#hob: there is no chance of respectability

[moderndaypandora]

Got tagged by @notallsandmen for a WIP paragraph game, and I’m incredibly flattered, considering ... this doesn’t feel on the level of fic, this is fun little sketches of dialogue at most. But this is what I had, so here’s more of the mortal dreamling silliness (previous bits: modern day mortal dreamling and newlyweds with ravens)

How Hob asked Johanna to be his witness for his wedding:

He texted her asking if she was free that afternoon, because he needed her for something.  Historically "something" has meant anything from "taste-testing 3 different scone recipe variations to figure out the best one" to "hustling drunk pricks at darts". Likewise, Hob has done her favors ranging from picking up tampons to providing an alibi. In theory there is a ledger of favors owed, but in reality there will never be a balancing of books (because they're best friends, even if Johanna is too prickly to admit it and Hob is too smart to).

Johanna texted back "yeah, what's up?", and practically broke a land speed record pressing "Call" when she got the response.

Johanna: what the fuck kind of text exchange is confirming I'm around and then sending "getting married today, hello, witness!" and a selfie of you and some goth twink?

Hob: it felt pretty self-explanatory

Johanna: last I'd checked, you weren't even seeing anybody!

Hob: things change?

Johanna: I got dinner with you 5 weeks ago, you bastard, and you were single then.

Hob: ... things change fast?

Johanna: how the fuck did you even meet him?

Hob: I was running back from class during that awful rainstorm last month, and he was just outside my tube station.

Johanna: Hob.

Hob: His umbrella'd broken and he was soaking wet, and he looked absolutely miserable, poor darling.

Johanna: ...

Hob: So I offered him towels and dry clothes, since my flat was just up the road. And by the time the rain stopped I knew I wanted to marry him, and he said yes.

Johanna: what lunatic just follows strange men home?

Hob: he was pretty suspicious until I gave him my phone so he could text my address to his sister.

Johanna: and she was somehow fine with it, like 'yeah, go on'?


Hob:

Hob: he got a bit distracted by my phone background and never actually texted her.

Johanna: the fuck

Hob: you know Julian of Norwich is gorgeous

Johanna: your cat is a lesser demon escaped from hell. I'm going to exorcise your cat someday

Hob: Jules is a sweetheart. She doesn't even hunt birds!

Johanna: That thing won't kill any of the bloody birds in your neighborhood because she's saving all her energy to someday murder me and you know it.

Hob: ... undeserved paranoia about my extremely photogenic cat aside --

Johanna: WELL-deserved!

Hob: --will you be my witness?

Johanna: Left it a bit late, if you're asking me today. Did everybody else say no?

Hob: Didn't ask anybody else. Been planning to ask you since Dream said yes, but I figured if I gave you too much notice you'd flee the country.

Johanna: [tearing up, because even if you're an independent badass, it's nice to hear you're somebody's person] you're fucking right I would.

(Johanna's custom ringtone on Hob's phone is from Sweeney Todd, the final verse in Johanna where you can hear the body drop ("Wake up, Johanna, another bright red day"), because Hob and Johanna are black-hearted bastards/absolutely in cahoots with each other and think it’s funny. Hob's ringtone is Being Alive from Company ("Somebody need me too much...").  Sondheim all the way, motherfuckers)

[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.

[orionsangel86]

Every time I write a new meta exploring the Netflix adaptation of the Sandman comics and what they changed, I draw the same conclusion. Even if I don't start the meta even considering that conclusion I can't get away from it. I've been wrapped up in the comic canon for a while now and the comics only have one ending and no other ending is really possible unless you really hyperfocus on Hob's dream. I totally support comic analysis that concludes that the ending is paramount and fixed and cannot be changed. Comic focused meta writers are adament the story must play out as per the comics and I respect that reading.

But then I delve into show meta again and I once again reach the same conclusion: they are changing it. They must be changing it. The show canon doesnt allign with the comics. Its too hopeful, too kind, too supportive.

Maybe too much hope is as much of a bad thing as not enough? There was never any hope in the comic universe. Overture makes that very clear. But the Netflix universe? Oodles of hope. Hope in all corners. Filled to the brim with hope.

I'm completely at a loss and in two minds about it. I'm fascinated and terrified about it. Perhaps we wont even get that far though. Maybe Netflix will cancel the show before we get a chance to see its natural ending. Season 2 could also totally do a 180 on the groundwork season 1 laid down so there is that. I don't know... I'm so confused by it all.

[valiantstarlights]

[Fae!Dream and Vampire!Hob AU]

For @gabessquishytum and wing anon 🖤 I've had this in my notes for a couple of weeks, but now seems to be a good time to share it. 😊

Fun fact, this was inspired by these lines from Baby, It's Cold Outside: "I wish I knew how / (Your eyes are like starlight now) / To break this spell"

Don't ask. The weather was 30°C+ outside when I typed this up. 😂

CW: the tiniest amount of spice, and Dream and Hob being insane about each other as usual.

Fae!Dream runs away from home in the middle of winter and ends up on the wrong side of the forest. He has never been here before. The trails are winding and changes directions when he isn't looking, and the trees are indifferent to his plight, refusing to point him towards the fae side of the forest. 'We are too sleepy,' they say. 'Fuck off.'

Soon, though, he comes upon a castle, and he can see that there's light inside. Snow is already falling pretty hard by then, and Dream is so desperate for warmth and shelter that he knocks on the imposing front doors.

It takes a while for someone to answer, but Dream waits. It's a huge castle. He's about to knock again when the door opens and a handsome vampire peeks his head out. When he sees Dream, shivering and hunched over, lips almost blue, he hurriedly opens the door wide and ushers him in.

Dream enters the castle. Despite everything he has learned in his long, long life.

He knows he has to tread carefully. It's common knowledge that fae and vampires don't get along. But he also knows how important inviting someone inside is to vampires, and he doesn't exactly have a choice. He has two options, and they are: 100 percent chance of freezing to death on one hand, and 50 percent chance of being murdered by a vampire on the other.

Although...now that he's looking, he thinks the vampire looks nice, actually. He's currently talking about getting Dream warmed up in front of a fire and getting him some soup, then apologizing right after because there won't be garlic in the soup.

Dream thinks his voice sounds lovely.

The vampire keeps his promises. Soon, Dream is warm in front of a fireplace, eating creamy vegetable soup. The vampire talks about how he made the soup, and Dream can tell that he's just as nervous as having a fae in his home. But Dream senses no falsehood in his words or in his manners.

Dream is so fucking charmed by him that he (unthinkingly) asks him his name. And then realizes his mistake one second later when the vampire's open features shutter close and his muscles tense.

"My name is Dream," Dream offers. He knows he should not give his name. Not his true one, anyway. And yet he does.

If the vampire's goal is to hurt him, he does not need Dream's true name for that. Dream is still weak from running and escaping his bodyguards. If the vampire wants to hurt him, he'll be too weak to fight back.

"Sure," the vampire says, and...yeah, he's right to be suspicious. 'Dream' isn't exactly one of the top 100 baby names for male fae babies. Lord and Lady Endless knew what they were doing when they named their children. "You can call me Hob."

Hob.

His name doesn't taste like a lie, but Dream knows it's not his real name. It's fine. He likes 'Hob.'

"Thank you for offering me shelter," Dream says. He knows he shouldn't show gratitude or else it will bite him in the ass in the future. He does so anyway. "I was running away from home."

He knows he is under no obligation to speak the truth in its purest form. He has learned how to mislead and twist his words in a way that is still true, but volunteers less information. He does so anyway.

Hob is looking at him intensely, like he is also trying to figure Dream out. "May I ask why?"

And so the whole story falls out of Dream's mouth. It's the first time he has ever talked to anyone about how he is being treated at home, but Hob is respectful and lets him talk. Hob is nice and pours him a glass of water when his voice become hoarse.

Hob is lovely because when Dream starts to break down in the end, telling him all about the entire business with the Burgesses, he takes out a handkerchief and wipes Dream's tears away himself.

"I'm so sorry about everything that has ever happened to you," Hob says in the end, when Dream realizes that he is on Hob's lap, being held. It feels nice. He wants to snuggle up further, but his manners prevent him from doing so. "But I'm glad you've left them for good."

