#keepsakes
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pov: they’re trapped in etho desktop background limbo forever
#keepsakes#hermitcraft#boat boys#dlsmp#boatboys#etho#ethoslab#joel smallishbeans#smallishbeans#smalletho#double life
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Fragments from my grandparents: handkerchiefs, night dress, my nan's little cross stitch flowers.
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Collection tin from Green Mountain Wildcat trail: false morel, hemlock cone, madrone skin miner leaf, flower thing, map fungus leaf | squirrel skull, pacific sideband snail shell, red belt conk, feather, cool rock.
#artists on tumblr#original photographers#original photography#hiking#pacific northwest#nature#washington#pnw#nikon#orofeaiel#mushrooms#mycology#collection tin#found objects#found items#forest finds#tiny treasures#seen in my walk#keepsakes#vulture culture
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I still wonder if you read my letters from time to time, or if you've just thrown them out..
#unrequited love#longing#heartbreak#pining#one sided love#lost love#breakup#exes#nostalgia#memories#letters#keepsakes#mementos#sentimental#wistful
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|| Earth ⬩ Wife ||
My name is Anna Katherina. You may call me Anna- or you can call me either Birb or Frog; my pronouns are It / Its.
☕ 34 year old full-time «Multi-Neuroatypical & Multi-Disabled» «Queer (Femme)» «Childless» «NonTrad» Homemaker ⬩ Avid Tea Hoarder ⬩ Vintage & Antique Enthusiast; from «North Central Oklahoma»
🌿 ~16+ years working with plants as a Former OK-9.4.2 Civilian Conservationist ⬩ Former OK-R2 Master Gardner ⬩ Training Rosarian ⬩ Lay Herbalist ⬩ Avid Gardener ⬩ Hobbyist Nature Photographer ⬩ and Aspiring Perfumer & Incenser.
🕊️ 23 years variously Pagan — currently an (Ex-Reconstructionist) Dual Faith «(Converting) Masorti Jew + Traditional NeoWiccan» practicing as a Hearthkeeper ⬩ Verderer ⬩ Healer ⬩ Shadow Worker ⬩ and Diviner; «Ancestor Veneration» & «Ancestral Folk Magic» on the side; additional emphasis on Water Priestessing ⬩ Tree Speaking ⬩ and Prairie Medicine & Magic.
This is a Desktop-Only personal blog, thus it is best viewed properly from a desktop computer (or equivalent).
As a personal blog I talk openly about my life; topics encountered may include my Physical Health & Disabilities ⬩ Mental Health ⬩ Sexuality ⬩ Cooking & Baking ⬩ Tea ⬩ Homemaking ⬩ Religion & Magic ⬩ Gardening ⬩ Herbalism ⬩ Foraging ⬩ Ecology ⬩ various Notes & Quotes & Thoughts from Personal Studies ⬩ Different forms of Entertainment I enjoy ⬩ Vintage shop & Antiquing Finds; and whatever else is relevant to my daily life, thoughts, and so on — and sometimes that may include triggering content.
Reasonably potentially triggering content is tagged [Trigger Warning] while body specific issues are also tagged [Body TMI]. I do not tag specific triggers on request unless you're a mutual.
Because I'm a personal blog, I do expect those who follow me to actually interact with me as a Human Being in some form- whether that's done through Likes or Comments on my posts (not Reblogs), or through Asks (please do not DM me) ... Otherwise what's actually the point of even following a Personal Blog?
↠ Tags Here ↞⬩↠ Asks Here ↞⬩↠ Link Tree ↞
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Keepsakes
Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta'd
Series: the Hob Adherent series
Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.
Rating: Mature-ish.
Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death. Some sexytimes. Some whomp and hurt/comfort.
Relationships: Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)
Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Patrick the Bartender, Harriet Butler, Matthew the Raven
Summary: Short ficlets set in the Hob Adherent world, based on prompts received from readers. Feel free to DM me or leave prompts in the comments, and if it resonates with me, I may write up a ficlet! Thank you for the inspiration in advance.
