#it's literal. but also a dream. so it's a metaphor. and a dog. I'm experiencing shrimp emotions.

[justsalpals]

The newest Very Important People makes me feel like I'm losing my mind but in a surreal emotional way that's probably positive

You put rocks in the bag. You carry it as long as you can. And then you find somewhere you love and you put the rocks down.

[moorishflower]

Hob Gadling vs. The Devil (Dreamling, rated E)

in coming to the conclusion that I'm physically incapable of writing "a drabble," here, have a Husbands "drabble" where Hob metaphorically sucker-punches the devil

"Tell me again why I'm doing this?" Hob asks, he thinks for the third or fourth time, and Dream, to his great credit, doesn't roll his eyes. He only puts his hands on Hob's shoulders, steers him gently towards the bedroom. Hob can't delay any longer -- he's brushed his teeth, he's showered, he's done all his normal nightly ablutions, and now there's just. The sleeping.

The Dreaming, just beyond it.

"Because you are my husband," Dream says, "my consort. You share the heart of the Dreaming. To not be seen at an event such as this would reflect poorly upon us both."

"I didn't pick a fight with the devil." Hob's voice has gone a bit spare and reedy at the end there, which he thinks is a perfectly reasonable response to one's husband telling you that 'by the way, the important work function I've mentioned that I need you to attend, it's going to be full of demons and also literal Satan.' The throb of his anxiety sits like a humming bowstring between them, anchored from Hob's chest to somewhere deep and distant inside Dream. Yet Hob knows he could reach out and stroke that far-flung place, if he wanted -- for him, the distance hardly matters.

Dream's hand on his shoulder gentles; the bed is so close, yet he stops, and turns Hob towards him.

"You are afraid."

And this is perhaps one of the stupidest things Dream has ever said to him, and Hob includes his final words before his disappearance a century ago, what boiled down to 'be right back love, just going to pop around to the shops' and then a solid nothing after that. "Yes," he says slowly, "I'm afraid. I've only. You've only just gotten out. Of that place. A human did that to you. A stupid old man with a book and too much money. This is Satan we're talking about. How much worse can they do?"

"There are rules." Dream sounds like he's trying to soothe an anxious dog, barking at a thunderstorm. Perhaps to him it's as simple as that, but Hob still remembers a time when he feared for his immortal soul. Remembers too keenly the path he walked to return a spark of power to Dream, held for a century underground. It's been two months. Two months. He thinks he's entitled to worry.

But Dream pulls him towards the bed, and he's no longer budging Hob along, but gently beckoning, and Hob feels that humming tether between them grow looser, grow liquid with wanting. Dream, pouring into him what comfort he's able to provide.

(Like a Vulcan mind meld? Hob had asked, hand resting over the dense knot of scar tissue, still scraped-raw from fang and mouth. Dream, skeptical, had demanded access to all of Hob's dreams of Vulcans and their abilities, but had eventually concluded that the comparison, while crude, was not inaccurate.)

"Come," Dream says, "to sleep. You will come to no harm in my realm."

"It's not me I'm worried about. Can't die, remember? I assume that means in my sleep, too."

Dream tugs him down onto the bed, languidly indulgent; he's taken to wearing Hob's clothes when they spend the night together, regardless of whether it's sleeping or visiting the Dreaming. He's purloined an ancient T. Rex shirt this time around, stretched and worn so thin it falls like water to the middle of Dream's thighs. He's not wearing anything underneath it. This is a significantly better incentive for Hob to come to bed than the idea of going to meet actual Lucifer at a party.

Dream stretches out first, lets Hob climb down beside him before he tangles them together, like snakes, like strands of silk. He sighs when Hob tucks his thigh between his legs.

"Sleep," he says, "or we shall be late."

"No quickie for your anxious husband?"

Dream purses his lips, and Hob is initially hopeful it's for a kiss. In retrospect, the sand should probably have been his first guess.

+++

The Dreaming is a wild bustle, but Hob's not allowed the pleasure of experiencing the party from the ground floor. There are rules, Dream had said, and those rules apparently include Hob getting kitted up in the most elaborate finery he's ever seen and then standing at attention next to Dream while a series of truly nightmare-inducing creatures file through the Palace's gates.

