#fishbowl rescue

[cuubism]

part 3 of hob encountering dream outside their meetings (except there are 4 total parts now, lol)

--

Something, Hob thinks, somewhere between his third and fourth glass of whiskey, is terribly wrong.

In another life, he thinks, he would have wandered home drunk, morose, aimless, bereft of his strange patron—Dream—and sure he’d screwed it up. If you come, we must be friends. Well, there’s your answer, Hob.

In this life…

Dream gave his word. And… he is so serious, he is so austere, Hob does not think he is the type to break a promise.

I hope you’re alright out there, he thinks as he gets home to his flat, drunk, but not as much as he really wants to be.

Where is he, anyway? Why wouldn’t he show?

Despair over the matter tries to swamp him, but Hob pushes it aside. Dream. He has his name. Maybe he can find him?

He had never tried in the years since their happenstance meeting during the war. Had wanted to, on and off, but had respected his friend’s wishes on the matter. He had a promise to meet again, after all. That was enough for now. They had eternity.

Tomorrow he can go to the library. Maybe he’ll be able to find something in all those books of history and mythology, if his stranger is a god, like to appear there.

It’s a chance.

--

For days Hob studies, and mulls, and finds very little. His friend’s name is too common a word to easily search, and likewise too obscure to find in any mythology texts. Hob makes little progress, but he thinks on him more and more. Dream is in his mind like a waking nightmare; Hob keeps going back to his little shy smile on their parting outside the cafe.

He wouldn’t just not show up. He wouldn’t.

And then, several weeks into this obsessive spiral, Hob dreams of him.

--

Hob is sitting across from his friend, the setting vague, dark, he can’t make it out. Dream is cross-legged in a meditative pose, a loose robe draped around him, and he looks… gaunt. Tired. Hob remembers looking like that himself, during the darker periods of his life, but he would never have expected Dream to break his marble composure.

“Hob,” he says, with some surprise. Blinks starry, dark eyes. “You have been thinking on me very intently, indeed.”

“Of course,” Hob says. Wants to reach out to him but senses, somehow, that it wouldn’t be possible. “Where—”

“Time is brief,” interrupts Dream. Hob is not certain he even heard Hob speak; perhaps whatever this is is a one-way transmission, a message. “My power is contained; this is but a spare moment of luck and coincidence. I owe you much for breaking my vow to you—”

You don’t, Hob thinks, you don’t—

“—But instead I must make a request. As… friends.” He speaks the word as something still unfamiliar and rare. “Find Alex Burgess. Find me. Anything you desire, if it is in my power, in return.”

What an absolutely bizarre way of asking for help. Then again, it is his old stranger speaking. Hob should expect no less.

What kind of mess has he gotten himself into that kept him away from their meeting? What kind of mess could such a being get into?

“I will,” Hob swears. “I will. I won’t leave you alone.”

His friend’s gaze bores into his, glittering like the night sky.

“Hob,” he says, voice resonant and echoing, “be cautious.”

--

Hob wakes, tacky with sweat, shivers running up his spine. Dream, he thinks, scrubbing a hand through the mess of his hair. Dreams. Fuck. Was it real? It must have been. Dreams.

In the manner of dreams, much of the detail is hazing out, leaving only the strange echo of his friend’s voice, his starry eyes, a name to find, and a warning:

Be cautious.

Yeah, fuck that.

Dream never asks for help, at least not from Hob, though Hob privately doubts he asks for it from anyone. He hardly even shares mundane details of his life. Whatever scrape he’s gotten into now, it must be monumentally terrible to push him to do so.

Hob won’t leave him there.

Alex Burgess, his friend had said. That’s not much, but it’s a start.

--

Hob had found nothing using Dream’s name, but once he has Alex Burgess’s, it’s shockingly easy. He puts the pieces together in less than a week, and finds himself stewing in anger as a result. How had nobody done anything? Granted, nobody knew who his friend was, but as far as he’s managed to gather, plenty of people had seen him over the years. Nobody had stepped up?

Maybe, deep down, Hob is truly just angry with himself. He should have done something. Somehow, someway. For fuck’s sake, Hob had seen his stranger in 1915, less than a year—if the rumors are to be believed—before he disappeared. 

Shouldn’t he have known? Somehow? Some time before their scheduled meeting?

Nothing for it now. Nothing for it but to get him back.

--

For lack of very much ability to make a plan without blueprints or inside knowledge, Hob ends up throwing caution to the wind and simply breaking into the manor. Fuck those people. Hob has killed men before and he will again, and he doesn’t expect to feel sorry about it.

These are not innocent men, after all. And neither is Hob.

But he does heed Dream’s warning to some extent, only out of concern for Dream himself. Hob cannot afford to get knocked out or killed—temporary though it may be—when he has someone to rescue. 

To that effect, he leashes his fury long enough to break into the Burgess manor via a side door, rather than simply breaking down the front door as he’d really like to; he holds his anger by the collar long enough to catch a passing guard around the throat and demand, in a terse whisper, where the door to the basement is, and then knock the guard out and shove him into a coat closet; he tempers his rage long enough to crack open the basement door with a key stolen from the guard’s belt, to creep down the stone steps, to step out into the cavernous room. 

And then—

—it’s impossible for Hob to hold back his anger then.

But his instincts don’t let him slow long enough to taste it. Hob has not been a soldier for a long time, but the instincts—the instincts never disappear.

He knocks out one guard with the butt of his gun before the man can even grab his own weapon, then he levels it at the other, whose hands vacillate between surrender and fight. 

“I would think very hard about what you’re about to do,” Hob growls, and clicks back the hammer on his revolver.

Apparently, whatever unbridled fury the guard sees in Hob’s eyes is more frightening than the punishment his employer will dish out. He raises his hands in surrender, dropping his gun. 

Hob stalks over to him and, though the man raises a hand and shouts, “Wait!”, knocks him out cold as well. 

He grits his teeth, forcibly loosening his grip on the gun, and then, only then, does he let himself turn properly to Dream.

And his heart fucking… breaks.