Set amid the events of Cling Fast and Carpe Diem
READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:
Postcards
"So, a sword in Buckingham's army, a bandit, a printer, a shipwright and then a merchant middleman for the dockyards, a knight, a beggar, investment broker--"
"Slaver," Hob interrupts Harriet as she counts off his professions on her fingers one slow, sunny afternoon at The New Inn. "Call the thing what it was."
Hari offers him a sympathetic smile. They're the only ones in the pub proper today, as Patrick is off to tend his ailing mother, Dee doesn't come in Mondays, and Morph is having lunch with his editor.
"After which you were an MP and staunch abolitionist, a soldier again in America for the North, an industrialist and labor rights advocate, a yuppie and silicone valley early adopter--"
"Apple paid for most of this," Hob agrees, selecting a glass and checking it for water spots or lipstick stains.
"--and now a professor and publican. Am I missing any?"
“Oh!” Hob remembers as he pulls a pint for her. "And I was ruler of Hell."
She leans across the bar from her stool, and thwacks his arm. “Fuck off, you were not, you old liar,” Hari laughs.
"Was so!" Hob protests, setting her beer down in front of her. "Ask my husband. He was there. I was ruler of Hell for thirteen minutes and seventeen seconds on my six-hundred and sixty-sixth birthday."
Hari raises a challenging eyebrow at Hob over her pint glass as she takes a sip. "I won't believe a thing the Prince of Stories tells me," she says decisively, when she sets the beer back down. "And I don't believe you."
Hob pulls a postcard from L.A. off the bar back, where it's been pinned to a corkboard among a handful of others, all from the same city. This card depicts a cartoon devil drawn over a photo of the Hills, lounging on the iconic Hollywood sign. It says "Greetings from Sin City!" in bright yellow font.
Hob hands it to Hari to inspect. Her face gets drawn as her eyes flick over the handwritten note on the back.
"To my fellow former ruler of Hell; I did it! I opened a nightclub, just like you suggested. Visit me at LUX any time you'd like, Hobsie. xxx Lucifer Morningstar," Hari reads in a voice that grows increasingly strangled.
She hands the card back to Hob with trembling fingers. Then she shotguns the rest of her pint.
"So hell is real, then," Hari warbles.
Hob shrugs. "Everything is real. Humans create gods, not the other way around. If someone believes in it, it exists."
Hari nods thoughtfully. "I suppose you would know, being married to a god."
Hob chuckles. "Well, former god-ish. And don't worry, only people who believe they deserve to go to Hell actually do. Self-punishment or fulfilling prophecy, or something. I try not to think to much about that Celestial stuff."
Hari nods again, and without asking, Hob refills her pint glass. He has a feeling she's going to need it.
"But it is something I'm going to have to worry about," Hari says softly, accepting the drink with a nod.
"Not any time soon, I hope," Hob says, folding his arms on the bar top and leaning close to offer her a comforting look. "And when it does happen, I can promise you that my sister-in-law is gentle and kind. You have nothing to worry about."
Harriet runs her arthritis gnarled finger up and down the side of the glass, collecting up the condensation. "You know, that is actually a comfort." She looks up at Hob with a wicked little grin. "Especially knowing your husband."
Hob throws his head back and laughs.
#losyark#cling fast adjacent#cling fast#carpe diem#the hob adherent series#hob adherent#hob gadling#hob x dream#dream x hob#dreamling fic#dream#dreamling#lucifer morningstar#lucifer#gaimanverse#sandman hob#retirement!Dream#keepsakes
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This is the best day of my life. Lucifer will never hear the end of this from me.
(this screenshot is now my most prized possession)
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Pulvis Art Urns helps with finding the right handmade cat urn, by offering a variety of designs and colours for your furry pet friend.
Focused on the profound design and aesthetics of these magnificent creatures, our team developed a range of unique ceramic cat memorials, suitable for keeping at home or in a garden.
