Crimson | Eleven | Delight | Petrichor

[crplpunkklavier]

i think about this one so fucking often i had to clip it

[6qubed]

that was like watching someone very skillfully assembling a stained-glass window just to watch someone else dropkick it

[urbanfantasyinspiration]

I can literally quote this clip word for word

[dduane]

A classic. :)

[nicostiel]

#what???

[mndvx]

Sorry, why are you not wearing…? DOCTOR WHO – The Power of The Doctor (BBC Centenary Special) ››› Paul McGann as The Eighth Doctor ››› Sylvester McCoy as The Seventh Doctor

[nicostiel]

Robbie Coltrane who played Hagrid in the Harry Potter movies dies at 72. RIP 🖤

[black-constellations]

"There's no Hogwarts without you, Hagrid."

Rest In Peace Robbie Coltrane, thank you for being part of something so special.

[youcanseethecosmos]

In light of me finding out Ferdie is a music producer, I bring an au brainrot literally no one is asking for:

I always wonder how Hob is still comfortably financially stable throughout the centuries. I know he mentioned in 1789 that he has money all over the world and he could go anywhere because after the 1600's shit show he's gotten more frugal and careful with his money.

But imagine: Hob picking up playing musical instruments around the time he and Dream "broke up" in 1889. The devastation of that meeting had him searching for something, anything, to help him cope with the possible forever loss of the only constant in his entire life. He has a piano in his current living room. But he's never actually touched it before. Why not learn it, right?

He's hired teachers, gone to classes, dabbled in everything remotely musical. Until eventually he settled on composing and producing. By the 50's he established an anonymous but fairly influential producer image by the moniker of "HG" (Like how Ferdie's producer name is FK because he's adorable and I love him). If you look closely at some of each new decade's greatest hits starting from the 50's, Hob's there. The little "Produced by HG" among a lot of other people. It's blink or you'll miss it but he's there. He's partly responsible for some of the best pieces of music all the way into the turn of the century.

And the producer name of HG gets passed down from "father to son." The name HG isn't just one person to the general music lovers community — it's a continuing legacy. A legacy only Hob fulfills. And by jove he's proud of it. Producing music is the best way for him to preserve decades of his life without ever showing his face to the public. He's heard his songs played on vinyl, CD's, cassette tapes, and eventually those wonderful little smartphones over the years. It reminds Hob that the change he witnesses with every new lifetime he lives, though scary, can be so utterly beautiful.

And you know how Dream finds out?

On a long drive with the windows rolled down, on a little roadtrip Hob insist they go on because "friends go on spontaneous roadtrips together, Dream!" Who was Dream to deny Hob anything after over a century of being apart? Who was Dream to shatter his hopeful expression of an innocent drive to the countryside?

Hob said he could go pick the roadtrip tunes. Because "shotgun usually picks the music." Dream is directed to check Spotify and it takes him a good ten minutes scrolling and searching for music because there is a specific sound he's looking for. Dream, being the one who holds the collective unconscious, has heard music being brought to life in Dreams. He's stayed in the shadows of great composers' dreams to hear a lovely melody. He's sat in empty theaters to watch the solo recital of young hopeful artists as they sing a song that has yet to be written.

And during his imprisonment, there was always a faint melody in his head. The song of a dreamer who longs for something, who longs for companionship, who longs for something once lost. On most days, it's that disjointed melody that brings him hope. He hums it without even thinking whenever he remembers Jessamy. He hums it even in the Dreaming, the notes becoming more clear the more he lingered on the comforting tune.

Somehow, he finds it. After accidentally clicking on Hob's profile instead of the magnifying glass for the search option. He sees a little playlist at the very top. Millions of listeners — millions of dreamers — who listen to the illustrious music producer/s HG.

Something compels Dream to tap it. Something compels him to scroll through the playlist, his thumbs seemingly knowing what to do before his thoughts ever catch up. Then he finds it, and he hears the melody before he even plays it, the song that's been playing in his head on repeat since its inception. The melody he never knew the ending to:

Dreaming of a Lonely Stranger by HG

And the melody engulfs him. Hob recognizes it as soon as it plays. He chances glances at Dream throughout the drive and in those split moments, Dream is completely transfixed – almost bodily drawn to the music. He leans forward in his seat, as far as his seatbelt would allow him, just because the speakers don't do justice to the song that Dream has longed to hear the entirety of.

The song that gave him hope.

