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immacaria · 1 year

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Fluffbruary: February 6 - Trust

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, look we are here!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Afraid of your own son, Professor Gadling?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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pyrecryptid · 1 year

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Orpheus pouted, wiping at his eyes with his sleeves. “Please don’t do that again,” he said, his voice wavering, barely above a whisper. “Aw, Orpheus,” Robyn said. He pulled Orpheus into a tight hug. “It’s going to be fine.”

Chapter 4 of good times, for a change by @wizardofgoodfortune

#the sandman #robyn gadling #orpheus the sandman #dreamling #technically bc thats the fic #this chapter made my heart break augh it's so good #good times for a change fic #viarts

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scifrey · 1 year

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Cling Fast: Chapter Two

by Loysark The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon and Gaimanverse) Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus) Unfinished PG-13 (for now) Unbeta’d

“Remarkable,” Doctor Henrietta Butler says, freezing mid-handshake when she meets Hob’s eyes. “Just remarkable, the resemblance–”

“I’ve heard that a lot today,” Hob tries to interrupt, embarrassed by how much two separate BBC Historics production assistants have already gushed over him in the short walk from the Broadcast House lobby to this back office.

“I imagine so,” Henrietta laughs. She’s a sturdy woman in her mid-fifties, hair long and steel-grey, shot through with the last clinging vestiges of the mouse-brown. Her hands are at least as calloused as his, from so many years of demonstrating cheese presses, and butter churns, and laundry manglers. The smile lines around her eyes are deep, her laughter comes often and easy, and Hob likes her immediately.

She reminds him of his older sister Matilda.

The memory comes with a sudden hankering for Matty’s rabbit stewed in verjuice. He wonders, if he remembers it in enough detail, would Henrietta be able to recreate it for him? Her years of study overlap with Hob’s. Or maybe Morpheus could, in the Dreaming.

“Sit, sit, please,” Henrietta says, waving him toward one of the cushy office chairs. They’re in a well-appointed meeting room, not much larger than Hob’s office at the university, but significantly tidier. It’s staged to look a bit like a gentleman’s study, and Hob vaguely recalls a chat show from the sixties that used similar furniture. He wonders if it’s been repurposed.

It’s the BBC and they never seem to have enough money, so yeah, likely.

Henrietta goes through the deeply British ritual of pouring out the tea that some assistant has left on a spindly little table in the middle of the hodgepodge of leather chairs.

Oh Christ in his Heaven, Hob realizes as he accepts his mug from Henrietta. I’m going to have to live without tea for months. I don’t know if I can go back to posset.

They chat aimlessly about Hob’s journey to Broadcasting House that morning. Henrietta is delighted to learn that Hob walked in from Wapping rather than take the tube. While motorcars and handsom cabs are handy when you want to go far, Hob’s still got enough of the sellsword peasant soldier in him to prefer a good long march to clear his head over a stuffy, cramped, loud journey shoved into a metal can with a thousand other people.

The hour and half’s stroll along the water, through the oldest part of the city, had reminded Hob of what had changed since his time as Robert Gadlen the Third. He’d made it a game with Matthew, who had joined him for part of the walk, to describe what had been there before the Great Fire.

Hob remembers when Chalk Fields was still a field, Forest Gate had a gate one passed through to leave the city and enter a forest, and Haymarket was a place to purchase hay.

Gadlen House had survived the inferno simply by virtue of not being in the fashionable part of town. It’s across the river in what is now the Hither Green neighborhood, overlooking what the National Trust had named Manor Park after the House itself when they’d taken control of the estate. At the time, Hob didn’t care about fashionable neighborhoods, or that it was outside the Walls. It was close to Greenwich and the Depford docks, through which much of Hob’s wealth had passed back then, and that’s what mattered.

And he’d wanted space for his paradise-on-earth. He’d predicted, and predicted right, that the city would one day consume the south bank. He’d wanted to carve out his piece of it before that happened. He’d ensured that there was plenty of room for parkland, orchards, and gardens. Hob had grown up in green and hilly Essex back when his village was so small that everyone could fit inside the church. He preferred space and verdant nature where he could get it, even when he had to live in a city.

He’d done the same when he’d bought the White Horse and as much of the land surrounding it in Wapping as he could winkle out of the estate agents. His current little patch of city has a fine view of the Pool of London (and the Bridge and Tower, if you crane your head up river), but is nowhere near as dominated by buildings and rushing pedestrians and racing cars as the rest of old London Town. On purpose, of course. And despite all the development real estate offers he’d received and turned down (some less politely than others, and one with a baseball bat and a bloody grin when they’d foolishly sent a pack of hooligans to try to intimidate Hob), he intends to keep it that way.

Hob’s walked past Broadcasting House before, too, of course. He's wandered every road in London at one time or another, but its place on Regent's Street between the Thames and Marleboyne means he's walked the Cambridge borough more times than he can count.

Once Henrietta is settled with her own cuppa, Hob jumps straight to his first question: "So where did the historians dig me up? How?"