That makes Dream pause, and he shakes his head. "I have not. Technically, I am still under their protection." He looks outside to see heavy snowflakes still drifting down, and an occasional wind gusting through. "I still have to go home."

Hob looks out the window and then back to him incredulously. "In this weather?"

"I have to," Dream insists. "If not..."

"If not?"

Dream looks down at his lap. At Hob's handkerchief that was somehow now in his hands. It's a pretty cream color with the initials R.G. embroidered on the corner. Dream does not think what the initials mean because he doesn't want to pry. Hob's true name is his business alone. But he likes the handkerchief. Perhaps he can keep it as a souvenir of his time at the castle of the handsome vampire. It would be his most prized possession. He will not draw attention to it so Hob will forget to ask him to return it. "If not," Dream says, "I will die before the season turns."

Hob inhales sharply, and then he's clasping Dream's arms. "Is that a fae thing?"

Dream nods miserably. It's how they lost Destruction. And how Dream will be lost, if he doesn't get back. He hopes Death will take care of Jessamy for him.

"Is there no loophole for that?" Hob asks, looking frantic. "There must be something. Like...I don't know, like a transfer of protection?"

Hob must be a very young vampire for him not to know the rules. But Dream knows the rules by heart, and all the loopholes as well, from hundreds of years trying to bend them. And the only way...

"Oh."

"Oh?" Hob echoes. "Is there a way to save you after all?"

There is, but--

He could not possibly--

"I have to leave," Dream announces, and regretfully gets off of Hob's lap and starts walking away.

"What? Why?" Hob asks, standing up himself and following him. "Do you have to go on a quest for some item or something? Stay the night. There's literally a blizzard--"

"I cannot!" Dream shouts.

Hob, shocked by Dream's outburst, holds his hands up peaceably. "Alright," he says gently. "May I ask why?"

Dream bites his lip and says nothing.

"Tell me," Hob begs. "Please. I want to help."

Dream shakes his head. Nobody wants to help. Randall had tried to trap him against his will. Alexander was too afraid of his father and brother to help Dream escape and had only pointed him deeper into their house. Dream almost didn't make it.

Hob exhales. Not out of impatience, but out of a decision reached. "Look," he says, hands still open in a gesture of peace. "I know you have no reason to trust me, but I really do want to help you. I know a thing or two about being trapped in a situation I do not want to be in, and I wouldn't want anyone else to experience that. So...I would like you to know my name."

Dream gapes at him. A vampire willingly giving his own true name to a fae? It's practically unheard of. It's a trick. It's--

Hob takes a deep breath and says, "My name is Robert Gadling."

'R.G.' The handkerchief is his. Dream's fingers tingle at this new information.

There is a change that happens, when someone tells a fae their true name voluntarily, knowing exactly what they're getting into. It's a different kind of change than when their name is tricked out from them.

If their name is tricked out of them, a thin string, only visible to the fae, connects the being to the fae they gave their name to, as a sign of possession.

But when someone tells a fae their true name the way Hob--Robert Gadling, just did, they will look more real to the fae. More tangible.

And a more tangible Robert Gadling, a kind and handsome vampire who would open his doors to a fae, feed them, keep them warm, and want to help them save their life? All the while smelling of nothing but sincerity?

"Tell me," Hob, Robert, says again. "I want to help you."

Dream suddenly hungers for him. And his sudden yearning to make Hob his is not conducive to the conversation. "You--"

"Please," he says. "Unless there's something preventing you to? More of your fae rules?" He looks contemplatively at the space between them. "Do I have to kneel?"

No. Yes. Lie and make him kneel.

"If I stay," Dream says faintly, the words tumbling out of his mouth without his conscious consent, "my parents' protection will slowly pass to my current host."

Hob looks alarmed at that, probably wondering how many hours it has been since Dream has arrived. "How slowly?"

"A week at most."

The answer, of course, is much more complicated than that. In the case of the Burgesses, Dream still has his parents' protection at the end of Day 5, when he finally escaped. In Unity Kincaid's case, she was so in love with Desire that it only took a day for her parents' protection to fade.

But with the way things are going between him and Hob, and with how fast Dream is prone to falling in love, his parents' protection will most likely fade after three days. At most.

"So stay," Hob says, as if it were that simple. He is still so young. He doesn't know what he is offering. "If you haven't noticed yet, the castle is entirely empty, aside from the castle's spirit itself. It takes care of itself and was kind enough to open its doors for me when I rose from the dead. And if it can offer me, a no-good vampire who used to be a highwayman, a home, then who am I to not offer you my protection as well?"

'Highwayman' is a term that cannot be more than 300 years old. Dream is robbing the cradle.

"I am saying," Dream says slowly, "that if you are to offer me your protection, once my parents' protection has faded, you would be considered my husband. The fae will consider us married."

Hob blinks. "Oh."

"Yes, 'oh,'" Dream cannot help but say mockingly. "That is why I must leave."

But Hob just gestures to the windows helplessly, begging him to see sense at the sight of the howling winds that are thankfully muffled by the thick castle walls. "In this weather?"

"I must."

"A night."

"What?"

"Stay for the night," Hob begs. "The weather might be better tomorrow. And if so, I will give you my thickest coat and help you get back to fae land myself. If...if you are afraid of me, I will stay here in the study, and you may choose any room you'd like to stay in for the night."

Dream stares at him, and ignores the way his body is pleasantly tingling all over, but especially between his legs.

Faes are not good. They are greedy creatures who will take the entire dish when presented with a bite.

And in the face of Robert Gadling's kindness and consideration...

Dream walks up to Hob and grabs him by the collar of his dressing gown. If Hob is willing to give him a coat, then Dream will steal all his clothes for himself as well. If Hob is willing to offer him his protection, then Dream will cast his own on him and name him husband without bothering to wait for his parents' protection to fade. If Hob has shown him kindness for an hour, Dream will want him for the rest of their life.

"Kiss me," he says. Demands. Begs. He doesn't know anymore. All he knows is that if Hob does not kiss him, he will cry.

Hob looks baffled. "What...will that accomplish, exactly? If I may ask?"

Dream groans in frustration and stamps his feet. "I will be kissed," he says. "I will know what you taste like, and you will know mine. Our lips will be thoroughly acquainted and we will feel our tongues push wetly against each other. Is that not enough of an accomplishment for you?"

"Sounds like you want more than just a kiss, your highness," Hob says, but his gaze and his voice are lower now, which is exactly what Dream wants.

"I am not a prince," Dream tells him honestly. Always with honesty. "But I do want more than just a kiss from you. With the generosity you have shown me, with you telling me your name, if you do not kiss me, I will simply waste away and perish."

"Well, we can't have that," Hob says. "Not after I just saved you from freezing to death."

"No, we cannot," Dream agrees. "So kiss me, Robert Gadling." His true name on Dream's tongue tastes like sunlight. "Kiss me and protect me and make me yours right now."

Hob's eyes are dancing as he brushes a lock of hair away from Dream's face and tucks it behind his ear. "You're a greedy little fae, aren't you?"

"And you are still not kissing me, you stubborn vampire."

"I can't believe this is how my evening turned out," Hob chuckles, and touches their foreheads together. "I must have gone insane the moment I saw you. I would normally offer to court someone first before the topic of marriage can even be considered."

Dream pecks Hob's dimpled chin, impatient. He has a slight stubble that would feel wonderful against Dream's thighs. "I am not human. Or another vampire. I am a fae. And if you do not kiss me right now, I will go out in that snowstorm and--"

"Alright, you sweet impatient thing," Hob says, "No need for such threats." And finally dips his head down to touch their lips chastely.

Dream would have none of that, however, and surges upwards, intent on devouring him. Their sharp canines clack against each other, but it does not deter them.

"Are we insane?" Hob asks when Dream has to take a breath. It's so unfair that Dream has to breathe when Hob does not. "To do this right after we just met? Tell me truly."

"Yes," Dream answers honestly. "I do not know of anyone who consummated their coming together as one on the very day they met."

"Consummating, hm?" Hob's thumb presses against his hipbone when he pulls Dream closer to him. "We can do that."

"Yes," Dream agrees. "Right now. Please. Everything."

And Hob does just that.

--

His parents' protection fades even before Hob could fuck him, but he's too preoccupied by the feeling of Hob's stubble on his thighs to notice.

--

In the morning, Hob presents him with the most beautiful obsidian ring he has ever seen, and Dream immediately says yes before Hob could even ask the question.

