Time doesn't exist for someone who doesn't age

Hob: I teach history now *the sun beams from his smiling face*

Dream: You built me an inn *devotion*

Hob: I waited for you (you stood me up) *sad*

Dream: I was imprisoned *tears glisten but do not fall*

Hob: I am so angry and sad! *torment, devotion*

Dream: You can help by having hot sex with me. Also my name is Morpheus, but my family calls me Dream.

Early in the 18th century, Hob, having just picked himself up from his disastrous 17th century, joins the first Hellfire Club

the devil is joked to be the president

they decide that it would be funny if they were

this is how Hob meets Lucifer

they maintain a fond friendship for the next three hundred years and hang out together regularly

“Let us meet here, Robert Gadling in a hundred years time,” said the lord and he turned to leave when Lancel said,

“Why wait a hundred years? Hobsie doesn’t change, he’s been the same fool ever since he was small and his Ma’ dropped him on the head,” he chuckled and winced when Hob kicked him in the shin under the table. Despite Hob’s glare he continued though, “You might as well get to know him now, m’lord.”

“Yes,” Gaven agreed and pulled closer to Martin on the bench, making room next to them. “Come, sit with us.”

“Leave him,” Hob hissed, but Gaven just shrugged, putting on his most innocent smile.

“Let us drink in your honour, your highness. First round’s on me,” offered Martin, already waving for the maid.

The lord’s scowl deepened and for a moment he turned away from them as if he was looking for someone else. Then, tentatively he took the place on the bench by Gaven’s side, across Hob.

“Hey I loved Tulip, alright? There’s no need to make fun of that, mate,” Hob scoffed crossing his arms on his chest, a blush rising on his cheeks as he took a sideglance towards the stranger. He sat with an unreadable expression, seemingly having little interest in the conversation, which was a relief and a disappointment at the same time for Hob.

“I remember you even drew a little picture of that damn goat in the back of Friar Benedict’s bible after mass,” Lancel recalled, elbowing Hob in the side, a good natured tease. “He beat you black and blue with his cincture for that.”

“But so he did you,” Hob countered. “For drinking all the communion wine.”

“What can I say, I’m a godly man, I yearned to partake in the blood of our Lord and saviour even as a child,” Lancel chuckled, earning a round of cheers from Martin and Gaven.

“He gave you that book, didn’t he?” Martin asked Hob, once the laughter quietened. “Old Friar Benedict before the plague took him.”

“He did.” Hob nodded, casting his gaze down, as if suddenly he found something interesting in the bottom of his stein.

“Hobsie loves books,” Martin told the lord. “Can’t read shit but loves the pictures and the smell of paper.”

“He can read fine, alright?” Gaven scoffed. “Not everyone can be some fancy-shmancy scholar like you, Martie. He knows ‘Jesus’, ‘Devil’ and ‘Amen’, that’s enough reading for a decent man.”

“He can also hear fine,” Hob fumed, for once being grateful for his excessive beard to cover his flaming cheeks.

“You also write, don’t you, Hobsie?” Lancel asked, munching on a slice of bread.

“I most certainly don’t,” Hob muttered. His breath hitched when finally, for the first time the lord turned towards him, raising a dark eyebrow.

“The hell you don’t!” Gaven chuckled. “There’s that thing, that poem about that girl from Nantucket–“

Hob groaned.

“Look, I was arse over tit drunk when I said that, you know you shouldn’t listen to me when I’m sober and especially not when–“

“There’s also that song!” Lancel cried cheerfully. “You know that song we sang when we crossed the Channel?”

“I didn’t write that one,” Hob protested. “I just heard it from a sailor once and started to sing it.”

“And how wonderfully,” Lancel clapped his hands together. “Martie, go fetch the minstrel.” He turned to the lord then, “You want to hear this one.”

Hob gave Lancel a glare.

“No he does not.”

For the first time since he sat down at their table the lord spoke. There was an amused gleam in his eyes that made Hob gulp as the lord said,

“I actually do.”

It took copious amounts of ale and not a small amount of encouragement from the minstrel, Julek (and also, perhaps, the threat of a punch from Lancel), but Hob ended up standing on his chair, stein in his hand, singing the least bawdy version of Leave Her, Johnny that he could recall.

Despite having drunk his weight in ale, Hob’s throat felt dry and not once his voice wavered, but Julek played his lute well and his friends faithfully sang along the choir and beat the rhythm with their steins on the table, so overall it wasn’t that bad. Men gathered around their table and by the time they got to the last verse the whole tavern was singing along and cheered when Hob finished.

When he finally dared to look in the lord’s direction, he saw him smiling, lovely as the first glimpse of the stars at night and his heart leapt to his throat.

“Now what think you, your lordship?” asked Gaven the stranger. “The lad has a fine voice, doesn’t he?”

“It’s memorable for certain,” the lord said, his eyes, a shade of blue Hob’s never seen before intent on him, his gaze piercing as if he saw right into his soul. Hob stood his glare - he was ready to be ran through a sword if only he could keep looking into those eyes.

“You should see him dance!” Martin cried. “He dances even better than he sings, don’t you, Hobs?”

“I–“ Hob started but Martin already turned to the minstrel and whispered something in his ear.

“Come on, Hob, are you a man or a mouse?” Gaven teased him. “Ask the lad for a dance. Ask him!”

Hob looked at the stranger with horror, flinching when the patrons joined Gaven and started chanting ask him, ask him. Hob swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with it. His knee nearly gave out once he hopped down from his chair and he grasped for the table for support.

“Well,” he rasped, looking at the lord, this ethereal thing gracing their table with his presence.

“Well?” asked the lord, tilting his head to the side like a curious bird, a raven seeing something shiny that might be of interest, that might be worth to keep.

