you properly. “(Y/N)?” He breathed out.

“Oh, Hob.” You reached out and helped him up onto his feet. He graciously accepted. He, however, tumbled into you, but you easily supported. Just like all those years ago. Your hand rested on his stomach while your arm wrapped around his waist. “What happened to you?”

“Life.” He muttered with a crooked smile, trying to hide his pain.

You puckered lips, not believing him.

“Nothing you should worry yourself over.” He quickly added, and laughed once. “Just one thing after another. You shouldn’t be too surprised given how we first met.”

It was meant to be a joke. But, you didn’t laugh. Your eyes softened. “Why didn’t you call?”

Hob hunched over slightly, and glanced away. “I did not think to.”

You frowned. “Hob, we may have only met once, but I do consider you to be a friend.”

Hob straightened up with you to lean upon. His hand touched the front of his ragged shirt, and just below a cool metal pressed into his chest. Your locket, one of his few possessions still on him. “It was not meant to offend you,” he whispered. “I simply have grown to rely on myself. It is odd to think I can call upon someone and they will still be there.”

Your frown shifted into a smile. “I’m not offended, Hob, in fact I understand perfectly well. All I ask is for you to be more mindful in the future.”

He nodded.

“Here, come back to my place. I can cook you a meal and -“

“No,” he quickly shook his head.

You raised your eyebrows. “No?”

He started to walk ahead, stumbling a bit to free himself from your grasp. You chased after him, clinging to him and fearful he may collapse.

“I am to meet someone,” he stated, marching forward.

“Meeting someone?”

“An old friend.”

“Are you -“

“It is a scheduled meeting, I cannot and will not miss it.”

Helping a fumbling Hob, you soon found yourself in front of a tavern. You couldn't hide your confusion and some disdain. A tavern? You looked to Hob in your arms, but his gaze was locked onto the door. Inside, the crowd cheered and bustled about. A faint hum of music filled the air as clacks of cups and tankards echoed.

Hob stepped forth out of your embrace. He opened the door, walking in as if it was his destiny.

The patrons immediately glared at Hob given his unpleasant appearance. But, with you on his trail, you easily reciprocated their hateful glare. Most then turned away. A man - a worker - tried to approach to remove Hob, but you caught his gaze. He flinched, and slowly backed away.

Hob stumbled around tables to the far back of the tavern. You followed like his shadow and protector.

Once in the back, Hob instantly beelined it to a man in all black.

You hovered, unable or unsure if you should leave Hob with this man. A man who exuded such raw power and commanding presence. His posture was perfectly straight with his head held high and leveled with the floor. He did not belong here. His long raven black hair swept back over his shoulders. His clothes were expensive and the height of fashion dipped in a velvet black. He was the night. The only flecks of color on him were a deep blood red from a ruby which sparkled at his neck and his pale blue grey eyes, the color of an early morning sky.

Hob, however, ignored everything peculiar about the man and stuffed his face with the served bread and began to prattle on about his life.

The man’s charcoal rimmed eyes soon slid over to you intrigued. “I see you have brought a friend to our arrangement, Hob Gadling.”

Hob visibly swallowed a chunk of bread and looked over his shoulder back to you. He blushed a little, embarrassed he forgot about you. But, he gestured for you to join them.

Hesitant at first, but you obeyed. You were mystified by his dark stranger. Why did he feel so familiar?

You took the chair next to Hob, and kept your eyes on the stranger. You began to have an inkling as to who he may be. If you were correct, you had met one of his siblings before.

“This is -“

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N),” the stranger cut off Hob. The stranger bowed his head in acknowledgement and offered a small greeting smile.

You returned the smile. Oh, yes, you knew exactly who he was.

Hob, mouth agape with food, looked between the two of you in bewilderment. “Have you met before?” He turned to you and pointed his ripped piece of bread at the man. “You know him?”

You smiled at Hob. “It seems you have a knack for attracting the unusual Hob, which I suppose is not surprising given your own unique circumstances.”

Hob blinked. “I don’t understand, do -“

“Hob Gadling,” the stranger called out. “You were regaling your life story, one I am most excited to hear if you so wish to continue.”

Hob squinted at the pair of you, but delved into his life. A story which spanned over the entirety of the last century, a story in which you also made an appearance in. And, unfortunately, a story which wasn’t very pleasant, one filled with mountainous heartache. But, when the stranger asked if Hob wished to continue living; Hob laughed and answered with a resounding yes.

You smiled, shaking your head. Even with the few interactions you had with Hob, you somehow expected his answer.

Hob twisted in his seat, facing you. “You should join us.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Come here to this tavern in the next hundred years, and we can discuss what we have done.”

You shook your head. “Oh, no, I -“

“You are welcome to join us,” the stranger interjected. “I am interested in your tale if you wish to tell it.”

Your eyes flickered back and forth between them. Should you? There was no disdain in their eyes, only joy and want. You smiled at the pair. “Okay then, I will be here.”

They smiled.

“On one condition,” you added. “That I may see you well before then.”

Hob smirked. “Oh, yes, I assure you will hear from me. You cannot get rid of me so easily now.”

You laughed, throwing your head back.

At the sound of your bubbly laughter, their hearts shared an infectious flutter. They glanced at each other, with questions in their eyes, but they ignored it; ignored the stirring of emotions just as they have done so for centuries.

You tilted your head, beaming at the pair, “Then to the next hundred years may they be filled with excitement and bring you joy.”

“To the next,” they spoke in unison.

After the meeting, you dragged Hob to your home for fresh clothing and a warm place to sleep for the night.

“I promise, I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow,” he repeated over and over throughout the day and well into the night.