--

"For the record," Hob says one night after they finished fucking in the library, "I was fully intending on lending you all my thick coats that first night. You looked so cold I was hesitant to even take off your clothes."

Dream snuggles up to him and drapes one leg over Hob's deliciously hairy thighs. "That would not have worked," he says, certain. "I would have simply taken off all my clothes and accepted nothing from you except your most translucent nightgowns to cover my nakedness."

"You will seduce a vampire? Didn't you tell me that our kind do not get along?"

Dream bites him gently on the shoulder with his smaller fangs.

"I would not seduce a vampire," he says haughtily. "I have met some before, and found none of them pleasing. It is you I would seduce. The man I have decided would be mine forever as my husband."

Hob kisses his forehead, and Dream could feel the foolish smile on his lips. "Who is a vampire."

"Shush, Robert Gadling," he says, unable to stop himself from smiling as well.

[gabessquishytum]

I blame this one on watching too many racing movies recently, but Racecar driver Hob and nepo-baby Team sponsor Dream.

Dream somehow (he suspects Desire) becomes the representative of the Endless Corporation for the racing team they sponsor. It is Dream’s idea of hell, large crowds, loud noises, fleeting seconds of action to watch directly, and then being expected to chat with others while watching the tv screens. He doesn’t know what is happening and doesn’t really care, and it shows. Sure, being in the luxury of the owners/sponsors box helps, but still he’d rather be anywhere else.

Dream eventually heads to the team’s garage with the excuse that he wants to listen to the race engineers and driver directly. Everybody in the garage is too busy doing their job to try and chat with him or pay him more attention than is needed to get him a headset and settled out of the way, so it’s perfect for Dream.

Robert “The Immortal” Gadling is the newest addition to the Endless racing team, so named because he has survived more on-track crashes and accidents than any other active driver, most of them weren’t even his fault. He always says the reaper is going to come for him in a car, so he might as well make it an interesting death. The press thinks he is just a thrill seeker chasing fame. In truth, he lost Robyn, Elanor, and the baby from being hit by a drunk driver while he was driving, and it haunts him. He wants to prove that he is the best driver, because if he is the best and he still lost his family in an accident, then no one else would have reacted faster or handled the car better.

Hob isn’t the best yet. He is always in the upper pack but hasn’t consistently broken onto the podium. He’s hoping this new team will be a chance to really show what he can do. Hob always has a running commentary going on the team comms no matter how long or intense the race is. People constantly have to break into his chatter to give him the information he needs about the car, his competition, or track conditions.

Dream is intrigued by this man who constantly jokes around while driving a heavy death machine around at break-neck speeds. They end up talking a few races later when after the race Dream stays long enough for Hob to notice a new face in the garage. Dream finds he enjoys having all that intense focus on him alone. Chats after the race become drinks out, then become dinner together. Soon, they are exploring the cities the races are in together when there is downtime. Eventually, they end up testing the structural integrity of Dream’s hotel’s beds as Hob sets out to prove that he is an athlete in peak shape thank you very much.

Poor Dream who has never had a healthy relationship in his life is insistent that what they have is a friends-with-benefits or fuckbuddy situation even though neither is looking elsewhere, they are always talking to each other and they’ve both shown each other the skeletons in their respective closets. Hob would like to call their relationship more but also knows his constant dance with death or at least serious injury is as good a reason as any for Dream to avoid any kind of commitment to him not counting both their emotional baggage.

Things come to a head when Hob is caught in a multi-car crash and is sent rolling into the center of the track where the car quickly catches fire. Dream pushes himself into the pack of people from the team following the first responders to the crash, hoping that the safety gear the team poured some of the sponsorship money into actually did something. He isn’t allowed on the medical helicopter when Hob is airlifted out, but he does set some speed records of his own getting to the hospital.

The safety equipment does its job and Hob will only have to miss a few races for recovery, but Dream is not letting Hob go one more day without formalizing their relationship because no one else gets Hob, not even Death. Hob’s memory of that first “I love you” is hazed by painkillers, but they exchange the words so many times during his hospital stay that he isn’t too worried about it.

When he is cleared to begin racing again Hob starts consistently placing on the podium and each time he makes sure his boyfriend gets caught in the champagne spray no matter how much Dream grumbles about the cost of cleaning his designer clothes. Years later, when Hob retires from being a driver so he can spend more time with his husband, he is considered the chattiest driver of all time, Dream listened to every single one of his races after all. He also incidentally will be remembered as one of the best drivers of his generation.

-💥

I know close to nothing about racing but omg I am so here for this!!! Driver Hob!!! Chatty, risky, charismatic driver Hob with a tragic backstory!! I love it, once again I can only thank you for honouring me with this mini fic <333

I love to imagine Hob doing press conferences and managing to turn every answer for every question into a rant about how amazing Dream is, he loves Dream so much, he never thought he'd be able to get to the top of his sport but Dream has given him the motivation. And Dream himself is standing at the back of the room desperately wishing that the floor would swallow him up <333

[tsintotwo]

Happy Tom at the Osaka Comic-Con.

Quick recap of the panel: He got there from NY the previous night, dove headfirst into Japanese food first thing (had taco wasabi- literally raw octpus- and chicken neck). His fav ice cream flavor is vanilla ('keep it pure')- without any topping on a cone. One of his fav Sandman dialogues is 'I am hope', his fav Dream-Hob era is Elizabethan (we knew this). To build the Sandman figure, 'you eat nothing and work out like you're about to play Thor'. He would never choose between theatre and TV, and if he were a DJ like Carl was in The Boat That Rocked, he would leave the music to people who understood it better than him and air conversations with people he cares about on why they make the things they make. His birthday is Dec 5, 1985. Why is it different on different websites? No clue, no one ever asked him.

I want to say something. This was a 25 minute panel. On the stage, there were three men on his right, one woman on his left. The men read out fan questions in Japanese, the woman translated them to English. Tom answered. The woman translated it back. The men would then exchange a few words among themselves, and/or have something to say to Tom based on his answer which the woman again translated for Tom.

In all this, Tom was extraordinarily attentive and engaged. Of course he gave fun and/or thoughtful answeres to the questions like he always does. But beyond that- whenever Japanese was being spoken, he looked at the speaker and listened, even though he didn't understand a single word. Tom's most common listening expression is the pinched-lipped pout, and in lots other interviews/cons you can see him listening but not loooking at the person speaking. Here, he made a point of looking at them. He nodded and smiled based on their gestures and expressions. He rarely took his eyes off them or lost focus. I posted a clip of him looking confused earlier- that was one of the one/two times that happened. And once he got the idea of how it was working, if his answers were long, he started pausing in the middle to give the translator a chance to take it by pieces. He made sure she understood what he was saying. He didn't stare into space or look impatient when other people on the stage were having a small convo within themselves.

I actually never spent time looking at celeb things like comic-cons before. So maybe this is the norm, and most of the men and women we see on screen are amazing at these events and just great people in general. I have no context. But I just know as someone who frequently gets lost into her own head even in engaging environments, being this dedicated to a space and situation that can't be made completely inclusive probably wouldn't be possible. My attention would get loose, and/or I would decide it's less awkward if I don't engage when they aren't speaking a language I know. But Tom made it seem easy and smooth for himself.

I love Tom, yeah, we all do, but this sort of stuff just gives me so much respect and appreciation for him as an individual. I know fans like to yassify him based on things like his smol-bean/cinnamon roll energy, and while that's cute, it sometimes has the risk of making a person's image into that of a man-child. He isn't that, though. Shy and (sometimes) awkward as he is, this is a very intelligent man, emotionally and intellectually, and I love to see it come through.

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] London Fog

Rated: M Word Count: 3504 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, sort of failed at being fluff though, human AU, post-vacation blues, Dream of the Endless is a stubborn miserable bastard, Dream of the Endless is a sad wet cat, divorced Dream, hopeful ending don't worry, background Hob & Johanna, Hob and Johanna are besties, Jessamy for MVP, Jessamy and Dream are besties, no actual smut herein, but there IS one spicy recollection midway through

Sequel to Caribbean Sunset. This was supposed to be a quick fluffy scene of parting ways at the end of the cruise, of Hob communicating respect for Dream's boundaries along with the desire to see him again. But then 'what are Dream's reasons for hesitating' suddenly turned into backstory full of angst and depression and steered us into post-vacation blues and this is not the fluff I set out to write but I am happy enough with it all the same.