Hob’s old stranger has always been a regal person. No matter the era, no matter how grimy the White Horse was when they met, no matter on what street Hob ran into him—he has always carried himself like royalty.

He still does, now, but by God is Burgess trying to break him of it.

Dream sits cross-legged in the same meditative pose as in Hob’s dream, but this time he is unclothed. Hob doubts that he subscribes to the same strict notions of modesty as human society, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still a violation.

Worse still is the cage. Small, tight, exposed on all sides—his friend is such a private person, Hob hadn’t even gotten a name out of him for five hundred years. This is— this is—

It makes him so incredibly angry.

Dream stares at him with wide eyes. He looks from Hob to the downed guards and back, his muscles tense, spine still rigid. He looks… malnourished, and Hob wonders if it’s truly due to lack of food, or more to lack of freedom.

“Hob Gadling,” he finally murmurs, voice muffled through the glass. “You received my message. I was not certain I’d managed enough power to get it through. I had but a short dream in which to try.”

“Yes.” Hob strides across the room to him quickly, steps and voice echoing strangely in the crypt-like, musty cellar. “I heard you.”

“And you came.”

Hob huffs, crouching down by the glass cage, examining it for rivets or seals or anything that could be cracked open. “No need to sound so surprised.”

“You are angry,” says Dream, watching him intently, delicate hands balanced on delicate knees.

“Yeah, not at you, though.” Hob groans in frustration. “Any way to break this thing open other than shooting at it?”

“Break the circle.” He points to the ring of symbols on the floor. “And I will be able to help you.”

Hob drags the sole of his shoe viciously through the paint. It’s so gratifying to watch it scrape off. Dream shudders, eyes falling shut, and then goes taut, each muscle in relief. Strength comes back to him, power shimmers over his skin. Hob lays a hand on the glass and finds it humming at higher and higher frequency, like the air inside is vibrating, suffused with power it can’t contain.

He jumps back just in time.

The glass shatters into a thousand pieces with a high ringing sound and a flash of bright light. Hob covers his eyes.

When he opens them again, Dream is delicately climbing out of the metal frame of the sphere, his power returned, each step measured and controlled. He looks more otherworldly than Hob’s ever seen him, hair standing on end, his gaze sharp and predatory. But his eyes soften when they land on Hob.

Hob rushes over to offer his arm, and Dream grips it for balance as he picks his way through the glass. Once he’s on safer ground, Hob offers him his coat, and Dream wraps it around his bare shoulders, eyes sparkling with a tiny smile like he finds Hob’s attempts at chivalry amusing.

“Are you okay?” Hob asks, then shakes his head. “Stupid question. What do you need, my friend?”

“I am free,” says Dream. Under his usual stoicism there is a hint of awe. “You have done more than enough, Hob. I thank you.”

“At least let me help you get out of here,” Hob says. He’s still worried that Dream might be hurt, or weakened from his imprisonment, even if he’s standing on his own feet now. “Can get you something to eat, or…?”

Dream looks into the distance, as if seeing, or hearing something Hob can’t. “I’m afraid I have much to attend to. My realm calls me. I have been away a long time.”

Because he’s been imprisoned for a long time. Jesus Christ.

Hob doubts he’ll be able to convince Dream to stay, or rest or anything else. His friend is stubborn, and too proud for such things, he thinks. “Still. If you need help with anything…”

“I require my tools,” Dream says, and Hob straightens up. “But I would not task you with such a thing. They are no longer in this manor and I fear there may be danger involved in retrieving them.”

Hey, Hob thinks, with some indignation. I can handle some danger, thanks very much.

“But first, I have other business to attend to,” Dream continues. His eyes flick upward at the sleeping manor inhabitants on the floors above. “You will face no resistance in leaving.” He turns his gaze briefly to Hob, eyes softening in gratitude. “Fare well, Hob. I shall not forget this.”

Then he turns to go, darkness swirling around him.

“Wait!” Hob grabs his arm. Dream looks down at his hand, but doesn’t pull away. “Will you come back? I— I want to make sure you’re alright.”

Dream’s lips tip up in a half smile. “I will be alright once I have returned to my realm, and regathered my tools. But. Very well. I will come to see you, once I have finished that business. Thank you, Hob.”

And then he’s gone from under Hob’s hand, gone into the night, and Hob sighs, alone in the quiet basement. But really, he shouldn’t have expected anything else.

[lord-morpheus-ravens]

Fishbowl rescue but they were already together!

[signiorbenedickofpadua]

This Dream Is Over (Another Has Begun) - Read on AO3

Pairing: Dreamling

Rating: Explicit (Explicit content is skippable)

Finished length: 113-114k

Chapters: 23/23

Tags: Fishbowl Rescue, Retired Dream/Morpheus, Unity Kincaid is the new Dream of the Endless, Getting Together, Learning to be human

Summary:

The last person Dream expects to see in Burgess' basement is Hob Gadling, who has apparently been asked to consult on the restoration of the historic manor. He is pleased when his old acquaintance helps free him without a second thought, despite their past squabble, but he is horrified to realise that breaking the binding circle does nothing to return his powers to him, and that he cannot return to the Dreaming after having been released from his cage. Weak, confused, and distressingly human, he consents to being taken back to Hob's home to be cared for until he can regain his strength. When he falls asleep that night (which he should never have had need for), he finally finds his way back to his palace, only to find someone else sitting on his throne, wearing his ruby, and claiming his name as her own — Dream of the Endless.

[the-dreaming-library]

I’m looking for a sort-of fishbowl rescue where Alex ends up painting the orb completely black and it ends up getting sold in an estate sale and bought by Hob and his boyfriend of the time.

It is a specific one, but I’m also happy with any recs for fics with a similar premise, where Hob somehow comes into possession of Dream either unknowingly or with the intent of freeing him

I haven't been able to find this exact fic, maybe another Dreamer has? But I can absolutely recommend accidental Dream rescue/acquisitions! Please mind the tags on these ones, they can get heavy and have some triggering themes. They're worth reading, but look after yourselves!