("Your raiments suit you," Dream says. His fingers fold in origami complexity along Hob's throat, where the collar of his outfit cuts an odd angle against his skin. It's something like armor, and something like the robes of a priest, all in spun cloth-of-gold and bloody crimson, accents of saintly white, amber that drips down the length of his neck and from each ear but never completes its fall.

"I ought to be wearing your colors," he says, and Dream hums softly, and kisses him.

"Later," he promises, "you will wear me and nothing else.")

He holds this memory tightly to him as the creatures pass him by, some ignoring him completely (his preference, honestly), some pausing in their journey to stare, to snap their teeth in his direction, to laugh. He wonders what he looks like, here -- some human who bullied his way into loving the Dreamlord, dressed like a peacock next to Dream, who looks so effortless, so divine.

"Be wary, husband," Dream murmurs, and Hob's attention snaps to the door. "The Morningstar approaches."

And indeed, there's a hush that's fallen over the great hall, a billion candles snuffing at once, a silence that eats at the edges of the space until it seems smaller than before. As if there's fewer places to hide. The doors to the palace are already wide open, but they seem to loom ever wider, as the shadow of two massive, leathered wings proceeds the creature that now enters the Dreamlord's domain.

Lucifer, who was the Morningstar, brightest and most beautiful of God's angels, looks nothing like the pictures. There's no horns, for one, no forked tail, no split tongue. They're beautiful. Cherubic in the face, a cascade of golden curls over eyes blue as glaciers, the swan-shapeliness of their neck, and arching over all of it their wings, like dragon's wings, scaled and leathery and so massive that the sight of them threatens to steal Hob's breath. Wings that are meant for destroying, not for flight. Wings that could propel a hurricane.

"Lord Morpheus," the Devil says, and their voice is like birdsong at the bottom of a mineshaft, like a voice under anesthesia saying that doesn't look right, like a hundred different things that are commonplace but also wrong, somehow. It's joy that's been inverted and turned upon its head. It's what yearning sounds like, when there will never be relief.

"Lord Lucifer," Dream says, and bows. Hob follows his lead, keeps the depth of his plunge precisely as low as Dream's, and no further. This is a show of solidarity as much as it is an appeasement. "Welcome to the Dreaming. May you enter in peace and leave in harmony."

"Hm." Lucifer's hum is an atonal murmuration, a wordless we shall see. "You have recovered the other tools of your office." Their eyes flick to Hob. "And crafted new ones."

Hob bristles, and then stills when Dream's hand lights on his forearm. "My husband," Dream says, "Robert Gadling."

"Mm. Will you not greet me yourself, Robert Gadling?" Lucifer's perfect, pink mouth is a cupid's bow of delight. Hob can so easily imagine it bloody. "I find human lovers...too timid for my tastes. But perhaps he suits you, Lord Morpheus."

This time it's Dream's hand that clenches. They're a united front still, but Christ, he's never wanted to punch a creature so much as he now wants to throw fists at the Devil. He's absolutely ruddy terrified, but annoyance is a powerful motivator.

"I'd greet you as humans do," Hob says, and ignores how Dream's hand momentarily refuses to leave his arm. He tries to find that holding thread between them, that vibration, tries to wrap into it all his love and support and his righteous indignation, that Dream is a king, this is his kingdom, that suddenly it doesn't matter that this is the Devil, and Hob is only a man. There's something that's been tripped in his brain, some long-buried and long-unused notion of how chivalry ought to work, and it churns through him like a marching army.

He holds out his hand, his wrists and fingers dripping in gold and amber, pauldron and rerebrace and vambrace in all the brilliant shining of a sunrise. Fifteen minutes ago he felt like a turkey stuffed for Michaelmas, but anger fills his bones with light.

"Won't you shake a poor sinner's hand?" he asks, and Lucifer's mouth twists into a delicate, beautiful snarl.

They take his hand.

It's like holding onto a live serpent. It's like touching a coal fresh from the hearth. It burns like fire, like acid, and Hob can feel Lucifer's nails digging into his wrist like the bite of a rabid dog. His skin bubbles and melts and sloughs away, his bones are glass, and he feels a whistle of air past him -- doesn't hear, feels -- that he knows, with terrified instinct, is that last, great Fall.