Henrietta laughs again, easy and generous. “Nothing so difficult–Google, just like everything else in this day and age, I’m afraid. We’d already gotten permission from the National Trust to film at Gadlen House–”

It’s my home, you should have asked my permission, Hob thinks, but the possessiveness flits away as quickly as it had appeared. It’s not his home any more, and that’s something he’s had to come to grips with more than once in his long, long life.

“--and as Glenn and are focused on the downstairs manner of things, we had thought it might be fun to have an actor or two play the upstairs folks, you know.”

“Downtown Abbey-like,” Hob surmises.

“Precisely. But then of course a research assistant was looking into the last owner, Robert Gadlen the Third, sending the portrait to casting directors, and your name popped up in an internet search. Historian at the University of York, same name, remarkable family resemblance…”

Hob tugs on his ear, annoyed again, and aware that there’s no one to blame but himself on this one. “But how did you trace the lineage?” he asks, because that’s the real issue here. The lesson he has to learn from, and the mistake he has to make sure he doesn’t accidentally repeat next time.

“One of the privileges of the show,” Henrietta allows. “They let us get into all sorts of archives and records that the public can’t access. Looks like there was a brother, some years back. Probably estranged, for as little he’s talked of in the surviving correspondence. But he claimed what little fortune there was left of the Gadlen Estate in 1703 and parlayed it into the triangle trade–”

"You mean the kidnapping, murder, and enslavement of other human beings," Hob says flatly. "It's alright—call it what it was. I'm sure my ancestor is as ashamed of it as I am."

Henrietta offers him a thoughtful glance at his bluntness. “I wonder. At any rate, from there it was a matter of following the line of inheritance, and once the researchers realized that your ancestors had a fondness for ‘Robert’ or some variation thereof for their eldest sons, and a chronic inability to spell their own surnames in any sort of consistent manner, it led us to you. Robert Gadlen the Sixth, or thereabouts.”

“And of course, what with my area of expertise being what it is…” Hob finishes that thought with a shrug and a gesture at himself.

“It’s almost too perfect,” Henrietta agrees.

“But who’s to say I’m the right choice of presenter?” Hob pushes. “What if I’m terrible at it? It’d be a huge waste of time and money.”

“I’ve seen videos of your lectures,” Henrietta replies with a cheeky twinkle in her eye. “You’ll do fine.”

“The Everyday Histories series?” Hob groans. “I thought they replaced those videos with this year’s speakers.”

“Nothing ever truly goes away on the internet,” Henrietta reminds him, which is part of the problem. But that's Future Hob's concern. “So what do you say, Doctor Gadlen? Three experts instead of two this time around, and an actual descendant of the original Master of the House to boot. Feels like destiny, wouldn’t you say?”

It bloody well better not be, Hob thinks. He makes a mental note to tell Morpheus to pass on a polite request to Destiny to butt out of his life. He’s already had enough of Despair’s fish hook in the last few centuries. And, though he’s still reluctant to admit it to his Stranger, Hob thinks he’s been the center of Desire’s attention a little too often lately, as well. All that hand-holding is giving Hob ideas that he has to be very careful not to allow to become daydreams around his friend. The last thing Hob needs is the eldest Endless ganging up on him, too.

“If I agree to this,” Hob says, “what would be expected? I mean, I love your work, and my friends Matthew and Morph… Murphy are big fans of what you do, but just because I look like the guy,” here he enjoys the irony of gesturing at the color print-out on the table between them of the portrait of his own face. “It doesn’t mean I have to pretend to actually be him, right? I’m no actor.”

“No,” Henrietta assures him. “We’re not going to write scenes and have you speak as Robert Gadlen. It’ll be the same as Glenn and I, the assumption of a general role and class in society–you as the patriarch and master of the household, Glenn will be the gamekeeper and groundsman, do the gardens, and the orchards, and the shooting, and the like. I’ll be juggling the roles of head cook and housekeeper this time.”

“The cook was an Italian man,” Hob corrects before his brain catches up with his mouth.

“Was he?” Henrietta says, delighted. She sits forward. “Done a lot of research into the Witch Knight then, have you?”

Hob winces at the unkind nickname. "I mean, I know who Robert Gadlen the Third was, of course I do. It's like Anne Hathaway not knowing Shakespeare, even though she's an actor, when she has the same name as his wife. You can't not be aware when it's your field. I just… I guess I never thought that I was actually related to the guy."

Henrietta nods. “Makes sense. I’ll admit I haven’t done the deep dive yet, so I’ll defer to you on that detail.”

I’m going to have to figure out how to back myself up if I’m going to get my way as much as I want, Hob realizes. Any documents or paperwork he’d had in his study the night he'd been dragged away had likely been long ago pilfered or burned up. And Hob hadn’t been in the habit of maintaining a daily journal any more. He’d started one under Caxton, to help learn his letters, but realized fairly quickly that putting proof of his immortality on paper might invite the very accusations and executions that he’d actually suffered.

“I don’t think Glenn wouldn’t mind being the head cook this time, then,” Henrietta says over Hob’s musing. “I can manage the gardens. For the game, maybe we could–”

“I can hunt,” Hob says. “I can ride, too. Though it’s been a while. And I haven’t held a bow since–” –firearms became more ubiquitous in the late seventeenth century– “undergrad.”