If anyone is sensitive to topics of marital fidelity and full disclosure, please click the read-more and scroll to the bottom for quick spoilers before proceeding.

Fluffbruary 2024 Prompts Day 13 choice snuggling furry Day 14 phone bubble bath doll Day 15 cord bakery honey

Summary: Dream does his best to ignore Possibilities while he copes with returning from holiday

On AO3

The ship's main atrium is crowded with passengers queuing up for debarkation, loud with the murmur of many voices, but there is only one voice that hold's Dream's attention at the moment.

"I mean. We both live in London; it's not unthinkable we might get together again? Have a drink, grab a bite, get to know each other better?"

Hob's tone is bright, hopeful; the light in his eyes is so very alluring, and Dream is almost tempted.

But circumstances do not permit him to indulge in such fantasies, not now that his cruise has come to an end—the divorce continues to drag on, courtesy of Alex's father, and Dream is uncertain beyond that whether he even wants any relationship ever again; each attempt has gone worse than the last and Hob…Hob is sweet, and kind, and an excellent lay, and Dream. Would not wish to drag him into the festering detritus of his own life.

He has not even left the ship, yet, and already the weight and gloom of reality are pressing heavy at his shoulders.

How he longs to stretch this holiday into infinity, to never have to go back.

He steels himself, forcibly pushes the gathering melancholy away, meets Hob's lovely gaze with a sad smile.

"Hob. I adore you; I hope that much is clear. But my life is. Convoluted, at present, and I am. Messy, at relationships, in general. I do not want to taint—" He blows out a breath, tries again. "This has been wonderful, amazing, so very easy; we fuck and we frolic and we have no cares, no responsibilities, and I would book both of us onto the turnaround cruise immediately if it were feasible, so that we might continue. I am not looking forward to returning to all that waits for me at home."

"All the more reason for a breath of something new, something you could carry over from holiday?" Hob's face is so open, so reasonable and guileless and hopeful.

Dream shakes his head, adamant. "As I said, I am messy. In the ordinary day-to-day, in the mundanity of work and circumstance I. I grow neglectful—cruel, I have been told, many times—and…you will grow weary, of my demands, my eccentricities, of my capricious moods and sullen temper."

"I won't, though," Hob says, smiling, as if it is truly that simple. They have been acquainted for a week, much of which was spent in vigorous activities other than deep conversation, and yet Hob speaks with firm conviction as if they have known one another for months. "But I get it. A fling on holiday is not a real relationship." He tugs on his ear, offers his sweet, warm smile. "All the same, I really like you, and I would love the chance to see if we could be something more. So." He holds out a hand. "Phone, love?"

Dream is responding to the easy endearment before he even realizes, unlocking his phone and handing it to Hob.

"Here's what we'll do," Hob says, fingers flying over the screen. "I'll give you my number. Just that. And if you ever want to call, you can. I don't have your info so I can't violate that boundary. It's entirely up to you." He hands the phone back to Dream and there he is, 'Hob' in his contacts, just a number, with a cartoon lemur from the default gallery as his pic. "If you delete it, if you never call, so be it. I'll always remember you fondly. But if you decide you'd like to see me again, please know I'd love to hear from you. Even if you don't want to date, if you just need to let off some steam no strings attached, I would be happy to be there for you." He smiles, soft and just a little self-depracating. "I'm shooting my shot, as they say, so you know where I stand. But the power's in your hands, dove; the choice is yours. And I'll respect it, whatever you decide."

Dream blinks, clutches his phone tightly, a little bit breathless at how astute Hob is. He's barely mentioned his life in any depth when they did talk; Hob was a holiday tryst in the midst of his interminable ongoing divorce and he hadn't intended on any deeper connection or true getting-to-know-one-another conversations. At most he may have mentioned a 'controlling ex' in passing and he genuinely cannot say for sure; Hob has kept him suitably occupied with other thoughts.

But here is Hob, either extrapolating from that comment or running entirely off intuition, handing him full autonomy over whether or not he wants to pursue any further acquaintance.

"Thank you," he says, eyes pricking with the threat of tears. Perhaps—perhaps—

But no. Best not to even think about 'perhaps'. There is too much to sort out at home still; he does not need to indulge in what-ifs and flights of fancy.

"Can I kiss you? One last time?" Hob asks, and Dream throws his arms about Hob's neck and kisses him first, heedless of the crowded atrium.

It is heaven, the soft slide of Hob's mouth fitting to his, the gentle teasing curl of his tongue, and Dream realizes with a sudden fierce ache that he is going to miss it terribly.

It is more difficult than he would like to end it.

"Goodbye, Hob Gadling," he murmurs, close to Hob's lips, and reluctantly steps back. "Thank you for making this cruise so wonderfully memorable." His hands find both of Hob's, squeeze them.

Hob smiles, soft and bright and the slightest bit sad. He leans in, presses a lingering kiss to the corner of Dream's mouth. "Bye, Dream," he says, gentle and quiet, and then he's sliding from Dream's grasp, turning, walking away.

Dream watches him go, watches as Johanna emerges from the crowd to corral him; he is still watching when Hob glances back over his shoulder with that same beatific melancholy in his smile. Dream gives him a small wave, tries his best to smile in return.

And then Hob is gone, swallowed up in the throng of passengers streaming into the gangway, and Dream deflates.

"This dream is over," he mutters to himself, and makes his way off the ship.

~ Hob and Johanna had boarded a bus for Disney World; there is no chance of encountering them at the airport. The thought gives Dream bitter resolve as he checks his luggage at the kiosk and makes his way through security, finds the first class lounge, settles in to wait for his 6pm departure time.

Two hours in to the transatlantic flight, long limbs comfortably folded into his first class aisle seat and beginning to protest the stillness, he sets his mind to wandering. How wonderful it might have been, to change his plans, to accompany Hob to 'the happiest place on earth'. Hob has been delightful company in and out of the bedroom and Johanna was agreeable enough; he had immensely enjoyed the time they spent together on St. Thomas. He has never been to any Disney park, on any continent, and while it has never seemed like something he would enjoy he now finds himself imagining such a visit in Hob's company, laughing at Hob's childlike delight as they queue for rides and attractions, shopping for souvenirs, sampling street foods and specialty offerings of every kind.

But no. It would be rude to invite himself on the next leg of Hob's holiday with Hob's friend; Dream had already monopolized Hob's time on the cruise and while Johanna had been very adaptable in that regard, Dream would not wish to impose further.

Besides which. There are meetings with solicitors to be attended, in hopes of finally moving the onerous divorce proceedings to a close; his company and accounts need his attention and it would be unfair of him to expect Jessamy to shoulder that load for longer simply because he is weary of his responsibilities and far too attached to his holiday fling.

With a sigh, he pushes all thoughts aside and closes his eyes, attempting sleep.

~ Jessamy meets him at Heathrow after he's cleared customs in the morning; he is tired, and grateful for her brisk efficiency in getting him to the waiting car and home to his sleek modern flat. Today is for dealing with jet lag; tomorrow he will return to the office and his responsibilities full time. All the same, there are things he can go over with Jessamy in the name of catching up and being prepared, once he's had a nap. Airline travel is not conducive to meaningful sleep.

"Good to have you home, Dream," Jessamy says, as she rolls the suitcase she brought in over to where he's dropped the rest of his luggage.

"Thank you, Jessamy." He hopes she understands that he means for everything, not just that single sentiment; she makes his life run smoothly in a way he can hardly imagine being without.

"Of course." She flashes a cheeky grin. "You must tell me about all the exciting and unmentionable shenanigans you got up to, after you've slept. I'll be back this afternoon so we can touch base properly."

Dream collapses in his bed after she's left, the sheets crisp and clean and the pillowcase cool against his face, and dreams of Hob's hands on his skin.

~ He settles back into his mundane routines easily, as if he's never left, the same way it always happens when he returns from holiday. He meets with investors, he addresses the shareholders, he facilitates talks between Finance and Marketing to adjust the budget for next fiscal year and allocate additional funding for the long-term studies requested by the latter. He meets with his solicitors, who assure him that each of the latest demands and stipulations brought by the Burgess camp have been refused and countered and the directive given once more to sign the final document that Dream had thought far too generous six months ago. They are optimistic that there will be no further objections.