He holds on. He squeezes.

"My king likes my timidity just fine," he says. When he smiles, it feels like his cheeks are tearing, like his mouth is long and sharp, like there's a wolf in him. That huge and monstrous wolf that Desire showed him, golden and splendid and stark raving mad. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Lord Lucifer."

The nails in his wrist dig deeper; the bite of an adder, the creeping malaise of poison. And then, all at once, the nails let go.

Hob doesn't.

Lucifer tries to pull back their hand, and Hob holds on, vicious, his smile a baring of teeth. His own hand is on fire; his own hand is agony. "Ah," he says, "forgot this part," and brings Lucifer's tight and resisting hand to his mouth. To his bone-white teeth, to the memory of the maw that took his heart.

When his lips touch the back of their pale, beautiful hand, Lucifer hisses like they've been burned. Perhaps it's to their credit that they don't pull away, that they let Hob release them, that when they take their hand back they do not shake it as if stung.

He can feel Dream's eyes on him, measuring, focused.

"I hope you enjoy your stay," Hob says, and Lucifer blinks at him, a slow, sideways thing like a resting serpent.

"Yes," Lucifer says. "I look forward to...getting to know you better. Robert Gadling. In my own realm, perhaps."

"I'm afraid you'll be waiting a while." He glances sidelong at Dream. Dream, who is, yes, staring at him, his lips slightly parted, his eyes wide fields of stars in endless black velvet twilight. "You see, I've decided I'm not going to die."

"My husband is full of wonders," Dream murmurs. He blinks, and finally looks back to Lucifer. "Please. Avail yourself of my hospitality, before we commence negotiations. I am eager to restore peace between our realms."

"As am I." There's a bitterness to those words, and even Hob can smell the lie in them. But Lucifer inclines their head towards them, and some snarling, slavering thing in Hob is gratified to note how they give him a slightly wider berth than before.

Hob lets Dream lead him away. He feels the fingers on his arm, is aware that it's there, but most of his attention is now on his hand, which feels like it's been flayed, dipped in acid, salted, burned. It looks fine, no wounds, not even a divot from where Lucifer's nails had dug into his wrist, but he feels it still, something down in the marrow, something in the soul.

They wind their way through the crowds of dreams and demons and nightmares, and the Dreaming shapes itself around them, providing a shadowed nook behind a broad statue of a pegasus, its wings extended, a shelter.

"Ow," Hob says, as Dream yanks his arm upwards, examining his hand with critical detail. "Ow, ow, ow."

"Foolish," Dream murmurs, "they could hurt you, they could -- "

"Not any more than they could hurt you." Dream's eyes snap to his, and Hob meets them easily. The white-hot light in their center is a solar flare, so bright it threatens sight itself, but Hob does not look away. And Dream...

Dream brings Hob's hand to his mouth. Lays a kiss to the center of his palm, and from that pinprick sensation spreads a marvelous, numbing coolness. A soothing balm.

"I'm not going to let my husband be disrespected in his own fucking castle," he says, and Dream's eyes go heavy-lidded, banking the hot ember within, shadowing it as Dream, Christ help him, as Dream pops Hob's ring finger in his mouth and presses his tongue there, cool as a winter's morning.

"Ah," he says. "That was. You liked that?"

Dream draws back from his finger, a wet drag of lips and teeth, and says, "Did I like my husband. Asserting his dominance over the Morningstar. Defending my honor. My husband in righteous fury. How your skin shone like a sun in its prime."

"I don't know if it was that --"

Dream drops to his knees. It's an all-at-once motion, fluidly graceful, and his robes of office puddle around him in flames and starlight. Hob is, abruptly, no longer aware of his hand's discomfort.

"Hush," Dream says, and his hands are clever, his hands are pale and narrow and beautiful as they delve into the complicated mess of Hob's robes. Not complicated, apparently, for the will that manifested them, because Hob feels them part like silk beneath a knife, and then Dream's long and gorgeous fingers are wrapped around his prick.