Henrietta laughs again, clearly beyond pleased. “And how’s your late Middle English?”

“Impeccable,” Hob says, because you know what? Hob still has an ego, and if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right.

Once they’ve finished their tea, signed a few non-disclosure agreements, and collected up the folder of reference photos, Henrietta leads Hob further into the bowels of Broadcast House.

Hob feels like a minor celebrity when they walk between the rows of cubicles belonging to the Historics research team. They pop up, one after the other, like meerkats to get a good look at him, then drop back into their seats and whisper about how handsome and uncanny he is in much louder tones than he thinks they realize. Hob wishes Matthew could be here for this, he’d find it hilarious.

Maybe Hob can convince Henrietta that he used to keep a massive, mouthy raven as a pet so Matthew could ride his shoulder around the set.

Hob is led to a back wall absolutely smothered in fabric swatches, photocopies of old hand-written recipes, food lists, architectural drawings, gardening layouts, sketches of Manor Park, lighting references, plans for riding tack, and a multitude of other documents that Hob hasn’t got the experience or time to parse. Dead centre of the board are life-size copies of the three extant portraits of Robert Gadlen the Third.

The first is of Hob alone. He doesn’t remember which year it was or the name of the artist. But he remembers that it was pig-hot in the artist’s salon and that he’d damn near keeled over from heatstroke on the first sitting. That had been before he’d met Eleanor, and the painter had been some former apprentice of Hans Holbien the Younger, and very much in demand. Hob had wanted to wear his Stranger’s colors, for the portrait. He wanted to proclaim his gratitude and allegiance to the creature he’d thought of then as his patron. But the black velvet had been smothering, and the scarlet embroidered trim had crumpled unappealingly, and the starched ruff had scratched so appallingly that Hob had begged the artist to let him take it off if it wasn’t being painted in that exact moment.

The second portrait was of Hob and Eleanor. Hob ignores the scarecrowish figure of himself hovering at Eleanor’s side, in a stately parlor. He holds a glove in one hand to indicate that he is master of his estate, a sword on his hip along with his heraldic badge on his breast to indicate his knighthood, and a view of the shipyards where he’d made his fortune out the arched window behind him. Instead, he focuses on his wife.

Eleanor is plump and buxom, cheeks filled with roses and hair the deep gold color of flax. She looks young, God's wounds, she looks no older than his students. How old was she when they married? Twenty? Twenty-two? And he an eternal thirty-three. But Lord Above in All His Splendor, had he loved her on first sight. Maid-of-a-maid in Elizabeth's court, low-down daughter of a low-down courier, nobody of import. She professional enough to remain quiet and bold enough to openly drink the leftover wine that her mistress had abandoned.

She'd met his eyes over the rim of the goblet, launched a challenging eyebrow in his direction, and that was that for Hob Gadling and his heart.

She’d had a little dog when they married, a dumb fluffy white thing with a heart as generous as El’s but breath like a week-old fish pie. She’d loved the bloody thing like a child. It was sitting by her feet in the portrait, pink tongue lolling, staring up lovingly at its mistress, sporting a ridiculous flax-yellow bow. In her lap, Eleanor cradles the lute Hob had given her as his first courting gift. She'd loved music, but hadn't an instrument of her own, and Hob hated how she'd sighed over how lovely the queen's was.

In the portrait Eleanor's dress is the color of a robin’s egg, and so are her eyes.

(Morpheus' eyes too, Hob realizes with a start as he studies the portrait.)

Hob remembers the almighty row they’d had over the dress, when he��d been handed the mantua-makers’ bill. How it was the first time he’d yelled at El, the first time he’d seen the tears well up in her eyes and the mottled, shamed flush creep up her bosom and neck. And how it had made him feel like an absolute monster.

He’d thrown himself at her feet, literally, right there in the solar, and kissed her slippers and apologized. Then he’d kissed her ankles. Then her calves, and her knees. By the time he’d kissed all the way up, and spent a dozen humid moments with her thighs clamped hard around his ears, she was happy to forgive him on the understanding that he was to never again raise his voice to her. It was a promise Hob had kept, because honor was something he clung to, as well.

If your life was such that sometimes all you could call your own as you moved onto a new life was your name and your word, then you didn't break the latter easily.

And the final portrait was the one from the National Gallery, commissioned just months before his son died. This time, Hob is the one seated, taking his ease with a pair of hunting hounds sprawling at his feet and whose names, he is utterly ashamed to realize, he's forgotten. They are outside, Hob on a park bench, under the great wide apple tree Hob had planted in the Park in private memory of his brother John, and the rest of his lost family. Hob is dressed for leisure, as if he's just walked out of the doors of his study and into the garden, still in his wrapper and cap.

Robyn is the real star of the portrait, as Hob meant him to be.

Standing beside him, leaning on a long, skinny matchlock musket, Robyn looks exactly like he had the day he'd died. He's wearing different clothes of course—fine hunting kit, decorated with more lace and embroidery than would ever be practical in real life. But the rest is just as Hob remembers. The cheekbones finally emerging from the last of his baby fat, the cowl's lick in the swoop of golden-brown hair at the center of his forehead, which he'd inherited from El, the cleft chin, the start of laughter lines around his sparking- dark eyes.