The first is the fic your ask reminded me of instantly. It doesn't have Alex painting the cage black, but it does feature an estate sale, a Hob rescue and the cage being altered:

The End Of All Things by Ranchdiip Words: 13,149 (WIP)

Graphic depictions of violence

There’s not much use thinking about those times, anymore. He will always be Hob Gadling, but the biggest part of what that used to entail had stormed away on a rainy night like this one hundred and thirty years ago, and hadn’t come back.

Hob remembers the ache in his chest in 1989. He remembers the glow of the pub, so much warmer than the pale light cutting across the alley now. He remembers staring at that empty chair for hours—first with anxiety, then with concern, and eventually with bitterness.

“You dare suggest one such as I might need your companionship.”

Hob had dared, and he’d paid for it.

He’d walked out of that pub in 1989 and not looked back.

It's 2020, and Hob Gadling is old, tired, and bitter, dancing the waltz of London's underground black market. Word has spread about something from the Burgess Estate going to auction, and who is Hob to deny himself and his team the opportunity to get their hands on it?

Rated M, Dream/Hob

Let Your Morning Fall Upon Me by Mywayornorway Words: 20886

Graphic Depictions of Violence, Heavy Angst, Please mind the tags

Utterly enraged by Dream's refusal to grant him his wishes, Roderick Burgess finds new joy in torturing his unwilling guest. If he can't get the Endless to talk, perhaps he can make it scream instead.

That is, until his patience comes to an end and he gifts Dream to the next best person who comes along: Hob Gadling.

Rated E, Dream/Hob

And a more light-hearted but no less brilliant fic than the previous two recs:

A Lucky Break(out) by Cuubism Words: 9892

Hob acquires a familiar ruby at an antiquities sale. Said ruby summons something else into his home as well.

Rated T, Dream/Hob

[weirdfishy]

bc of this post from @insertsanity529 and idk if the concept will make it into my fic

@thatboysgotwoah hey so. hereʻs a thing. a very loose thing but it is, nonetheless, A Thing. (a thing i didnʻt realize was 1k until Just Now WTF)

there is also a part 2 in the rbs :)

& an ao3 link with little bits added to it here and there

~

Hob is done with war and violence and terror and death and the blood on his hands, especially after that world war. (not The Great War. There never is anything great about war) Gods is he ready to put it all to rest.

He gets caught up in the arts, in preservation, in working for museums and its ilk— and some of those are old money heirs who, in addition to having taken their refuge in the arts, are connected to the occult and those old money circles. Some are young and their tongues are loose, their need to be useful and worth something presents in their pride of their heritage and what they come from, something already Grand.

So Hob hears about the Devil in Roderick Burgessʻ basement, about the lavish parties that are held at his manor in the countryside, about the cult Burgess has. And as he dusts off a sculpture, gloved fingers trailing down smooth marble, there's a likeness to the statueʻs half-worn face that reminds Hob of something–of someone. His stranger. Hob remembers asking if his stranger was the devil, if Shakespeare had given his soul, and a thought blooms in the back of his head. What if….?

But he shakes his head, finishes his restoration, cataloging, and storing. His stranger is enough to handle himself, Hob is sure, and he hardly thinks some fake occultist would be the one to contain…whatever his stranger may be.

He pats the young starry-eyed manʻs shoulder, before leaving, with a look backward too complicated to decipher by one so unknowing of war and death. Hob doesnʻt wish he knew of death and war and violence, would rather no one did, but it is separate things to glorify the thing you run from and to step back, searching for peace. Hob goes home and does not sleep until twilight, fitfully resting for a handful of hours.

The months pass. He hears of The Captured Devil occasionally, he goes to work, he cares for what was lovingly created in years past–much like himself–and he lends a hand when he can, to pick up what is left of boys and men with hazy eyes and empty hearts, knowing he was once the same (or still is, only buried deeper than one would think possible). He walks around town, for hours, looking almost kin to those plagued with sleeplessness, and he thinks, for a handful of moments, that death, life, and the in-between are all cruel in their own way.

Hob cannot stand the joyous life much anymore, too burdened with the reminders of death and those hanging between, and maybe that is why he does not go to a Burgess party. Maybe it is one of many excuses—he hasnʻt been invited (which has never stopped him before), his stranger is not the devil (people will call anything the devil these days), he needs to take care of himself damn it because no one else is and he doesnʻt ever let himself waste away after something like this if he can bloody well help it.

Then it's the weekend after Christmas of 1926, and Hob has finally found solid ground. Heʻs laughingly invited to the Burgess House by a very proud son of Burgessʻ group, their department out for drinks. Hob, who has always turned down invitations with a distracting call for another round on him, actually accepts the invitation, asking for details while the lad is half drunk and everyone is booing him, their unclever ploy for more drinks waved away. Hob buys that round anyway, but he does leave with the details written upon a formal invitation.

He goes, fashionably late and fashionably dressed, a simple deep blue–almost black, really–with silver detailing of the cosmos on the outside of his jacket, those stars falling to scatter on the upper half of his pant legs—like the sky is dripping to the earth. Hob blends in, smiles and drinks lightly, meets with the head of house with a boisterous introduction from his coworker who has obviously drank from a fair few cups already. The man, Roderick Burgess, stares at him, eyes like polished steel.

Something Hobʻs coworker says, about Hob not believing in The Devil in Burgessʻ basement, makes Burgess tilt his head and raise an eyebrow. Hob only tilts his own just so in return– what of a supernatural devil when humans are devilish enough? War is man-made, and man-taking.

His words make Roderick Burgess study him intently, and thereʻs a flicker of what Hob knows to be a decision of kinship in those eyes. Hob doesnʻt like that one bit. Burgess nods and waves to follow him, passing off Hobʻs coworker to be sat down by his father.

Hob is led into the basement, cold and wet. He stays one step behind the man—a child moreso than his green coworker in Hobʻs eyes, playing with things not meant to be disturbed—and is grateful for it when he sees what is in the middle of the room.

Hob wants to retch on the spot, remembering the paper his coworker had brought in last week that said Burgess has had his Stranger in this basement since 1916. Yet Hob goes deathly controlled, calm, and intensely observant.

