#hob gadlng

[thenightling]

I just now realized Hob was grading papers in the 2022 scene.  How much you want to bet he’s a history teacher now?

#Sandman #The Sandman #Neil Gaiman #Hob Gadlng

[littledreamling]

For your ask thing (if you're still doing it): 30, 38, 50

Hello! Thanks for the ask! I wasn't sure which ask game you wanted me to answer so I'm answering this with my spotify wrapped fic ask game!

30. For Tonight by Giveon: For this song, I would probably write a modern human AU; Hob and Dream are both college students (maybe even roommates) who absolutely hate each other. Hob is far too upbeat and optimistic for Dream and Dream is too surly and prideful for Hob. They're constantly complaining about each other to their friends (in Hob's case) and family (in Dream's case). Finally, the tension snaps and they fall into bed with each other for a fantastic round of hate sex. They both hate themselves for it after and vow never to speak of it again, but neither of them can stop thinking about it, especially because they live in the same room (though Dream tries his best to avoid Hob at all costs, even going so far as to sleep on Death's couch for a week until she kicks him out to face his own problems). Hob eventually corners Dream to try to talk about it, but they end up having sex again without resolving anything and it becomes something of a habit. They hate each other, they'll complain loudly and at length to anyone who asks, but they're also hooking up regularly and it's a very complicated situation. Dream has had his heart broken too many times to be able to commit to anything while Hob pours his whole heart into everything and feels very rejected by Dream's inability to even talk about it. It all comes to a head when Hob, pushed past his limits, brings another guy back to the room to hook up and Dream is finally forced to confront just how deep his feelings for Hob are.

38. Monsters by Hazlett: This song is very difficult, mostly because the lyrics (for me personally) don't really resonate; I just love the vibes, but it gives off the energy of loving life without having any real direction and finding out who you are through experimentation. For this song, I would probably write a fic about Hob living his best life even without Dream. It would be set in the late sixties and early seventies, right at the height of Woodstock, drug culture, and the hippie movement of free love and opposing war. I feel like Hob would've experimented a lot with sex and drugs at the time, especially because he couldn't get STDs or overdose, so he could quite literally go as wild as he wanted. It would probably be a collection of vignettes of Hob trying various things out; getting high, going to an orgy, protesting against war in the US against Vietnam, participating in the Civil Rights Movement, attending music festivals, and just fully immersing himself in the hippie (and yippie) culture. But I'm still on the fence about this answer, so if I come up with a better one, I'll put it in the notes!

50. Wherever I Fall - Pt. 1 by Bryce and Aaron Dessner from the Cyrano Soundtrack: I actually have a fic planned out for this song because I cry every time I listen to it. The general premise is that, the first time Hob went to war, before he met Dream, his regiment was given a suicide mission; they knew that the chances of survival were slim to none. The night before marching out, the only literate man among them went around to each soldier, asking who they would be leaving behind and if they wanted to send a letter home for their loved ones in order to say goodbye. One by one, each soldier tells their story: their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives, fiancees, best friends, etc.

Years later, after Hob gets his immortality, he remembers how much that gesture meant to him and the rest of his regiment to have someone write down their words and promise to deliver them. He takes it upon himself to learn how to read and write, if only so he can ensure that his fellow soldiers' last words make it to their loved ones. He can't die, so he might as well use that to make sure that the people who do get to say goodbye

Anyway, that got sad, but thank you so much for the ask!!

#thanks for the ask! #i love song fics #that first one is really calling my name too #i just don't need another wip rn #i have sooo many #the sandman #sandman netflix #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob gadlng #dreamling #spotify wrapped fic ask

[littledreamling]

Fluffbruary 50/50 Challenge: February 2 - Memory, Trace, Movie

Tags: cuddling & snuggling, devotion

Hob and Dream were curled on the sofa, Dream’s back nestled against his chest, his chin tucked into a head of wild black curls. They were watching Jane Eyre, a risky choice on Hob’s part, not least of which because Dream had not yet been imprisoned at the time of the original story’s publication; he tended to have rather unfavorable opinions about adaptations of classics. It was an oft-spoken philosophy in the flat: great stories return to their original forms. For Dream, apparently, that included even the slightest modifications made for film. In any case, Dream seemed like he was paying attention. The fact that he hadn’t attempted to distract Hob with strategically placed kisses was a testament to the movie, Hob thought.

