#hob gadling fanfic

[just-some-random-blogger]

his imagines are incredible, you can make an imagine of the hob he meets Morpheus's twin sister the hope of endless, I imagine a hob enchanted by hope and a Morpheus on the side who is jealous of his sister

Dawn of the Endless

Hob Gadling x Endless!Reader, Dream of the Endless & Twin Sister!Reader

Summary: One century Dream brought his twin sister to the White Horse pub, and ever since, Hob's life was never the same.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: fem!reader, set in Elizabethan England, annoyed brother!dream, puppy!hob, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: this is so interesting. i havent written anything for hob at all yet so i was so excited when i saw this! also i know you said her name is hope but everyone in the family has a letter D in their name and i literally translated hope in every language available in google translate, hoping at least one of them would start with D and one of them did but i didnt like the way it sounded so i decided to rename her dawn, cos i mean dawn is the early morning and that gives hope so i hope you dont mind. i dont mention anyone else's but Hob's name though, since technically it's in his pov and he has no idea what Dream's name is either, much less Dawn lol im unsure if yall would be interested but since dream is here i'll still tag everyone who likes my dream fics lol Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda @shadow-pancake9 @sloanexx

Hob had been taking his daily stroll that day, he remembers it vividly. He was walking by the fields near his estate, basking in the morning sun, breathing in the cool air.

There was a warmth, a light that drew nearer. It was slow to come and quick to leave, but in the moment, he thought nothing of it; he only thought it was the rays of the earliness greeting him.

He realized it was not that when he outstretched his hand to pluck out a Pasqueflower. Hob's fingers bumped into another's; his heart leapt to his throat in shock.

His head snaps to the side. He retreats his hand slower than hers.

"Apologies," she mutters, light and melodic, "I did not think you'd chose that flower."

Hob's jaw slacks, and yet he does not hesitate. He rips the flower from its stem, handing it over. There is a flurry within him when she accepts it with a smile. The very wind in his lungs is knocked out when she says, "thank you, Hob."

The next moment, she walks away. Hob only regained his wits by the time he wholly regret the fact he was so dumbfounded he didn't even get to speak one single word.

And yet, days after, it seemed fate wanted to bring them together again. He was determined not to let the moment slip away this time around.

He practically lunged from his seat when he saw the lady in the yellow dress from across the pub. He ran, twisting past the patrons of the place. He stops a few paces away from her, straightening his garb, clearing his throat. He then strides over, catching her attentions in observing the room, "hello."

Hob's breath hitches when she turns to him and smiles, more radiant than before, "hello!"

He sighs, raising his hands, "I-," he clasps them together, "I'm Robert," he wipes his palms on his top, then extends one hand, "Hob, for short."

Her eyes crinkle as her grin widens. She takes his calloused, clammy hand in both her soft and warm ones, shaking it softly, "greetings, Hob!"

When she pulls away, she turns her head to the side and bares her braided hair. Hob's breath hitches the second time when he beholds the violet flower in it. She chuckles softly, "I kept it with me."

He lets out an airy chuckle, "I- it has been nearly a week. I'm astonished it's still alive."

She presses her lips into a pout, "I did not let my sister touch it."

Hob knit his brows tightly, confused by the sentiment, though his lips were still curved up into a smile.

He throws his thumb over his shoulder, "would you like to sit with me for a while? I have a table there. I'm waiting for someone."

"I know."

In that very moment, she looks past Hob and points behind him. Hob turns around, catching sight of his set table, finding it was now occupied, occupied by the very man he was waiting for.

Hob tilts his head, pressing his lips together, yet, still, they rememain curved upward.

"W-"

"Come," she calls, cutting Hob off. She takes his arm in hers, making his heart thump wildly in his chest, "let us not keep him waiting."

Hob feels his breath quicken as he allows himself to be lead back to his table. She urges him to sit in a vacant chair. Hob does just that and watches as she circles back around the man across him.

He was clad in black, much like the previous times they met. The woman sits on the other available chair adjacent to both of them.

Hob looks between them. They both look back at Hob, her, smiling excitedly, him, scrutinizing with far less enthusiasm.

They looked like a living oxymoron, with her, robed in vibrant colors, and him, draped in nothing but black. Hob opened his mouth slowly, unsure of what to say. He thinks of saying something funny, something witty, anything that will break the ice, but his tongue is pressed down with the weight of their stares.

The brightly clothed woman turns to darkly clothed man and leans in, whispering something under her breath. He turns to her, extending a hand out to the table, mumbling something quickly before turning back to Hob.

He is at least grateful he did not have to speak first.

"Life has been treating you well, it seems," the dark haired man utters.

Hob straightens up, sucking in a breath as he smiles, "I have had a great many successful endeavors."

She perks at the sound of that, propping her head in her hands and her elbows on the table, "such as?"

Hob turns to her, gulping, finger digging into the collar that tightens around his neck, "such as..."

She raises her brows along with the corner of her lips.

Hob clears his throat, straightening up again, "such as trading!"

"Trading?" the blue eyed man speaks, tilting his head.

"Yes," Hob replies rather weakly.

"He must be very good at it," she chimes, turning to the other, "look at how tasteful his attire is!"

Hob fights back a smile.

"Life is more than the clothes on one's back, sister."

"Sister?" Hob calls, shocked by the revelation. He is all but ignored though.

"And yet small details as such help make life worth living."

Hob tries again, leaning on the the table, "you're siblings?"

The siblings turn to him at the same time, she smiles and he looks blankly. The former speaks, "of course we are. Is it not obvious?" The latter of the two narrows his eyes.

Hob's jaw slacks. He wonders if she is mocking him for a moment, but in any case, between the two, she doesn't look like the one who would be a mocker.

"I..." Hob trails off, "did not think at all of your relation to another."

"Perhaps you would care to think more," he states, "your life surely would benefit from it."

