Professor Mysterious and Professor Wet Cat
This is my take on that Dreamling post making the rounds about Hob and Dream being uni professors and that Hob is surprisingly NOT the prof who overshares and Dream is the one who inadvertently does.
Buckle up, kids, let's have some fun with this. Also, gentle reminder: NOBODY TELL NEIL. SHHHH!
This time around, Hob's using his proper name, Robert Gadling, because it's been a while since he's trotted that one out and he kinda likes the seeming rightness that the once upon a time near-illiterate medieval peasant that he'd been was now teaching at a rather prestigious university. However, he's not prone to sharing much about his personal life to his students. He's still warm and friendly, but he's cautious about letting Certain Things slip.
Hilariously, the things that do slip end up making him everyone's favorite university cryptid. Sometimes Hob slips into Middle English when he's stressed or emotional. Sometimes he might use odd old-fashioned sounding oaths like "God's wounds," "Holy Jesu," and "Mother Mary's teats" (this last one sends everyone into spasms of laughter).
The literature department ADORES him because they can always drag Professor Gadling off to read Chaucer in its original form or even medieval French, his pronunciation perfect and dead on. Shakespeare is the only thing he'll flat out refuse to read because in any universe this Fuzzy Blue Alien's gonna write, his hatred of the Bard is the stuff of legend.
The students universally agree that Professor G is basically British Indiana Jones, because he's also known to have lethal expertise in medieval weapons. There's been more than a few fantasies inspired during the booked-solid outdoor demonstrations where he works in tandem with the other medieval history professors to show everyone how medieval weapons worked. Apparently, his favorite weapons are the longbow, the bastard sword and daggers.
Obviously, this all leads to Professor Gadling being the campus crush and his relationship status is a matter of hot speculation even if he's made it perfectly clear he was not about to violate his ethical standards or position as a teacher. It still doesn't stop the fevered fantasies of more than a few grad students, though. But that's all they're gonna get.
And then, there's the new literature teacher, Professor T. Murphy.
To everyone's disappointment, Professor Murphy is only going to be at the university for a limited series of lectures. Word of mouth spread fast, and his classes were now booked solid and he was going to be asked to return, once his apparently very busy schedule is cleared.
7. Of course, he's an instant campus crush, with the "Goth angel" looks, the Edward Cullen jokes are definitely flying and there's more than a few students melting after they heard him speak. "That Voice" is always referred to in capital letters and it's well deserved.
8. "Campus crush" turns to "Official Precious Blorbo" once the students all discover that behind the whole regal and imperious Goth Prince vibe that he gave off, was an adorkable darling wet cat who was just completely gone on "my beloved." If he's discussing a love sonnet or poem, there's definitely going to be a reference to "my beloved" or "my dearest" or "my love." It's never sickeningly cloying and the sweet tiny little smile that takes over his normally serious face is like sunshine. The kilig feels are real.
9. He's also forever worrying that he's not enough for "my dearest" as he's rather painfully aware "of my lack in human graces" - which everyone translates to "OMG HELP I HAVE THE SOCIAL SKILLS OF A SCRUNKLY WET CAT." He frets that he's somehow failing his beloved, who is infinitely sweet and thoughtful and caring and that Professor Murphy is the selfish one, really, who doesn't deserve the man.
10. The students, of course, immediately ADOPT him. Tesco ice cream runs are done, YouTube videos on cooking and invites to kitchens are extended so Professor Murphy could practice making something that is "not a catastrophic culinary disaster unfit for human consumption." There was a session on the language of flowers, which everyone had enjoyed. For a while, flowers with significant meanings were presented to sweethearts and lovers all over the uni. There's an unforgettable after-class meeting in which the craft-inclined students teach Professor Murphy how to knit and crochet and he was really rather proud of the scarf he had created.
11. Professor Murphy's raven had been rather entertained playing with the yarn scraps. The students learn that the raven's name is Matthew.
12. And then, dashing, mysterious Professor Gadling finally peeks into Professor Murphy's class.
"The things I do for you, myne owne hertis rote. Bloody Shaxberd."
"But you do read him so very well, my love." And there it was, that tiny, soft, sweet smile, now aimed in Professor Gadling's direction.
Professor Gadling sighs and puts a hand over his chest. There's a very familiar scarf draped over his neck. "God's wounds, dove, warn your poor, long-suffering husband before you do these things."
"What 'things,' dearest?"
Professor Gadling waves his arms helplessly. The scarf slips a little, offering a tantalizing view of a purplish mark on his throat. "That thing!" He looks appealingly at the students, who are now all stifling their delighted giggles. "Look at him! My heart can only take so much!"