Dream will not allow himself that hope until it actually comes to pass.

He thinks of Hob frequently.

It is mid-March, a full month since returning, when he finds himself gazing yet again at the innocuous entry in his contacts, the cartoon lemur staring back at him brightly.

He ought to delete it. He ought to cut the thread that holds him to the glimmer of impossibility and impracticality, of unrealistic expectations. It has been a month; surely Hob has realized by now that he will not call and has put the entire notion behind him. Dream is foolish, to keep the number in his phone, to entertain the occasional daydream of actually calling. He has not; he will not. There is no point in letting the contact remain.

He recalls, with aching clarity, their last night aboard ship when they had finally put the bed to carnal use, having exhausted all other options within the suite and private deck. Hob had put him facedown on his knees and lovingly opened him up on tongue and fingers until he spilled, helpless, then put him on his back and fucked him tenderly to another climax before finishing himself. Dream remembers the way Hob kissed him throughout, slow and thorough; he remembers with a shiver of longing Hob's fingers carding through his hair, cradling his thighs, stroking down his neck, his shoulders. He recalls Hob's voice, soft and fervent, murmuring endearments and appreciation against his mouth, his skin; he remembers how he fought to keep from crying, overwhelmed by the adoration that Hob poured into him.

He had felt…cherished. It was only a holiday indulgence, a fantasy of possibilities, but oh, how he had wanted. It was delightful to curl in sleep with Hob, to be held, to imagine that this kind and beautiful near-stranger truly cared for him beyond the pleasure they found in one another.

It was so easy to pretend that he was loved.

He closes his contacts without deleting Hob's entry.

~ "So this gentleman you met on your cruise," Jessamy starts one day in April, over breakfast. She has brought him a decadent blueberry danish from the bakery near her flat and is picking delicately at her own lemon poppyseed muffin. "He left you his number, you said?"

"Yes." Dream takes an enormous bite of the pastry, delighting in the sweet tang of the blueberry filling on his tongue, the sugary melt of the glaze and the flake of the crust. He does not like where this conversation seems to be headed, but it is Jessamy, and her offering is delicious, so he will endure it.

"Are you ever going to call him?" She plucks another small chunk of her muffin between two elegant glittery-black nails and pops it into her mouth, watching him with sharp, knowing eyes.

Dream chews slowly, allowing himself time to ponder the question until his mouth is empty. "I do not know," he says at last, honestly. "I should not; there is little point. Yet I cannot quite let go of the fantasy."

"There's little harm in a spot of fantasy, though, is there," she returns. "It's human nature to spin ourselves what-ifs and wouldn't-it-be-nices."

"Perhaps," Dream allows, and returns to his Danish.

It has been two months now since the cruise; the longer he goes without calling Hob, the more foolish he feels when he imagines how it might play out if he did. It is fanciful nonsense, all of it; Hob has certainly put Dream far from his mind by now.

Hob's number remains in his phone, the bright-eyed lemur inciting a small pang of fondness and regret any time he scrolls past it.

~ It is the last week in May that the divorce is at long last finalized, legitimized, and filed as complete.

Dream feels a celebration would be appropriate. He considers dressing down and dolling up, visiting the clubs that he had taken to frequenting after he and Alex officially separated more than two years ago. Sex would be a lovely way to celebrate, especially when it's been months since the last time he'd gotten laid—

The notion passes silently on before it can truly take hold. Sex would be nice, yes, but now he is thinking of that last time, and all he wants is Hob.

Jessamy brings champagne to his office as evening sets in. "I heard the good news," she says, waggling the pair of stemmed glasses in her hand. "Congratulations on finally being legally and officially rid of the twat."

"Thank you." Dream rises and takes the glassware; Jessamy pops the cork and pours for them both, then lifts her glass. "To freedom?"

Dream matches her. "To correcting mistakes which ought never have been made," he amends, and they drink.

~ Two glasses later, the conversation has turned to Dream's Future Prospects, a topic far more easily navigated when mellowed by the champagne in his bloodstream.

"I am better off alone, Jessamy."

Jessamy tilts her head at him, frowning.

"No, I don't think you are," she offers at last.

"Nonsense." Dream feels very strongly that his point is valid. "Every relationship I have had has been. Catastrophic."

"Well, yes. You did make magnificently bad choices in your last two marriages."

"And the others?"

"You and Nada were both far too young when you eloped." She shakes her head slightly. "And everyone in between were decent enough people, just…not right for you, ultimately. There were plenty of reasons for things not working out, but that doesn't mean you stop trying."

"The fact that I have seven failed marriages behind me when I am barely forty years old leads me to think otherwise." Dream tips another small measure of champagne into his glass. "I would be wise to seek out my casual dalliances when I wish for them and swear off the idea of romance. I would be far happier."

Jessamy is giving him that look, the one that says he's full of shit but she'll find a kinder way to point it out. "Would you, though?"

"Of course. You are happy, are you not?"

"Yes, but I'm aromantic. You very much are not, Dream. You thrive on the thrill of falling in love, of wooing and being wooed and grand gestures of devotion."

He swirls his glass, once, pouting. She is correct, of course; she knows him better than anyone, has been his friend for most of his life and his assistant for most of his career. He is very much in love with being in love, which makes the parade of failed marriages in his wake all the more painful.

"You are right, of course," he reiterates aloud, melancholy stealing over him. "The idea of finding someone for one night does not even hold the appeal it did before I went on holiday. I just keep thinking of Hob."

Jessamy cocks her head at him again, raises an eyebrow, gaze bright and astute. "The fantasy in your phone whom you've never called?"

"Yes."

"That good, was he?"

"He was not—he was, rather, but it was not just that." He can feel the emotion swelling in his chest and makes no effort to hide it; Jessamy will not judge him ill for it. "Hob is kind, and sweet, and so full of life; he is a brilliant soul, warm and chivalrous and—and—" He has run out of words.

"And hot?" Jessamy's grin is sly.

"And hot," Dream admits, mournfully, "and such a good kisser, and Jessamy, I miss him. He went to Disney World, after the cruise." He looks at her, everything laid bare in his eyes, tongue comfortably loose with champagne. "I wanted very much to go with him."

"Wow."

"Yes." Dream looks away, breathing past the ache in his chest; he cannot deny that the space Hob has occupied in his thoughts since February is far more than warranted by a simple holiday tryst.

Jessamy sighs gently. "Then. Perhaps—and hear me out here—perhaps you should call him."

Dream shakes his head, miserable. "I will ruin him, I will ruin whatever feeling lies between us. As I did with Calliope, and Will, and Nuala—"

"Every relationship is different, Dream. Every set of variables, every chance—maybe it won't work, but maybe it will. You don't know without trying."

"…Perhaps."

Jessamy sets her glass aside and rises to leave. She lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes lightly in passing. "Life is too short, Dream. Reach for happiness, every now and again. You deserve it as much as anyone."

~ Dream stares at the little cartoon lemur on his phone screen long after Jessamy has left, stares at Hob's name beneath it.

Is he truly thinking of calling, after all this time?

It is pointless, hopeless; surely Hob has long since moved on. Besides which, it is late. He does not even know what Hob does for a living, whether he is likely to still be awake at 9pm on a Tuesday but even so, it does not matter. It is far too late in the evening for unsolicited non-emergency phone calls, particularly when he is morbidly tipsy from finishing off the bottle of champagne; he swipes out of his contacts, heart thudding in his chest as though he's just narrowly missed out on calamity.

Or opportunity.

~ He stares at the lemur again the next day, and the next, and the next, debating with himself, thumb hovering over the number while his pulse pounds sickly with nerves. He wants to call, more than he might have wanted anything in recent memory; he is terrified to try, to take the risk, to burn the gauze of fantasy to the ground in hopes that a beautiful reality will rise from the ashes.

The lemur's cartoon eyes stare brightly back, unhelpful.

~ At last, on the seventh of June, half past noon on a bright sunny day, Dream can dither no more over insecurities and cautionary woes.

He wants, and he is tired of pretending that he does not.

He steels himself, closes his eyes and lets his thumb touch down.

Trembling, breath held, he brings the phone to his ear.

There is ringing on the other end, three times, a fourth, and then the sound of the line connecting.