"Oh my god," Hob says, and Dream looks up at him, draws his cock free from gold and woven sunlight and puddled amber-bronze; his eyes flare like supernovas, his mouth is the sweetest, pinkest thing Hob has ever seen. "Dream, there are, there are demons..."

"Let them see." Dream strokes downward, a long slide from tip to root, rucking down Hob's foreskin over the head growing ruddy and damp. "If a word is said against you, I will rip them asunder. I would be had by you in front of Lucifer themself. And feel no shame."

And that, that does something to Hob's brain, some old and animal part of him that still thrills with excitement when Dream opens his body to him, a savageness that glories in the taking, and the having. Christ, he loves when Dream fucks him, likes the feel of Dream's cock in his mouth, he wouldn't trade it for the world. This, though -- Dream on his knees, Dream sat in Hob's lap, Dream letting Hob touch and kiss and lick all of the soft-bellied parts of him, this is still new.

"All right," Hob says, and he cups the back of Dream's skull, his downy hair threaded through with moonlight, and this, too, is a balm to his aching hand. Dream holds him, manipulates him where he wants Hob to be, and maybe it says something about him, but the casualness of the touch is as much a turn-on as the sight of Dream sticking out his petal-pink tongue and licking, one long stripe from the curl of his own fingers to the head of Hob's prick, where a bead of spend has already gathered.

"Tell me what you would do," Dream says softly, "in my name."

And then he takes Hob's prick into his mouth, so cool it loops again to warmth, the soft undulating pressure of his tongue, and Hob slams his other hand against his mouth so hard it makes his teeth click. He's sure someone must hear him cry out, but there's a huge and grinding movement out of the corner of his eye -- the massive wings of the pegasus flexing. Let them see, Dream had said, but perhaps he'd meant Let them hear.

He speaks muffled into his own fist, desperate not to rock into that beautiful, waiting throat. "I'd raise armies," he says, his brain a spin of stories, old and new, and Dream there, knelt in front of him, his mouth stretched sweetly around the girth of Hob's cock, his lips so pink. "I'd, Christ, I'd sink fleets. I'll punch any god that tries to, to speak ill of you, I'll, Dream, right, right there, please."

Dream twists his wrist, and Hob is so hard, so hard he can feel it like a vibration in him, a buzzing lightness in his abdomen. Dream's hair is so wonderfully soft in his hand, and he marvels that he's allowed to do this, that he is allowed to grip a handful of that feathered ink, tugging just hard enough that Dream's head tips back, his mouth pulling off of Hob's cock with a wet and filthy pop.

"More," he says. His next stroke is eased by the slickness of his own spit, and Hob cries out again into his palm. Helpless, wanting.

"I'd walk through Hell for you." Dream blinks lazily, bends his head back down and licks at the head of Hob's prick like a sweet. "I'd give you my heart, again and again. I'm, I'm going to make you a place to come home to, I'm going to make you dinner and take you out to the movies, I'm going to love you. I love you, fucking, Christ, you impossible creature."

His words end on a strangled moan, as Dream, appeased at last, takes Hob's cock back into his mouth, and down his throat, his slender, cool throat, and swallows.

When he peaks, it's an almost out of body experience; he's keenly aware of his hand in Dream's hair, of the pulse of his prick and the way Dream swallows around him, humming in pleasure at the taste, and he's also aware of the nearby throng of the party, the chattering of voices. He can picture, in his mind's eye, Lucifer standing before the Dreaming Throne, their mouth a moue of discontent, their stung hand flexing and clenching.

Hob rather hopes they hear the noise he makes when he comes. He hopes he gets to look them in the eye later, before they leave. This is mine, he'll think, of Dream, of this palace, these subjects, my husband, my realm, my love, not yours, and you can never have them.

He comes back to himself with a wet and startled moan, Dream licking him, over and over, obsessively cleaning. Hob has to pull him by the hair to get him to leave off, and the noise he makes when he goes is yearning. His mouth is bitten-red, and there's a dozy, lazy look to his eyes that Hob associates with the well and truly fucked.

"Did you...?" he asks, and Dream licks his lips, contemplatively.

"No," he says. "I wish to save myself for you. For later."