There, Hob thinks, surely that is the sound of mockery.

For a moment, a there was only the sound of the pub between them.

"Oh," the woman pulls back, grabbing her brother's arm, "look," she turns her face to him, "Hob gave me this."

Her brother's face contorts, brow raising inquisitively. He turns to Hob, silently interrogating him.

Hob leans back on his chair and licks his lips, "we met in a field by fate-"

"Fate?" his deep voice repeats. He sounded not all pleased. "What would you know about fate?"

His sister calls out to him under his breath. The pale man's tightened features relax a bit as he sighs, almost as though he was defeated.

"It was a happy encounter," she says, "was it not?" she turns to Hob.

Hob stills for a moment, then nods.

The man turns to his sister, reaching out for the flower in her hair, plucking it out from its place. Hob's lips part as he thinks of how her brother would surely crush the innocent bud in his palm.

She does nothing but watch as her brother examines the Pasqueflower in his palm. He asks, "what were you doing out in the fields anyway?"

Hob watches the siblings scrutinize the little flower.

When they turn to him, Hob's eyes widen and his body stiffens.

The woman's lips curve into a lopsided smile. She chuckles under her breath, "he was asking you, silly."

"Oh," Hob says, "well, I, well- I was taking my daily walk."

"Hmm," he hums, placing the flower back into his sister's hair where he took it.

She smiles at her brother, "special, isn't it?"

He turns to Hob when he replies, "yes. Special indeed."

Hob's sucks in a sharp breath. He inadvertently begins to choke.

The woman giggles under her breath, proceeding to pour Hob a glass of water.

Hob accepts it and watches the siblings turn to each other and mutter under their breath as he drinks. Dear goodness, what in the name of lord are they talking about? He would honestly give half- no- 3/4th of his possessions if it mean he could make sense of the two before him.

His soul nearly leaves him when they stand. The man looks down on Hob as he nods, "it has been a pleasure to meet you again."

"N-" he fumbles, standing up all the same, "no, you can't just leave."

Hob's shoulder burns and his chest tightens when the woman places her hand there. She offers him a playful look, "we never truly leave you, Hob."

What does that mean?!

The man offers his hand out to his sister, and she readily takes it.

When they begin to walk off, Hob does not make the mistake he did in the field and pipes up, "will you be back with him next time?"

They both turn to him, him, furrowing his brows, her, smiling yet again. The latter speaks, "we'll see."

Hob watches them walk away.

[morpheusbaby3]

*Hob Gadling the straightest character in sandman*

first thing fanfic writers do about him in their stories:

[ace-din-djarin]

so guess what show I just watched over the weekend and is now taking over my brain

(it's the sandman) so here's the start of a little fic about Hob Gadling because I find him utterly fascinating. Haven't decided if it will be Dreamling or not but Dream will appear at some point! But for now have some Hob musings.

He’s not naive. Far from it; he’s seen the absolute worst of humanity, all the ways they’ve invented over the centuries for tearing each other apart. Swords had become muskets had become rifles had become machine guns; planes had gone from the miracle of flight to machines that could rain down destruction in a breath. But despite that, despite the memories that sometimes crowd into his head at night and leave him panting in the darkness, unable to sleep for fear of seeing, again, a past friend blown to bits by a mortar in some foxhole in France, or a lance pierce the leather brigandine of an enemy soldier mere feet from Hob himself— despite all of that, he can’t help but look around some mornings, and grin. There’s just… so much to humanity. So much to life. He’s seen countless sunrises and yet, every time he watches the sun peek her beautiful head up above the horizon, it feels like the very first one he’s ever seen. When he gets the chance he likes to sit out on the balcony of his flat and watch the cars stream by on the street below – and how clean it all looks! No smoke from innumerable cook-fires smears the sky with eye-stinging haze; no coal dust clogs the lungs or obscures the light. He well remembers the “Great Smog of London,” back in 1952, though of course it had been building for decades, for centuries. Now, though – the air seems to shine, clear and breathable. It’s not perfect, of course, nothing about humanity ever is, but all the same, he smiles at the difference. Sometimes Hob wakes up, and his thoughts are a tangle of dialects, of slang and phrases fallen out of fashion decades and centuries past. On mornings like that, like this one now, he’ll sit and listen to others talk – it used to be to the radio, and now it’s a podcast, on a tiny little thing that sits in his pocket and holds more information than he’d ever have thought possible – until he gets a handle on the century, on the decade, on the year, and his brain settles into place.

[sunderwight]

Thinking about a bingqiu Dreamling AU where Shen Yuan and Shang Qinghua are both bored deities, just sort of taking a brief sojourn through the mortal world to shoot the shit and see some interesting monster or other that Shen Yuan has heard about, when they come across a tea house and decide to take a break and do some people-watching instead.

Shen Yuan is well into something of a shut-in phase, which Shang Qinghua doesn't like, mostly because when Shen Yuan is in those phases he doesn't do particularly well either. Shen Yuan's a social butterfly, for however little he cares to actually acknowledge it about himself, and his critique of Shang Qinghua's literary masterpieces gets so much harsher when he's not getting enough enrichment.

So when they overhear one of the kitchen boys solemnly insisting that he is going to do everything in his power to never die, and Shen Yuan laments that the boy would probably regret such a wish if it came true, Shang Qinghua decides to bestow a rare bit of godly power onto this mortal and grant his wish.

He doesn't make him a god, of course, that wouldn't even be in his ability. At least, not without using up more time and effort than he's prepared to expend on this one random kid. But immortality on its own is not that difficult. The boy will still finish growing up, and will still be able to be harmed, to know hunger and pain and illness. It just won't ever kill him.