Find more at: Cat Cremation Urns | Pet Urns for Cats | Handmade Cat Urns (pulvisurns.com)
#ShapesOfSpirit#Urns#UrnsForAshes#Keepsakes#EndOfLifeCare#EndOfLifePlanning#CremationUrns#Memorials#HandmadeUrns#CelebrationOfLife#Urn#Cremation#Funeralservice#Funeral#Memorial#Urnsforashes#Ceramics
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My gremlin children. 💖 It's only appropriate that Aerith is positioned to wipe Genesis out.
Please don't repost this elsewhere. This is commissioned artwork with commercial licensing, artwork belongs to killraven.
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if xisuma can shred guitar, joel can play drums, stress can play keys.... we are getting closer and closer every day to getting HermitBand
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Loki is one of those Gods that I see in old biker men at bars who tip well and tell good stories.
I see him in the songs that come on the radio that I forgot all about and make me laugh, or catch me off guard.
And often, I’m blindsided by him while at work, when something chaotic happens, followed by a calmness that is so uncharacteristic that I can’t do anything but embrace the storm.
I see him in the smoke shop owner beside my work, who often slides me free candy because I come in so often to get a Red Bull, and it’s such a kind gesture that it catches me off guard every time.
I see him in the overtime hours I have to work because we’re short staffed, where I get to get breakfast for my coworkers and we put on our own music and can simply vibe together before the midday rush.
Loki is a God that’s everywhere, if you can see him.
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my beeloved had flowers delivered to me!!!!!!!!!!!!
@lonelydncers i love u so much i might cry
#🥹🩷🩷🩷🩷#this may be the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me THANK YOU#keepsakes#my beeloved 🪲#tortle turns 22
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~ Pastel Palette ~
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Some tattoos I've designed. If you get these without permission know I will slap it repeatedly while it's still healing (joking less than is legally advisable)
#i like skulls#get off my ass#my art#digital art#tattoo flash#hades game#skeleton#snake#thunderbird#keepsakes
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you requested more Keepsakes prompts, and I have to say, I LOVE the way you write Eleanor. perhaps some little scene from her married life with Hob? general domestic bliss? or something less blissful, like getting into their first bad argument and figuring out how to deal with it?
alternatively, Hob and Morpheus go on holiday and Morph is very bad at taking vacations...
xo @hardly-an-escape
Oooooooooh. What an excellent prompt. Thank you!
Keepsakes: A Kissing Bough
Fandom: The Sandman
Series: Hob Adherent Series
Rating: Slightly Spicy. Please curate your experience accordingly.
Pairing: Hob/Eleanor
Hob and his wife have been charged with finishing the decorations before Christmas Morning and the start of the Twelvetide celebrations.
Eleanor's parents call her 'Nell' at home. It is a common enough diminutive for Eleanor, as common as 'Hob' had been in the mid 1400s, when it seemed that every Robert he met went by it.
The problem is, Hob didn't know that was her nickname. They'd been married eleven months, and he'd been calling her 'El' the whole time.
But how was he to know? The Giffords only ever called her Eleanor in public, and called him the full 'Sir Gadlen' or, 'my son-in-law', even after his marrying into the family.
No friendly "Robert-my-boy!"s from Master Gifford as Hob had secretly hoped for, as his own father had once chortled while thumping him playfully on the shoulder. The man still resented Hob for his lack of old-family connections, for all that he'd mellowed toward Hob after seeing how seriously Hob took his duties as Husband and Father. And where Master Gifford led, his wife dutifully, dolefully followed.
Not even a nice cordial "Robb dear" from Mistress Gifford in all those months.
So it is quite a surprise when, after the elder Mistress Gifford's after-supper lamp had finally burned down, and she declares her old eyes too weary to continue her needlework by firelight alone, she calls Eleanor 'Nell'.
Her husband had gone straight to bed after their meager supper, grumbling heartily about the privations of the Advent fast and how a morning of eggy pies and the Twelvetide feasts could not come fast enough.
With no husband to chivvy along before her, Mistress Gifford rises from her stately chair by the hearth in the Great Hall, and bestows each of the three Gadlens arrayed on the piled furs on the floor before it a fond kiss on the forehead. One to Hob, who helps steady her with a gentle hand on her elbow as she stoops, her own hand on his shoulder, to offer the kindness. Then one for her daughter, sat opposite him. And the last to her grandson, dozing with all the abandon of a small creature who knows that it is utterly safe and utterly loved, in his moses basket beside Hob's knee.