The only difference is that on the night he'd died, Robyn had been sporting his first atrocious, patchy goatee. Attempting to look like his father.

Hob gives in to the urge to run his fingers along the edges of their faces, first El’s then Rob’s. The photo paper is glossy to the touch, but he can remember the smoothness of her cheek, and the peach-fuzz prickle of his. He swallows hard, determined not to allow the emotions throttling him.

"And there he is, our Witch Knight and his tragic family." Henrietta lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It must be very moving, to see them now that you know that they are your tragic family."

Tragic family, Hob repeats to himself. He had sometimes wondered if El, and Robyn, and wee John had died so young in payment for his everlasting life. He had not passed on his immortality. The thought that he had inadvertently stolen their years for himself had been hard on his mind in the many decades he'd begged and starved on the streets.

His Stranger had reassured him in 1689 that it had not been the case. Hob, who had not tasted ale or wine in over a decade, and as a result had no longer been in practice being intoxicated, had burst into tears of relief at the table.

His Stranger had let him cry, without mocking or abandoning him. When the proprietor made noises about closing up for the night, Hob had found a purse heavy with enough fantastical coins ("Pulled from the dreams of children on a pirate adventure," Morpheus had explained centuries later) that Hob could pay the evening's tab, as well as for a room and a wash.

Hob had disdained the tub the proprietor's wife had dragged in, with no desire submerged again any time soon, but he'd scrubbed himself and his clothes as best he could. In the morning, he had appealed to the proprietor for work, and when the man had learned that Hob knew his letters, sent him to his brother's vegetable stall in the nearby market. Hob was too old to be a proper delivery boy, but he could read the lists, and assemble the orders, and knew the city like nobody else.

With his feet back under him, and his belly not eternally consuming itself, Hob was able to make himself decent enough to pursue what little wealth may still be in banking for him (or in the little caches he'd buried all over his hometown), and start again.

And look how that turned out, Hob remembers, tugging his ear.

"Must we call him the Witch Knight?" Hob asks, as Henrietta moves off to point out the bits of fabric pinned to the board all around the portraits. "Only, it doesn't seem like a very kind nickname. He wasn't a witch."

"You sound sure of that," Henrietta says, with a little chuckle. "While of course we can debunk it in the show, it is the most commonly known moniker for your semi-famous ancestor. People know it. It's on all the Gadlen House tourist pamphlets."

Uhg, Hob thinks. He should have visited the house at least once since it was handed over to the National Trust. Maybe he could have stopped the nickname before it got popular.

Instead he'd stayed away completely, certain that his heart couldn't take seeing what the courtiers who had been gifted the estate had done to the place. Nor what 'improvements' their own ancestors may have torturously imposed on his paradise-on-earth.

"Witch Knight," Hob mutters, shaking his head.

One of the most important things that Hob has learned about his Stranger in the last year is that Morpheus is an absolute sucker for a bet.

Maybe it’s part of being… whatever it is, actually that An Endless is. Immutable, bound to the laws of the universe, and unable to turn down a wager on a cellular level. It seems that all the Endless were like that, based on Morpheus’ sparse stories. As Hob understands it, once an Endless shakes on it, they are pathologically compelled to see their little bets through, no matter how inane or ridiculous, or what harm it may cause one another. Or what regret and rifts in the love between siblings.

So of course the first thing Hob says when he falls asleep that night is: "If you're so keen for me to do this show, I bet you can't find me a book that still exists that I can use a primary source."

"Oh-ho-ho!" Merv had shouts, from where he's trying to shove a massive potted arrangement of red carnations, blue cornflowers, and poppies into a corner of the throne room. It's an unusual combination. Hob doesn't know the language of flowers, but the sharp juxtaposition of the blooms looked a little violent to him. "You're betting the boss?"

"Decorum," Morpheus scolds the pumpkinhead waspishly, but without any real heat. He stands from where he was lounging on the bottom steps of his dias, clearly waiting for Hob to enter the Dreaming. "Your wager is accepted. What do you forfeit if I locate the necessary texts in the Waking world for you?"

Morpheus strides towards the Library, and Hob trots after him, his slippers a whisper against the blackhole-dark marble. "I'll put that homemade spanakopita and saganaki you like on the menu at The New Inn."

Hob's been trying to get Dennis to agree to it for months, anyway, but his co-manager is extremely opposed to dishes that a) take literal hours of laminating and metric tons of butter to create and b) are brought to the table on fire. If Morpheus provides him with government documents, or a servant's old journal, or even letters that Hob or Eleanor had written, though, Hob's willing to throw down with Dennis over his sudden desire to shift the menu from Upscale Pub Grub to Classical Greek in the most literal sense.

Morpheus gets that little starry-eyed (also literally) far-away look he sometimes sports when thinking of his originating culture. Morpheus had, after all, been thought into being when humans were still doing the OG version of the Mediterranean diet. Though he didn't eat, the sorts of foods that might have appeared on his altars—warm olives and flatbread, oil and vinegar, tart goat's cheese and yogurt, grapes and sugared nuts—could always entice him into a nibble or five.