“What made it all worth it?”

The sudden sound of Dream’s deep voice startled him slightly, and then the shape of his words took form in Hob’s mind. The question threw him for a loop, his mind scrambling from the story being played out on-screen to reality, scrabbling at loose stones to follow Dream’s labyrinthine train of thought. 

“What?”

Excellent job, Gadling. Way to sound intelligent. Dream shifted in his arms, twisting until he could look Hob in the eyes before speaking again.

“You spent almost a century in… less than ideal conditions,” he murmured. Hob snorted at the words, but didn’t deny them. He had long since stopped wincing at those particular memories. “And yet, you never once asked for Death. What made the pain worth it?”

“Well…” Hob started, then paused to think for a moment. It was a fair question. Even for his fellow humans, his steadfast devotion to life in the midst of such a miserable existence was baffling. He knew that Dream could not begin to fathom his reasoning, even if he himself was at the very heart of them.

“You, I guess,” Hob said thoughtfully. “The knowledge that you would be there at the end of it all. You didn’t help me, but you didn’t hurt me either, which is far more than I can say for most of the people I came in contact with back then.”

“I should have-”

“Hush, my friend,” Hob interrupted firmly, though not unkindly. “There’s no need for guilt. What could’ve or should’ve happened is beyond us now. But my point still stands; I endured every cold night, every humiliation, every frostbitten nose or toe or finger, because I knew that my sunrise was coming. You were my horizon line.”

“You have endured more than your fair share, Hob Gadling.”

“Yes, I have,” Hob said with a rueful smile. “Both good and bad. I’ll not claim any of it a waste, either, for at the end of everything, I found you. That alone, this ,” he said, gesturing to their position; cuddled on the couch, the lights turned low, the murmur of the TV now little more than background noise, “makes it all worth it. I would endure a century of such agony for just one night in your arms, and another century for each night thereafter, from now until the end of time. There is no greater pleasure, and no end to which I would not travel to be granted even a sliver of it. I would not have it any other way, beloved.”

He traced the side of Dream’s face with his fingertips, and then Dream surged upwards, slotting their lips together, and the rest of Jane Eyre went unwatched.

Read on AO3!!

#my writing #fluffbruary #fluff/angst 50/50 challenge #my fic #my fic link #dream of the endless #hob gadlng

[littledreamling]

Fluffbruary 50/50 Challenge: February 4 - Snow, Rest

Tags: canonical character death, heavy angst, death, grief/mourning, blood, child death, Catholicism, religion, mentions of Guy Fawkes Day, the Gunpowder Plot, bittersweet ending, more bitter than sweet

The church was cold. Still, it was warmer than outside, where the snow was ankle deep and climbing. By morning, it would be up to Hob’s knees. He shivered at the thought. His rag-thin pants and hole-ridden shoes were no match for the pervasive chill. The church held little warmth within its stone walls, but it was better than nothing.

Hob wasn’t there for the warmth. At least, he wasn’t there just for the warmth. He shuffled along the side of the church, avoiding the glow of the lanterns and candles as much as possible. The more hidden he was, the longer he could stay. As soon as they noticed him, he’d be kicked out. He didn’t belong here, not anymore. He hadn’t belonged here in thirty years. He hadn’t ever belonged here.

In the south transept, under a massive panel of stained glass, overlooked by a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of All Sorrows, were two stone inlays, sunken slightly into the tile floor. On them, carved into the surface for all to see, were thirty-four words each. He knew them by heart.

Here lies Lady Eleanor Gadlen

Eternally loving wife of Sir Robert Gadlen

She died on the twenty-second of November 

of the year fifteen hundred and ninety-four

May God have her in His Glory

Amen

And then, a foot to the left, another.