Shen Yuan sighs that it's a cruel thing to do to a mortal, especially one with such low odds of ever cultivating other skills to mitigate the potential torment of it all. But Shang Qinghua just shrugs and they place bets, that this boy will ask for the immortality to be revoked in a hundred years, or two hundred, or so on, or else he won't. Shen Qingqiu approaches the kitchen boy and flusters and bewilders him by telling him to meet him back here again in a hundred years time.

A hundred years later, the tea house is larger. The boy has grown to be a striking young man, who looks at Shen Yuan with wariness and something else, something almost like awe, as he asks what manner of creature he's made this bargain with. Shen Yuan assures him that he has no nefarious intentions, and instead asks Luo Binghe how the past century of his life has gone.

Horribly, at least at first. Binghe's mother had already died by the time they met, but afterwards he managed to earn enough money to travel to a nearby sect. Working in the tea house's kitchen was just a minor stopover along the way. Shen Yuan was wrong, it seems, about his odds of becoming a cultivator -- Luo Binghe earned entry as a disciple.

Yet, he had no success. The master who took him on was unaccountably cruel and mercurial, and Luo Binghe's attempts to cultivate failed. Looking back he sees now that there were many times when he should have died but didn't, but when it was all happening he just thought himself lucky. At least until an enemy sect attacked a cultivation conference, and he suffered mortal wounds that absolutely should have killed him (or anyone) but still didn't die. (No demon race or abyss in this AU, but there are still demonic and fantastical creatures.)

His cruel master, upon witnessing this, accused him of heretical practices and tried to kill him as well by flinging him off the edge of a gorge. The fall was terrible. Binghe lay at the bottom in a horrifying state, injured beyond reason and yet, still, he didn't die. Eventually his body recovered enough for him to drag himself out, and once he did the only thing on his mind was getting revenge. For the next several decades he managed to ingratiate himself to all manner of potential allies, forging alliances, accumulating blackmail, and convincing people that he had to be some powerful cultivator through his supernatural resilience, lack of visible aging, and a lot of bluffing. He got revenge on his old teacher, drove his first sect into ruin, and rose to prominence as a feared and respected leader of the cultivation world.

Shen Yuan listens with clear interest, asking plenty of questions and seemingly quite taken up with the story. At the conclusion, Luo Binghe admits that his actual cultivation is still mostly a matter of smoke and mirrors, and wonders if -- now that the hundred years have passed -- Shen Yuan means to strip his immortality from him.

Shen Yuan asks if Luo Binghe wants that. When Luo Binghe says no, he accepts the answer, and tells him to meet him back here again in another hundred years. Luo Binghe calls after him, but before he can ask anything more, Shen Yuan has disappeared again.

A hundred years later, Binghe arrives back at the tea house with an entourage befitting of an emperor. The tea house has also expanded. Luo Binghe orders a lavish feast from them, which everyone hastens to provide. He's spent the past several decades consolidating his power, forging alliances with key political players via several marriages, producing heirs, and crushing his enemies. As he brags about the state of his massive harem to Shen Yuan, the deity's eyes begin to glaze over. He doesn't seem impressed. He also doesn't seem to care much for the food, and eventually his attention is stolen away by a conversation at another table. The diners are discussing the exploits of a promising new poet and novelist. Try as he might, Luo Binghe fails to regain Shen Yuan's attention before the evening is done. Shen Yuan doesn't think it's a big deal -- after all, if Binghe is still riding on top of the world, he's probably not going to want his immortality gift revoked just yet!

Another hundred years go by. The tea house has returned to a more modest situation, the next time Shen Yuan sets foot in it. He waits an unusually long while for his guest to arrive, and when he does, he's almost stopped at the door by the tea house's servers. It's only when Shen Yuan bids them let him through that Luo Binghe is able to come to the table, almost collapsing against it and desperately falling onto the arrangement of snacks with obvious hunger.

Shen Yuan wonders if this, now, will be when the boy (no longer a boy) asks for the immortality to be revoked. Surprisingly, he finds himself resistant to the idea, even though it's also clear that the game has run too long. Maybe hundred year check-ins were too short? He doesn't like the implications of what's gone on, even if he's not really surprised about it either.

Between desperate mouthfuls of food, Luo Binghe explains that without mastering inedia, going hungry but never dying is a deeply unpleasant experience. Shen Yuan orders more food. Once Binghe has finally eaten his fill, he begins, haltingly, to explain his situation. His clothes are ragged, he is painfully thin, and his gaze is haunted.

Apparently, several of his wives conspired to assassinate him, despite his reputation as unkillable. Realizing that most poisons and such didn't kill him, but that he could still be incapacitated, they hatched a scheme to dose his food with a powerful sleeping agent, and then walled him up in a famous ancestral tomb. They went to great length to ensure that it was impossible to escape from. It took Binghe decades to do it anyway, digging away at the floors, and when he got out he found that his power base had collapsed. In-fighting and the incursion of his enemies had led to the deaths of all of his children, and what wives had survived had either fled or remarried. Not that he particularly wanted them back at that point, since the ones actually most loyal to him had also been killed early on after his own "death". His face marked him, to the eyes of his enemy, as a surviving descendant of himself. He was hunted down, chased across the continent and back again, until he managed to fall into enough obscurity that his pursuers abandoned the chase. Except that he has nothing, and any time he tries to regain something, he runs the risk of being hounded again. Those who might see some potential in him still remember the collapse of his recent "dynasty" and slam doors in his face, or else try and turn him over to those now in power in pursuit of a reward. Those who don't know that much see only a dirty beggar, and usually run him off on that basis instead.

Shen Yuan, almost hesitant, asks if Luo Binghe would like to have his immortality revoked.

Luo Binghe declines. How will he be able to take revenge on those who wronged him if he is dead? He has a hit list a mile long by now.