"Hmm, agreed," Morpheus says, holding open the Library door for Hob. "And should the task prove fruitless, what do you ask in recompense?"

A kiss, Hob thinks, and then swiftly squashes it down.

"You invite Death to our next Tuesday hang. I haven't had the chance to thank her properly yet."

Morpheus looks sour about that, the possessive prat, which is why Hob had picked it. He's been hinting that he wanted to meet at least this mysterious sister who whom he owes his immortality for a while now.

"Very well," Morpheus agrees mulishly. "This way."

He leads them towards The Shelves of Books That Are, which is where Hob would have started, too. The Shelves of Books that Were might help too, if Hob could convince Morpheus to allow him to bring a physical copy into the Waking. Regrettably the Shelves of Books That Have Yet To Come and the Shelves of Books That Never Will Be would be off-limits for this little project.

Maybe, if they do have to magick a book back into existence, the Bookseller of Soho could see fit to help him with the little ruse. He’d always seemed the sort of a nice spot of drama, and the Bently Snake was always down for a bit of heist when needed.

They chat a bit about their days—Morpheus about the section of the Dreaming he's building to celebrate the many vivid and creative imaginings of the growing legions of fan writers and artists, and Hob about his first meeting with Henrietta.

"Witch knight!" Hob repeats in disgust as he relays the conversation. "As if I was—" he gestures at himself, and his scarlet silk pajamas darken and spread, like ink in water, until he's wearing the most ridiculous anime-esque spiky gothic armor he can think up.

He's getting better and better at this lucid dreaming schtick.

"Peace, Hob," Morpheus entreats, waving away his nightmarish outfit. His clothes become pajamas once more, though the King of the Dreaming has added a cozy, blowsy banyan in cloth-of-gold. Hob rather likes it—it billows and trails behind him just like Morpheus's own cloak of galaxies. "It was not meant as an insult. It is merely another story."

"But stories hold power, you said so," Hob says, jogging along to catch up with his friend. "And I'd like to find something else to outshine that one."

Morpheus is always taller than Hob in the Dreaming, and far more eldritch too. His pale eyes are instead the deep velvet black of space, filled with a field of stars. He is skinnier, sharper, arms and fingers just slightly too long, hair more wild and clothing always moving as if he has his own private breeze to make sure his cloak is always shown to best advantage.

He probably does, the vain ponce.

He's a gorgeous nightmare, and he knows it.

And so he peers down at Hob from his lofty snobbish height. Then with a dramatic flourish, he plucks a book down off a shelf that's definitely too high up for Hob to reach.

"I win," Morpheus says smugly.

PREVIOUS | NEXT

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ibrithir-was-here · 9 months

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Even in the happiest AUs Dream can still get down sometimes, but here he’s always got an army of hugs coming his way to cheer him out of it

#lots o kids au #my art #sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #orpheus sandman #robyn gadling #hope beautiful lost nebula #daniel hall #sandman au

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notallsandmen · 9 months

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#dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #eleanor gadling #robyn gadling #sandman reductress #reductress headlines #the sandman textposts #notallsandmeme

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chaosclimber · 11 months

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He spent the entire trip going over what little he’d been told, again and again. There had been an incident. Orpheus had been bullied. And another lad had (rightfully, the vicious, protective animal of his brain cried out!) punched the bully in question. He’d dealt with much the same mockery as a child–of course he had!

When two boys become fast friends, their fathers are tossed together by circumstances.

They stay together by choice.

Chapter 3 now up!

#Dreamling #Dream of the Endless #the sandman #Hob Gadling #Robyn Gadling #Orpheus (sandman)#single parents au #all human/no supernatural au #HEY LOOK I MADE IT _AESTHETIC_#I did the pretty picture thing #somehow #idk what I'm doing when it comes to photo editing shit

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imofftoneverneverland · 2 months

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Robyn, when he died, is reborn a Dream—like Matthew! And my OC Larry! He uses his position to support his dad over the centuries (and maybe play matchmaker). Be one of the dreams in charge of Hob’s sleep, and see his life through the flashbacks and wishes that he shifts to become as part of his job.

Edit: Dream may or may not already know that Robyn is among his crew now.

#robyn gadling #The sandman #dream of the endless #fluff and angst #dreamling #hob gadling

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bazzybelle · 6 months

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You Got Me Tripping on Sunshine - 3K - Teen - Calliope/Johanna Constantine

For Sandman FemSlash Weekend - Day 2: Meet-Cute

Yay! Another Fic done for the @sandmanfemslashfans !

The couple I've chosen to write for this time are Calliope and Johanna! Another popular Sandman couple!

This is completely unbetaed and was done in a bit of a rush... So forgive any errors on my part. I did the best I could to make it as neat and legible as possible.

The title of the fic was inspired by the song "Running on Sunshine" by Jesus Jackson.

You can read the story by clicking the link, or by clicking the Keep Reading bar below.

Click here for the Story on AO3

Johanna Constantine is not a wedding person. She never was. Not when she was a young girl, and her grandmother insisted she dress up in pretty pink clothes because so-and-so’s aunt or other was getting hitched and the Constantine family was always expected to be there.