A voice, a voice wonderfully familiar despite how long it has been since last he heard it, speaks up. "Hello, Robert Gadling here…"

Dream opens his eyes and exhales, heart in his throat. "Hob?"

There is a sudden stillness over the line. "…Dream?" Dream can hear the bright smile breaking over Hob's face. "Is that you?!"

The tension bleeds out of him in a rush and he is smiling as well, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as he cradles the phone in both hands, curling toward the warm glow of possibility it offers.

Perhaps, perhaps this time, if he only believes.

"Hello, Hob."

= Started: 2/13/24 Drafted: 2/15/24 Posted: 2/15/24

The Extra Warning note: We find out here that Dream is still in the middle of a years-long messy divorce from Alex Burgess while on the cruise; he has technically committed adultery with Hob. Hob does not know and will not find out at this juncture. If this makes you uncomfortable, I completely understand if you need to give this a pass.

[dykes4timrand]

okay but hob did nothing wrong right?

Like yeah arranged marriages suck and Grabalba deserves more than Apollo, but by cancelling the marriage Rue took away the Goblin Courts chance for genuine respect. Rue comes from the Court of Wonder, one of if not the most respected court, and they understand having to personally change yourself for society, but their court has never been the outcast, their court doesn’t have to fight for a place at the table.

Hob is allowed to be mad that Rue took it upon themself to decide what was best for everyone and in doing so started a scandal around Hob’s court and made the Goblins a point of ridicule and rumor yet again.

[aziraphalala]

More Sandman x Good Omens crossover, and more Immortal Couples ✨️shenanigans✨️ during Ren Fair 🥰

Also I thought I'd add some personal headcanons in the thread to let you know the lore behind this drawing 😆

In my head, I imagined that Crowley and Dream knew each other because of our favourite demon's extended stays in the Dreaming during his long naps, but also because of the bicentenial spats between Morpheus and Lucifer. Most demons tend to hate and fear Morpheus, but I think Crowley would rather like his style, and despite his distrust I'd like to think they could get along (but as a demon Crowley couldn't help teasing Dream from time to time).

Aziraphale also knows Morpheus by name, but would not necessarily have had a real opportunity to meet him until now. I think they'd have a lot to talk about though (even if I haven't drawn him here), as a great book lover and the literal Prince of Stories I'd like to think that one day Dream was even able to show an ecstatic Aziraphale around his library, bringing tears to his eyes with emotion (Morpheus even gave him one of the scrolls lost during the burning of the Alexandria library)

As for Hob and Aziraphale, I like to think that these two have crossed paths several times during auctions of antiques. Keen to keep up appearances at first, they met under several aliases, before dropping the masks after a few centuries of chance encounters. Even though they each realised their respective immortality, they remained discreet about it and did not seek to find out more or ask questions, choosing simply to enjoy each other's company despite their obvious competition when it came to collecting rare objects.

I'd also like to think that Crowley has had the opportunity to meet and chat with Hob in the Dreaming during his long naps, and that he likes the guy for his good-naturedness and kindness. Crowley also knew that Hob sometimes visited Dream in his palace, but he never realised that they had "this" kind of relationship. And who doesn't love a little gossip? 🤭

[edwardbonnets]

so it's my birthday today!!! 😎 i'm 23 years old, and i've had this blog for almost 3 years now, so i thought now is as good a time as any to celebrate!

because i thought it would be fun, i've decided to curate a list of some of my favorite blorbos in their respective pairings and put them into this poll! after a week, i will make a special gifset for the ships that make it into the top 5 spots!

the winning ships will be announced in their own special post and anyone can join in on the fun and make a gifset/fan-art/writing/etc of the top 5 ships as well! just @ me in the post or include the tag #emilysbbb and i'll be sure to share it! :D

rules:

reblogs aren't necessary but are greatly appreciated!

if you want to, you can put your 2nd and 3rd choices in the tags, i'll make sure to add those to the calculations when the poll is over! :)

this is a very silly, unserious poll, and this is not my complete and definitive list of favorite ships (since tumblr polls only allow 12 choices rip), this is all just for funsies!

tagging some mutuals below the cut:

no pressure to reblog!! just thought it would be fun to give yall a heads up and the chance to be the first ones to vote! &lt;3

@latr1nal1a @willgaham @milkovichys @his-name-is-ed @stedebonnets @blakbonnet @rainbowbonnet @kendallroycos @userstede @figmentof @captain-flint @cobbbvanth @startreklesbian @crowleyaj @queerbuck @djarin @djaarins @captain-stede @torybrennan @seance @dykefaggotry @ad-astrah @nobie @edwarbteach @stars-bean @jacobglaser

[teejaystumbles]

These stones to praise thee may not cease (Dreamling drabble)

The Altar BY GEORGE HERBERT  

A broken ALTAR, Lord, thy servant rears, Made of a heart and cemented with tears:  Whose parts are as thy hand did frame; No workman's tool hath touch'd the same.                   A HEART alone                   Is such a stone,                  As nothing but                  Thy pow'r doth cut.                  Wherefore each part                  Of my hard heart                  Meets in this frame,                  To praise thy name:       That if I chance to hold my peace, These stones to praise thee may not cease.   Oh, let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine,     And sanctify this ALTAR to be thine.

   Dream of the Endless is no stranger to the occasional genuflection. Over the millennia there have been a lot of entities and beings who knelt before him, out of respect, out of humility, fear. Never once has he asked for it to be done and he generally does not care one way or the other. He is no god, he has no need for worship. He does not feel a sense of power when someone prostrates themself before him. It does not influence his decisions or his way of dealing with the person opposite.

And yet, when Hob Gadling kneels down before him in the quiet of his room, after they’ve left the New Inn and gone upstairs to Hob’s flat, Dream feels…

He does not know. His stomach feels twisted, a foreign sensation that is accompanied by a rush through his veins, a pulse he does not need and yet comes, unbidden, rising within him, punching the air out of him.

“There is no need for that, Hob. Get up, please.”

Hob looks up at him with so much adoration and wonder that Dream swallows nervously.

“You just told me that you are, like, a cosmic entity. Apologies if my knees go a little wobbly at that.” Hob gives a small laugh but still looks flushed and helpless on his knees before Morpheus. He reaches out his hand, relieved that this is merely a physical weakness that will be easily remedied.

“Do you need help?”

“No! No, I… would like to stay here for a moment…” Hob croaks and fists his hands in his trouser legs. Dream frowns but lets his hand fall back to his side.

“Why?” he asks, regretting it immediately. He feels the flush on his cheeks but cannot look away from the man kneeling before him. His stomach twists and turns. He recognizes the feeling and dreads it. Pleasure.

“There really is no need for this. I am no god. I would not have a friend kneel before me, Hob. Please…”

When the last word slips from his tongue he sees a spark in Hob’s eyes and the man wets his lips. Dream feels a shiver run through his body at the sight. He does not like where this is going (doesn’t he?)

Hob reaches up then, still on his knees, and lays a hand on Morpheus’ hip. The Dream Lord shudders and stumbles back. There is a wall right behind him and nowhere to go so he stills and leans against it. Hob is looking at him, eyes bright, hand on Dream’s hip gentle but firm. It radiates heat that Dream can feel all the way through his clothes.

“I want to do it. Kneel before you, that is. I have missed you, my friend… and I would worship you in any way you’d let me, no matter who or what you are.”

“You need not lower yourself…”

“It’s not lowering, Dream… it’s worship. It’s… Do you not know how I feel about you? Surely you know.”

Hob’s cheeks are flushed and he looks almost pleading now. Dream knows. He’s known for a while. He has chosen not to think about it for the last 230 years (except inside the cage, in lonly endless hours, every year on the 7th of June, tracking the time by the compounding of misery he felt). He swallows again and rasps:

“I know…”

Hob closes his eyes and lets out a heavy breath, lets his head drop forward, his forehead coming to rest against Dream’s thigh. Dream represses a violent flinch and instead raises his hands in aimless motion, hovering over Hob’s head and shoulders.

“Please, just for a second, I’ll let go, just...give me this, for a moment.”

Hob pleads in a low murmur against Dream’s thigh, and he can feel every puff of hot breath through the fabric. The Dream Lord shivers again and thinks that it’s ridiculous that his knees should feel weak when it is his friend who is kneeling, and not him. He does not feel like the one in control right now. He feels utterly at Hob’s mercy, a thrumming of something running through him like an arc of lightning. Finally, Dream admits defeat and lets his left hand settle gently on Hob’s head.