You smiled, leaning on the doorframe to the spare bedroom. You watched as Hob, now squeaky clean, slowly settled into bed. “You can stay forever how long you need Hob.”

“No,” he shook his head, “tomorrow morning I’ll leave.”

“If that is what you want.”

He locked eyes with you. It wasn’t. There was a swell of emotions in his chest. But, he didn’t wish to be a burden, besides a fire was lit under him after today. He knew he could create a new life, and stand proudly on his own two feet. “It is,” he said.

You nodded, “Just remember I’m always here for you.” You pushed off the frame, and began closing the bedroom door. “Goodnight, Hob.”

“Goodnight.”

In your own bed, with the sounds of Hob’s faint snoring, you smiled to yourself and entered the Dreaming.

Just as you always have, and will continue to do so.

Your bare feet buried into the soft, cotton-like, pale sand. Inhaling, the salty air filled your lungs. Seagulls, gliding on the gentle breeze, squawked overhead. Waves crashed in a constant rhythm. Exhaling, you tilted your head up. It was an overcast sky, gloomy and void of most colors. Yet, the air was warm and inviting like a hug from an old friend.

A wave boomed against the shoreline. Louder, more notable.

Eyes now burned into the back of your head.

Lowering your head, you turned around. He was nearly the same image as he was hours ago, however he forged his expensive clothing for a simple black robe. “Dream of the Endless,” you bowed your head slightly.

He greeted you and bowed his head in return. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

You smiled warmly. “I am honored to be in your presence, but I must ask why are you here?”

“I was curious as to how you and Hob Gadling had met.”

“Ah,” you hummed. “Hob had already told of it earlier, not a particularly cheerful story.”

“True.” He stepped forth. His robe fluttered in the wind, skating across the sand. “But, I find it fascinating.”

You cocked your head. “How so?”

“To think the universe in all its cosmic power somehow aligned you to his path. A magic user and an immortal now intertwined.”

You smiled, “And now we are all intertwined.”

The corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

“But, we were always connected in a way. Just a small thread.”

Confusion flickered in his stormy pale eyes, then he hummed. “My sister.”

“Yes.”

“And have you spoken with her recently?”

There were far and few immortals. But, Death had a habit of speaking to those blessed with her gift. She had a particular interest in you and your story given your affinity for magic, and a certain arrangement.

“No, I haven’t, but given her duties I do not blame her.” You leaned towards him, a knowing smirk danced across your lips. “And you?”

“Pardon?” He blinked, momentarily confused.

“Have you spoken with your dear sister?”

“I cannot say that I have. We both have very busy lives.” He crossed his arms behind his back, regaining all his regal stature. “And your deal with my sweet sister?”

“Still ongoing.”

He nodded.

“Does he know?” You cocked your head.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Hob. Does he know who and what you are?”

Dream shook his head. “No, not entirely.”

“And why is that?”

Dream opened his mouth, but soon swiftly closed it. Why did he not tell Hob? Did it simply evade him? Was he too enraptured with Hob’s tales that he neglected his own? “I cannot say for I, myself, am unsure as to why.”

You chuckled.

Dream raised an eyebrow. “Does this amuse you?”

“How can it not?” You smiled at him. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but an entity who holds the universe’s collective unconsciousness, and has lived for eons upon eons, has failed at basic manners.”

Dream’s lips twitched upward. He looked out to the choppy sea, hiding his growing amusement.

You stepped in front of his view. “Talk to him. Visit him in dreams if you must. He speaks very highly of you.”

Before going to bed, Hob couldn’t and wouldn’t stop speaking of the Dream Lord. He recalled every encounter he had starting with the first fateful encounter back in the 1300s. You saw clearly how much Hob cared for Dream, and their brief fleeting moments.

“Maybe I will.”

“And never be afraid to visit me either.” Dream cocked an eyebrow at you. You simply smiled back. “Are you surprised, Dream Lord? That one may enjoy your company?”

“Surprised?” He hummed in thought. “A little, if I must be honest, but I am more impressed by your forwardness.”

You shrugged. “Fear should not govern your life. I used to be ruled by it, but with immortality I decided to forgo it. To take charge and do as I please.”

He smiled, a true and genuine smile. “How human of you.”

“Not a bad thing I hope?”

“No, not at all.”

“Good.” You looked down the shoreline at the white tips out in the middle of the sea and to sea foam lining the shore. You glanced back at the cosmic entity. “Will you stay until I wake?”

Dream’s enchanting eyes, ones that held galaxies, connected with yours. And for a moment, you felt cradled by the endless expansive universe. “I will.”

You smiled softly then strolled forward side by side as you carried most, if not all, of the conversation.

And when you woke from the morning light, a warm feeling bloomed over your chest.

One which came time and time again. One which sparked, leaving you breathless, every time you saw either Dream or Hob.

Soon, another century quickly melted away. And two men were back in a tavern as if it was always meant to be.

Hob and Dream chatted, catching up on recent years, however as the sun started to dip worry grew in their hearts. Where was their third member? Where have you run off to? Were you okay? Did something happen? Questions ran rampant in their minds, but neither would voice their concerns. Only when someone announced themselves did a flicker of hope and relief flooded their chests. Yet, it was quickly chilled. It was someone that neither expected nor met before.

Lady Johanna Constantine.

She was escorted by two unseemly men, whom she had each paid handsomely. Lady Johanna approached the pair and demanded answers to untold secrets and to address the interesting rumors which swirled around the mysterious pair.

But, neither Hob or Dream was entertained in the slightest, or intimidated for that matter.