Here lies Robyn Gadlen

Son of Sir Robert and Lady Eleanor Gadlen

He died on the twenty-first of April 

of the year sixteen hundred and six

May God have him in His Glory

Amen

He dropped to his knees between them, the chill and grief deadening the impact, and traced the etching on Eleanor’s grave with one cold-numb fingertip. She had been buried with the baby in her arms, stillborn and unnamed. In a bout of righteous and petty anger, he had insisted on any mention of the baby being left off of the tombstone. He regretted it now. Her birth hadn’t been recorded and now, neither was her death. The only daughter Hob would ever have and all evidence of her existence had been scrubbed from history. At least Robyn’s name was carved, quite literally, in stone. The memory of his daughter lived on only in his own mind.

The anger had worn off, but the grief was still fresh. Four and a half decades had passed since that fateful night. The sound of Eleanor’s cries still rang in his ears on particularly cold, quiet dawns. He had held her hand the whole time, her grip tight enough to break bones, but he hadn’t cared. His pain had been nothing to hers. He had never seen so much blood staining white sheets and when the midwife had wrapped the tiny, silent bundle in white cloth, he had felt his heart seize in his chest. And then Eleanor’s hand had gone limp in his and the growing cold on her skin had leached all warmth from his own body.

He hadn’t felt true warmth since. The grief had crashed like an unending wave. For twelve years, he sank, a stone in a still pond, unable to keep himself afloat. And then-

Remember, remember, the Fifth of November , he thought wryly. He’d remember that night for as long as he lived.

“Oh, Eleanor,” he warbled, his voice stumbling over the cobbled street of anguish. “I tried, my love. I tried. You were gone and I… I lost my way. I was always lost without you, beloved. I did my best to raise him the way you would’ve wanted me to. He always had too much of my spirit in him. You left too soon. You were my temperance, my heart, but I couldn’t be that for him. I’m sorry.”

Hob himself had been born and raised Catholic, and in his heart, he had kept the Faith. It had weakened perhaps, but he had clung to it nonetheless, even through centuries of religious turmoil. Living at the center of a Protestant nation hadn’t kept him from passing his religious beliefs, diminished as they were, to his child. Evidently, his Robyn, his baby boy, had been a stronger believer than Hob had ever been. In the wake of Eleanor’s death, in the midst of his grief, Hob hadn’t noticed that faith fueling Robyn’s volatile nature. Nor did he notice the people who Robyn chose to listen to. He wished he had. He wished he had been able to stop it.

Nothing could’ve stopped Catesby, he knew. The man could’ve spoken a crowd into walking into the sea if he had really wanted to. Hob didn’t—couldn’t—blame his son for getting caught up in the frenzy of it all. He’d done stupider in his life. Indeed, he couldn’t find it in his heart to blame anybody , save God Himself. Save himself . 

“Robyn,” he said, his throat clenching around his son’s name, as if speaking it aloud in the soundless church would condemn the long-departed soul. He turned to read the name aligned with his left knee, only to find his vision blurred beyond sight. “I’m sorry, my boy. I- I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve stopped you. Should’ve-” He paused to take a deep, shaking breath. “I should’ve been a better father. For you. For her. Would that I could go back and change… Would that I had been a better man.”

He let his body fall, curling up on his side on top of Eleanor’s stone slab, his arm thrown over the carved words like he used to cradle her body when she was still alive. If he closed his eyes, he could feel the warmth of her body against his, the curve of her hip under his forearm. He knew that the clergy would find him, in the morning if he was lucky, far sooner if he wasn’t. He knew that he would be kicked out, back into the snow and ice, back into his nameless misery. For now, though, he could rest. Cradled between his wife and son, his mind, body, and soul utterly exhausted, sleep came more easily than it had in forty-four years. And when his mind slipped into darkness, it was to the sound of Eleanor’s sweet voice in his ear, humming Robyn’s favorite lilting lullaby.

Read on AO3!!