Which is definitely not the most noble of reasons to persist, but Shen Yuan finds himself reluctant to ask twice. Instead he orders more food, and then even reserves one of the traveler's rooms above the tea house for several days. By then the sky is turning grey, and Luo Binghe is losing his apparent battle with exhaustion. Shen Yuan presses the key into his hand, thinking it's probably not enough, but there are limits to how much gods are supposed to interfere and Shang Qinghua already stretched them to the breaking point with this entire scenario.

He leaves, not seeing the hand that reaches after him just before he is out of the door and gone.

Another hundred years pass. This time, Shen Yuan arrives to find Luo Binghe already waiting for him. He isn't surprised to see that Binghe's situation has visibly improved -- maybe he was keeping closer tabs on him, just a little bit, for this past while. If only to be sure he wouldn't have to warn the tea house workers to expect an unorthodox visitor again! But no, Binghe has been doing well enough for himself. No more harems or thrones, though. He dresses more like a well-off merchant now, deliberately posing as his own mortal descendant rather than as a great immortal cultivator. The food at the table looks far more delicious than usual too (Binghe commandeered the tea house's kitchen himself this time). As they chat, Shen Yuan is regaled with the exploits of Luo Binghe's travels and adventures, how even though he initially set out to claim revenge on those who overthrew him, by the time he was in a position to actually do so they had already died of the usual causes (time, illness, their own schemes backfiring, etc). Subsequently, only their children and grandchildren were left with the scraps of power they had obtained, and when one of those children employed Luo Binghe as a bodyguard, his initial plan to assassinate them eventually fell by the wayside. After all, the wrongdoings weren't actually theirs. From that point, Binghe was able to restore himself to a more comfortable life, joining his new employer on their travels until he had set aside enough earnings to take his leave before his youthful good-looks earned him suspicion. He then began investing in travel and trade, specifically cargo ships, because never spending too long in the same place or around the same people helped disguise his immortality. He had found that, at least for now, this served him better than playing the part of a cultivator. It also gave him time to try and actually repair his ruined cultivation base somewhat, and fighting pirates proved very diverting.

Binghe is midway through recounting his adventures with a gigantic sea monster, while Shen Yuan hangs on every word, when they're interrupted by the arrival of a brash young mistress, clearly wealthy and trained in cultivation. The young lady declares that there is a rumor that a fallen god and a demon meet in this tea house once a century, that they wield strange powers, etc etc, and she intends to interrogate them both with the assistance of her hired muscle and her own spiritual weapon, and discover the truth of the matter. Then she whips out, well, a whip!

Before Shen Yuan can deal with the matter, Luo Binghe is already on his feet, disarming the goons and breaking a few arms in the process. Shen Yuan is so distracted that he almost misses the whip aimed right for him, but before Binghe can catch the barbed weapon with his bare hand (wtf, Binghe, no) Shen Yuan deflects it with a wave of his fan, and then efficiently knocks the troublesome young lady unconscious. The hired muscle flees, Shen Yuan arranges for their assailant to be placed in a room upstairs until she regains consciousness, and he and Binghe resume their meal and conversation in relative peace.

Even though it's clear that Luo Binghe has not yet reached the end of his tolerance for life, Shen Yuan nevertheless finds himself strangely reluctant to part ways at the end of the night. Still, he does, because that's what is expected of him, gently denying Luo Binghe's suggestions that they find some other establishment to continue their conversation at. He also has to investigate these "rumors" that the young lady mentioned. It's probably nothing (Shang Qinghua has a loose tongue when he's drunk, and a lot of imaginative storytellers have frequented this tea house over the years) but he doesn't like being caught unawares like that. Heavenly politics are... complicated, it's best not to court unwanted attention in any capacity.

Another hundred years go by. This time, when they meet at the tea house, Luo Binghe asks Shen Yuan why he keeps it up. Why did he pick Binghe? What is he really after? When Shen Yuan fails to give any kind of clear answer, Luo Binghe shoots his shot and makes a (very obvious) move on him.

Shen Yuan, flustered, gets up and flees. Ignoring Luo Binghe's calls after him. It just doesn't make any sense! Why would Binghe do that?! He's a man who once had a harem of wives in the triple digits! Clearly he's not gay, so what was that all about? Was he just messing with him?! How dare he! Etc, etc.

Another century passes. Luo Binghe waits at the tea house, which has fallen onto hard times again. With the construction of some new roadways, travelers no longer pass through as often. Binghe listens, worried, to the proprietor's laments that this old place will probably not be around in another hundred years. He listens because he has no one else to speak to, because Shen Yuan has not shown up. Not that morning, not during the day, not come evening, and not now that it is closing time. Binghe nevertheless charms and bribes the proprietor to let him stay even after the place has shuttered.

It seems damning, of course. He pressed too hard and now his mysterious benefactor wants nothing more to do with him. Except, no, he refuses to accept that. He's still immortal. And he has gleaned enough of Shen Yuan's character by now that he thinks that even if he was rejected, he would be let down more clearly and gently than this. The more he thinks about it, the less willing Luo Binghe is to believe that he has been deliberately stood up (also, since the tenor of his confession was different from Hob Gadling's, he never delivered an ultimatum about what it might imply when they met up again).

Over the centuries, Luo Binghe has built up a few contacts with similarly strange and supernatural stories. Cultivators, sure, but also others, fortune tellers and people of strange ancestry, questionable abilities, those who have interacted with powerful beings of mysterious provenance. He makes his way to a certain gambling den, frequented often by such people, and while he flashes around enough money to draw curiosity, he collects information. Shen Yuan wasn't the only person who started paying more attention to the kinds of rumors surrounding the two of them after their confrontation with the young cultivator a couple centuries ago. And in fact, Luo Binghe has been spending many, many years trying to find out more about his mystery man. Though, too many potential deities and immortals fit his description for him to have ever conclusively figured much out.

This is how Binghe gets wind of a rumor that an eccentric occultist has somehow captured a god in his basement...

