#dream has to yeet himself out of this situation immediately after bc the sight of hob all disheveled and out of breath is too much for him

[cuubism]

Oh I am intrigued by many but the 5 times has me especially 👀👀👀

pretty much exactly what it sounds like - 5 times Hob runs into Dream in between their centennial meetings, + 1 time Dream calls for him

yet another take on hob saving dream from the bowl hahaha

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1832

During their next encounter, Hob is, of all things, getting mugged.

Not that this is a particularly rare occurrence. Hob spent the better part of the 17th century getting mugged (and doing some mugging himself if he’s being honest) while living on the street. Nowadays, he’s doing rather better for himself, which often attracts the wrong sort of attention.

He’s not sure what about his appearance is suggesting riches right now, though. He supposes he’s wearing a decent jacket but it’s not like he’s brandishing around a solid gold pocket watch or something. Honestly.

Nevertheless, three men jump him as he’s walking home late from having drinks with some colleagues. They’re quick about it—one grabs his arm and twists it behind his back, the second takes hold of his hair—curse Hob for leaving it long—and yanks, and the third presses a fine blade to his throat. Before Hob can blink, he’s been dragged down an alleyway and pushed up against a wall.

He takes in the three muggers. They’re all young men, and dressed finely – why in the bloody hell do they need to mug someone? – and there’s a serious air to them, a cloak of mission and import. It’s bizarre and somewhat fascinating but Hob is not in the mood to hang around and ask questions.

“Three against one?” he asks, throat bobbing against the knife. “Really? It takes three of you lads to mug an old man like me?”

“Silence,” intones the one holding the blade, pressing it harder against Hob’s throat. “We will ask the questions.”

“Well, which one is it? Silence or answering questions?”

Hob gets a knee in his stomach for this cheek, but that was exactly as intended. He grabs the young man’s thigh while it’s still raised and yanks him off balance, sending him to the ground. The one with the knife tries to jab it at Hob’s neck but unfortunately, between the two of them only one has a century of mercenary experience and it’s not the one with the blade.

Hob grabs his wrist and squeezes until the knife clatters from his limp grip, then throws him forward by the arm to the alley floor. The third lad takes advantage of the moment to land a solid right hook to Hob’s jaw – well, there’s the muscle of the group, Hob thinks – then catches Hob by the collar and shoves him at the wall.

Hob gets an arm up in time to brace but receives a decent scrape on his palm for his trouble. He kicks out and catches the man’s knee with his heel, sending him stumbling, but by the time he turns the lad with the knife has managed to get himself up off the floor, looking murderous.

Hob should probably be more concerned by this whole situation. Instead, he’s just feeling a bit thrilled. It’s been a good few years since he’s been in a fistfight and it’s quite the rush.

He’s about to bring his fists up again when the three men before him freeze in place.

Hob watches in confusion as their eyes widen in fear, as the knife clatters to the ground. One of them clutches at his head, and another whispers, distraught, “No!” The third stumbles, on the verge of collapse.

Two points of light appear in the darkness. “I will offer you one chance at mercy,” says a deep voice Hob knows from his dreams. “It will not be extended again.”

The men whip their heads around, terrified, then scamper off, stumbling over themselves to escape down the alley.

Hob’s stranger steps out of the shadows, and Hob’s heart pounds wildly. His stranger looks as sleek, as silken, as put together as usual, and the brightness of his eyes fades to their usual pale blue so swiftly that Hob almost isn’t sure he saw anything unusual at all. His face is set in a frown.

“Oh, stranger,” Hob pants, still out of breath from the fight. His hair must be a wreck, and he’s certain the collar of his shirt is torn, two buttons ripped from his waistcoat, and there’s a smear of blood on his lip. Again, Hob should take this more seriously, but he can’t resist prodding, just a little, at that stern face he so cares for, can’t resist seizing this perfect opportunity for turnabout. “You need not have come to my defense.”

His stranger looks him up and down, gaze catching on each torn bit of clothing. “Clearly,” he says drily.