“Stay... as long as you like…” the words falling from his lips are almost a whisper, so low and grinding is the sound. Morpheus feels Hob’s hand grip his hip more tightly, the press of his forehead and nose against him more firmly, Hob breathing him in and sighing again quietly.

In the quiet of the room, they both breathe and hold onto each other and feel like a portion of that heavy block of dark, vast loneliness that has been crushing them both for centuries, lifts.

[smallandangry24]

I’ve seen all this stuff about Hob getting nabbed by the fae but y’all…. I think he’d kind of be immune?

Never gives his real name

Has already seen magic (would illusions work?)

Genuinely kind (some courts must return kindness and others respect it)

Reeks of old OLD powerful magic from his meetings with Morpheus and Death’s blessing

His own immortality leaves him feeling not-quite-right, which is at first appealing before the general consensus is what is it it’s not right something is wrong with this human. Human??

Has a thing for keeping old relics and weapons so if anyone came into his house, even if they’re not out in the open, the amount of iron —

Owns a tavern and probably offers food to any visitors in his home as well which is good by itself but when they account for the other stuff are you sure he’s not one of ours? Wthwthwthwth nope not taking any chances

All of the above is assuming they don’t know that messing with this one entails fucking with at least one Endless

[shyvioletlife]

Rue's current trajectory is so heartbreaking to me for a few reasons and I want to try and put it into words. I've been trying to grapple with exactly how much power rue has in the fey realm for several weeks at this point. They come across as very powerful, but see so little of it in themself that it is really hard to get a proper judgement - especially in the context of other fey who are in some ways magic or physical prowess incarnate that to be powerful is the norm at the Bloom.

They clearly envision a world without courts, without boundaries, where everyone can live freely and openly as themselves without worry for politics and power wars and the strife that comes from being within a court. But there is a distinctive problem with this, and it is that they cannot grasp why someone would want to be a member of a court at all. On some level, they seem to equate the power that a court wields over its subjects to an untenable level of control or violence that needs to be resisted. They want to remove the influence that the courts have on people and their lives. But this doesn't account for courts who aren't structured on models of power. Or who have less than the bigger courts.

The way that I understand it, the union between grebalba and apollo was an incredibly advantageous one for the goblin court. It was finally going to give them a chance at joining the bigger courts that normally wouldn't have given them a glance, and it was all in thanks to Hob's considerable military prowess. Blemish and Boil have actually seemingly managed to achieve a similar feat in the engagement between Hob and Lady Sylminar. Either way, their clear goal is to finally gain upward mobility amongst the fey and be respected as a peer.

Rue looks at these political alliances and sees them purely through the lens of happiness, joy, and individual fulfillment. They see hob miserable to have Lady Sylminar on his arm but willing to do it for the sake of duty. They see Apollo and Grebalba, only to be wed for politics and the gains of their courts. And they step in and try to upend it for the sake of upholding their own beliefs and values. It is not wrong to wish that people would think of themselves before duty, not wrong to wish that this duty was unnecessary in the first place. But in the process they fail to see the wider picture. When the engagement between Apollo and Grebalba is overturned, one of them has more to lose than the other. This is not two equals in a loveless match that can just go and find someone else of similar standing, because the entire point is that they are unequal and a marriage between them would bridge that gap. When the engagement is broken, one is going to remain unchanged, and the other is going to lose years, decades, maybe even centuries of slow progress.

When Rue wields their power in this way, trying to see out their own vision of a world without courts and borders between people, they are inherently looking at the other fey through a very privileged and specific stance. They have the freedom to leave and go off without being held accountable for it; the power to essentially do what they want (yes, within certain parameters that they have begun to push against, but they've still been given a *lot* of freedom). The vast majority of fey are not capable of the things that rue does though. They are very much a high fey, removed from the lesser fey that make up the majority of all courts. And their unwillingness to subscribe to the power dynamics of the courts results in them being unable to see how sometimes a person doing something out of duty creates a greater amount of good and social change than them looking out for the interests of that individual.

Do I want to see a world where these violent power structures aren't held over people's heads and force them to make difficult choices that put themselves aside? Where people aren't exploited or manipulated by those in power and can live their lives as they please? Why yes I do. I adore rue's vision and how it will completely decentralize the current ways power is held and guarded by only the most elite fey. But right now, rue has enough power to interfere, but they do not have enough power to reform the system as it stands. And within the system what they have done has only resulted in reaffirming the existing powers

[mimisempai]

I want to make all your dreams come true

Summary

By asking a harmless question, Dream discovers one of Hob's deepest wounds that he didn't know he had. Fortunately, he has the power to help him heal.

Notes Completely inspired by the adorable BTS photos of Ferdie and dogs. As soon as I saw the 1389 one, I knew I have to write something.

Series : The life of a retired Lord of Dreams

On AO3

Rating G - 488 words

"Hob, may I ask you something?"

They were in the living room, as they almost always were in the evening, in their favorite position. Dream was lying on the sofa, his head resting on Hob's lap while Hob read aloud.

Hob replied softly, running a hand through his lover's disheveled hair, "I'm listening."

Dream said softly, "I'm surprised you don't have a pet as you strike me as a dog person. Haven't you ever wanted one?"

He felt Hob freeze for a moment, his fingers twitching slightly in his hair, but Hob didn't answer.

"Hob?" Dream called softly as he rolled over onto his back to look at his lover's face, where he was surprised to see a sad expression.

Concerned, he raised his hand and placed it on Hob's cheek, asking softly, "What's wrong?"

Hob, visibly overcome with emotion, replied, "Well, when you live as long as I do, you experience more separation, more loss than any other normal person. It's the same with pets. After my fourth dog died, I was so heartbroken that I didn't have the strength to bond with another one.

He shrugged, but Dream didn't fall for it, and he slid his hand over Hob's neck and straightened up to sit beside him. Then he wrapped his arms around Hob and held him tight, saying softly against his hair, "Oh Hob, my love, I'm so sorry. I was so tactless. I should have known."

Hob shook his head and replied in a muffled voice, "Don't apologize, you can't help it. It's my life and I chose it with full awareness of all of this."  

Once again Dream wondered how many times Hob had robbed himself of a human or canine or other bond just because being alone was more bearable than having his heart broken at every parting. 

But now that he was with him, Dream could change that, so he loosened his embrace, pulled Hob away a little, and asked gently, "If you had the chance to have a dog that would never die like you, would you want one?"

Although Hob looked like he was thinking about it, he couldn't hide the spark of excitement in his eyes at the idea, and Dream added with a slight smile on his lips, "If you're up for it, there's only one condition."

Hob frowned and asked, confused, "Which one?"

Dream brought his face close to Hob's and murmured, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, "I still want to be the one who gets petted the most."

Hob chuckled against his lips, "Idiot," before kissing him gently, and when he pulled away, he added, "Condition accepted. I don't want my kitten to get jealous."

Dream looked offended, "Your kitten? A little respect, please. I'm not a kitten, I'm-"

"Dream."

"What?"

"Shut up and kiss me."