[emihotaru]

Sketchy and experimenting time!

Here is an illustration of the first chapter of "Giving Sanctuary", a Sandman and Dreamling fanfic by @avelera .

It begins in 1689, in the White Horse tavern, and I tried to render the candlelight atmosphere we can see in the show. I improvised a lot with my black ink and my watercolors and wanted to keep the sketchy vibes. I had quite a hard time with Dream's all black clothes...

I totally want to draw more moments of this story! Maybe one by chapter? I'll see^^

[elahogn]

✨ Dreamling Acts of service ✨

Inspired by @hardly-an-escape​ writing cuz i’m absolutely smitten, go read it right here

buy me a kofi if you think i’m worth it 

[arrogantshrew]

Every Dreamling fic

Hob: I teach history now *the sun beams from his smiling face*

Dream: You built me an inn *devotion*

Hob: I waited for you (you stood me up) *sad*

Dream: I was imprisoned *tears glisten but do not fall*

Hob: I am so angry and sad! *torment, devotion*

Dream: You can help by having hot sex with me. Also my name is Morpheus, but my family calls me Dream.

Hob: I will call you whichever variation of your name the author decides is most intimate.

[voukkake]

I really like that one fanfic that implies that, Dream tears are black

[drjholtzmann]

this is dreamling more than dead boy detectives but it's been in my head since reading issue #25 after s1 of sandman. so, now feels like a good time to release it into the world. i just want them all to get in each others way

(season of mists spoilers)

------------

It’s not often that Hob smokes. It’s an expensive habit, and secondhand smoke and all that. But it’s hardly going to kill him, so he’s usually got an ancient pack on hand somewhere. Handy, especially in situations like this. Not that there’s ever been a situation like this before but, well. You live long enough. 

He slips out into the beer garden of the pub, lighting up almost absent mindedly, the action still muscle memory. 

“What the fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip, “what the fuck. Dream, if you have bloody anything to do with this, I swear to god, Morpheus. What the fucking fuck.” He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the brickwork. Despite it all he huffs an exhausted laugh. Because sure. Of course. Yeah, why not. Of course this would happen. “Jesus Christ, Morpheus. Even if this isn’t you, bloody… fucking wish I could just ask.” It’s all said barely above a whisper. Just in case. Always just in case. He blindly ashes his cigarette and heaves out a heavy breath, “Lord above,” he scoffs, raising the cigarette to his lips again. 

“Hob?”

Hob startles, eyes snapping open, head knocking back sharply against the brick. “Fuck – ow – Dream?” He raises his free hand to rub the back of his head, wincing slightly. “That, uh… that worked better than expected.” 

“You were calling for me?”

“Yeah… sorta. I didn’t… think it worked like that. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You did not. I had thought briefly of you.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Hob grins. “How come? You miss me already?”

Morpheus sends him a withering look. 

“I, um… dreamt of you. While ago. Was that – real?”

“It was.”

He nods, thumb nervously tapping the filter of his cigarette. “Uh huh. Figured. With the wine, and…” he trails off. The hollow feeling of that dream, or rather, of that waking coming back to him in full force. “You said some ominous shit. Then I said some ominous shit. Was that real, too?”

Morpheus nods solemnly. 

“Right. Don’t suppose you’ll explain that?” Morpheus remains silent. “Right. Course not. Things okay, though? Now? I mean,” he gestures to his friend, “you’re here. That must be good, yeah?”

“Yes. And no.”

“Great. Fab.”

“What I thought I was facing has… changed.”

“...’kay. Well, can I ask you a question?”

Morpheus pauses but, after a moment, nods.

“S’it got anything to do with the dead kids hanging out in my pub?”

“What?”

“Yeah, couple of boys who look like they should definitely be in school – about, oh, fifty years ago. At least.”

Morpheus’ eyes don’t actually widen in alarm, but there is something to that effect happening… not quite in his expression, but in his aura, perhaps. Hob gets the feeling that if he were a cat the fur along his spine would be standing on end. 

“So… it is related?” 

“Perhaps.”

“Definitely, then.” Hob takes a short puff of his cigarette. 

“Show me?” 

“Uh… I don’t know if they know that people can see them. I don’t know if people who aren’t me can see them, actually. So just, um…” the caution dies in his throat as he realises who it is he’s talking to. Morpheus will do what he will, Hob’s advice be damned. 

Dream draws close, peering in through the windowpane of the door back into the pub. “How do you know?”

“You get pretty good at feeling when things are off once you’ve been around the block six hundred years or so. Also, they walked in through the closed front door. As in, passed right through the solid wood and glass.”

“I see.”

“Why are they here?” 

“To sample your fine selection of craft beer, perhaps?”

“Oh, he’s joking,” Hob has joined his side in peering not-so-surreptitiously through the door. “‘Mortal plane’ here, not here-here.”

“Death must have been busy… It is not like her to leave a job unfinished without good reason.”

“Must’ve…? What the fuck could be so horrific that Death is being kept busy?”

Morpheus, beside him, is silent. Deadly still. And it tells Hob all he needs to know. 

“Dream,” he hisses, “what the fuck is this? What’s going on?”

There is a long pause. “I ought not to tell you.” Dream murmurs, still facing the glass panel of the door.

“And I ought not have two dead teenagers in my pub. All things relative.” 

“They are causing no harm.”

“I don’t doubt that. It’s you I’m worried about now.”

“Your concern is of no use. What I mean is that they are no poltergeists, not aggressive, there seems to be nothing demonic about them.”

“Which means… there are poltergeists and demons running about at the mo?”

“I told you, I ought not say. There are diplomatic proceedings to take place.”

“You get that that makes even less sense, yeah?”

Dream seems to, at last, with an almighty eye roll, give in. “Hell is closed,” he hisses, turning to face Hob directly. 