After the song is done, Dream has tears in his eyes, falling down his cheeks in rivulets of starlight. Hob parks the car on the side of the road and asks if he's okay. Dream turns to Hob, the stars in his eyes sparkling brighter than Hob has ever seen.

And Dream leans over to Hob, presses their foreheads together, and whispers a soft but reverent "Thank you."

Hob didn't have to ask to know what he meant.

[landwriter]

Unsent Letter from Dream of The Endless to one Hob Gadling, c. June 1889

ETA: Now on Ao3!

June 1 2 14 15 30, 1889

H- It may surprise you to hear that many in my life think me unfeeling after my outburst tonight last night earlier this month, but I am certain you will wish they were right by the end of this letter.

You are unusual. You act as though immune to each lie about myself that I first permitted, then took up as my own. Dispassionate, cold, terrible: I wove a mantle of them just to be better insulated from this world. I wear a story told by multitudes, and it is old and dark as the night itself. And in your company, it has become naught but tattered shreds.

I think you will tear me to shreds too if I do not do something about this. I can barely hold my tongue from offering my own ruin when you ask nothing of me. Even if I restrain myself, I know you to speak honestly of what you see, and you see me far too clearly. You will name the truths that I have banked like coals in my throat for centuries, and they will alight anew and choke me.

I would give you all my breath before you took it from me, Hob Gadling. I will write what I cannot bring myself to say beneath the heat of your regard.

You were right. I know everyone, and I know all the deeds and desires that populate their dreams. It thrums in my consciousness just as your heart beats in your chest. It is overwhelming. It is easier to pretend at not feeling at all, to make myself not feel, when I am surrounded by enough feeling that I wonder how it does not destroy me.

Lately, even this cacophony fades to nothing when I am with you, my own feelings roaring ever louder in my ears. I have not allowed myself to know your dreams for centuries now. I am craven. I instead imagine that I see clues on your face, and I hope.

I have never told you my name. I realized I could not, not when I want you to say it in more ways than you have offered. Could you ever speak my name as a lover would? Tell me you would whisper it in the dark. Tell me you would use it to undo me. Tell me you promise to speak it to me even once in tenderness, Hob, and I will give you my name and all else you ask.

You wished to know me as a friend. I cannot be one to you, because I am not lonely; I am starved. I want to taste the salt of your sweat and make it into a sea. I want to map the heft and set of your shoulders each decade, and make mountains of them in my realm, so that no version of you is forgotten. I want to know the feeling of your body beneath me as a soldier, merchant, lord, and scholar. I want to trace each new mark and scar, and whisper stories to them about the history of this land.

I am parchment covered in the ink of all dreaming things, and still I ache for you to stain me with your mouth and hands. Inscribe your regret and sorrow on my skin, so I can carry them with you. Trace your fantasies on my chest, so I can make them real. I have seen how restless your hands are whenever we meet, Hob. Tire them upon my body. Exhaust yourself in your use of me, and I will hold you in your sleep, and walk with you in your dreams.

You are one man who has lived as dozens. I once thought you dull because you did not hunger for stories like me. Now I have come to understand it is because you are yourself a story, ceaselessly retold. I see what changes. I see what remains. It is inevitable I should crave you as I have craved nobody else.

Will you tell me what you dream of?

I will await you at our accustomed time and place.

-x

first time contributing something to a fandom in my entire adult life, and I wouldn't have done it without first being bowled over by the beautiful physical letters of @wordsinhaled (go read them all under #regency epistolary dreamling) & and then seeing @rainbowvamp's life-ruining hob-yearns-for-dream letter; I read it, wondered what a dream-yearns-for-hob letter would look like, and lost all sensibility

[darthstitch]

every hundred years

Jessamy likes to follow along when the museum guides give their tours. It gives her something to do while Mummy's working with the paintings. At least, that was if Jessamy wasn't in school.

Her Mummy restores old paintings, brings them back like they were good as new. Most kids found that boring, but Jessamy didn't. She liked some of the stories Mummy would tell about those paintings. Of course, Jessamy couldn't be there the whole time, because it was fiddly, fussy work and Mummy needed to concentrate.

Today, Jessamy was trailing along a group that included a few kids close to her own age. They stopped in front of a painting that Jessamy recognized as one that her Mummy had recently restored.

"The Devil in the Tavern," the museum guide proclaimed with a dramatic flourish. "There's a rather spooky story attached to this, just in time for All Hallows' Eve. Don't worry, the painting itself isn't cursed, though. We keep those kinds of paintings decently covered up - we wouldn't want to lose our visitors now, wouldn't we?"

There was nervous laughter among the visitors and the children giggled.