In a flash, a fight broke out only to end just as swiftly. The men - ruffians more accurately - slumped to the ground with a resounding boom. Hob huffed, straightening his jacket. A proud smirk danced on his lips. Centuries of battles, he had more than enough experience to deal with men like them. He turned to check on Dream when Lady Johanna whipped out a knife, brandishing it at Hob. Hob’s eyes dropped to the knife with complete disinterest, it was nothing but a lousy, flimsy object in his way.

Dream, however, was already on his feet. His dear friend had helped him, when it was unnecessary, so he wished to return the favor. He opened his palm, conjuring his sand. He brought his palm up to his lips then -

“Lady Johanna Constantine.”

Lady Johanna flinched. She recognized that voice.

And so had her newfound companions.

Hob and Dream snapped their attention up to the second floor. Leaning on the railing, you smiled down at the trio. “Apologies, gentlemen,” you said. “I had nearly forgotten the day. And given my invitation, I wouldn’t dare try to miss it.”

Hob beamed up at you. “I would say you are right on time.”

Lady Johanna’s eyes flickered to the men then back to you as you strolled down the stairs. “(Y/N), I was not aware you knew of these men,” Lady Johanna stated with her knife still directed at Hob.

“There are many things you do not know, Johanna.” You walked over to her. “But, it is no one’s fault but my own. A teacher should have properly prepared their students.”

“Teacher?” Hob exclaimed.

You gently grabbed Johanna’s wrist and lowered her knife. She allowed you to do so. “Yes, teacher. Or at least I was until she outgrew me.”

Johanna huffed. “You showed me many things, but knowledge sometimes is best learned through experience.”

“And yet here you are about to be put six feet under.”

“A calculated risk,” she quipped.

You snorted. “Calculated? That’s not what I would say.”

She grumbled.

“Johanna, I beg of you, please just go home.”

“Beg? Oh, that is rich coming from you.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Have I not groveled enough for your secrets? For your secrets for immortality?”

You frowned. “Johanna, please, let’s not -“

“I am not a child. Do not use that tone on me.”

You sighed, “This is simply not the place for such discussions.”

“Oh? Then where -“

Sand glittered in the air. It tickled past your nose. It smelled of your parents’ cooking when you were sick in bed; it smelled of your first sweet and how it assaulted your young senses; it smelled of home, of warmth, and of old dreams of your youth. The sand blew directly into Johanna’s face. She inhaled it. Her eyes glossed over to a ghostly white as she began to mumble and sink to her knees.

You whipped around.

Dream dropped his hand back to his side. He straightened his back, his eyes locked with yours. “Apologies,” he murmured. “It seemed the conversation was going in circles.”

You looked back at Johanna and sighed deeply. “It’s okay. You’re right, it probably would have ended in another argument.”

“She wants immortality?” Hob asked, looking between you and Johanna.

“Yes,” you swiftly answered, eyes still on Johanna. “But it is the one question I would not answer.”

“Why?” Dream asked intrigued.

You looked at both men. “For it is not my place to answer. If she so seeks it then she may summon Death herself, but I will not give her the tools.”

Dream’s eyebrow twitched, a faint raise to his wonder and interest.

“I think we all know immortality is not a single answer.”

Dream hummed, his lips curled into a knowing smile. “Yes, that you are right.”

Hob bent down in front of Johanna, confusion and bewilderment sparkled in his eyes. He was surrounded by other worldly people. He turned back to the two of you. “So, now what? Find a new tavern?”

Dream shook his head. “It’d be best to end our meeting and for the two of you to lie low.”

Hob stood up, and cockily replied. “Why? It’s not like they can kill us.”

“No, but they can capture you.”

Hob immediately frowned, and rubbed the side of his face.

“Then would you gentlemen care to join me in my new shop?”

They both looked at you. “Shop?” Hob asked.

“Or at least it will be one day, I haven't quite figured out the name yet. And to be honest, at the moment, it is just an empty space with dusty shelves.”

“What kind of shop will it be?”

“A witch shop.” You smirked.

Hob grimaced. “Is that truly the best idea?”

“I will sell herbs for medicinal purposes along with teas and other plants. To others it is a plain shop for alternative medicine, but to those wandering and keen eyes, I will have other items I will happily sell them.”

His eyes connected with yours for a moment. Your determination was palpable. He shook his head, and laughed once. “Will you have a cauldron brewing too?”

It’s not my place, he thought.

“Oh, yes, that’s the dream,” you teased. Your eyes flickered between the pair. “So, are either of you interested?”

Hob smiled kindly. “A rain check, another time.”

Dream nodded. “Yes, apologies, I must admit the same.”

You waved them off. “Do not worry yourself, I completely understand.”

Hob shuffled in place. “So? Next hundred years?”

“You may continue on without me.” You said.

The two men blinked shocked a little by your statement.

“Are you sure?” Hob pressed.

“This was always your meetings and I adore seeing both of you, but I do not want to interrupt anymore.”

“I can assure you, you’re not -“

“I see you both plenty and these are your arrangements, so please continue without me.”

Dream stared blankly for a moment then accepted. “As you wish, until our next meeting.”

“Until then,” you glanced at Hob, “to both of you. I do hope it will be sooner rather than later.”

And sooner it was. Much, much sooner.

The dented bell chimed as the shop door swung open. A dark figure hovered in the doorway illuminated by the dim lighting of candles and oil lamps. He was hauntingly beautiful, especially in this lighting, a dark king.

You knew who it was without having to look over. His presence, his power, rippled throughout the shop.

“So, this is your dream?”

You smiled to yourself as you shelved jars of dried herbs behind the counter. You peered over your shoulder. Dream stood in the doorway of your shop - or one day it will be in the Waking.