He drops his jaw and gasps, letting the man crow and tell him what he hopes to get from his prisoner, of how Hob must understand, he saw the loss in his eyes. Hob goes up to the marble, eyes searching for an exit as he walks around the binding circle heʻs been forbidden from crossing. He finds a hairline square at the back of it, with the tiniest notch—a door. His eyes shine, and he lets Burgess think it's from wonder, from the chance of reviving a lost loved one.

He hopes his head shake lets his Stranger know that heʻs crying for him, that he will get him out, he swears. Hob takes in the way Burgess laughs at his Stranger for being curious to a newcomer, turning in his glass prison. Catching his strangerʻs eye, he speaks his first language, something old and forgotten by nought but him–his grandmotherʻs tongue–and makes that promise, saying it was a phrase of wonderment and appraisal. Burgess puffs his chest out and waves him away from the prison, chuckling good-naturedly. Hob shakes Burgessʻ hand, clapping him on the back on the way out, casting a long glance backward before he has to ascend the stairs.

Guilt is tearing at his throat, chewing at his stomach and knotting his intestines, but Hob can deal with that after his Stranger is free, and the Burgess Manor is burned to the ground.

[sleepsonfutons]

Please tell me about Dream of a thousand Hobs ahahaha

Ahaha so that is one I have been trying to get everyone else on board with me about cuz the beauty of this fic is it's supposed to be a massive collab with a bunch of different writers contributing to it! Just one big writing round|round robin|popcorn writing deals with a shared premise and the thought that everyone's writing blind to each other either simultaneously or in sequential order. Then at the end the narrative gets stitched together in an epic/hilarious final result.

The common premise that anyone who participated would share is:

After Dream of the Endless met Hob Gadling for the second time in 1489, he has the stray thought that it would be interesting if there were more of the man to study. He thinks nothing more of it after that and nothing seems to happen. Fast-forward to modern warfare and Hob gets blown up a few times. He survives as always and thinks nothing of it. Fast-forward again to 1989, Hob goes to the White Horse for his meeting with Dream, but when he arrives, the place is packed with (100/1000/1000+??) so many other Hobs. Like a Hydra, it seems Hob now multiplies whenever his body is split or a part of him is severed. (The Hob collective find out about Dream's imprisonment and launch a rescue. Once free, Dream has no idea what to make of the hoard of Hob.) Loosely any level of shenanigans can happen but ultimately Dream has to consult with Death about Hob's peculiar, current state and they conclude that they have to reassimilate Hob somehow. Due to him having lived full lives as a multitude though, he undergoes a transformation when the stacked lives settle back in his bones. No longer is Hob Gadling a human/mortal denied Death's gift. He is now Endless, a multifaceted representation of human Hope.

So the collab aspect would be everybody writing one of the different Hobs and the tie together would be them all reassimilating to become Hope!Hob

[secondjulia]

Hob Gadling, rescuer

Update of this one for anyone who wanted their Hob fresh from the battlefield, a little worse for the wear, but determined as ever to see you home safe.

[roosterbox]

Fic Rec Friday 11/24/23

Title: Sing Me To Sleep

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022)

Relationship: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Jessamy the Raven

Additional Tags: Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Traumatized Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, BAMF Hob Gadling, Married Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling, Protective Hob Gadling, They're married but they don't know it yet, Fluff, Love Confessions, Happy Ending

Summary: Jessamy enlists the help of Hob Gadling to free Dream of the Endless.

———

Who doesn’t love a good ol’ Fishbowl Rescue story?

I think I gravitate to this particular subgenre of Dreamling fics for a few reasons. One: it seems plausible with the canon of the show. Even if their relationship is 100% platonic, you get the sense that if Hob had known where Dream was, he would have been all up in the Burgess’ business. Two: Hob getting to be even more of the BAMF we all know he is. Three: I just love a good rescue story, lol.

Also, an unexpected bonus to Hob rescuing Dream early is that, occasionally, it means that Jessamy gets to live. Which I always love to see.

The emotions are what really get me. The fact that Hob springs into action (practically literally) when he hears what has happened. The way they get all touchy-feely with each other when Dream is freed. Especially Dream, damn. And you will never, ever, hear me complain about a good old fashioned bridal carry. I’m quite predictable in that way.

In the end, these two silly immortal jerks have me in quite the stranglehold. And this particular flavor of AU is a very big reason why.

———

Next Week: how about something new? New for the recs, anyway.

Thanzag!

One of the rare canon queer ships, lol. Though this particular story is a very delightful AU, set in the modern ‘normal’ world. A sweet little slow burn that will have you feeling alllllll the warm and fuzzy feelings.

See y’all next Friday!

[arialerendeair]

My Stranger

By @arialerendeair

Chapter: 1/1

Pairing: Dream/Hob

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 6,350

Summary: It had started out as an idea.

Infuse the essence of The New Inn with the White Horse so he could make it into a temple for his Stranger, so he could hopefully entice his Stranger to return at least once more.

Then, he found the ruby. And then, he saw the cage, and knew he his Stranger needed his help.

[kittynannygaming]

It seems that I didn’t post it (yet) on Tumblr. Shame on me.

Fishbowl Rescue or Angry Dream (not at Hob!) or whatever!

Happy Dreamling Day!

[tryan-a-bex]

Velma’s Close Call

The Endless, Velma thought. The Endless…. 

She’d been working on the problem for weeks. It was out of her normal range of study, since there was nothing scientific about “Dream of the Endless,” nor his sister, Death, apparently of the Endless as well. She had looked into myth, and art, and, eventually, to her chagrin, mysticism and magic. Although most crooks used the idea of magic to hide their criminal activity, apparently there were a few, a very select and carefully concealed cohort, who used actual magic to pursue their crimes. Still. She was sure the gang would be able to unveil them if necessary.