"He doesn't look like the Devil," protested one very young little girl. "He looks like a prince in a fairy tale!"

"Yeah, he's supposed to have horns or scary burning eyes. That's what my nan says," said another little boy.

Jessamy had to agree. The "devil" looked rather handsome in his old-fashioned dark blue suit, with pale skin, bright blue eyes and long dark curly hair tumbling over his shoulders. There was a ruby set in the ruffles at his neck - Mummy called that a cravat, rather like an old-fashioned necktie.

"Well," said the museum guide, "if he had horns and scary eyes, he wouldn't be able to sit all nice and quiet in a tavern, aye? The story goes that the Devil and the Cursed Soldier would meet in a certain tavern, once every hundred years…"

Jessamy listened as the museum guide continued to spin their story about dreadful bargains made for immortality, a clever soldier who'd bested the Devil in a card game and won riches beyond imagination, and how every hundred years, the two of them would meet and plot and ensnare more unwary, greedy souls to drag off to Hell. The grown ups chuckled and Jessamy heard one scoff, "Stuff and nonsense!" But that was grown-ups for you. Some of them didn't like a good story, even if it was clearly all made up.

She lingered in front of the painting a while longer, even as the museum guide finished their tale and led the group to other paintings and things to see, moving on to different stories. There was something about this painting that was oddly familiar to her. Something about the look in the "devil's" eyes that seemed more sad to her, rather than sinister.

"That is not the Devil at all," said a deep, resonant voice just behind her. "And that soldier was never cursed."

Jessamy turned to see a tall, thin young man standing there. He was dressed entirely in black - black coat, black pants, black combat boots - which went perfectly well with his black hair and snow-white skin. He kind of looked like Wednesday Addams' older brother, which made her smile inwardly.

"Did the guide make it all up then?" Jessamy asked.

The man shook his head.  "No, they told the story as they knew it.  Stories tend to change as they're told over the years, but they will always go back to their original forms in time."  

"So who was he really?  What's the real story then?" Jessamy asked.  

"He is the King of All Night's Dreaming," the man answered, a small smile playing about his lips. "He was rather proud, a little too full of himself at times. Since he knew the dreams and hopes of all humanity, he fancied that he knew all that he should of mortals. His sister, who was very wise and quite kind, decided to teach him otherwise."

"How?  And who was his sister?"

"His sister was Death.  And she pointed out the soldier to him, who was rather deep in his cups at the time. The man proclaimed to all and sundry that he had no plans of ever dying.  She decided then and there, that she would grant him his wish.  He would not die, unless he finally wanted it.

The Lord of Dreams believed that he would be begging for Death's gift in a century.  And so they made a wager about it.  

Still quite haughty, he swept up to the soldier and told him the news.  And invited him to a meeting at that very same tavern, in a hundred years.

'Aye, stranger,' said the soldier quite cheerfully.  'I'll see you in a hundred years, then!"  

Jessamy found herself spellbound by the man's voice and the way he told his tale.  She hadn't realized that the two of them were now  sitting on one of the benches in front of the portrait.  There were other children now who were obviously listening as well and they'd settled down on the floor around them.  

"So did they see each other in a hundred years?"

The man nodded.  

"The Dream Lord expected, of course, for the man to beg him for death.  For much had happened to him in the past century.  He had fought in many battles, he had seen much of suffering and pain and many, many horrors."

The man paused and shook his head, looking rueful.  

"But when the Dream Lord asked him to tell his story, the man told him about the wondrous invention of.... chimneys."

Jessamy and the other children giggled.

"And handkerchiefs."

More laughter.

The man shook his head at them mock-sternly.  "He'd lived through a time when there were no such things and people would sicken and die from inhaling the smoke from a poorly ventilated hearth.  To him, they were marvellous things.

When he spoke to the King of Dreams about his life, it was always the new things that he spoke of and there was such wonder and amazement in his tone, that he had lived to see such miracles and that he hoped he would live to see many more.

And so, when the Dream Lord asked if he still wished to live, he answered, 'Yes.'

Thus, the King of Dreams lost his wager with his sister.  But he was, as I've said, very proud.  And he was now quite intrigued with this fellow, with his talk of chimneys and handkerchiefs.

And so, they agreed to meet once more at that tavern, in another hundred years."

The man continued to weave the story of the King of Dreams and the immortal man, how they would meet at the tavern, to listen to the man tell him of the wonders he'd seen in the previous century.  How he'd risen from his own humble origins as a peasant soldier to become rich and gain a title of his own, with a wife, a son and a baby on the way.  