"Ah," Hob says. Dream gently tucks him away, back into the impossible folds of his robes, and when he stands it's the same smooth and gliding motion. This time, though, when his mouth covers Hob's, he can taste the salt-bitterness of himself.

"This party needs to end as fast as reasonably possible," he says, and Dream nods vaguely.

"Mm. Then come, my husband. Let us pay our respects to the Morningstar. And speed this along."

He holds out his hand. The thing between them, that stretched and brightly vibrating thing, is athrum with heady music.

Hob takes his hand, and the grand statue folds back its wings, allowing in a wash of searing light as they rejoin the party.

[omegangrins]

[Kingsmen 3: The Golden Service] Harry Hart turns "villain"

TL;DR: The Lepidopterist is the *perfect* name for a "colorfull" megalomaniac who's trying to save the world via villainy.

I've allways had a nagging feeling that Colin Firth's Harry Hart is destined to become a villain. Like Valentine and Poppy, our Hart will break.

Why do I think this? Let's start simple:

1) "I always felt that the old Bond films were only as good as the villain. As a child, I rather fancied a future as a colorful megalomaniac."

Now you could take it as face value veiled metaphor in their cat and mouse game. A game recognize game moment. Though when you look at it from a character angle, it is rather apparent that Galahad is not lying here. Look at the giddy nature in which they both talk about the subject. Almost lost in a moment of childhood nostalgia. Neither man is lying. So if Valentine tried to save the world like his younger self wanted, then it stands to reason that Harry has that childhood dream himself.

Harry even has a flair for the dramatic already. "Manners maketh man" is all about him causing a dignified scene to teach a lesson to all watching. In the Freebird church scene, you can see it BEFORE he starts fighting because of Valentine's machine.

Feels like a simple "I'm going to the bathroom" or "I'm hot and need to breath outside for moment" would have sufficed and gotten him out of there without hassle from the crazy Baptist and he KNEW that but didn't care. Arthur implies this subversiveness in their conversations about choosing candidates. Then there's the *way* in which he kills everyone there. Not just defense or trying to kill quickly but lots of slow, painful, and fucked up deaths. The killing is Valentine but the style is ALL Harry. It's part of the reasons he's disgusted. Not the enjoyment, but the ease with which he turned so gleefully. That slow motion fade in smile in the middle is proof of this. Harry *wanted* to punish those people the same way Valentine did. That's proven by what he says at the start. (Don't blame him either, just character commenting. Fuck those people.) Part of me thinks the Freebird is playing in *HIS* head. He's a bird freed by blood.

2) The Lepidopterist

I know the clip is from Venture Bros but it's meant to show how two "good guys" became bad. Kinda the perfect coincidence. But I digress... it was a shameless plug to #SavetheVentureBros. 😎😙😍

The hobbyist collecting of insects, fauna/flora, and what-have-yous has looooong been a trope of "colorful megalomaniacs".

Then there's the added bonus that The Lepidopterist sounds like the *perfect* name for a Bond villain.

Butterflies even symbolize death and rebirth and the violence inherent in transforming something for the better.

Is Harry's butterflies a set-up foreshadowing to his coming transformation from "hero" to "villain"?

"I doubt whether I'd work for anyone who drowns their employees. I want to go home. I want my butterfly collection. I want to see Mother."

3) As we know, all the best villains are ones we sympathize with and understand WHY they do what they do. Valentine was trying to solve over-population and save what he could of the species so it wouldn't happen again. Poppy wanted drugs to be legal, partially for vanity reasons but mainly for anger at global government hypocrisies (the same governments which had their heads blown up for trying to kill humanity for their own gain). Wouldn't it fit perfectly for Harry Hart to have seen the horrors inflicted by the world governments and the corruption of not only Statesmen, but his beloved Kingsmen themselves, and say "No more." What's he gonna feel when he finds out Arthur sold the Kingsmen's soul and got him killed? How long has the "shoot the dog" exercise been in practice? Why is trying to drown someone thought of as a reasonable way to help them? Does the rot go to the core? All things any reasonable person would ask after being shot for an organization that was just blown up by a drug dealer.