“What? Do you not like it?” You asked, finishing the last row of jars.

“I do.”

You whirled around, leaning on the glass counter.

Inside, the glass counter revealed an assortment of vials of oils with petals and leaves neatly organized in stands. In wooden trays, in rows of two, tea bags were laid out ready for any cup. Card holders scrawled in beautiful calligraphy said the name of the tea along with a list of the types of plants used. Handmade tea cups and pots, each painted in various colors and designs, lined the bottom of the display case.

Behind you were bookshelves were filled with jarred herbs, ointments, seeds, potpourri bags, inscenses, other trinkets; like wooden hand carved items like spoons, jewelry boxes, to minuscule animals. Books aligned the empty space, books on mythology, human anatomy, plants, to even just plain fiction.

The walls were covered. There were diagrams of scientific names and properties of plants, as well as paintings of people and animals frolicking. Even extravagant trapesteries, collected over the years, hung from hooks. No one could tell of the wallpaper, or the paint color, behind all the chaotic mess.

The shop as a whole was relatively small, but a cushiony small like a hug from an old friend. Soft, warm yellow, a setting sunlight, steamed in through the surrounding windows. Chairs, rickety yet plush and inviting, were tucked in the nearby corner closest to the door. A table wedged between them was filled with games, and paper and pencils, to pass the time. Potted plants hung from the ceiling, their vines and flowers cascading down. While, tall ferns sprouted in their pots in most nooks. Inhaling, it smelled like morning dew, to a field of flowers on a lush spring day, your favorite hot tea on a cold winter night, to a home cooked meal, to almost anything and everything.

It was almost a secret oasis.

Your oasis, your safe haven.

However, in the back, behind a locked door which only opens to your touch, was where the real magical items were stored. Things you’ve collected over the years, things you’ve enchanted, and things only those seeking would find.

Leaning on the counter, you eyed the dark figure clouding all the greenery. His eyes scanned the room, taking it all in. “Bit simple, isn’t it?”

Simple? The place, your shop, was far from simple. But, the dream?

“Simple is never a bad thing.”

You smiled at him. “I suppose you are right, Dream Lord.”

Dream circled around the shop, his eyes still soaking in all the details, even down to the cracks in the floorboards and the dents in the walls. “You know,” he began, “you can call me, Morpheus.”

“I could.”

Dream turned, facing you. “Then why don’t you?”

“Do you not like it when I call you by your title? Dream Lord, your majesty, sire,” you listed with a certain mischief in your eyes.

Dream would never admit it, but he did. He loved the way your mouth curled into a smirk as you teasingly said such boorish titles. It brought a shiver to his spine.

He strolled towards you, “I don’t mind it, but I am merely curious as to why you still address me as such.”

You shrugged. “Respect, if I have to guess.”

“And if you didn’t?” He stood in front of the counter, his pale blue eyes locked with yours.

You smiled. “Because it’s fun. You don’t really meet a lot of kings or royalty these days.”

He dropped his head, smiling.

“But, for you, I can change that.”

He snorted. “How noble.”

You leaned closer to him. Your eyes sparkled with stars, pulling him in. “I have you know, I am very noble, Morpheus.”

He smirked. “Is that so?”

“It is.” A moment passed, a skip of the heart. You pulled away. “So, what truly brings you here?”

“You spoke of your dream earlier and I simply wished to see it for myself.”

You hummed. “Is that all?”

“No,” he admitted. He walked over to the plush chairs and sat down. “We did not get a chance to speak, and I too wish to hear what you have been up to since I last saw you. For starters, I was not aware you were teaching witchcraft and Hob certainly wasn’t aware of it.”

You strolled over to him. “Hob fears for me, and I do not blame him given how we met. I’ve had my fair share of townspeople hunting after me, but I love what I do. I may omit the truth only to lessen his worries for me.”

“You care for him.”

You plopped down in the opposite chair. Your eyebrows knitted together. “Of course, I care for you both.”

Morpheus’s eyebrows shot up.

You snorted. “Surprised? Do you think you are unloved?”

“I … I am simply taken back by your forthrightness.”

“Morpheus, you and Hob are part of my life so of course I care for each of you.”

So deeply than neither of you could begin to fathom.

Morphues, almost bashful, looked away. You laughed, “You know, part of my dream is for you and Hob to see it. For all of us to be here together.”

“Is it?” He peered back up at you.

“It is.”

He hummed. “Then I hope one day I can help fulfill this dream.”

You smiled. “We are already halfway there.”

He smiled, and his eyes crinkled.

You were not sure how long you talked with Morpheus, but time was always different in the Dreaming. You each spoke of your life since your last visit, and soon wished each other farewell.

Throughout the next century, you continuously talked with Hob and Morpheus. And occasionally offered any assistance, both magical and non magical, if needed. Your shop, now in the Waking, bustled with new customers becoming more and more popular. Of course, the shop was passed from mother to daughter, to a distant cousin, and a name change here and there.

But, life was good. Perfect.

Sitting in front of your fireplace, in your upstairs apartment over your now closed shop, you closed your eyes. The rain, heavy and constant, was a steady drum beat. A comforting lull. Your body ached from packaging jars, filling orders, and maintaining your expansive house garden. Yet, you enjoyed it. Enjoyed how your body curled into the chair, enveloping you and how you felt accomplished after a hard day of work.

Life, however, still loved to ruin the cultivated peace.

“(Y/N).”

Your name whispered within your head, yet it wasn’t your voice. A warmth spread over your chest, as if someone’s hand laid on top of your heart. You placed your hand there, feeling your own skin.

“Hob,” you called out. “I hear you.”