How, in the very next meeting, the Dream Lord would again meet the immortal man, but this time, he would see him poor and starving, having lost everything - his wealth, his wife and babe, and finally, his dear son.  

Jessamy gulped.  "Did he still want to live?"

"The Dream Lord felt quite sorrowful, when he'd beheld the man and heard his tale of woe.  It had started out as a silly game between him and his sister, but this was now more than just a game to them both.  

The Dream Lord also knew of loss and suffering and pain.  There were times when he felt he would break under the weight of it.  But he endured, for he had a duty to fulfill.  There was no one else to carry the burden for him.  

So he asked the man, with a heavy heart, if he had still wanted to live.  Perhaps, he would offer this man a final dream to ease his way, a vision of the family he had lost, to comfort him.  

The Dream Lord thought to himself that he would miss this man and his stories, but it was only to be expected.  Humans could only endure so much pain.  This was why his sister bestowed her gift to humanity.  They were only too glad to see her, in the end.  

But once more, the man surprised him.  

"Are you mad?" the man told him.  "Death's a mug's game.  I've got so much more to live for."

So much hope still in him. How extraordinary."

"Did they meet again? The King of Dreams and the immortal man?" Jessamy asked.

"Did he get all better?" asked another little girl.

The man nodded.

He continued to tell them the story of the immortal's adventures. How he had done deeds both good and terrible. How he had learned from those dire mistakes, that had haunted his dreams and nightmares, which would have broken other men before him.

And yet, he had always looked forward, tried to do better and dreamed, always, to what new and wondrous thing the future would bring him. What stories he would tell the King of Dreams when they met again.

"All that, and still, the immortal did not truly know who the King of Dreams was."

Jessamy blinked. "Why? Weren't they friends already?"

The man laughed softly. "As I've said, the King of Dreams was a rather arrogant creature."

"He's very silly,"  Jessamy declared.  "I'd rather like to be friends with someone who lives forever like that.  And I'd see him more than just once in a hundred years."  

"Then you are far wiser than the King of Dreams, little one.  And a much better friend."

"Maybe the King of Dreams was afraid," Jessamy ventured.  "I think he was lonely.  He just didn't want to admit it."

"He was.  Very lonely.  And quite afraid.  He had reason to be, for terrible things would happen to the people he loved.  He did not want the same thing to happen to this man, his friend, who had become very dear to him.  Dearest and best beloved."  

"And how does the story end?  Do they still meet in that tavern every hundred years?"

"How do you think the story ends, little Jessamy?"

Jessamy blinked.  She wasn't sure if she'd told this man her name.  But there was something in those extraordinary blue eyes, a look, that was warm and kind and knowing. Again, there was that nudge of familiarity to it, something that scratched at the edge of memory.  

"You're the Storyteller," she told him archly.  "You should know."

"Perhaps they still meet, even now, though the tavern is no longer there.  They meet someplace new, a place that the immortal has built for his errant friend, a safe place where they can sit and drink and spend time together.    

Perhaps, they meet a little more often than a hundred years, because the immortal man still has many stories to tell and the King of Dreams himself has learned his own lessons.  

Perhaps, the immortal now knows his friend's name and asks the Dream Lord to tell his own story.  As I tell it to you now."

The man smiled.  And Jessamy finally tried not to think very hard about how the man looked exactly like that painting that was just in front of them.  

"There you are, duck," said another man, walking up to them.  He was only slightly shorter than the man in black, broad-shouldered, with warm brown eyes and the kindest smile.  He paused in front of them, took in the scene of Jessamy and the children with amusement.  "Telling stories again, are we?  Do I know this one?"

"You know it quite well, dearest," the storyteller said, standing up to walk towards his companion.  "I am rather fond of this particular tale after all."

"And how does this one end?"

"I think it ends happily ever after," Jessamy spoke up, looking at the two of them.  She was suddenly very sure that she knew who they were.  "That's how the best stories end."

"There you go, love, out of the mouths of babes," said the immortal man, who had been a peasant, a soldier, a lord, a beggar and many things more in all the centuries he'd lived.  He leaned over to brush a kiss against the storyteller's pale cheek, smiled when the kiss was briefly returned, soft and sweet.  

"As you say."  The storyteller nodded regally at her.  "Farewell, little Jessamy.  Dream well."

Jessamy watched the King of All Night's Dreaming and his immortal walk away, hand in hand.  She grinned.  She was quite glad that her lord Morpheus had found happiness at long last.  