#my writing #fluffbruary #fluff/angst 50/50 challenge #my fic #my fic link #dream of the endless #hob gadlng

[littledreamling]

Fluffbruary 50/50 Challenge: February 3 - Beach

Tags: Volleyball, sand, fun in the sun

Hob couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten truly sweaty. It might’ve been in an American sauna back in the 20’s, where he had found himself face-to-face with Scarface himself. It might’ve been back in Vietnam, when the heat of the jungle was inescapable and the moisture sunk into your very skin. In any case, at this moment, he was the sweatiest he could ever remember being. A small part of him reckoned he should be slightly disgusted by this fact; perspiration was dripping off of every plane of his body, his limbs were coated in sand up to his knees and elbows, and he was sure he was a riot of all sorts of unpleasant scents. The rest of him, however, was far more taken with the bright beaming sun, the laughter and shouting of his teammates, and the laser focus that it took to actually hit the damn ball. His tight denim shorts did very little to protect his skin from the onslaught of sand and sun and he knew he would be wind-chafed, sunburned, and sore tomorrow. One too many desperate dives to keep the volleyball in-bounds had ensured that he would be finding sand in every crevice of his body for the foreseeable future. All of it was worth it, though; he was too caught up in the celebration of the winning point to care much at all.

Read on AO3!!

Fluffbruary 50/50 Challenge: February 3 - Beach pt. 2

Tags: waiting, liminal space, the Sunless Lands, devotion

He was waiting. He had been waiting for an eternity. The sand was scalding under his palms and his arse, but he didn’t dare move. If he moved, he’d be lost. If he stayed exactly where he was, at least he knew he was here. This spot was his and his alone; a single step in any direction would render him hopelessly lost and alone.

He didn’t know what he was waiting for. He didn’t know how he had gotten here, nor how to leave. He wasn’t sure the thought of leaving, indeed of any ending at all, had crossed his mind until this very moment, and then he forgot it entirely.

The sands were endless. No, they were Endless. He wasn’t sure why something as simple as hot, golden sand would warrant a capitalized letter, but he knew, instinctively, that it made all the difference in the world. The sands were Endless, and he was but a speck, little more than a single grain among billions. 113 billion, his brain supplied, though it was a passing thought, a dust mote floating through a shaft of light before disappearing again.

There was no sun; this fact didn’t bother him. The sky was bright, a shade of blue that wasn’t blue, a grey that looked more like white and more like black. His eyes burned with the glare of finality against the Endless field of sand, but he didn’t raise a hand to shield himself from it. The futility of such an action was not lost on him. 

Time didn’t exist here; the only passing things were his thoughts. There was no breeze nor movement on the horizon to break the monotony. The omni- and ever-present light never moved; there were no shadows to indicate the flow of seconds to minutes to hours. There simply was. Perhaps, he thought, he existed in a single moment, confined to a solitary droplet of water, separated from the unstoppable march. He had reached the inevitable.

He gazed out, over the flat dunes, unmoving. He couldn’t remember the last time he had blinked. He didn’t need to. He couldn’t feel his eyes. Were they dry? Were his muscles groaning in protest from his posture, hunched over in the sand? He didn’t know. His body was but a figment, a fleeting sheen wrapped around the essence of him. The sand under his palms was known; the sand an inch to the side was a mystery, as unknowable as an unremembered dream. He was waiting. He had been waiting for an eternity.

Read on AO3!!

#my writing #fluffbruary #fluff/angst 50/50 challenge #my fic #my fic link #dream of the endless #hob gadlng

[littledreamling]

Fluffbruary 50/50 Challenge: February 1 - Museum

Tags: Fluff, museums

Hob loved museums. He knew Dream thought him mad; the urge to revisit that which he had already seen was foreign to such an unfathomably old being, especially one blessed with perfect memory, yet here he was. His hand in Hob’s, his steps in sync, glancing politely at the art pieces he had no doubt seen in the Dreaming long before the ideas were ever committed to paper or canvas. Hob took a moment to consider themselves from an outsiders’ perspective; a mismatched pair if ever there was one, dressed in every neutral shade imaginable, one peering at every painting as if it held the the very world in every brushstroke, the other focusing all of his attention on his partner, never sparing more than half a glance for whatever frame happened to be in front of them. Hob, for his part, knew the truth; paint on paper could never be as fascinating to Dream as Hob’s own internal reaction to the paint on paper. There was a film in his mind for Dream’s eyes alone. Dream had seen the art before the paintbrush had ever graced the canvas, but Hob’s personal history with each piece, his knowledge of technique and historical artistic drama surrounding each artwork were complete mysteries to the eldritch being. So while Hob stood at the foot of each frame for several long minutes, Dream stared at the side of his head, focused not on the curl of Hob’s hair around the shell of his ear, nor the flex of the muscles in his neck and he craned his head, but deeper . Dream was enamored with the single slice of human consciousness beside him, the rich and complex history that Hob wove with his memory, and found fascination there, instead.

