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It is June 7th.
On this day, once a century, Dream visits the Waking world. His visit is not without purpose; he travels there to ask a singular question, but Dream is loath to admit his visit is at least partially for pleasure.
It was an unexpected but not unwelcome proposition, made by Robert Gadling in 1789. It was a strange little arrangement they had—have had—twice now. Dream is anticipating this next one.
Dream will never forget the sight of Hob’s lips stretched around Dream’s cock in the shadowed back alley of the White Horse in 1789, or how his hands and voice had manipulated Dream to orgasm in 1889. That their meetings had gained an additional perk was never spoken of between them; it happened naturally at the end, like an exhale.
Dream steps into the Waking world, near the White Horse Inn, which is surprisingly still here after 600 years. Dream is always unsure if it will remain standing, each time he visits, but the longevity of the inn has surprised him. Many other such structures of wood and brick have long since been demolished. The inn now sits near the waterfront, overlooking a calmer part of the Thames, and the gravel of a new parking lot crunches under Dream’s boots. It’s an overcast day, slightly warm, though Dream only feels the suggestion of temperature.
The parking lot is full of automobiles. The last time Dream walked this street it was lit by gas lamps and carriages rattled by. Now, these monsters of machinery sleep, idle until their masters come to wake them. There is one on the end of the row, a little black sports car, which is finer than all the rest.
Dream meanders over to it, running his fingers over the smooth finish. He likes it. It is compact and built for speed. Dream has no need for such transportation; but he admires the craftsmanship and the fact that the car is black.
Dream checks himself in the glossy reflection of the hood of the car. Dream is enamored with the fashion of this era. He loves the wild mane of hair which is finally appropriate to wear, and the chunky leather boots with a heel made for crushing. He loves the black eyeliner framing his human eyes, and the oversized coat over jeans and a t-shirt. It is once again fashionable for male forms to wear much jewelry. Dream has accessorized accordingly. His ruby swings down from a silver chain around his neck and earrings pierce the flesh of his ears in many places; this and more Dream has chosen for this meeting.
Dream opens the door to the White Horse, and finds the interior of the inn much unchanged. They’ve put in a new floor, and the tables and chairs are different every time. There are electric lights humming with electricity too low for the human ear. They illuminate the space and Hob Gadling, who is waiting for him at a tiny table meant for two.
Dream turns heads as he stalks over to the chair waiting for him. The clientele of the bar has changed; it appears to be young students and the local folk. The young people ogle him for the black and stark and radical elements of his dress. The old stare in distaste. Dream does not care about their feelings, and neither does Hob.
His old friend smiles as Dream takes his seat.
“Hello, Dream,” Hob greets him.
After 1789, Dream had felt it necessary to give the poor man a name, so he could moan something other than “God” or “fuck” or, on one memorable and pleasing occasion, “my Lord.”
“Hello, Hob.” The server approaches them, and Dream glances at what rests by Hob’s hand—a beer, from the looks of it.
Dream orders tea, and this rids them of the distraction of the serving-girl. Dream pins his gaze on his friend.
Hob looks well. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a white t-shirt under a crisp blazer. His face is clean-shaven. There’s a sparkle in his brown eyes that might just be the reflection of the bar lights, but Dream is willing to pretend. Hob looks good. He’s got something laid out on the table between them, a grey rectangular box that Dream is sure he will know the purpose of before the night is over. There’s a notebook and a small stack of papers besides.
“You appear to be faring well,” Dream says to him.
“Yeah, I made out flush with some investments a while back, and now I've got more money than I know what to do with,” Hob says easily. “But you aren’t interested in how loaded I am.”
“No,” Dream says, pleased Hob has learned from their previous meetings. Dream has little interest in mortal wealth, and both of them know how it ebbs and flows.
Hob pulls out the notebook, spiral-bound and pages yellowed with age, from the papers on the table.
“There’s been so much, I’ve started to write it down. I hope you don’t mind the aid,” Hob says.
“Sometimes the best stories are those that are written,” Dream says, more curious about Hob’s spiky handwriting filling the pages than anything that is written on them.
“Well, let’s start at the beginning,” Hob declares.