No matter that the family had fallen on hard times ever since great-great-great grandfather Stephan made several unwise investments during the early 1800s. Johanna, even then, was wise enough to understand that weddings were only useful as a way for snobby fucks to prance about, gossiping and criticizing.

“Auntie Jo?”

Johanna glances to her right, and sees the main reason she’s even here. Well, and the fact that one of the grooms is her best friend (despite her repeated attempts to dissuade the man from associating with her), and the father of the child currently tugging on her deep navy pantsuit (the only way she’d even agreed to being Hob’s Mate of Honour was if she could wear a pantsuit). She had to yell at Hob to allow her to make sure Robyn was taken care of so that he could enjoy the day with his husband. Hob had wanted to keep Robyn with him all day, which would not have been fun for either of them.

Plus she loves spending time with her unofficial godchild. They’re one of the few children Johanna can stand being around for more than 5 minutes.

Little Robyn is beaming up at her, also dressed in dark navy, they’ve chosen to wear a long, elegant dress. Their long, brown hair is done in curls with several blue and white flowers pinned around the crown of their head. Ever since they’ve started wearing dresses and keeping their hair long, it’s like Robyn’s a new child. They’re smiling more and laughing and so incredibly affectionate.

“Yes, my darling?” she responds, bending down to her favourite nibling.

“Are Daddy and Papa finished yet? I’m hungry.”

Unsurprising. She and the rest of the wedding party (by that, just Morpheus’ sister, Teleute) were done with their photographs hours ago. She had stuck around and waited while Robyn and Morpheus’ son took some pictures with the love-struck couple. It was all very sweet and wholesome, and if Johanna was the same person she was five years ago, she would have gagged at the display.

But she isn’t, and she blames Hob and Robyn for that. She’d initially met Hob through her good friend, Eleanor. She’d fallen in love with this ridiculous, dork of a man, but he was kind and had a good heart. It didn’t take long for Jo to accept Hob into her very miniscule circle of friends. Her circle only grew with the addition of Robyn, and the promise of a new baby when Eleanor got pregnant a second time.

Or, at least it should have grown. But pregnancy is rough and complications happen and—

Hob was a mess when he lost Eleanor. Robyn was a screaming toddler, crying for his mummy, and Hob didn’t know what to do. So Jo pitched in, and made sure they had an extra set of hands. Hob will always tell her that she’d saved them, but the truth is, they saved her. If she’d been left to her own devices after El died, she would have ended up dead drunk in some alley.

Eventually Hob and Robyn learned to find peace in each other, and it wasn’t too long afterwards that Hob found love again. Jo was the first person he told when he first met Morpheus, and then when he asked him out, and once more when he was thinking about proposing.

And so, her circle of influence threatened to expand even more with the inclusion of Morpheus and his own child.

Which leads to today, and a hungry six year old. Lord knows with Hob and Morpheus, they might have snuck away from their photographers for some privacy. God, she hopes not. Like Robyn, she’s also getting rather hungry, and the hor d’oeuvres aren’t very filling. She has half a mind to sneak into the New Inn’s kitchen and grab some food for herself.

Now there was an idea. If anyone asks, she could say that she’s just making sure the groom’s child is being taken care of properly. And part of her duty is to make sure Robyn’s well fed.

(And if that meant she’d have to sneak in a few bites of food herself, well who was she to say no to that?)

“We can’t have that, now can we? D’you think your daddy will mind if we pop back into the kitchens to see if the caterers will give us a bite?”

“Daddy says I can’t go back there without an adult. He says it’s dangerous.”

“Oi, and what am I, chopped liver? I’m plenty adult, thank you very much.” Johanna takes their small hand in hers. Robyn giggles, leading Johanna through the small crowd of people already gathered at The New Inn, waiting for the happily married couple to arrive.

“Where’s your partner in crime?”

Robyn shrugs, “Orpheus is probably with his mamma.”

Oh yes, Jo had heard a lot about the mysterious former Mrs. Athanasiou (although apparently since the divorce, she’d gone back to her maiden name). She’d never met the woman, but from what Hob had told her, she was one of those pretty, delicate little things that came from a long line of wealth and prestige. The type of person that Hob’s posh husband would have gotten saddled with.

Was she being slightly unfair? Probably. Hob hadn’t explicitly used the words “pretty, delicate little thing” to describe her, but he did say she came from a posh family and was pretty well off.

The rest came from Johanna’s own assumptions.

And from doing a background check on the woman. Look, it was her job as Robyn’s auntie and unofficial godmother to make sure that the people in his life were not of the shady sort (and she loves Hob, but the man can be far too trusting of other humans). She did one on Morpheus when Hob first told her about him. Not that she really needed to. As soon as she heard the Athanasiou last name, she knew exactly who he was. That family was well known to her grandmamma, and she spoke of them often. The third born, Morpheus, was a famous composer and songwriter back in Greece. With money like that family had, he could afford to do whatever he wished.