If anyone thought they made an odd couple, they didn’t reveal their thoughts either in speech or expression, and so Hob and Dream wandered through the gallery, unbothered, lost in their own worlds.

Read on AO3!!

#my writing #fluffbruary #fluff/angst 50/50 challenge #my fic #my fic link #dream of the endless #hob gadlng

[littledreamling]

Fluffbruary 50/50 Challenge: February 7 - Routine

Tags: waiting, references to depression, Hob Gadling needs a Hug, Professor Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling Waits

Hob had a routine. It wasn’t much; just a few short steps, but he stuck to it more faithfully than he had kept any religion throughout his long life. He needed to; it was his lifeline. He clung to his necessary steps with a desperation he hadn’t felt in over 300 years, habitually kept, habitually followed.

1. Get up. This was easy. His alarm clock, rumbling stomach, and near-bursting bladder summarily achieved this step. He hadn’t had a pleasant dream in over seventy years to draw him back to sleep anyway. His Stranger had never arranged a meeting in the morning, but the hope that fluttered in the cage of his ribs like a trapped songbird sang anyway. So he hauled himself up. He pissed. He ate breakfast. He got dressed. He got ready. He got up.

2. Go to class. This was, arguably, the most difficult step. He had bought a flat above the New Inn as soon as it was finished for the express reason of almost never having to leave. And then he managed to land himself a job that forced him to leave for several hours every day. And while his Stranger had waited for him in the past (the long, cold decades came to mind; Hob pushed them away with a shiver), he was never sure if he would be granted the same consideration now. Especially after… Oh well. His exit out of his front door every morning was facilitated largely by the fear of losing his job and the fact that he was already dressed. Completing one step made the rest easier. The nature of a well-made to-to list.

3. Sit. Wait. This was, perhaps, the easiest step. This was, definitively, the step that he spent the majority of his life nowadays on. He felt his life slipping away, each second caught in a glittering, diamond drop, suspended in timeless and endless free fall. They would all hit the ground eventually, shattering into a million sharp shards. But for now, he sat. He waited. Occasionally, he graded papers, or drank a beer, or chatted with the New Inn staff, students (both old and new), or fellow colleagues. But not often. His time was largely spent staring, his head in his hand, an untouched glass next to his elbow, a pen dangling from numb fingers, his gaze focused on the opposite wall and much, much further away. 100 years away; 600 years away.

4. Don’t sink. It was easier said than done. He kept himself busy, though, his time taken up by reading and talking and lecturing. He kept his hands busy, his body busy, his mind busy. He held mini conferences in the New Inn, attended by professors of various persuasions from the university to gush about their current or near-future research. He took up archery and ballroom dancing and cooking classes. He did crossword puzzles and Sudoku puzzles and regular puzzles. He wrote letters that he never sent. But every diamond second captured the light, casting blinding panic from every facet. Was this it? Was this his last lifetime? Had whatever deal he had struck run out? At night, he laid awake, staring at the ceiling, and imagined a pocket watch, ticking down seconds with an echoing, ominous tick, tick ; the second hand twitched ever closer to midnight. Doomsday. The end of all things. He watched it approach with a sense of resignation. His Stranger had not claimed his life; Death would.

He kept his routine. He could not afford to lose it. He could not miss his Stranger. He could not. He could not. With the same bravado that had earned him his long life in the first place, he performed his steps, like the dances he had long forgotten. A box step. Always returning to the same place. The same seat. The same wall The same fear. Death. The end of all things.

He got up. He went to class. He waited. And he sank.

Read on AO3!!

#my writing #fluffbruary #fluff/angst 50/50 challenge #my fic #my fic link #dream of the endless #hob gadlng