As she kisses them, she murmurs, "Happy Christmas Robb, Nell, my wee little Redbreast."
"Nell?" Hob asks, as soon as his mother-in-law has creaked her way out of the room. "Why have you not told me you are called Nell?"
"It is grim," she pouts. "It sounds very much like knell , wouldn't you say?" This is accompanied by a theatrical shudder that makes her bosom jiggle, and so burns its way into Hob's memories for that alone. "Death knell."
"Ah, never mind that. Death's a mug's game," Hob says, and cups her fire-warmed cheeks in his palms to bestow his own kisses on his wife. "I'm never going to die, so you shall never need ring out for me." Eleanor giggles as he digs his fingers into her hips for leverage, and scoots her closer to him, so he can bury his face against the pleasing softness of her neck. "Though you may keen in other ways for me, should you like."
"Hob!" El laughs. "Pray, do not leave a mark , we have to sit at the top table with my father in the morn—"
He had promised El that he would tell her his secret when they'd been married forty years, but here, sitting by the fire in the Great Hall, surrounded by warmth and plenty, the proof of his devotion to this life wheezing out the sweetest little snores a babe could make, he was tempted to break that oath and confess all.
There was something about the Twelvetide that encouraged confession, even now as a Protestant celebration, without a confessional to be had in a Catholic church.
"Enough," El gasps at length, pink-cheeked and panting prettily. "We have work to do, and if you wake Robyn I will be very cross with you."
The elder Giffords had left their daughter and son-in-law, with their youthful energy, to finish the kissing boughs before Christmas morning. It was well on midnight now, the feeble light from the rush-tapers dwindling and the fire in the big stone hearth beginning to fade to nothing but toasty-red coal. It was just the right sort of fire for toast.
Hob says as much.
"It is always one appetite or another with you," El huffs with a roll of her eyes, but rises. "I shall go to the kitchen, but I will share not a morsel with you when I return if these last boughs are not woven when I return. And do not throw the remaining greenery into the fire to make it look like you finished, Robert Gadlen," she scolds, catching him thinking that very thing. "There are to be twelve Crowns of Green, and I know how to count."
Hob plucks the hem of her skirt off the furs, and brings it to his lips for a revenant kiss. "As my Queen commands."
She frees herself with a smirk and an imperious tug, and sways away to the kitchen.
"There, Robyn my lad," Hob says to his son, who has opened his dark eyes just long enough to take in the spectacle of Hob's oath. "That is how you keep your wife happy. Learn the art from me, my fine wee apprentice, and you will make of me a very indulgent and biddable grandfather in no time at all."
Robyn smacks his lips, clearly unimpressed with his father's training, and returns to sleep.
Hob is in the process of tying off the ribbons of the final garland when El returns with a napkin bundle consisting of a fresh bottle of wine, an old loaf of bread, and a tiny pot of new butter.
Hob prefers old butter, likes the tangy burst of salt on his tongue, and his darling wife knows this. As such, she has also nicked one of the leftover bundles of sea salt that are meant to be gifts for her father's servants at his annual St. Stephan's feast, so Hob can powder his toast as he likes.
This is what love is, he muses, as he cuts them slices of bread with his belt-knife, and El retrieves the toasting forks from their hook by the hearth. Old bread, and stolen salt, a sneaky taste of butter before the advent fast is officially over, and a babe sleeping with his little milk-pout mouth gaping open like a little boor.
As Hob threads the bread onto the fork tines, and holds them carefully over the coals, El busies herself by tidying up the leftover sprigs of greenery. Bringing the winter growth indoors to remind the world that no winter lasts forever, that life persists and waited under the snow even now, is a tradition older than Hob himself.
He's seen Twelvetide traditions come and go, but this one persists, as immutable and comforting as knowing that in a year ending with eighty-nine, Hob's Stranger will be waiting for him.
It is nice to be younger than something.