As for Calliope, she was another child of some powerful Greek family, who became a well known singer. One who preferred to perform Morpheus’ compositions. Apparently the two had been a power couple back in Greece, until the birth of their son. Johanna hadn’t bothered to read about the messy divorce. It frankly wasn’t any of her business.

She did meet Morpheus’ son, Orpheus (interesting name for a child, if you asked her). He’s a very sweet child, even if he’s got the air of someone raised by an extremely well-to-do family. Not that he was spoiled, but as young as he was, Johanna got the sense that he knew that he was meant for some wild destiny. She understood how that felt, being a Constantine.

A few of the caterers know Robyn as soon as they step inside the kitchen and are all too excited to give them some food. Robyn, like the Gadling they are, makes sure that Johanna gets some food as well. It isn’t much, a few pieces of chicken souvlaki, and some pita bread. Just enough to tide the two of them over until the grooms arrive.

Robyn’s hair is starting to become a little undone from the excitement so far. The flowers are becoming loose, and the thin braided crown around their head is starting to look messy. She imagines a bunch of Hob’s other friends and co-workers have all been giving Robyn hugs and cooing over how lovely they look. Johanna did the best she could with Robyn’s hair that morning, but she isn’t really good at this sort of thing. Maybe they should sneak back upstairs to the flat Hob shares with Dream to see if she can salvage anything.

Then again, is it really worth it with a rambunctious six year old?

“Robyn! There you are!”

It seems that the elusive Orpheus has found his way to the kitchen. Johanna smiles and waves to Robyn’s new step-brother. Robyn runs to Orpheus and the two children wrap their arms tight around each other. It’s nice, Johanna thinks, that Robyn gets to have a sibling they deeply love. A sibling, according to Hob, who has already begun to defend Robyn’s choices in how they wish to present themselves.

Clearly this child is better than most of the adults living in London.

“Orpheus? Pou eisai, agapi mou? ” a woman calls out in Greek. Johanna’s knowledge of the language is non-existant, but she imagines this must be Calliope, asking after her son.

“ Edo einai, mamma ” calls out Orpheus.

A woman enters the kitchen, and greets the catering staff with a smile on her face. Now, Johanna has seen photos of Calliope Vandi in her research, but photos will never do someone justice when faced with the actual person.

Calliope is, to put it in polite terms, bloody fucking gorgeous. She’s tall, and carries herself like a queen in her realm. Her long, chestnut hair is done up in elaborate braids that would make Daenerys Targaryan jealous. Strategic curls spill down her back, nearly covering her backless rose gold gown.

Johanna quickly dusts herself off —no doubt having had crumbs spill onto her own suit— and tries to tidy herself as best as she can. She has always been a fucking disaster when it came to a pretty girl with a sweet smile.

And Calliope has just that. She finds her son and gives a warm, kind smile to both him and Robyn.

“Hello, Robyn,” she says, a musical lilt to her voice.

Robyn smiles, and offers a tiny hand to Calliope. “Hello, Ms. Calliope. Ti kaneis? ”

Calliope gasps, her smile growing. “Robyn, have you been learning Greek?”

Robyn beams at her. “Orpheus has been teaching me!”

“Mamma, I’ve been teaching Robyn the alphabet and some phrases. They were so excited to show you.”

Calliope kneels down to Robyn’s level, her elegant dress carefully pooling around her. “Well, Robyn, your Greek is fantastic. And to answer your question, kala . How are you?”

Robyn blushes, tugging at their left ear (a habit they’ve acquired from their father no doubt). “ Kala ,” they say.

“I am so happy to hear that.” Calliope gently brushes some of the hair off of Robyn’s face. “You look very lovely today. I love your dress, and your hair is very pretty.”

Robyn giggles, doing a little twirl to show off their fluffy dress. “Thank you. Auntie Jo did my hair, but she was complaining the whole time.”

“ Oi! Have some respect for your elders, you little bug.” Robyn laughs at the use of Johanna’s pet name for them. Little shit is what they are, calling her out in front of the beautiful lady.

Weren’t adorable children supposed to help you look more attractive to other people? Leave it Hob’s kid to know exactly what to say to make Jo look like a complete idiot.

Thankfully, Calliope doesn’t seem to take too much stock in what Robyn’s said. She stands up —ridiculously graceful, of fucking course— and approaches Johanna, slender hand held out.

“You must be Ms. Constantine,” she says, embracing the name Constantine the way it was meant to be said, the Greek in her accent showing it all the love and care.

“Johanna, please,” she says, taking Calliope’s hand and giving it a strong shake. She almost wants to lift it to her lips and plant a small kiss.

And that makes her want to find the nearest bathroom in order to slap herself silly.

For fuck’s sake, Jo. Don’t forget, she’s one of those high class posh sort .

“It is lovely to meet you, Johanna. Orpheus has told me much about you.”

“Oh? Has he now?” Johanna looks over to Calliope’s shoulder to see Orpheus and Robyn in quiet discussion, sharing food between the two of them.

“He has told me that you’ve taught him some rather interesting phrases for him to use.”

Crap . She was hoping that wasn’t what Orpheus had brought back to his mother. Then again, children do tend to hold onto curse words quicker than any other phrase, so she shouldn’t be surprised at all.