“Hell is closed.” Hob repeats back, dumbfounded. “And that means… The devils are all here?”

“Precisely.”

“But the boys… aren’t devils?”

“They are not.”

“Okay. That’s good news. And the devils?”

Dream shrugs, sharp and languid. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Great. Okay. Less good. Very much less good. So, uh. What… do I do? Am I supposed to exorcise them? Because, I have to be honest – would really rather not do that.” 

“You are under no obligations.”

“Oh.” 

“They could not be here without Death’s knowledge or her say-so. She will come for them in time.”

“Oh.” Inexplicably, Hob’s heart sinks a little.

“They are not alive, Hob.” Dream says, looking him in the eye. “They cannot live forever as the dead.” 

“Hm. Yeah. S’pose.” He looks through the windowpane at the two boys, chatting animatedly at a corner table out of the way. “They’re just kids, though. Barely got a normal life.”

“You cannot save them, Hob.”

“Why not?”

“You cannot. They may not be destined for Hell, but that doesn’t mean they can stay amongst the living.” 

“Says who?”

“The universe. Death, herself.”

Hob smirks, tilting his head down a fraction to look up at Dream from under a quirked brow. “You know what I think of Death.”

And Hob catches the tension at the corner of Dream’s mouth that he knows, whatever he might say to the contrary, is a suppressed smile. 

“C’mon, what if I just help ‘em live a little? While they’re here?”

“Hob.”

“What?! Can’t a guy be nice?”

“I have meetings to attend to.”

“That’s not a no.” 

“I think it a poor choice to flaunt immortality in front of two who have died so young. I would caution against it.”

“Okay. Fuck, fair point. But they don’t have to know about me. They wouldn’t somehow know, right?”

“I would caution against it, Hob Gadling.”

[pa-nd-em-on-iu-mp-an-da]

My main HC for Morpheus is he lives and just retires from the stress of being Dream.

He gets convinced to just live for himself and choose his own destiny without the expectation of his existence weighing him down.

Hob helps him, both of them moving into a cottage where they learn to coexist and Morpheus learns how to be human without the added stress of a city life.

He reads books, new ones having to be thoroughly digested rather than just instantly available in his head like a goddamn robot.

Maybe he helps Hob plant seeds and realises that it's somewhat close to breathing life into new creations and helping them grow into their desired functions, immediately addicted to the feeling of mud under his nails and stains on his clothes because he's creating a life without needing a purpose for it.

They go down to the beach, and yeah it's not like the Shores of The Dreaming but he still has his spade and bucket and by fucking Christ is he going to make the best sand castle ever, Hob, stop laughing!!

He builds and builds until he's tired and worn out and sweating pints, but there's a version of the castle - his home, even if it's not his anymore, even if it didn't feel like home, not really - standing proudly in the sand. And he stares at it, realising that the dreaded feeling in the pit of his stomach is still there, but it's not as suffocating as it used to be. He's not weighed down by the unconscious minds of everyone, he gets to create for the simple pleasure of creating.

He gets to go back to the cottage, curls his feet under him and drinks hot chocolate as Hob cooks in the kitchen. Music's playing in the background as the fire roars in the hearth.

He feels safe.

He feels content.

He feels loved.

He's happy.

(And maybe a certain Angel and Demon buy a cottage close by, causing an all-out garden war between the Resident Goths on whose plants are better?? Which then creates the Annual Garden Competition. Both Hob and Azi are chilling and having cake whilst the Resident Goths are fighting over the last seedlings).

I just want the dweebs to all be happy.

Is it so much to ask for??

[mr-sadman]

Hello wonderful people! 

We are back again this year with our wonderful Dreamling Week, which will be taking place from June 2nd to June 8th this year!

Our stance on plagiarism and AI 

We do not accept nor condone the use of plagiarism, including the use of AI, whether in writing or art. If you are caught using either, you will be disqualified from the current event and barred entry for the other events the Mr. Sadman team puts forward.

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Being a server member, while strongly advised, is not mandatory for this event. Our AO3 collection will be entirely open and unmoderated for everyone to post. We will be accepting late submissions, so fear not if you don’t have time to post everything you wanted to post! Additional events, such as watch-parties, fic read-alongs and game nights, will be held on the server.

The official tags for this year’s edition are : #Dreamling Week 2024 and #Dreamling Week

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Since the event is a few weeks away, what can I do now?

Spread the word and the joy! We have decided to post the prompts earlier this year to give more time for people to get creative!

Without further ado here is this year’s prompt list : 

Sunday 2nd Hunt Body swap Indulgence [First Time] Monday 3rd Pirates Hourglass Flowers [Exhibitionism] Tuesday 4th Steampunk/Solarpunk Painting Meet cute/ugly [Massage] Wednesday 5th Shapeshifter Storm Finger food [Dirty] Thursday 6th Soulmates Lecture Midsummer [Friends with benefits] Friday 7th Through the ages Nightmare Monochromatic [Hate sex] Saturday 8th Assassins Memories Sunrise/Sunset [Roleplay]

FAQs/TLDR

FAQs : 

When is the event ? From June 2nd to June 8th! While you should post the prompt for each day it is associated with, we will also be accepting late submissions, so have no worry!

Can I combine prompts? YES!! Be sure to indicate which days and prompts you are using in your description, otherwise, go free! You can post on either days associated with your prompts, or, if it’s a multipart work, on each corresponding day!

Is there any content restriction ? We accept all  works of all mediums - writing, art, collages, playlists, podfics, translations, video edits, etc. - , whether they are SFW, NSFW and/or triggering. Writers and artists- tag appropriately ; Readers and viewers - be mindful of tags!

Where should I post my work ? Anywhere from Tumblr or AO3!! We have accounts on both platforms and we also have an AO3 collection : Dreamling Week 2024 [link]!