“I’m coming over.”

You laughed once. “And I will be here.”

You had forgotten the date, forgotten the importance.

Hob, drenched from the pouring rain and your locket in his grasp, soon appeared at your door. You immediately let him in and guided him over to the fire. A towel appeared out of thin air and wrapped around the sopping man’s shoulders. Hob tugged on the towel, then spilled into the evening’s events. He tried to bite back the pain, tried to ignore the sting in his chest, but he couldn’t any longer.

“What did I do wrong?” Hob mumbled his throat thick with oncoming tears. “Why did I say that?”

What ifs and countless scenarios replayed over and over.

You listened to every word, trying to comfort him. Yet, your own sorrows grew.

And so did your anger.

Hob eventually fell asleep, completely exhausted and drained, on your couch. His hair now dry curled in odd directions. And luckily, you were able to switch out his clothes for comfortable warm pajamas.

“He’s my friend.” A thousand other promises hung in the air from his three words. I don’t want to lose him … I love him.

You pulled the quilt up over his shoulders. Brushing back his hair, you bent down and kissed his head. “I will try to fix this,” you whispered.

Because I don’t want to lose him either.

You sat down on the floor, leaning back into the couch. Hob’s face was a simple turn from yours.

You stole a moment and stared at him.

He was finally at ease. Yet, a crease still laid between his brows. A frown tugged on the corner of his lips. His cheeks were still stained with tears, no matter how many times you brushed them away.

Anger flared. An anger directed at Morpheus. Hours. Hours spent consoling Hob, and failing to soothe his pain - pain, if you may add, Morpheus inflicted.

You gritted your teeth. You will have answers, demanding them if you must. Closing your eyes, leaning your head near Hob and memorizing his sullen features one last time, you inhaled deeply and silenced any thoughts.

The tug, the weightlessness, then the solid ground beneath your feet.

You had entered the Dreaming.

Morpheus, in his throne room, tried to distract his thoughts by reading. Thoughts of his recent meeting, thoughts of Hob’s biting words, thoughts of you which always crept in when he saw Hob.

“Must you be the most insufferable being in existence!” Your voice boomed throughout the grand room.

Your anger had gotten the better of you.

Morpheus jaw clenched. He didn’t wish to speak with you. He was still bitter from his encounter with Hob, and he knew your presence alone would make it worse. Sitting on top of his throne, he snapped his book shut and slowly rose to his feet. There you stood at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at him.

“And what do I owe for the pleasure of your company in my throne room?” Morpheus descended the stairs, step by step, looking down his nose at you.

“Why did you say such things to Hob?”

Morpheus gritted his teeth. He did not want to dwell on Hob Gadling anymore. “Why are you intervening where you are not welcomed?”

“I am intervening, your majesty, because a mutual friend has come to me with questions I cannot answer, and an absolutely heartbroken look on his face.”

Regret and sorrow flickered behind his eyes. That was why. That was why he didn’t wish to dwell on Hob. It was the suffocating guilt which weighed in his chest that he could not run from. But, he could smother it, smother it in a fiery anger.

It was something he understood better.

He steeled his emotions with his signature passive stare. “He spouts nonsense and insults me to my face.”

“Insults?” You began to climb up the steps. “You think he was insulting you?”

“He dared to think to call me lonely.” He hissed through his teeth. Anger, he needed this anger.

“Because you are.”

We all are.

You hovered directly in front of him. Morpheus, on a single step above, glared down at you. He towered over, a grand entity of the world’s unconsciousness. Your faces only inches apart as you glared menacingly at each other.

“You think I am in need of such company?” He asked lowly.

“You do not wish to hear what I think, Dream Lord.”

He chuckled darkly. “You burst into my throne room, pointing fingers, and throwing insults and now you wish to hold your tongue?”

Your eyes searched his eyes for the truth beneath this grandiose act. Yet, you couldn’t. Either he truly believed it, or he buried it well.

You scoffed, and spun on your heel, walking away.

“And where are you going?” Morpheus asked with a snarl.

“I will leave and wait until you get off your pompous throne, your majesty, and admit the truth.”

Morpheus took a single step down. “The truth?”

You whipped around, looking up with tears in your eyes. Morpheus was taken back. The guilt rose tenfold. The memory of Hob’s broken face and now yours tore his heart apart. But, he did not show it. It all read as a twitch of his eyebrows, and a new tension in his jaw.

“That we are your friends,” you said, plainly.

He stared, unable to speak or to find the words to do so. His throat clenched. Where was his anger from before?

“What a fool we are.” You muttered.

He blinked. A fool?

“We are just humans to you, are we not? Below you in every way, right?”

He bit his tongue. No, you weren’t. Never. However, his pride was more important, or so he thought. He was an Endless, a cosmic entity balancing the universe. So, were you technically not below? Yes, in a way. But, he served you, served humanity.

Anger.

He clung to his anger, finding the hot rage far more comforting than the icy chill of guilt. So, he stayed silent.

And it stung. Immensely.

You loved him. You loved Morpheus deeply, in a carnal way. You loved him like the way you needed air to breathe. Yet, you also loved Hob. You loved him easily like a gentle breeze constantly guiding you forward.

But, you would side with Hob.

“I will not return till you admit your wrongs,” you said. You quickly turned away, your body vanishing as you awoke and took the first step to temporarily severing yourself from the Dreaming.

All the while, Morpheus was now left alone stewing with his thoughts.