There was an incident at a park several months ago. Jo had brought the kids to a nearby playground while Hob and Morpheus were doing some sort of important wedding planning nonsense. It was no big deal, but some of the other kids were giving Robyn a difficult time. Jo had gone to break things up before they got too heated, when some of the parents got involved, all too happy to tell Jo how wrong they thought Hob was to “indulge Robyn like this' ' and that he should make his kid “act normal' '. Jo was happy enough to ignore the stupidity and ignorance, and take the kids home.

But then one of them brought up Eleanor, and said that Robyn was only the way they were because Eleanor wasn’t around.

And Jo just lost it.

She didn’t remember exactly what her words were, but she definitely had several choice expletives she used. Of course Orpheus remembered each and every one and took them to his father. Morpheus, while happy that Jo had stood up for Robyn, was a little concerned that his son now knew phrases like “bigoted, useless prick” and that the “gormless nitwits” needed to “fuck right off”.

She sighs, rubbing her eyes before remembering the makeup she’d spent nearly an hour putting on this morning.

“ Fuck — No, I mean— Ah, piss it. Look, I’m sorry about that—”

Calliope lifts up a hand. “It is alright. Orpheus told me what had happened at the playground. How some of the older children were picking on Robyn, and how their ‘brave Auntie Jo’ yelled at the mean adults.”

Jo scoffs. Well, that’s a relief. Good to know she won’t be barred from the Gadling-Athansiou household after today. She doesn’t regret anything she said (she rarely ever does), and would do it again and again. She doesn’t think she’s very brave. Being a decent person isn’t a brave thing to be. Loving a child unconditionally isn’t a brave thing to do.

It’s one of the easiest things she’s ever done.

“Yeah well, come after my little bug, and we’re going to have words.”

“We certainly have that in common. There is nothing I would not do for my Orpheus.” She glances at the two step-siblings giggling together, completely lost and innocent in the way that only children know how to be. “I think now, that includes Robyn too.”

Calliope looks back to Johanna, and it’s at this moment where Johanna notices a fire in her eyes. For being a delicate, little thing, Calliope might be a whole lot tougher than she’d initially given her credit for.

“I’ll gladly do the same for Orpheus, should the situation call for it.”

“I am happy to hear that, Johanna.” She steps closer to her —a fresh scent of gardenia and bergamot surrounding her— and whispers conspiratorially in her ear “I’d even be happy to teach you some insults in Greek if you like. We have quite a colourful selection to choose from.”

Johanna turns to her, a smirk on her face, “Tough, pretty, and knows her way around a powerful curse. I like that in a woman.”

Calliope smiles, reaching up to Jo’s suit jacket to adjust the collar slightly (bloody hell, she knew it was messed up). “Brave, strong, and knows her way around a powerful suit. I like that in a woman.”

Well , this wedding certainly got more interesting. Jo spares one last glance at Robyn and Orpheus, before leaning closer into Calliope’s space, her cheek just brushing hers.

“You know, apparently there isn’t assigned seating,” Jo whispers softly in Calliope’s ear.

Calliope’s eyes (Jesus, they’re pretty) (all big and brown and warm) brighten. “So I have heard.”

“Hmm. It would be silly to separate the little monsters, I think. They look so happy together, and there aren’t other kids around. They’d be so bored, otherwise.”

“That would be rather unnecessary, I think.”

“So, I propose, we all sit together. That way, we make sure Robyn and Orpheus aren’t separated,” Jo trails a pinky over Calliope’s thin wrist, a small move she does whenever she’s interested in someone. It’s important to start with slow, enticing movements, and not to rush too quickly into things.

Calliope, it turns out, appreciates Jo’s flirtations, because she responds by dragging her thumb over her collarbone. “I believe that is an inspired idea, Johanna Constantine.”

Fuck , the way she says her name will have her ruined by the end of the night. Sassy, little minx that she is probably knows it too.

“Auntie Jo!” Robyn calls out to her, interrupting what was clearly her laying down her A-Game (would Hob be upset with her if she called his spawn a cock-block) (what is the female equivalent anyway?) (She’s heard people use clam-jam and twat-swat, but even she has her filthy limits).

“Yes, you impossible little demon?” she says.

Robyn waves her mobile in the air (when the fuck did they swipe that from her?). “Daddy just texted you, and I’m not supposed to read your messages because you use too many swear words.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she mutters, to Calliope’s amusement. If Hob’s messaged her, it means the love birds are finally finished their photo session. Which means it’s time to wrangle the hell-spawns and get them seated and ready for supper.

Johanna turns to Calliope and holds her arm out.

“Well, shall we head out then?”

Calliope places her hand in the crook of Jo’s elbow, “I would love to.” They collect the children and head back into the inn, where the rest of the reception eagerly awaits the arrival of the happily married couple.

Johanna Constantine is not a wedding person. She never was. But, with a pretty woman on her arm and the promise of a night of shameless flirting, she could learn to be one.

#my writing #sandman femslash weekend #johanna constantine #calliope #orpheus #robyn gadling #cute wedding flirtation #nonbinary character #the sandman

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