There is a lot of material Hob covers. Suffrage movements, two great wars, advances in warfare from these that make Hob tear up and shudder as he remembers them. The advent of the global market. Economics. Politics. Oil and bread. The ease in which Hob can go to the supermarket and buy any fruit he wants, any time of the year. How much clothing has changed; gone are the days of tailors and a few simple good outfits—Hob attests to owning a whole closet of clothes and “You know what? I don’t even wear most of them.”
Hob is a teacher now, a professor at a local university.
“A long way from being illiterate, isn’t it?” Hob laughs, and Dream just sips his tea.
Dream is pleased, of course. He wants Hob to be happy, and Hob enjoys telling stories of old to his students. It is an echo of worship to Dream himself, unknowingly, that Hob has gone onto this path.
Hob tells him about his work and his students, and then he circles back around to historical events.
Hob spends a lot of time talking about the moon landing, which even Dream is impressed by.
“The moon?” Dream asks, not because he doesn’t know—he does; every little child in the world is dreaming of aliens and outer space—but because he wants to hear Hob tell him.
“Ah!” Hob shuffles through the papers on the table. Some of them have been drawings, others pictures, visual aids for Hob to clarify and enhance his telling of his life. Hob pulls out a magazine from the stack.
He rifles through it to find the page he’s searching for. Hob turns the magazine around with a flap, and shows Dream the picture.
The man in the spacesuit is standing on the chalk-white of the moon, staring out either at the stars and stripes or into the endless black void of space. He is alone. It is a haunting image to Dream. He has been in space; there is plenty there, but not in the dark.
“I got chills down my spine when I read the news. To think—when I was born, nobody even dreamt it would ever be possible. The moon was the realm of God,” Hob is saying, and his tan fingers trace over the curve of the spaceman’s helmet.
“And now you have achieved it,” Dream says.
“And now, I can’t wait to see what comes next,” Hob says, and his tone is hungry, a hunter ever-searching for the next thing.
“I assume you still want to live?”” Dream asks. His tea is cold, and the sky outside has cleared and prepares a canvas for sunset.
“Of course!” Hob exclaims. “You think I want to die now?”
“No, I do not think that you do,” Dream says, amused. He makes to stand.
“Dream!” Hob shuffles his papers, and for a moment fear flashes across his face. “I have one last thing to show you.”
“Is it the object that has rested on the table this entire time?” Dream asks wryly.
“You know me,” Hob says with an easy smile. “I told you about the phone, but these are cellular phones. Portable! I can call you from anywhere! This is one of the newest ones. Cost me a fortune.”
Hob pauses, and he looks up into Dream’s eyes, pleading. “Would you like to try it?”
Would Dream? He looks at the cellphone, and back at Hob’s perfectly coiffed hair, and thinks that he would. Dream holds out his hand, and Hob awkwardly and carefully lays the phone into it.
It is quite heavier than Dream expected.
Hob stands up, his papers tucked under his arm. “Let me see if the pub will let me borrow their landline. Here, stand over by the door, and when the phone rings just press this button.”
Hob touches Dream’s shoulder briefly, not pushing him but just lightly grasping, as if he didn’t Dream would float away. Dream walks over to the entryway, and stares down at the phone. His thumb hovers over the gummy rubber of the answer button.
Dream watches Hob approach the bar and lean on it, chat with the bartender and then the man pulls out the cord from the wall. Dream watches Hob’s fingers punch his number in, and put the phone to his ear. Hob grins out at Dream from across the room.
The phone in Dream’s hand plays a tinny little tune, and Dream presses the button and holds it up to his ear.
“Hello, Stranger,” Hob’s voice says into Dream’s ear. Dream watches Hob’s lips move with the motion of forming the words.
“Hello,” Dream replies.
“Isn’t it cool or what?” Hob asks, giddy like a child.
“It is interesting,” Dream says. He thinks about the gravel parking lot and the new empty space around the inn. He does not want to leave without his pleasure. Hob must have gotten here somehow. “Are you going to show me your car, Hob Gadling?”
Hob’s mouth opens, a perfect o, and Dream can see the man’s ears turn red. “Uh, yeah. I will,” Hob says.
Hob passes the phone back to the barkeep, who hangs it back on the wall. When Hob crosses the room, his step is halting. He is ever so unsure.
Of course, this is only the third time.
“I was thinking you’d leave,” Hob murmurs as he opens the door for Dream.
“But you were hoping I would not,” Dream says, brushing past him and into the fresh air.