[doctorhouse5343]

Sick Day (Love In The Lab)

"I am not letting you go to work in this state, Robert Gadling. You are running a fever, your nose is clearly congested and lastly, I fear that with the way that you have been coughing, you will most likely cough up your lungs at this rate. Now you will notify your boss that you are ill and cannot come to work today and you will let me take care of you. Doctor's orders." The doctor's firm tone and look left the journalist with no other choice than to listen to his husband's words, making sigh in defeat as he pulled out his phone to call his workplace.

As he did that, Hob could have sworn that he saw Morpheus' icy blue eyes light up as a smug smile appeared on his peony lips. Oh yes, Dr. Endlesstein relished this moment greatly : for once he actually the one stopping the love of his life from doing something completely and utterly foolish. When the call was done, the ravenette's smile got more smug somehow, which brought an eye-roll from the brown eyed journalist "I'm not going to ask if you are happy or sumthing like that because the answer is obviously yes" He then sighed, blowing his nose for what felt like the 10th time since he woke up in the morning. He was aware that he was quite ill when he stumbled out of the bed : he was shivering so much that his teeth clattered, he brought two blankets with him and yet he still insisted on going to work, though luckily for him his husband didn't stand by that and managed to convince him otherwise.

"Now, I shall run you a bath, add a honey and lavender bath-bomb with some bubble bath for you and when you are done I will help you dress in more comfortable clothes" The small nod that Hob gave at the doctor's words made Morpheus feel a bit bad but it had to be done, so he gently picked him up and carried him off to the bathroom for much needed comfort. During the bath, the doctor stayed close to the journalist's side, ready to intervene if anything were to happen, he also took the time to wash his husband's hair gently. As he did that, the brown-haired man felt himself slowly relax under his lover's gentle touch, smiling as the doctor kissed his stubble-covered cheek "Come now, it is time for you to get dressed." Morpheus said with a soothing tone as he helped Hob to stand up and get out of the tub, humming as he dried him off with a soft towel before helping him out in comfortable pajamas.

With that done, the couple headed off to the living room were the doctor soon lied down, pulling his journalist husband into his arms so that he could rest his head against his chest as he gave him his medicine "Here you go, my dear Hob...Now all that you must do, at this point, is simply rest. You do not need to anything else for today, I shall do all the chores and the sorts. Even the folding of the laundry, though do excuse me if the folding is off, you are the better one at it" The comment brought a little chuckle out of the man, which soon became a painful coughing fit that ended with a pained groan "Thanks, love, I don't know what I would do without here, with me" He muttered, slowly closing his eyes as he rested his head on his lover's chest "Rest well, my beautiful sunshine" Morpheus whispered as he pressed a soft kiss to Hob's temple, watching over him at his most vulnerable.

[dsudis]

I hope this isn't weird, but you posted that and my brain threw this up for you:

Dream only listens with half an ear at what Hob is saying down the line, especially once he picks out "I'll come down but," and ignores the rest. He can pay whatever bonus is needed, and throw in some more.

Hob is, surprisingly, worth keeping. It's not just the skills but the fact that he seems to have, for a lack of a better word, a way with Orpheus. An understanding. With everyone else his son is difficult, he's Dream's after all, but he gets on well with Hob. It's a strange relief he hasn't felt in so long he might never have experienced it to know, for once, that when the weekend man is sick and Desire is making sure to harangue him and make up some reason Dream is needed immediately there is someone he can call. Someone reliable.

Which is why he feels almost nauseous with what feels like a betrayal he has only half a right to when he finally gets back to the house and gets his foot on the stairway and realizes the child's laughter he's hearing doesn't belong to Orpheus at all. Rare as it is, he knows his son. He takes the steps up two at a time and collides inelegantly with the doorframe, like a cat misjudging a corner, to peer into his son's room to see something so extraordinary it feels like a dream.

There's an unknown boy on the rug, building something complicated with Orpheus as if he spent every Saturday helping him erect a mishmash of Lego and Duplo and wooden blocks balanced on the belly of a stuffed once-white rabbit. Orpheus, who has prompted more calls and teacher's notes about the importance of sharing than Dream can count, and is now smiling while telling a fantastical story that seems to fascinate the other child. The one that looks just like Hob Gadling, who is watching them with a soft warmth in his face Dream has never seen, mastering a trick Dream can't get the hang of: being present but not intrusive as his son plays.

There's a rush of something, in his ears and his chest, warm and familiar and unwanted. He'd felt it last when Calliope had first held Orpheus and looked down at him, pink and roughly formed. He hasn't seen it since, much less felt it. He remembers, all over again, the way he does when Orpheus pushes his curls behind his ears in a mirror perfect imitation of his mother, who he can barely remember, because she'd left. She had not looked back. Hob is paid to be here.

"Mr. Gadling," Dream says, and pointedly does not waver at the vague and quickly hidden surprise on Hob's face at the address. "You may go now, I no longer require your services," he finishes, hardening his heart at the boys' pleas to be allowed to play, just for five minutes longer. "For today you mean?" Hob says, too calm, and Dream hears himself say "Clearly," without realizing he'd made a decision. He feels, strangely, that he doesn't regret it.

[Because he's gonna fall in love ho ho ho]

😍😍😍

[windsweptinred]

The AU Where Morpheus doesn't retire and become mortal, but marries up and gets a promotion...

The Endless Death may have withheld her gift from Robert Gadling. But it was only through his daughters bargining, that her Father granted the mortal time. Poured the primordial force into the human, to halt the decline of body and mind. And make him a fixed point in eternity. However, it seems he may have gifted a little too much of himself....

For the first time on record, Professor Robert Golding was on sick leave. The true reasoning for such, was not infact a rather nasty case of flu, but as follows...

On Monday morning the reflection that had greeted him in the mirror was that of a finely aged man of 50. Hair silver and face etched with lines of a good, long life.