For now, she wasn’t unveiling anyone. In fact, she fidgeted uncomfortably with her own veil. She and Daphne were going undercover with a group she had found that seemed to have some information on the Endless. They were really shifty about revealing anything, but they wanted virgins and she wasn’t above lying. It was none of their business anyway. And she needed to get inside and see what they had. Good thing her contact had been able to get them into the group. Marcie was a good friend, even if she did smell like hot dog water and get up to questionable activities sometimes. It was time to go…

Fred sat nervously in the Mystery Machine. Daphne and Velma had gone with Velma’s friend to the … party? Event? Magic ritual? He wasn’t sure and didn’t want to think about it too hard. Meanwhile, he and Shaggy had driven around by the backroads and were parked on a groundskeepers’ access lane behind the dilapidated mansion. His job was to be ready to charge in if he heard signs of a struggle, or to wait in the van and be prepared for a quick get-away if necessary. He would be glad when they left Yenwaf Gir behind them. Weirdest name for a house. Whatever. Who knew how these people thought?

---

Shaggy wiggled restlessly in the back of the van. Scooby wiggled even more restlessly. 

“Hey, Fred, do we have any food in here?”

“Your snacks are in your tackle box.”

“No, not those, I ate them already.”

“All of them???”

“I was hungry on the way here, man!”

“Well, you can wait then.”

Huff

“Aroooooooo!”

“Scooby can’t wait! He has to go really bad! I should take him for a walk!”

“He can wait! Can’t he?”

“Ro! Ro! Rotta ro row!”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, right now?! Fine then! Go for a walk! But stay close to the van and keep an eye on the house! You don’t want to be spotted, and you need to be back here if the girls come out!”

---

“Thank goodness we’re out of the van, eh, Scooby?”

“Ruff!”

“This is a pretty interesting place, isn’t it?”

Sniff sniff sniff

“Oh, look! It looks like a kitchen through that window!  Hey, man, if it’s a party, do you think they have food? Oh, groovy, I see a sandwich plate! Let’s go!”

“Ran-rich?”

---

Velma tried not to let her nerves show. Daphne looked cool as a cucumber, beautiful as always in her white robe and cowl, and Marcie was in her element. Velma was having a hard time not fidgeting, and she just knew she was going to catch something on fire with her candle if she didn’t focus. The dark basement cavern was filled with ceremonial candles and mystical symbols. It made her skin itch. There was no way this was for real. It just could not be. “Dream of the Endless” echoed in her head. Well, she’d give it a bit longer. Even she’d been known to be wrong. Once. She was pretty sure. 

Kirdor Segrub (she did not understand how these people chose their mage names) finally finished his long-winded chanting and weird ingredient mixing and gave the signal.

“Death Comes to Everyone,” the women chanted in unison. 

Velma stared as a black mist coalesced and swirled inside the magic circle. She’d checked for gimmicks. She’d checked. What was this?

The swirling black took shape as a gorgeous dark-skinned woman lying on the floor. Velma froze. Was this an Endless?

“Ooh, pretty necklace!” Daphne murmured from her side. 

An ankh. It was an ankh necklace. The ankh is the ancient Egyptian symbol of life, but by extension, also the afterlife. Could this really be Death? Jinkies! Velma’s mind spun. What would happen if Death was captured? If no one could die?  No more cycle of life. No more relief from pain or the vagaries of age. No more afterlife to look forward to. Despite the honest desire to avoid Death, Velma couldn’t accept a world where Death was not possible. 

“Daphne, it’s really Death! We have to do something to get her out of there!” she hissed.

As Daphne jerked her head toward Velma, her hair, which had come untucked from her veil, flowed gracefully into the candle she’d forgotten she was holding. 

“AAAAH!!! My hair’s on fire!” she hollered, tossing her candle toward Marcie.

“Stop, Drop and Roll!” Velma, Daphne and Marcie yelled in one voice. Daphne rolled toward the circle, as Hot Dog Water put out the candle while creating as much commotion as possible. Velma really did appreciate her support. Meanwhile, under pretense of trying to put out the fire in Daphne’s hair (which was already out, Daphne was an expert in putting out fires), Velma knelt beside the circle and used her robe to smudge and smear as much of the arcane writing as possible. Good thing it was done in blood and chalk rather than paint or something.

The woman in the circle drew a breath and stood. 

“I owe you one,” she whispered to Velma as she passed them by. Velma shivered at the cool waft of air and the sound of wings at her passing. 

“Your time is up.” Kirdor Segrub crumpled to the ground, and the woman disappeared amongst dark, wing-shaped shadows.

---

Well, it was a bit of a scramble after that. Velma’s heart was beating so hard, she wasn’t quite sure how it all went down. But it wasn’t too many minutes later that the crew were leaving the house and heading for the van again. Fred had shown up; apparently he heard the screaming. The guards in the basement stared forlornly at their dead leader and didn’t think to stop the women from fleeing. One of them was holding a sandwich plate. Velma just grabbed Marci and Daphne and followed Fred out the back. 

“Oh, darn it!” Shaggy suddenly exclaimed. “I forgot my sandwiches!”

“You’re not going back for them!” Fred admonished. “What were you doing with a plate of sandwiches, anyway?” 

“I was hungry, dude!” 

“So you just grabbed a plate of sandwiches from the kitchen?” They all piled into the van in short order.

“Yeah, man! But then there was screaming, so I ran down the stairs, and that guy had a gun so I gave him the sandwiches and he dropped the gun. And I picked up this book so maybe he’d trade me for the sandwiches, but I forgot to! What a bummer!”

“I’ll take that book, if you don’t mind,” said a cool, gentle voice. Everyone turned to stare at the same lovely woman from the basement.

“Death? Of the Endless?” Velma asked breathlessly.

“Yes,” she smiled. “You know of me?”

“Well, we met Dream, and he mentioned a sister.”

“Ah, yes, he does that,” she chuckled, holding out her hand to Shaggy for the leatherbound spellbook he was clutching. He wordlessly handed it over, and she turned back to Velma, Daphne and Marcie.

“So, I owe you three a boon for rescuing me.”

“Oh no!” Daphne protested. “We would do the same for anyone! You don’t have to owe us anything!”

Shhh, Hush! protested Velma and Hot Dog Water. Death smirked at them.

“So, do you know what you will ask?”

“I want to meet another Endless,” breathed Velma.

On AO3

Previous

Thanks to @hazyshadeofwintyr for beta reading!