What tag should I use for visibility ? We recommend using both #Dreamling Week and #Dreamling Week 2024 as well as tag our account (mr-sadman) ! We will try our best to reblog every entry but if you see that we haven’t reblogged/retweeted your post yet, don’t be afraid to DM us! Make sure your blog settings are set so that your posts appear in searches - otherwise we might not see them!

Are polyamorous ships accepted ? Yes!! As long as the focus of your entry is Dreamling, poly-ships are absolutely accepted!

Do I need to be a part of the server to participate? Absolutely not! Dreamling Week is open to all! Although some additional events (such as a watch party, game nights and fic read-alongs) will be held on the server, submissions do not need to come from server members only!!

I need help, how do I reach a mod?

If there is something that is not covered by our rules masterpost and/or FAQ, you are very free to reach out to us in the Discord server’s dedicated channel or in Tumblr DMs! 

Keep on Dreamling!~ <3

[seiya-starsniper]

Six Degrees of Separation

Rating: Teen || Chapters: 1/4 || Word Count 1.4k

Summary:

The Dead Boy Detectives run into a familiar pub while out on a case, and Crystal has to contend with an unfortunate event from her past.

Hob Gadling wasn't planning on adopting three teenagers and a full grown woman, but stranger things have happened in his long centuries of life.

Read here on Tumblr, or over on AO3

dedicated to @softest-punk for making me emotional about Hob adopting the kids in DBD 💖

----------------

“In here!” Edwin shouts, gesturing frantically at the entrance to a pub that looks vaguely familiar to Crystal. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have much time to wonder before the banshee chasing them lets out a blood curdling scream. Crystal rushes in with Charles right behind her, pushing the door and slamming it shut behind her. Thankfully the pub seems to be completely empty except for one man. 

A man who looked extremely pissed off to see them.

“Oh bloody hell, fuck no, not you, out!” the older man shouts, moving out from behind the bar and looking ready to chase them out by force if necessary. Crystal braces herself, glancing around frantically for some sort of back door that she can bolt to if necessary. She’s pretty sure she can outrun him.

Charles and Edwin however, are a different story.

“Hob, it’s us!” Charles exclaims, throwing up his hands in an attempt to show no harm.

“We’re sorry for bringing a ghost to your door, Mr Gadling,” Edwin adds. “If you’ll just let me borrow one of your books to get rid of this banshee, we’ll be out of your hair.” 

“Not you two, her,” the man, Hob (what the hell kind of name was that?) growls, pointing at Crystal accusingly. Edwin and Charles turn to her in shock, and Crystal is about to protest that she has no idea what this man is on about, but then the memory of how she knows Hob Gadling comes flooding back to her.

The pub they’d run into was The New Inn and Crystal had almost burned it down last year because some girl she hated at school had come here for her 18th birthday. With all of Crystal’s friends, sans Crystal. Ex-friends now, since Crystal had tried to burn the place down with the whole party still inside. Hob had, unsurprisingly, pressed charges, and it took a lot of money from her parents to make everything go away.

“I’m sorry!” Crystal yells, just as the banshee screeches and slams its body against the door behind them. It lights up an iridescent blue, a warding against ghosts. Of course Crystal had to go and fuck up the one supernatural relationship she had because she was an idiot asshole last year. 

“I know this isn’t a great time, but I’m kind of a different person now?” Crystal says, having no idea how to even begin to explain the weird circumstances of the last month. “I swear what my past self did isn't who I am now,” she adds, also raising her hands to show she means no harm. 

“She’s part of the Dead Boy Detectives Agency, mate,” Charles interjects, while Edwin nods furiously in agreement. “Please don’t throw her out!”

The banshee lets out another screech and slams itself against the door, rattling the frame so hard that Crystal’s afraid it might fly off the hinges at any moment. Whatever ward Hob had placed, it wasn’t going to hold out for that much longer.

“What the hell is going on?!” a familiar voice cries out, and then Jenny Green of all people is coming out of what Crystal assumes is the kitchen. She’s also brandishing a butcher knife, because why would any of that change now that she lives across the pond?

“Jenny?!” Charles and Edwin yell.

“Oh fuck,” the older woman curses, glancing back and forth between the three of them and Hob. Crystal really hopes they haven’t just gotten Jenny fired. Finding a job had been tough enough for her when they'd relocated, and she had refused any help financially from Crystal.

“You know them?!” Hob asks, shock clear in his voice.

“It’s a long story,” Jenny grumbles, then screams when the banshee throws itself against the door again. “What the fuck, why did you lead a ghost here? ”

The door rattles and creaks, and the ward around the pub shimmers and vibrates angrily, which seems to finally prompt Hob to action. He straightens his back, rubs a hand over his face, and then takes one, two, three deep breaths before he looks them all over appraisingly. 

“Jenny, get the salt from the back,” Hob orders, gesturing her back to the kitchen. “The iron knives should be on the shelf next to them. Edwin, you know where the tomes are,” he adds pointing upwards, likely towards a room on the second floor of the pub. Jenny and Edwin nod quietly before disappearing to their designated posts, leaving Crystal and Charles alone with Hob.

“Right, so since when have the Dead Boys gotten themselves involved with trust fund brats?” Hob asks, still eyeing Crystal warily as if he expects her to pull out a lighter at any moment. 

“Since this trust fund brat got possessed by a demon and got her memories stolen,” Crystal answers, wincing when she realizes how harsh that sounds. “Sorry. I just recently got them back and it's been a weird time. I really am sorry though. For like, nearly burning this place to the ground cause I was mad.”

“You did what? ” Charles cries out, his mouth agape. “Please tell me that was all David’s doing.”

Crystal scrunches up her face and then shakes her head. “I wish it was, but no. Just plain old shitty Crystal,” she answers truthfully.

Hob looks between the two of them, then sighs, his expression softening. 