On Tuesday, he's been a man of 20. With glowing, smooth skin and hair so lustrous with youth it almost shone copper.

Wednesday, a boy of 9, Thursday a bearded elder of 80.

By Friday, when he's calmed himself enough to think logically and somehow willed his appearance back to normal. He deemed it time to contact Dream to inform him his immortality appeared to be glitchy.

.....

With each century that passed, life, time and memory surged within the immortal form of Hob. Just as the young Daniel Hall awaited his succession as Dream, so too Robert Gadling was unknowingly the heir to Time itself.

There will come a time when the last of primordial beings withdraw from this plane. And thus, a medieval peasant come history professor, will wed his love, one soon to be ex Lord of Dreams. Who inherited too much of his mother in purpose and appearance. And a new Time and Night will ascend and reign.

[teejaystumbles]

Hob waits. It is all he can do. He sits at the table in the tavern, sometimes drinking, sometimes talking to other visitors. Mostly he just stares at the door and waits. His dreams got strange a few decades ago. He dreams of a life outside the tavern, full of people and things. It's rich and exciting, full of joy and sorrow. He likes his dreams, the complexity of them, the diversity (the diversion). Just one thing is missing, like when he wakes. But at least here in the tavern, awake, he knows (hopes, begs) that someday he will come. Surely. (Continue reading on ao3 or here under the cut)

(Drawn for the Whynoctober #5, Cobwebs. A drabble turned into more, please read it!)

In his dreams there is too much happening for Hob to think of him. It makes him feel guilty. To sometimes want to sleep, to escape to that place full of sunlight and lovers and friends and forget that he is waiting. That it is his duty to wait. That he is the only one who can do it because he cannot die. Yet there are dreams of war and pain and sickness, too. For a decade Hob tries not to sleep too long, longs for the quiet of the tavern when he dreams of bombs and death, hunger and loss. These dreams are interspersed with happy ones, but it seems Hob's mind needs variety because war and horror return and again for many years he wishes he did not have to sleep. The visitors get fewer over the years, as if noticing Hob's need for silence. He is thankful, for his dreams are noisy, busy. While awake Hob remains sitting at his (their) table and waits. There's no need to move, or drink or eat. He cannot die. He waits.

In his dreams he sometimes remembers what is important and he looks for him. Tries to meet him here, at the tavern. He doesn't come. He never finds him (of course) but he finds others who remind him of the one he loves. When he wakes, head sunk on the dusty table, he feels guilty. For dreaming about his stranger like that, even if it's not him in his dreams but lookalikes he makes love to. He will confess, once he arrives, Hob swears to himself. No matter the answer, he must tell him. That he waited. That he will wait forever. And why. In his dreams he has become a teacher. It is joyful and when he wakes he imagines that it would suit him - once the waiting is over. (Will it ever be? How much longer?) Until then he can dream.

The White Horse gets closed down in his dreams and Hob buys a pub a few streets away, calls it the New Inn, paints signs. Surely it's silly, to do this while dreaming, but he needs the reassurance that there is a place, both in dreams and the real world, where his stranger can find him. The real world remains unchanged, although Hob is alone in the tavern. There are no other patrons, no staff. Haven't been for years, now. He doesn't mind. He hasn't ordered anything in decades. Dust and cobwebs are covering the place, as well as Hob's hair, now almost as long and tangled as in the 17th century. His clothes are worn and moth-eaten. He doesn't mind. He waits.

He has the nicest dream. His stranger finally visits him in the New Inn. It's a sunny day for London and there is a smile on his stranger's face. Hob knows it's a dream but he's elated. "You're late." he mocks him and the smile grows. "I believe I owe you an apology. I've always heard it impolite to keep one's friends waiting." Hob grins and his stranger settles across from him, still smiling. "This is the best dream I've ever had." Hob says, in awe, happy. His stranger frowns. "Dream?" Hob doesn't want him to frown, he wants him to smile. "Nevermind, nevermind, let's not waste it, this is the first time I've ever dreamed of the real you. Tell me something! Anything! Do you want a drink?" But his friend's face remains serious, the smile does not return. Hob swallows nervously. He prays that this won't turn into a nightmare. "You are awake, Hob Gadling." the stranger says and Hob falters. Then he laughs nervously. "What? No, this is a dream. When I wake up I'll be sitting in the White Horse, and who knows, maybe this is like, a prophetic dream, mh?" He averts his eyes, smiles down at the table, at the sheets of papers he's grading. "Maybe I won't have to wait much longer..." The stranger draws in a noisy breath through his nose and gets up. Hob lifts his head and reaches out to stop him, panic in his voice. "No, please, I'm sorry! Don't leave!" His friend's eyes soften. He does not move away. Instead he says: "Do you have somewhere more private where we can talk?" Hob is so glad he's not leaving. He sighs in relief and gets up. "Yes, I have a flat above the inn, come." "You own this establishment?" Hob leads him up the stairs and unlocks the door to his rooms. "Yeah, they shut down the old tavern and so I bought this one. Hoped you'd find it. The real one is still there, of course. Hope you'll find me there, too. Someday." He turns around and his stranger is looking at him with something like sorrow or pity, Hob can't decide. "I will." he answers softly and Hob swallows, feeling a blush creeping up his neck. His friend steps closer and Hob locks his knees, suppressing the urge to step back, or to fall towards him, he doesn't know. He doesn't move. Gently the stranger lays a soft hand on his cheek. Hob feels his face burning, surely his friend will notice how hard his heart is beating. "You think this is a dream?" Hob needs to unstick his tongue from his dry gums to answer. "Yes." His friend lifts his other hand and there is something glittering in it. "Sleep." he says with such a compelling and gentle tone that Hob wants to weep. "No, not yet, please-" His stranger blows sand in his face and Hob knows nothing more.