[sic-vita]

The Sandman | favourite transitions

[delta-pavonis]

Ooh, from the wip game: former mafia hob :D

I know I have posted bits and pieces of this in various places on Tumblr and Discord, but below is probably the largest segment of the WIP I have ever posted at once. And this is maybe about a quarter of it? It features an OC that I made up and then it turned out I was prescient because in my head Sandro looks pretty much exactly like Ethan from Maneskin. Also, to no one's surprise, this gets NSFW at the end. (WHAT?!? SMUT?!?!?! FROM MEEEE?!?!?!)

"And this guy, this Burgess, just had him locked in a giant glass sphere in his basement!"

"A human? Wouldn't he need air?"

Hob was in an ex-pat bar on the south end of Okinawa, doing a very good job of continuing to live completely off the grid just as he had for the past eight years.

The old man started up again and Hob strained to hear him across the length of the bar. "He just looked like a human. I worked there sixteen years and he didn't age a minute, hell he barely moved. I heard Burgess bragging once about how it was the God of Dreams that he caught! All I know for sure is what I heard directly, which is that Burgess kept asking him for things – magic, money, immortality – and the pale fucker just kept glaring at him. Never spoke a word. Just stared daggers with those unearthly blue eyes. I am telling you, if looks could kill, that old bastard would be dead thirty times over. Whenever that fairy King or whatever the fuck that shaved panther of a human-looking thing is gets out…" The guy whistled, leaning back from the bar and shaking his head. "The entire Burgess family tree is going to burn."

This man had Hob’s full attention now. He grabbed his drink and moved around to sit on the barstool next to him. 

"I am sorry, where did you say you are from?" Hob asked, trying for casual, sizing up the ex-military guy. He had a muddled accent, but with a heavy dose of south London. His salt-and-pepper hair had been kept buzzed even though he had clearly been out of the service for a long time. 

"What's it to you?" The man was immediately bristly, crossed his arms over his chest. He was defensive and closed off and Hob was going to need to work to get more information. Hob sighed. Or take the easy way out… just pay him for the information.

The Okinawan summer was too hot for this. Hob would give it one shot, try to explain, but if that didn't work it was Plan E for Easy. "I have an interest in the supernatural. And you certainly seem to have seen something. Could I ask you a few more questions?" The old-timer just stared at him, completely deadpan, unblinking. It made Hob take a sip of his whisky with its melted ice and then press the glass to his temple. "I can pay you for your time."

He perked up immediately after that.

> > > > > | | < < < < <

Two days later – and after an exchange of enough money to set that old-timer’s family up for generational wealth – Hob was settling into his Business Class seat on the long haul from Tokyo Haneda to Rome Fiumicino. He tapped out an email telling Gio his flight to Palermo was going to get in at 08:20 and would he be so kind as to send around a car? He needed to stop and see il Barone first (because his knee was bad enough as it was without getting kneecapped for failing to pay his respects) and then straight to the grotta. And make sure the shovel is in the car? Grazii.

It was his Stranger. It had to be. The description was uncanny. And the quick sketch Hob had drawn on a bar napkin had resulted in a rather emphatic positive identification.

And even if it wasn’t his Stranger, there was something being kept in that basement that probably needed rescue. There were paltry few things in the world, as Hob had learned over the centuries, that deserved to have their freedom completely taken from them.

Almost 22 hours after sending that email to Gio, Hob stepped out into the salty Mediterranean air of Palermo and sighed. His white linen three-piece suit with light blue shirt fit the aesthetic of the region as much as the weather. The smells, the breeze, the sounds – yeah, okay, Hob had missed it. But this was no time to linger. Focus, Hob! First, he had to give his regards to Salvatore and then he could go dig up his stash from his time in the Family Business. He put on his hat and dark sunglasses and walked out into the sunlight.

In the aftermath of 1889 Hob had, unsurprisingly, a lot of anger and frustration to work out. He ended up falling back on a reliable skill set he hadn't tapped in awhile: violence. 

It was bare knuckle boxing first, which earned him enough money to leave for the States without disturbing his securities in the UK. He continued with underground boxing for a bit, because he was fucking good at it, until he got noticed. 

Hob got picked up by Giuseppe “the Clutch Hand” Morello and Ignazio “the Wolf” Lupo and the rest was history. 

First they took him in as a base-level associate, just another meatheaded guy who could fuck people up for them. And he made it to the Castellammarese War, which was as good a time as any to fake his own death. 

But, by pure happenstance and a whole lot of luck, Salvatore D’Aquila caught him in the act, pig's blood everywhere, mutilated body that clearly wasn't Hob at his feet and well. That had required a bit of explaining. Explaining lead to talking, talking lead to negotiating, and suddenly Hob was heading upstate to train with the best.

And so it was, with some excellent mentorship on handling firearms and his innate knack for getting himself out of trouble, Hob became one of the most feared associates in Cosa Nostra. 

In fact, he became The Associate. 

See, he was never going to be a made man; he didn't have the proof of a Sicilian, or even Italian, heritage that he needed to be a ranking Family member. But any capo worth his salt wasn't going to turn away this level of skill and finesse. 

And in return they had kept his secret. Mostly because they knew they had given him the means to kill them all if it was otherwise.

Well, it wasn’t like the entire Family knew. Just Salvatore and his immediate blood relations. Who he needed to stop and say hello to first, then to business.

Once the meeting was done, he headed to the coast. 

When Hob left the Family Business he had literally put all of his gear into an air-tight oak box and buried it. One of the things Hob had learned over the centuries was that, more often than not, symbolism mattered. So it wasn't a surprise to find that when Hob opened the wooden box with a crowbar it was like seeing good friends come back from the dead. His shotgun. His sabre. His pistols. 

He buried these along with his career in Cosa Nostra in 1998. It should have been earlier, but the six or so years after 1989 were a bit of an alcohol and cocaine tinted haze and it took him another three years after getting sober to work on his exit strategy. But once he was out he had abandoned it all and never looked back.

In fact, it was only in the past few months that Hob had let himself pick up a gun again to do some target shooting. Suddenly he was very glad of that coincidence.