“Would you– would you mind a dance?”

For a moment time stood still, the only noise Hob could hear the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.

Then the lord said,

“No. No, I wouldn’t.”

And grabbed Hob’s hand and pulled him to the dance floor, not minding the deafening cheer of the men around them.

The lord danced as well as one would expect from a lord: swift and graceful, his hand a soft and frail thing in Hob’s grip, but just as strong.

“I know it might not be a big deal for you, carousing here with us,” Hob said, leaning close to the lord’s ear as Julek played a dulcet tone on his lute. “But you must know that this is the best night of my life.”

“Is it?” the lord asked (from this close Hob could feel the deep bass of his voice resonate in his own throat).

“It is,” Hob confessed, breathless. “I told you I don’t want to die, but if I had to I’d die happy now in your arms.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Robert Gadling,” the lord chided him. “And be mindful of the company you keep. It is ill luck to engage with my kind.”

“Fuck ill luck, fuck death,” Hob said, grinning, seeing the lord’s amusement at his bold statement. “I would engage you right here right now. I’d be your most faithful devotee until the end of my days, if only you’d be mine just tonight.”

“You said you weren’t a poet,” the lord crooned, his huff of laughter ghosting against Hob’s ear.

Hob shrugged.

“True love and good ale makes a poet of anyone.”

“Perhaps,” the stranger relented. “Although that might not be true for you, considering the sore lack of the latter.”

Hob blinked at him confused.

“You mean the ale?”

The stranger gave him a meaningful look.

“They have some of the best brews here - which one did you try?” he asked.

The lord stayed silent for a moment as if considering if he should deign that with an answer.

“It is called a ‘penny ale’, I believe,” he said in the end, pronouncing the name as if it was a foreign concept for him, which it probably was.

Hob laughed uproariously, his shoulders shaking with it.

“Oh, God’s wounds, that’s like horsepiss! Whoever told you to try that must be your enemy.”

“That’s a possibility to consider,” the lord agreed and frowned a bit, looking almost disappointed when Hob halted their dance.

“Come on, let’s get you a decent ale. My treat.” Hob winked and took the stranger’s hand.

Much to both of their surprise, he followed.

They settled by the bar the two of them, sitting so close that their thighs pressed together.

Also, the innkeeper’s little goat kid made herself home in Hob’s lap, but the lord didn’t seem to mind.

“It’s called the Green Dragon brew,” Hob explained, petting the goat’s head. “It’s made in Basildon, the place I come from. One of our greatest achievements, I tell you.”

“We’ll see,” the lord said as the innkeeper placed a stein in front of them. Delicately, he raised it and took a sip.

“Well?” Hob asked, watching him eagerly.

The lord’s face was unreadable.

“It’s– adequate,” he said eventually. “I believe it would be the best if we swapped though,” he said, pushing the stein in front of Hob and then, carefully, like one would handle a child, he pulled the goat into his own lap. At first she protested, but she settled quickly, rubbing her nose against the lord’s palm.

“Also fond of animals, I take it?” Hob asked, smiling as he took the stein.

“I suppose,” the lord agreed, watching the goat with amusement. Then he looked up at Hob and asked, “What are your thoughts on ravens?”

“Ravens?” Hob asked, his dark brows knitted with confusing. “Well, I think they’re delightful, smart creatures.”

For the first time that night, the stranger smiled and looked at Hob like something worthy to keep.

“What do you think, what are they talking about?” Martin asked Gaven, squinting to better see Hob and his companion across the tavern.

“Sentimental shite,” Gaven snorted, shaking his head. “That’s Hobsie for you. You try to help the lad getting laid and he can’t shut his tater-trap.”

“The man saw him petting a bloody goat, there’s no way he’s pulling this off,” Martin sighed, already resigned to buy consoling drinks for his friend the rest of the night.

“Hold that thought,” Lancel interrupted them, holding his pointer finger up. “Well, well, will you look at that.”

They grinned as they watched the lord give the goat to the innkeeper and grab Hob’s hand instead, pulling him in the direction of the front door.

As the duo passed by them Gaven, Lancel and Martin started wolf whistling.

“Get him Hobsie!” Martin cried.

The stranger was already out in the starry, July night and Hob was right at his heel, holding onto his hand tight, his head already full of daring daydreams of not letting it go ever again.

He took his time though to halt at the doorstep and turn towards his beloved friends, Lancel, Martin and Gaven - and grinning, flip the bird at them.

The stranger was already out in the starry, July night and Hob was right at his heel, holding onto his hand tight, his head already full of daring daydreams of not letting it go ever again. He took his time though to halt at the doorstep and turn towards his beloved friends, Lancel, Martin and Gaven - and grinning, flip the bird at them.

“You need not lie to make me feel better.”

And Hob is like “??? I’m not?”

“But you were mad at me, right? For how I acted in 1889?”

“I mean, I guess?”

“So if you had known you wouldn’t have come for me.” and Dream says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s so obvious and Hob is torn between flipping a table or crying.

So then it’s Hob (who is still reeling from the whole imprisonment thing in general, btw) like, arguing with this being about “No, actually, being mad at you doesn’t mean I want you to suffer?? I don’t stop caring about your well-being if we get in a fight I wouldn’t leave you to be tortured for a hundred years just ‘cause you were mean to me”

“I was quite mean to you”

“Yeah sure still would have helped you”

“after you felt I learned my lesson though, right?”

“NO. IMMEDIATELY. I WOULD HAVE HELPED YOU IMMEDIATELY.”

“This sounds fake.”

Hob is tearing his hair out, trying to explain to this eldritch being the concept of unconditional love in the most straight forward way possible while Dream is just