El bundles her posy of leftover holly and mistletoe, finishing it with a crimson-red ribbon, then stands and dangles it over his head to coax a kiss out of Hob. He leans back against her legs, tips his chin up obligingly, and lets her fold down to meet him.
"If you continue to distract me, I will burn the toast, dearest wife," Hob murmurs into her mouth.
"That would be a waste," El agrees. She releases Hob to his duties, but does not relinquish the posy.
They eat toast, and brush away the crumbs and butter grease on the napkin, and share the bottle of wine between them, and laugh, and whisper in hushed voices. El holds the posy over the moses basket, and they kiss Robyn's fat cheeks. She dangles it over her head, and Hob kisses her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the dear swell of her chin. She loops the ribbon on his belt, and takes him in her mouth. When he has come to his pleasure with his fist jammed in his own mouth to prevent waking the baby, he hooks the posy on her belt and breaks his fast in the cool darkness before the dawn.
In all, they have quite a splendid Christmas morning indeed.
Like her mother before her, El chivvies her boys up to bed before the night grows too light. Robyn wakes long enough to whimper for his own break of fast, and Hob cuddles El up between his legs on the bed so he can hook his chin over her shoulder and watch Robyn's eyelashes flutter as he drinks his fill.
Morning will come soon enough.
The Christmas cake would be served to mark the official end of Advent, Hob's father-in-law would get his eggy pie, and they would all go to church so Eleanor could show off her new son to her old parish. The days of the Saints would be filled with acts of charity, feasting, dancing and delight. Someone would find the Bean in the Bread and be named the Lord of Misrule, and they would play silly games, and drink too much, and wrestle, and jest, and sing. On the Twelveth Night, Hob would gift his wife with the handsome leather-bound notation book he'd commissioned for her, a place for her to record her favorite composition. To Robyn, who was too young to know what presents and Twelvetide were, he would gift a handsome toy duck he'd spent the Advent carving. It had slappy leather feet attached to little wheels with hobnails, which clattered and flapped when one towed it along on a string.
And then the decorations will be removed from the house in order to preserve the good luck accrued through the Twelvetide, and the Gadlens would bid the Giffords a Happy New Year, and tromp home to their estate on the unfashionable south bank. Hob would review the profits for the year with Mr. Fletcher, his steward, and visit his warehouses with a gift of ale and an afternoon's leisure for his dockworkers, and come Candlemas, he'd join his groundsmen in rolling up their sleeves and readying the fields to feed the estate anew on Plough Monday.
But for now, Hob will keep his peace.
Christmas is not a time for such a confession as the one that teased at him.
"Dearest Nell," he says. "Darling Nell. My sweet call to ruination."
"No, no, you brute, stop calling me that," she gasps as he wriggled the three of them down into a comfortable nest of feathered pillows and thick wool blankets.
"My ruin?" Hob asks, mouth resting against her nape as Robyn stretched and unlatched, offering his fist to his father now that his tummy is full and he is ready to be spoiled in other ways.
Eleanor rolls over to hand the baby to Hob to wind.
"That name, you wretched, wretched man," she complains, burying herself into his side as he pats Robyn's bottom obligingly. "Call me Nell again and I shall really make you regret it."
"If that is your command, my queen, my wife, my Eleanor." He kisses her crown, her forehead, her shoulder with each oath. "Sweet El."
He expects her to reply to him with haughty teasing, but when she does not, he shifts Robyn out of the way to look at her face. She is already asleep.
"You see, my wee lad?" Hob whispers to his son. "That is how it is done."
Robyn spits up on his shoulder to show his appreciation for the lesson.
#j.m. frey#losyark#hob gadling#lord morpheus#eleanor gadlen#sir robert gadlen#robyn gadlen#dreamling#the sandman#sandman#fanfic#sandman fanfic#centennial husbands#centennial boyfriends#cling fast#cling fast adjecent#the hob adherent series#hob adherent#keepsakes#fic prompts#I am so overwhelmed by the love for this series
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keepsakes
#face#bottle#tree#keepsakes#dream#dream journal#desert#oracle#synthography#illusions#inspiration#aesthetics
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