After filling his duffle Hob stared down into the empty casket of his former life. He had never, ever expected to be in this position again, most certainly not less than a decade after abandoning it. 

Crouched amongst the sand and the rocks of the beachfront cave, he ran a hand through his sweaty hair and sighed. "The things I do for you, Stranger." He closed the lid. 

"Ti Umbra?" Sandro had been watching Hob silently up until now. Even as a little kid, Alessandro had called the thing that haunted Hob his Shadow. He was an eerily perceptive child, often ostracized from his peers because of it – which of course meant that when Hob had arrived in Sicily in the early 1980s they had become easy friends. Now in his early 30s, Sandro was mostly a driver, but knew his way around a weapon, as any son of a Don should. Hob had hoped he would leave, go to college, get out, but Hob never did convince him to. He was a good kid, he didn't deserve this kind of life. 

"Si." Hob put his hands on his knees and levered himself up. "I think that he needs my help." A sigh as he kept staring at the box. "Am I that obvious?"

"Only to me, Bettino." The nickname had come from the diminutive of the diminutive of Roberto, which Sandro’s family knew Hob as. It was an endearment used only between them. "Only He could bring you back to this, to the Family." Hob felt the other man's hand on his shoulder and laid his own over it. The feel of those fingers was achingly familiar. "Let me come with you. You should not go on the rampage you are about to embark on alone, my friend."

Hob picked up Sandro's hand, placed a kiss on the knuckles. "Not a chance. I won't put you in such danger. And I won't let you see me like that." Alessandro hadn’t even been born yet when the Associate was working hardest, in the heydays of Murder, Inc., and all that entailed, when Hob rarely had a night when he wasn’t washing the gunpowder from his hands.

Sandro laughed. "I have seen you every other way, why not this one?" His arms went around Hob's shoulders from behind and he moved his lips to the shell of Hob's ear before dropping into Sicilian. "One more go at it? For old time's sake? Last chance to use me as His stand-in." He laughed even more at Hob's sharp inhale. "You think I didn't know? Oh, Bettino." He nuzzled into the hair at Hob’s nape. "That's how I was able to pretend you really loved me."

"Sandro!" Hob pushed away and whirled around, looking over his former lover’s dark hair and olive-bronze skin, high cheekbones and pouting pink lips, wiry build and black-brown eyes. Not wanting to misspeak, he answered back in English. "I did – and still do – really love you, you know that."

"Yes, but not as you love Him." Sandro shook his head as he moved in to press their foreheads together, arms back around Hob's shoulders. "You would not come back to the Family for me. You would not go to war for me. And that is okay. I know my place. I made my peace with that years ago, when you left." He leaned in to speak against Hob's lips. "But I would ask if you would have me one last time." 

Hob let Sandro pull him to the ground amongst the rocks inside the small cave. Hob's shirt and vest were already discarded, his sleeves rolled up and his collar unbuttoned. He unbuttoned Sandro's shirt and pulled it down so it caught in his elbows, draped down his back low enough for Hob to run his lips over the huge tattoo of Santa Rusulia – Patron Saint of Palermo, invoked for protection in times of plague – wearing a crown of roses and standing amidst a copse of lilies outside a cave not so different from the one they are currently in, looking out to the sun setting over the sea, that covered his entire back. Hob drew that image, originally charcoal on paper, while they were sitting on the beach watching the sun set on Sandro's 19th birthday in the early ‘90s. He didn't know that Sandro had even saved the picture until a shootout a year later had Hob ripping off the young man’s shirt to stop the bleeding and found the image permanently inked into his skin. 

Sandro knew more about Hob than anyone living. They had spent four years as lovers in the mid-'90s. Hob had gotten sober for Sandro. He had left Cosa Nostra for Sandro, had begged for Sandro to come with him. But he was too scared of his father, Salvatore “the Baron,” to leave. He was worried about the fate of his mother, his sisters. Hob couldn’t begrudge him that. It still stung.

Hob shucked Sandro's pants down his thighs and moved his hand around to his ass, thinking that he would tease him dry before trying to find something slick back in the car. Instead, Hob's fingers found warm, flat silicone. He slumped forward with a moan and his forehead hit between Sandro's shoulder blades. "Oh fuck, Sandro. You have been full with this the entire time?"

"Ready for you, Bettino." He sighed, soft and sweet as candy. He let out a high-pitched cry as Hob slowly pulled the plug out and Christ it was huge Hob would be able to just…

There was a thmpt as the silicone object hit the dense sand a few feet away, flung aside as Hob frantically tried to get his slacks down as quickly as possible. As soon as his cock was free Sandro's hands were reaching back to grab it, lubricant that the horny little weasel must have been carrying in his bloody pocket smeared all over his fingers, readying Hob to just…

Sandro sat back and Hob slid into him to the hilt, all in one stroke, easy as breathing, smooth and perfect. 

They stayed that way for a long moment, readjusting to each other. The first movement was Hob's hands stroking from Sandro's thighs up to his chest then pressing them together. When they started rocking Sandro let his head fall back with a sob. 

"Did you keep your hair long for me, too?" Hob wrapped the waist-length ponytail around his fist and tugged. It made Sandro moan just as sweetly as it had all those years ago. "That's it, sing for me, bell'uccellino." He snapped his hips up and Sandro wailed; he always was such a vocal lover, his pretty bird.

[tj-dragonblade]

Hi! I'd like to hear something about the fishbowl therapy fic, please!

Ah, this is probably my favorite year-old idea that I really want to write but haven't quite gotten around to. I like the concept, I like the visuals that I've got in head, but so much of the necessary conversations just fizzle when I try to flesh them out. I'm sure I can get it right if I focus on it long enough, though. The long rambly synopsis with a tiny snippet of drafting included:

Sometime after their 2022 reunion, with more frequent meetings etc, Dream finally tells Hob why he missed their 1989 meeting. And Hob is very much Not Okay about it. He has so many feelings - the horror of his friend having been held captive that long, rage on Dream's behalf, self-recrimination that he didn't know, he could have done something if he'd known, and a crushing guilt over every unkind thought he had after 1989 (never mind that he got over them, he still thought them in the first place and his friend was stuck in a glass cage while Hob was wallowing in self-pity and uncharitable assumptions).