"When I was shot, can you guess what the last thing was that flashed through my mind? It was absolutely nothing. I had no ties. No bittersweet memories. I was leaving nothing behind. Never experienced companionship, never been in love. And in that moment, all I felt was loneliness and regret."

Who's to say what he would do or the methods he would take, but villains are merely people casting shadows in the way of the light.

4) I put this last because it's more pun than the others and because I only realized it while writing their names out loud. Valentine. Poppy. Hart. A valentine is love, poppies symbolize death, and a heart combines both (a Hart is also the name for an adult male deer over the age of five but I'm not British enough to understand what the fuck that has to do with anything.) There's also Richmond Valentine/Rich Man Love (Rich dude saving the world). Poppy Adams/ Poppy of the Earth (Death of the World). And finally Harry Hart/Harry Heart. An attacking heart. Yeah, that's the old definition of "harry". To harass. (Or Power Ruler of the Five Year Old Male Deer. This isn't an exact science 🙃 ). Honestly, as I write these out, the puns become the hardest piece of proof for me. Brits love a good wordplay foreshadowing.

"... this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

AND what else do they have in common? They're all things associated with the color red. And what's red?

BLOOD.

Sorry, couldn't resist the touch of drama. 🤣

P.S. I know it's not really related but I also subscribe to the Poppy is a former Statesmen theory as well.

Making this an even more thematic connection. Good guys gone villain because of shitty situations.

Edits

5) HE'S WEARING AN EYEPATCH!!! How autistic am I that I missed that in my explanation. Eyepatches just seem that normal to me but they're like the ultimate villain accessory. Unless you're a pirate.

6) /u/Bespoke3 pointed out how the one thing keeping this from happening is Eggsy and Harry's relationship, and I contended that it was true. While making an interesting movie, you need a sufficient reason for those two to be on opposite ends of each other. And in rambling through comments, I found it. This is why you write shit outloud:

It's Princess Tilde!

The first movie showed that world leaders would gladly sell their souls to save themselves, Princess Tilde being one of the few exceptions. The second showed that even after those figureheads exploded (see what I did there 🤣), there was still terrible people left in charge making even worse decisions.

What if Harry's plan is to attack all of the "leaders" of the world as a way to show people they have the power to govern themselves. This would put Princess Tilde, and moreso her family, directly in the line of fire and force Eggsy's hand to intervene and choose.

Save the girl or save the world.

7) As /u/baddestmofointhe209 pointed out, Harry *was* shot in the head. That kind of thing does tend to mess with people after the fact. Maybe turning villain isn't such a stretch. Not evil, but morally grey.

7) As /u/baddestmofointhe209 pointed out, Harry *was* shot in the head. That kind of thing does tend to mess with people after the fact. Maybe turning villain isn't such a stretch. Not evil, but morally grey.

8) My wife was telling me about how Colin Firth has allways wanted to play the villain too.

"Whenever you take on playing a villain, he has to cease to be a villain to you. If you judge this man by his time, he's doing very little wrong."

“I’d never rule out a part in Doctor Who or Torchwood – especially Doctor Who, I’d also love to play a villain like Moriarty in Sherlock Holmes."

9) Thanks to some pushback from /u/The-Reddit-Giraffe, I decided to Google Kingsmen 3 rumors and stumbled on this little nugget about it, and specifically the Harry/Eggsy relationship:

"I'm really not allowed to say anything, but there is a script. It's a really neat idea."

Outside of it telling the finale of Eggsy and Harry Hart's story, we don't know all that much about the plot for the third movie.

"People will either freak out in a good way, or freak out in a bad way, but they will freak out," Vaughn teased. "We're literally finishing the script off as I speak – but they go on a journey that, if anyone sees it coming, then I'll give up."

To which I would like to thank YOU. This is why I love being shown how I could be wrong. I can't help but feel like this is EXACTLY what they're talking about. You don't have a script finished that fast if you didn't already know where you were going with the first two.

It HAS to end like this. Now I can't see any other way. Maybe The Rock is the Big Bad they have to team up to stop at the end but I will say with 99% confidence that Harry Hart will turn rogue for the first 2/3 of the movie.

10) This wouldn't be the first time I was right about something like this either.