He wakes at the table in the tavern, like always. He looks around, catching his breath. He is alone. He feels tears starting to fall, a crushing despair in his chest. Why did he have to wake up? Who knows if he'll ever dream of him again... There is a creak as the door of the tavern opens. Hob stares. It has been decades since anyone walked in here. Light spills through the door and glints on the thousands of spiderweb strands in the air and around Hob. A shadow steps through the door. It's his stranger. Hob gasps and tries to get up but feels like his legs are one with the floor, the chair, like he has grown one with the table. With the tavern. He can only watch as his friend picks his way through the rubble, easily swiping away the cobwebs. He stops in front of Hob and he looks exactly like he did in the dream. No, Hob corrects himself, he looks pale as moonlight, more regal, more magical, black cloak billowing around him, his hair even wilder than usual. His eyes are filled with galaxies. Hob stares in awe, tears streaming down his face. There is only one thing he can do. "I waited." he says, voice rough with over a century of disuse. "Yes." the stranger answers softly, gaze gentle and sad. "I love you." Hob says and feels his heart spilling out of his chest. When he glances down at a sudden weight in his hand he sees that it's his heart he is holding. Strange, that this should be possible. It doesn't hurt more than usual. It pulses steadily, always alive, always waiting. He lifts it up for his stranger to inspect. "It's yours. Please..." The stars in his friend's dark eyes flicker, his petal lips part and he leans down. With one hand he takes Hob's heart and it jumps, Hob feels like fainting at his touch. He pushes it back towards Hob's chest and presses it back in. Hob sobs. "Don't you want it? What else can I give you? Please..." he begs but the stranger, dark and beautiful and larger than life, envelopes him and draws him in and kisses his pleas from his lips. Hob drowns in it, clutching at his friend like a lifeline in a storm. It feels like being swallowed by the night, and it is the most frightening and the best feeling he has ever experienced. He feels his stranger whisper brokenly against his lips: "I accept your gift. It shall keep you alive for as long as you wish, and I will find you wherever you go." Then he says: "This dream... is over."

Hob wakes up. Sunlight is trickling through the window, tickling his nose. He sneezes and sits up. There is a marble hand on his chest. He follows the black-clad arm attached to it with his eyes and stares wide-eyed at his stranger, lying beside him in bed. They are both fully clothed but Hob feels himself flush from head to toe anyway. "Good morning, Hob. My name is Dream of the Endless." his friend says calmly and presses against his chest to make him lie back down. Hob cannot look away from him, he falls back onto the sheets. "Dream... This...is not a dream..." "No. You are truly awake now, Hob. My… involuntary absence has brought you much grief... For that I am deeply sorry. I hope..." He leans over Hob and he stares into his ice blue eyes, glittering with stars in their depths, "that I can make up for it. To be worthy of your gift." Slowly, with clearly telegraphed intent, Dream leans closer, and Hob meets him in the middle for their first real kiss. He feels a shadow that has been haunting him for a century finally leave him. Somewhere in the Dreaming a table silently crumbles to sand.

[griombrioch]

Per usual, I am having a certified Bad Time with the holiday season and instead of dissociating over it tonight, I chose to word-vomit some whumpy Hob takes, so.

I feel like the western holiday season would be hard for Hob? I think he's so far past any deep conflicts of religious beliefs, but that's not really what holidays are for anyway. Even as they've changed shape and tradition over the many lifetimes he's had, it's a time where the concept of family gets glorified and put on a pedestal. And for Hob Gadling, to live for so long and to live most of it alone, only to be reminded year after year that he is a man out of his time? He has no family left to celebrate life with.

Does he watch the people around him and think back to the rich years with Eleanor and his son? Does the regret of not having held them closer sink deeper during this time? Does the sting of his wife's absence last longer? Does he desperately wish for a child to spoil? He has so much love for humanity and nowhere to put it. It just sits and burns in his chest.

Alternatively, I think Hob's infectious love of life would probably push him into a slightly less mopey perspective on things. Perhaps he invites his grad students out for a gathering right before the winter break hits, because he's seen many a student leave campus after final exams looking far quieter than their peers.

One of his barkeeps at the New Inn who just moved from America and can't make the trip back home for Christmas? He invites her up for a nice meal and cocktails that she doesn't have to pour. Because Hob is a man who knows what it feels like to be alone - so painfully alone that you become sick of the voice in your own head. And he can't bear to wish that on anyone, even just for a night.

And, after Dream (Dream. Finally, he has a name) returns and confirms that, yes, they actually are friends, Hob still does not mention his secret hatred of the season. What is Christmas to an Endless? Nothing, that's what. Just a stupid human thing, and he would not dare whine about this to a being who just spent over a century trapped in a cage. And that is fine. Hob genuinely does not mind - his Stranger-not stranger comes around every few weeks now and he could not be happier with that, with having someone regular in his life to whom he doesn't have to pretend to be 36 year old Robbie Galden. Who knows the depths of who he is, what he has seen. Hob would not trade that for the world. He hopes that he never has to.

But if Dream shows up at his doorstep at six in the evening on December 24th and asks to have dinner, well, Hob certainly isn't going to turn him away. Perhaps his friend has seen it in his dreams, the crippling loneliness, the want. Perhaps Dream saw it on his face the last time he visited and Hob had winced at all the gaudy decorations on the London streets. He doesn't know and they don't talk about it, but it is the first holiday in a very, very long time that Hob feels the warmth of family.