But Hob stuffs all his feelings about this down inside, because what kind of friend would he be to make Dream's trauma-sharing all about his own reaction? So he tries very hard to keep his own feelings out of the conversation, aside from some commiserative vindication when Dream confirms that everyone who held him is either dead or dealt with.

But he is Extremely Upset about it all evening, and ends up dreaming about it. Dream catches awareness of his distress, visits the dream. He didn't give Hob specifics in their conversation, 'a glass cage' and 'basement' were the key details and Hob has dreamed up something akin to a zoo exhibit - the cage is rectangular, three glass walls attached to a fourth stone wall, roomy enough to pace about in, a proper semblance of a bed in one corner. Dream watches as Hob stands on the outside, talking to the dream-version of Dream inside the cell - a Dream who still has his clothes, he had not shared that detail with Hob either - and makes himself known after only a moment. Hob is apologetic, he's so sorry he's making this all about himself, but Dream is…pleased, by his distress. 'Pleased' is not quite the word, but it is comforting to know that someone is so upset on his behalf. He takes the place of his dream-self within the cell, urges Hob to continue, to tell him everything he's held back. It's easy to be detached from the memory when the setting is wrong, and he is warmed despite everything at how vehemently Hob insists he would have come, how sorry he is for thinking Dream had chosen to stay away, etc etc. Eventually they are talking about how Dream is coping with it, is he healing from his trauma, and of course he says it does not bother him, but Hob is like 'If I'd spent more than a hundred years cooped up in this -' gesturing at the spacious cage he's envisioned '- I'd be - I'd be something. I wouldn't just be okay about it.' And Dream, feeling peevish and daring, decides to push.

"It was not like this," he says. "You dream it too kind."

Hob blinks at him. "…What?"

"You dream it too kind," Dream repeats. "Shall I show you the truth of it?"

"I…okay," Hob agrees, foreboding and unease in his tone, and Dream shifts the basement around them. With less than a thought he is naked in the suspended glass orb again, the painted stars mocking him from above and the the binding circle a sickly glow beneath him, the dank reaches of the underbelly of Fawney Rig stretching into infinity in every direction. Hob stumbles back a step with a shocked cry, horror flooding his features; he nearly flails backwards into the moat and steps forward again, stumbles to his knees, staring up at Dream with tears flooding his eyes.

"What the fuck—god, Dream—!"

And while he's processing all over again the full depth of the horror that was done to his friend, Dream is feeling something akin to panic creeping over him now that he's here again. He is less okay than he thought he was, the memory is pressing in again, and he focuses on Hob's distress to mitigate his own. There's gotta be a moment of both of them pressing hands to the glass; they get to a point where Hob just sort of spirals into a frenzy of 'gotta get you out, gotta get you out' that feeds Dream's own latent panic that he's definitly not giving in to, never mind that he can't stop repeating 'Free me, Hob, free me' (?) over and over. Hob's scrabbling about for anything that might help him break the glass and shortly dreams up a crowbar; he scrambles to his feet and starts swinging. It's thick glass, and magical etc, and it takes Hob whaling on it quite a lot before it begins to crack, and plenty more hits before it shatters. Whereupon Dream drops to the floor, free, unbothered by the broken glass all around. Hob suddenly has a jacket so that he can take it off and wrap it around Dream, and somewhere in the surging relief of the re-enacted rescue Hob just flings his arms around Dream and kisses him. Dream is taken by surprise, but things are definitely falling into place for him and he kisses back. Hob jerks back, doing a full 'oh shit I kissed him my secret's out I've ruined everything' kind of take; Dream just grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him back down, kisses him again.

There is a little more conversation here in the dream as heat and realization build; then Dream, 'weary of this wretched basement' and wanting Hob to remember all of this, ends the dream and manifests in Hob's bed as Hob wakes. There is sex and conversation to finish it out, Dream finally voicing out loud how much it means that there is someone who would have come for him, who will come to his defense no matter how unnecessary, who thinks he's worth the effort of rescuing.

Like I said, I stumble over the conversations somewhat and that makes it easy to let this one languish in the depths of the wip file. All that Hob-pov exposition at the beginning isn't really part of it either, since this will be Dream's pov, but I've got to convey all that via Hob talking to dream-Dream and then actual-Dream in the dream itself. I'll get it all ironed out one day. Hopefully.

[sleepsonfutons]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), The Sandman (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Characters: Dream of the Endless, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Roderick Burgess Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Hob Gadling Saves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus from Roderick Burgess, POV Hob Gadling, Protective Hob Gadling, BAMF Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless | Nightmare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dream Gets Vengeance, Hob Needs His Stranger, Hob Still Doesn't Have a Name Summary:

Hob had always known his stranger had been something more, something powerful, but as he ascended the stairs and made his way through the manor bearing witness to the being’s justice, he was struck by the scale of it all. It threw their last meeting into sharp relief and he could begrudgingly acknowledge how his offer of friendship might smack of insult to a creature so unfathomable. Yet, he would still dare to offer it after this as his heart blazed with awe.

The promised Dream POV follow-up!

Inspired by: https://www.tumblr.com/currently-evil/704807566541258752/yes-i-love-our-dear-old-hob-rescue-dream-from

[pellaaearien]

I would love to hear about this married Fishbowl rescue?

Huh. Could've sworn I had a post about this somewhere...

Ah well. Yes. Basically, it's just wanting a fishbowl rescue where dreamling are already husbands. So many fishbowl rescues are the catalyst for their relationship deepening, which is excellent and I love it, but I would also like to see Hob going feral, not just because it's Dream, but because that's his husband.

Here's a bit from my notes:

Featuring:

Hob getting drowning trauma from the Titanic

Hob seeking the missing Dream in interwar Germany because the last anyone knew he was in Berlin

The Corinthian being his own warning

Sadly this AU only exists as an outline. Maybe now that I can take books out from the library again I'll be able to get some research done and get this off the ground. I do intend to mostly focus on the AWFA sequel though.