And that was how everyone found out that Professors Gadling and Murphy were actually happily married.
Incidentally, the Shakespeare reading, in which both professors took part, was a true kilig apocalypse. Instant campus legend.
1K notes
·
View notes
thinking about zoro being the crew's main protector.
it’s quite literally his role amongst the straw hats; luffy's captain, usopp's their sniper, sanji cooks, nami navigates, chopper's their doctor, franky's their shipwright, jinbei's their helmsman and brook's their musician but zoro? zoro's their swordsman. zoro’s their guardian. his job is to be the first line of defense and protect everybody else so they can focus on doing their own thing and sure, none of them really need protecting— but they don't have to worry about defending themselves, either, because whoever they can't or don't want to handle zoro will finish up (if he hasn't gotten to them first).
like imagine a bunch of idiots cornering one of the crew (bad idea.) and picking nami because she's the woman without a devil fruit, as opposed to robin (BAD idea.). they've got her surrounded in the dead end of an alleyway and have somehow neutralised her clima-tact and she’s not worried, she’s not.
but against twelve men and with her weapon essentially now just a regular staff, she might be panicking. just a little. she’s gotten a couple of them good enough that they’re down for the count before a chain wrapped around her ankle trips her. it pulls at enough memories, faded but never forgotten, to bring up a sickening wave of fear and anger— and nami decides that she’s had enough of the bullshit.
she takes a deep breath and screams. “ZORO!”
the silence afterwards is deafening. the wind shifts, gently lifting the pieces of hair stuck to her sweaty face, and the men laugh uneasily. one of them yanks hard on the chain and she spits at him, heels scrabbling against the dusty ground even as he starts reeling her in like a fish on a hook. “he can’t hear you, little missy,” he snickers, grin widening the longer nobody shows up.
it’s still on his face when his head slides right off his neck.
blood sprays right before his body crumples like a doll. it takes a second for the others to realise and then the screaming starts— none of them get any farther than three steps before zoro’s cutting them down, swift swings of his sword and almost surgically precise slices rendering them incapacitated if not plain dead.
“sorry i’m late, witch.” the swordsman’s breathing hard, gore dripping off his blades even as he arcs one down and snaps the chain off nami’s leg with a growl. “did they hurt you?”
“no. no, i’m fine,” nami breathes, her smile quivering just a little— not because she’s shaken, no. because she’s pissed.
zoro’s voice is gruff as always, but his hands are careful if not outright gentle as he kneels to inspect her ankle before pulling her to her feet. “stay close,” he mutters, making sure that she’s nodded before cutting them a path through the fray. they bump into chopper next, and the doctor’s out cold over zoro’s shoulder in his regular form by the time sanji joins them to guard their flank. nami’s taken to just using her clima-tact as a bat for now, and it’s admittedly efficient.
she knew zoro would come. he always does. for all that they bicker and snip at each other, zoro has always protected his crew— even when said crew was just three people on what could barely be called a boat. he’d fought for her at arlong park and he fights for her now, his sword slicing over her head at an enemy she can’t see as she ducks low to jam her staff into another’s stomach.
they’ve moved closer to their ship when they find jinbei, then robin, then usopp, then brook and franky, and then zoro’s yelling luff, time to go! and their captain’s launching them all back onto the Sunny with a gleeful cackle that makes nami wheeze a laugh as they land in a mildly painful pile of limbs. somebody’s elbow digs into her ribs and she’s pretty sure that’s sanji’s bony kneecap pressed into her lower back. the swordsman swears as he sets about trying to pry them all apart and luffy seems to be actively fighting him, based on how his cursing’s getting more and more colourful.
behind them, their enemies burn, sliced to pieces. they debrief in the galley and zoro refuses to come away from the door until nami drags him by the ear and sanji threatens to personally shove dessert down his throat. they both know it’s because zoro’s still guarding them from a threat that doesn’t exist anymore.
they know he pretends not to care as much as he does. they know he keeps his words blunt and his swords sharp, but zoro lets luffy hang off him, unfazed, and makes a marginal effort to stick to nami’s budget even when he’s getting booze, and he eats his dessert. every last bit. he lets usopp fire moving targets to slice through so they can both practice. he keeps collateral damage when sparring with sanji to a minimum. he stitches whoever needs it up himself when chopper’s a little too tired.
and when his crew calls, he answers.
(now with a part from nami’s pov!)
349 notes
·
View notes
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*
1K notes
·
View notes