-end-

*runs*

[elvenlords]

Morpheus: I am the King of Dreams and Nightmares. Everyone: And what about it?

[guaaa-camole]

interviewer complimented tom's morpheus voice being utterly spot-on

"there is a quality of relaxation and if i'm going to be led into dreams, i sort of have to be seduced in some way. Like he has to have an authority and a danger even, but he also has to be seductive."

[abedofroses]

Tom shocked at how fast news spreads – ahhh technology!

(Source)

[kasielartist]

Dream in the 80s because we were robbed

Dramatic eyeliner and Jessamy to complete the look

Also if you are interested in my art, the commissions are open

Kasielart

COMMISSIONS OPEN

[mimisempai]

I like to make some parallels between 1589 and 1889. My heart still aches for poor Hob in 1589. We often stay focused on jealousy because of Shakespeare, but what I see most of all is that Hob has struggled the last 100 years to build a life. He is proud of it and he is right, even if he exagerates a little. For me it's more like he wanted to prove to Dream that he could be somebody, that he could accomplish things. He wanted to prove himself in the eyes of Dream. When he says "Life is rich", you can feel that he would like Dream to praise him. He want to share his joy to have somewhat succeed.

And all he gets is cold indifference.

His reaction when Dream looks away is so heartbreaking.

That's why 1889 is so important, it's the first time Dream openly validates him. Recognizes him for what he is. (Even if the conversation ends badly.) When Hob says that he hasn't changed, that he is still the same, it's like he is apologizing for what he is.

And the way Dream looks at him, and tells him in a benevolent tone, that he thinks Hob has changed, the little sigh Hob has in response breaks my heart again. I wonder how many times in his life Hob has had someone tell him what he was doing was right to react that way.

But Dream watch him like that and and you can see how much it pleases Hob and also that it is what gives him the courage to confront Dream after that.

Come on Dream you'll have to praise your Hob a little more in the future.

[tennant]

Ferdinand Kingsley as Hob Gadling THE SANDMAN (2022-) “The Sound of Her Wings” (1.06)

[nynevefromthelake]

[devotionisis-deactivated2023091]

That is beyond beautiful...

[eggdrawsthings]

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up this whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore." ― Neil Gaiman, The Kindly Ones

[fictionplumis]

Listen, I know Dream winning his duel with Lucifer with hope is like... A BIG DEAL and super symbolic and beautiful, HOWEVER I have something that may not be better, but would definitely be FUNNIER. 

Dream loses. He's been locked in a bubble and had his hopes dashed again and again, even though he's still fighting and still hopeful, it's harder for him to reach that and it doesn't come to mind in time for him to win against Lucifer. He's to stay as a servant in Hell and there's no Endless or divine being that can or will come to his aid. He's trapped. Again. 

Only Matthew isn't Jessamy, Matthew knows when the best way to help is a tactical retreat to gather reinforcements. So that's what he does, going immediately to Luciene like, "Hey, so, uh..." And there has to be some way they can help him! Luciene makes it clear that none of the dreaming denizens can. None of the Endless can, no deity would be of any help there against Lucifer. There are Old Laws dictating that Dream lost fair and square and no one can interfere with that. And Matthew's like, "Well what about someone who can challenge Lucifer to win him back? Someone not bound by the Old Laws?" 

"The only beings not bound by the Old Laws are humans. There's no human--" 

Except there is. There's one. One human that Dream would go off once a century to meet, and it's a long shot, but-- 

That's how Hob Gadling finds himself being approached by a talking raven asking him to trek into hell to rescue his boss. "You know, Dream of the Endless? Lord Morpheus?" 

Hob doesn't know who the hell the bird is talking about until Matthew describes him. "Oh, my Stranger!"

"...He seriously didn't even tell you his name?" 

Now, the idea of setting foot into Hell itself to do battle with Lucifer Morningstar is, y'know... Not something he wants to do. He confirms over and over if Matthew is SURE he doesn't have to die to achieve this, because he's not ready to leave yet, and Matthew is like, "Yeah, buddy, shouldn't be a problem." He's lying. He has no idea if it's a problem. (It's not.) 

Hob is like, "Yeah, but... I can't FIGHT Satan himself and expect to win, I AM still human." 

And Matthew's like, "You don't actually have to fight her, it's like a game! But uh... Pretty sure you still feel all the pain and stuff." And he explains the rules, and like, okay, feeling the painful death of whatever kills whatever you decide to be in your round SUCKS, but Hob's been through that before. It's actually a pretty intriguing game, one he thinks he might win. 