“Look, clearly you’ve done some soul searching and I am the last person who should be allowed to hold a grudge against someone who’s done some bad things,” he says, then gestures to Charles. “If the boys vouch for you, then I’m willing to bury the hatchet. All right, Ms Von-Hovercraft?”

“Please just call me Crystal,” Crystal pleads. She really hated being referred to by her surname. It still felt weird and foreign to her, after everything she had gone through. Hob huffs, and this time when he looks at her, there isn’t a shred of contempt in his expression.

“Yeah okay. Crystal,” he says warmly. “You can call me Hob.”

Crystal wants to ask where the hell the name Hob comes from, because she’s pretty sure she remembers his name being Richard , but before she can say anything, Edwin and Jenny come back and Hob turns his full attention to taking care of the banshee that’s trying to get past the wards he has around the entire pub. 

“You’re lucky Tuesday’s a slow night,” Hob says, before he starts flipping through the tome. “Jenny, Crystal, make a salt circle by the tables over there,” he adds, pointing to his left. “You’re going to need to lead her there so we can trap her.”

Crystal and Jenny make as large of a circle as they can, pouring generous amounts of salt into the floor. When they’re done, Hob instructs them to the front of the pub, where the door is still rattling and glowing angrily. Edwin and Charles are standing next to Hob, Charles with his cricket bat out, and Edwin and Hob ready to chant the spell within the tome. 

“When I count to three, open the door and run like hell into the salt circle,” Hob tells them. “One, two, THREE!”

Crystal throws open the door and both she and Jenny cover their ears as they run towards the salt circle. The banshee’s cries are even louder now that she’s inside the pub, but their plan works. She follows them straight into the circle, then screeches again in anger once she realizes she cannot follow them out. Her long hands try to grab for Jenny’s apron, but Charles materializes right at the circle’s edge to bat her hand away. 

Hob and Edwin start chanting some spell in what Crystal assumes is Latin, and the banshee screeches at an even louder volume than before. The salt circle alights a bright gold, and Crystal and Jenny are practically thrown backwards by the force of the magic taking effect.

The banshee lets out one more high pitched scream, and then her dark grey dress suddenly becomes stark white, dark and wet black hair paling slowly to a soft light brown. When the banshee lifts her face, her eyes are no longer sunken and black, but wide and bright green. 

She’s beautiful, now that she’s no longer in pain.

The Night Nurse shows up shortly afterwards, collecting the woman and gently reassuring her that she’s going to a better place. She looks at Hob like she’s offended by his very existence, which the man takes in stride and cheerfully waves her off, telling her to say hello to her boss for him. 

“Right then,” Hob says after the banshee and the Night Nurse have left. “Now that that’s taken care of, care to explain to me what the bloody hell is the connection with you lot?”

[thebitchesterbrothers]

Dream of the Endless is the prince of a small but wealthy and beautiful country. He’s not the oldest child so the crown will go to his oldest sister Death when his parents are going to die or abdicate one day.

He’s not important enough to rule one day but still too known to live an ordinary life. He grew up sheltered in a golden cage with certain expectations from his parents to live by. So he’s not surprised when one day his parents invite possible suitors for a lucrative wedding.

From Dreams perspective they leave him no choice but to flee from his own birthday party where he’s supposed to be sold off to the highest bidder.

And while his furious parents are busy firing his bodyguards Dream wanders through parts of the capital he’s never seen before.

He’s so high on the feeling of finally feeling free and unobserved for the first time in his entire life that he doesn’t pay close attention to his surroundings when he turns the corner.

Stumbling right into the arms of Hob Gadling.

Hob, who had spent the last ten years traveling and living abroad before returning home to finally settle down, maybe start a family of his own.

Hob, who never really kept track of the drama and scandals of the royal family.

Who doesn’t know that the beautiful - but slightly socially awkward and uptight - man in his arms is the most desired bachelor of his native country. And his prince.

But what he knows is that love at first sight most definitely exists because there’s no way in hell he won’t marry this dream of a man.

Needless to say that Dream spends the next week in Hobs tiny and barely renovated flat above the Inn Hob had recently bought. Half of that time he spends in Hobs embrace, the other half in his lap. Dream refuses to let his new love out of sight, clings to him, afraid Hob might find out about his family heritage and will try to get rid of him, trying not to get in trouble for hiding - and deflowering - the prince.

But eventually, on the eighth day Dream confesses he’s the prince everyone is so desperately looking for. The prince who’s supposed to be married off to a proper and, most importantly, rich spouse.

So on the ninth day Hob and Dream say yes to each other in an old chapel by the river, the only witnesses the priest and a tiny black cat who Dream takes home afterwards.

On the tenth day the royal family finds them and Hob finds out what he’s got himself into.

But looking at his gorgeous husband next to him he decides it’s all worth it if he gets to live the rest of his life side by side with him.

[merlin-the-not-so-magnificent]

Dreamling gang, how are we feeling about new Sandman TV verse meta.

I'm only two episodes into Dead Boy Detectives, but they've made it clear that a near death experience gives you the ability to see ghosts. So given that Hob Gadling has died at least once could he see the ghosts?

Or being the only thing, besides Death herself, that is impervious to death, would he be annoyingly incapable? (Like how in most fanon he's the most unmagical person alive)

Looking forward to the consensus!

[emihotaru]

Hello! No mermay this time, but since the @mr-sadman seasonnal exchange is over, and Moonlight-mav discovered her present, I can show it to you now! So, some Dreamling today!

Here are 3 little snippets from her fanfic Tomorrows Over Centuries I really enjoyed painting! I loved to make them snuggle!

You can read the fanfic here!

[doitforstamets]

Kiss of the Sphinx

Inspired by Moorishflower's gorgeous fic The Riddle of The Sphinx Reference Christian Behrens' "The Kiss of the Sphinx"