Dream obeyed immediately, pressing his lips to those of Hob, who knew exactly how to tame his wildcat.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝I

Dreamling Masterlist here

[gabessquishytum]

Morpheus Endless has never had much expectations from his life: he is a third child, so he has always known he'd never ascend his father's throne. Besides, he's an omega, which makes him merely a commodity. He has never been fond of his life at home, his parents ignoring him and his siblings too lost in their own misery and shenanigans, but he was cautious of his prospects, for he has always realized how much he'd be dependent on his future spouse. For once, gods seem to smile at him because Morpheus gets suddenly betrothed to King Robert Gadling, ruler of the neighboring lands. Robert has a reputation as a fair king, although Morpheus finds it very alarming and disappointing that he keeps slaves and that slavery is a norm in his kingdom in general. Still, everyone knows that Robert treated his wife Eleanor with respect despite the fact that she was an omega, and this gives Morpheus hope. What Morpheus doesn't know is that his future alpha has no desire to get married again. He simply has to. His beloved queen died as a result of ectopic pregnancy, and he still needs an heir. And better an heir and a spare. Robert agrees to the union with the Endless dynasty: in fact, that's an incredibly fortunate deal for his kingdom because his neighbors are way more powerful and rich. But for him, it's nothing but a business agreement. That's why Robert is taken aback when he finally meets his fiancé at the wedding: Prince Morpheus is ethereally beautiful. Robert falls in love at first sight and hates himself for it because it feels like he's betraying the memory of Eleanor. He's perfectly polite to his new husband, albeit cold and neglectful, and Morpheus can't figure out what he has done to displease his alpha: he is well aware of many faults of his character, but he really tried to be on his best behavior, and besides, they barely interacted at all. Robert gets drunk at the wedding. Morpheus waits for him till dawn, but he doesn't come to consummate the marriage. He continues to ignore Morpheus' existence till his omega goes into heat, and that's when Robert can no longer deny the pull and longing. And he does need an heir. Morpheus' heat is everything they both ever wanted, days and nights spent in tender lovemaking, and Morpheus dares to hope that from now on, it is going to be different...but once his heat has run its course, he wakes up alone and heartbroken. Shortly after, they find out that Morpheus is pregnant. Robert is excited and torn apart between his feelings for his mate and his love for the memory of Eleanor. He doesn't know what to do, so he does nothing. He only realizes what a fool he has been when Morpheus goes into labor, and it turns out that the baby is not well positioned. Morpheus spends two days in labor, and there are serious fears that neither he nor the baby would make it. Morpheus is barely alive by the end of the ordeal, but he miraculously gives birth to a healthy baby boy - Robyn. He himself is seriously ill, though, and in fever. Robert never leaves his side and prays to every god that his mate will survive so they can have a second chance. He is ready to do anything to make Morpheus happy, from abolishing slavery that his mate resents so much to pandering to his every whim.

OOO this is such a great outline for a story!! You can definitely see both perspectives here. Hob didn't want to remarry, he's traumatised, he feels so many things and everything is moving so quickly. Meanwhile Morpheus is in a completely new place with new people, knowing that he has a duty to fulfil, trying his best... only to find that nothing he does is enough for his new husband.

Morpheus even understands that his pregnancy must be a huge trigger for Hob, so he does his best not to mention it at all. He even hides the bump under draping clothes so his husband won't be reminded of his condition. Hob wavers between spending time with Morpheus and ignoring him for days. He forgets that Morpheus is going through this for the first time, essentially alone.

The traumatic labour does at least snap Hob out of his selfishness. He refuses to leave Morpheus even during the worst, when they think the omega might die. After Robyn is born, Hob takes care of him personally, feeding him and holding him as much as possible, and spending the rest of his time at Morpheus’s bedside. He doesn't deserve his omega, he's well aware of that - but Morpheus deserves to live! And Hob wants a chance to love him, at the very least. He wants Morpheus so much he can hardly breathe. He'd thought it was silly that his omega cared so much about slavery - it's just what Hob’s kingdom has always done. But now Hob would give anything to talk to be Morpheus about it. To be guided by his mate's principles. They could build a better realm together.

When Morpheus wakes up, he's surprised to see his mate beside him, with their newborn baby snuggled up in the crook of his arm. Morpheus hardly recognises Hob. He looks tired and soft and his eyes are full of tenderness. Morpheus wearily asks for water and Hob personally helps him to drink, slow and careful.

Morpheus is sort of expecting a grovelling apology that he'll have to listen to and then he'll have to be the bigger person, to give Hob the balm of forgiveness... but that doesn't happen. Hob just. Does stuff. Instead of making promises. He nurses Morpheus through his recovery, and supports him as he starts to care for Robyn more each day. He brings matters of state and ideas to Morpheus’s attention and asks for his opinions. He sleeps beside Morpheus each night (not in the same bed, but in the same room) until he's finally invited to join his omega. He doesn't even mention sex until Morpheus brings it up. And it's only much later that Morpheus finds out that slavery was outlawed while he was sick.

It doesn't mean that Hob didn't make mistakes. But it does mean that he won't be repeating them. And that Morpheus can finally learn to trust him. He's happy to invite Hob to share his first heat after giving birth. There's no alpha he'd rather have.

And Eleanor's spirit is finally smiling down on them, instead of repeatedly smacking Hob around the head for his behaviour <33

[anosrepasi]

So I said i was getting back into The Old Guard but also tumblr sandman content has infected me and this idea has been stuck in my head since i realized that i adored the character of Hob Gadling and thought, oh dude what a great character foil for another immortal character who goes through uhhhh, a lot of similar experiences but does no where near as well with it.

aka. What if Hob Gadling and Sebastien Le Livre became drinking buddies. Part two is here

--

Call it his age but Hob can’t help but feel that the world sends its boys to war now, rather than its men. The nations rally their youth to glory and service, in the name of queen and country, and ship them off to win the war on distant shores. Most come back in boxes.

He can only watch so much of that before he’s stopping by the nearest recruitment office and putting his latest fake name forward for the draft.

It’s a silly notion, that his presence can change the tide in what’s already being called “the great war.” He’s not looking to change the tide per say, but if he can save a few dumb kids who haven’t gotten the chance to live yet, well, then a few years invested in being a soldier again will be well worth it.

He’s got nothing pressing going on anyway, not for 76 years at the earliest.

So Hob Gadling fits the mantle of soldier back on his shoulders again, muddles through his training to neither fall behind or exceed expectations of a normal man his age, and gets himself shipped off to France to fight the Germans.

It goes as well as expected.

—

He cycles through units, and ends up staying near Ypres more often than not. His name mysteriously never ends up on the list for the men who’ve done their time on the front line and are reassigned to support or leave. He sticks close to where the fight is and doesn’t get friendly enough with anyone to cause an uproar about his lack of leave time.

He can’t die, better him here than somewhere else.

That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t start to recognize his comrades on rotation though.

They’re young fools, the majority of them. There’s an occasional old-timer like himself, and he can see the moment of recognition across the trenches when he’s stationed with someone else who’s seen war before. There’s a slight nod and that’s that.

As the war progresses however, it gets far more difficult to tell the old guard from the new. War ages a man, this one especially.

One of the boys in his present squad, down to five until more reinforcements can be brought in, cracks a joke one quiet morning that he’ll head home and be mistaken for his uncle when his parents meet him at the station. Hob hears a quiet scoff, “Better old than dead.”

His eyes glance up to the man on guard, a man around Hob’s age or slightly older. He’s quiet, keeps to himself in the week since he’s been rotated into Hob’s unit. He’s vigilant, in a way that Hob can respect as a man who’s more aware of his surrounds than he lets on.

“Cheers to the words of Private Book, wisest man this side of the western trench complex.” Hob runs his mouth without thinking and Book’s eyes flicker down to him before returning to his watch.

“Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.” Private Book says quietly, and Hob can’t help but have his interest suddenly piqued by the quiet words.

The man quotes Doyle but with an accent far more perfect than any Englishman who had a primer in French. Maybe he’ll have someone interesting to discuss literature with out here after all.

—

The Germans get lucky and manage to aim one fucking shell near perfectly into the middle of their particular stretch of trench that evening.

Hob comes to surrounded by the overarching noise of active warfare and the contrasting silence of everything around him. The nearest allied trenches are occupied at the moment so he has a moment to collect himself and come up with a plan before he’s set upon by either his allies or trench sweepers.

His stomach twists and protests as instead he forces his lungs to cough up the blood and dirt mixed in his mouth and tries feebly to call roll. “Smith. Karlson. Book. Turner. Any of you make it?”

The dead do not answer and Hob sighs, cursing and shakily getting to his feet to survey the damage. It’s not good. He’ll have to move, but he stops by each body and gently closes their eyes or position them into some sort of posture of rest, rather than a tangle of limbs.

Its when he’s saying rights over Turner, bless the kid’s hopeful soul, that body next to him jerks and shudders back into life with a gasp.

Hob has failed to die many a time, but he’s yet to see someone else come back to life in all his years. Getting caught by surprise isn’t a necessarily ridiculous response. He falls back, away from the body- man?, on instinct and offers his own short curse when the body of Private Samuel Book sits up with a groan and sighs when it catches sight of its hand knitting the flesh back together on the side that caught the blunt of the shells explosion.

Samuel Book looks up and freezes when he catches sight of Hob, the next moment both men are speaking in unison, “How the fuck did you survive that?”