See, the way he sees it, it's a combination of the "times infinity" type of game (I love you, I love you more, I love you times two, I love you times a thousand, I love you times a million-- so on and so on) with that counting game where you either say one or two numbers, back and forth with someone, and whoever says 21 loses. Basically, there's one logical conclusion the game is going to reach. Someone is going to bust out the "times infinity" or in this case, "heat death of the universe" or some other completely life-ending thing. And like with the counting game, if you can get your opponent to say specific numbers on the way to 21, you can make sure they're forced to say it. 

There's a strategy if you think ahead enough, and he has an entire walk through Hell to plan it. 

(It SUCKS. He sees Robyn there. It breaks his heart. It's meant to, it's meant to keep him from reaching the palace, seeing his son in Hell, but they don't know Hob. They don't know the grief he's had to overcome in order for him to say, with absolute certainty, that he still wants to live even though it hurts. He reaches that citadel.)

Dream is, of course, horrified to see Hob there. Hob meanwhile is like a jilted exe all, "Yeah, yeah, we're not friends, you stood me up, but I'm still here for you because I'm the bigger person and I fucking care." 

He challenges Lucifer for Dream's helm and their safe passage out of Hell. Lucifer is... Intrigued. She just beat Dream of the Endless, and this human thinks he can beat her when humanity's collective unconsciousness couldn't? His immortality has made him cocky, clearly. So she accepts, and bargains that if Hob loses, he has to give up his immortality. 

There's a good minute where Hob pauses at that and has to really think about whether his arrogant, condescending not-friend is really worth that but yeah, yeah he is. Meanwhile Dream is off to the side. "Don't do this, Hob Gadling. It is not your responsibility to fix my missteps." Basically his version of pleading for Hob to leave and not risk this up until Lucifer is like enough out of you and shuts him up. 

They play. Lucifer starts out with the wolf again, because it's a good starting point to see what direction her opponent plans to take, to get a glimpse into Hob's mindset entering this game. Her plan is, of course, to cause pain enough that Hob will have a hard time thinking, but Hob makes that really fucking hard from the get-go and throws everyone in the room for a loop when his answer is...

"I am the over hunting of the local deer population. Ecosystem destabilizing, predator killing."

Well. Okay. Yeah, sure. Fucking fine. It's hard to kill that painfully. Lucifer manages to come up with, "I am hunting restrictions, nature preserving, ecosystem balancing." 

Hob, by that point, is like, I got this, actually. This might be fun. "I am the expansion of civilization. Forest destroying, hunting law nullifying." 

Matthew, who had been feeling pretty iffy about calling this guy in to help, is no longer questioning that choice. Dream is a little starry-eyed. 

Eventually Hob is the head of the Home Owner's Association. Lucifer is a bear, scrap hunting, person killing. Hob is family, revenge-seeking, bear euthanizing. Lucifer is Pride, argument starter, family destroying. Hob is friendship, blood covenant, thicker than womb water. Lucifer is jealousy, friendship rending, relationship ruining. Hob is personal growth, jealousy ending, apology giving. Lucifer is relapse, progress destroying, confidence killing. Hob is perseverance, step taking, progress rebuilding. On and on until finally Lucifer decides to end this the way she did with Dream and Hob leads her along until it reaches that natural conclusion, the death of all. 

Now there's some temptation there to go with the obvious, since he can't die even if the universe was destroyed. At least he doesn't think so. But he had already decided that it was an obvious choice to go for and he could think of a few clever ways Lucifer might get around that. So instead, Hob goes the far better choice and personal insult of being God, universe creator, life giver. He's very proud of himself when the demons erupt into boos and Lucifer looks about ready to rip his fucking throat out with her teeth. 

The way he sees it, there are two choices for her there, unless she really pulls something unexpected out of her ass. Option one is the whole "what's a god to an atheist" thing in which Hob would have then been a miracle, faith affirming, god-proving. Not much can destroy a miracle. 

But Lucifer, livid and prideful, goes with option two. "I am Lucifer Morningstar, God defying, His Kingdom ripped sunder!" 

And Hob has the absolute glee to grin and go, "I am Hob Gadling, clever, death defying, and triumphant over Lucifer Morningstar."

He and Dream are promptly kicked out of Hell on their asses, Dream's helm is thrown at his head with a force strong enough to break the sound barrier, and the gates are slammed shut behind them. The whole thing is so humiliating that Lucifer has to change their gender and moves to LA to open a nightclub.