Dream hands Hob his cellphone back, and the man strides out into the parking lot. They approach the black car.
“So this one is yours,” Dream purrs. Even better.
Hob unlocks the door and throws the papers into the backseat. He digs around in the glove compartment and comes back up with a lighter and a box of cigarettes.
“I’m afraid it was an impulse purchase,” Hob says, hitting the bottom of the case against his palm and plucking a fag out.
“I saw it when I came in and liked it,” Dream tells him.
Hob’s lashes flicker as he fumbles with the lighter and the flame appears. He bends minutely around the flame, letting the tip of the cigarette light. He breathes in.
Hob angles the smoke away from Dream as a courtesy.
“Nasty habit,” Hob says as an excuse. “Started in the ‘70s and haven’t been able to quit. I’m glad you like the car.”
He holds the cigarette between the knuckles of his left hand, leaning against the driver's side window, and Dream feels a want. Dream holds out his hand a second time, and just like the cellphone, Hob carefully places the fag between Dream’s waiting fingers.
Humanity has always smoked. Dream puts the cigarette to his lips and is aware of how Hob watches him. Dream inhales, and the smoke travels through his lungs with none of the benefits Hob likely experiences. It is only smoke; the vapor is nothing more than the suggestion of fire.
Dream exhales and watches the smoke curlicue away, and he passes the fag back to Hob, who takes it with a reverent hand.
Hob takes another drag before asking, cautiously, the words wringing from him like he is afraid they will offend:
“Would you like to go for a ride?”
Hob holds out the fag without asking if Dream wants it. Dream takes it, feels where the end is slightly damp from Hob’s lips.
“I would like that,” Dream says, and brings it to his mouth.
The cadence of their meeting has changed. The time for storytelling is past. Dream finishes the cigarette and flicks it to the ground, crushing it with the heel of his boot.
Dream swings inside Hob’s Porsche, feeling how the black leather seats cradle his body like they were molded to his specifications. Craftsmanship, indeed.
Hob glances over at him, and he wordlessly hands the box of cigarettes to Dream. Dream returns them to the glove compartment.
“Put your seatbelt on,” Hob tells him.
Dream watches Hob slide the belt around and click it into place. As Hob sticks the key in the ignition and the car hums to life, Dream copies the motions.
It is not necessary—the seat belt. Dream trusts Hob to drive safely, but even if he was reckless an accident would not kill him or Dream. The car smells faintly of nicotine, and more strongly of lemon, like Hob recently paid to have the interior cleaned. Hob’s left hand, with its fine dusting of hair across the knuckles, and more than a few scars, grabs the gear stick and yanks it into reverse.
Hob carefully places the same hand on the back of Dream’s seat, and the line of his body curves as he turns to look behind him. The action causes all the tendons in Hob’s neck to tense. Dream admires the smooth curve of Hob’s jaw and his concentration.
The car lurches back, and Hob’s other hand is pressed with the palm flat against the steering wheel.
Dream spins one of the silver rings on his fingers around. He wonders where Hob will take him. Home? A nice little townhouse, or a wide house with a yard and a picket fence? To a hotel? A field in the middle of the country? The beach?
“You can roll down the window if you want, and put the radio on,” Hob says.
Dream keeps the window up, but he presses the ‘on’ button on the dashboard, and a woman's voice croons out of the car’s speakers: I think I’m falling out of the sky. Dream fumbles with the knobs next to it, and lowers the volume.
Hob pulls out onto the highway, and the car roars and purrs as he speeds up.
“No sense going on the backroads with an engine like this,” Hob says, and the engine revs as if on cue.
Dream has little interest in the grey skyscrapers or the blue river or the heady racing speed or the envy from the cars around them. Oh—the car ride is exhilarating, but that’s because of the bulk of Hob’s presence, not any of the objects surrounding them.
Dream drinks in the sight of Hob, thighs spread and tensing as he works the gas pedal and his hands wrapped around the leather of the steering wheel. In this seat, Hob cannot return the stare. He’s Dream’s alone to observe. The radio plays. The air is heavy with waiting.
Hob steers them into the city, and the bustle and noise of London’s streets fills Dream’s ears again.
“I like what you’ve gone with for this century,” Hob finally says.
“My sartorial choices?” Dream loops one of his fingers through the empty buttonhole on his jacket, which has bunched around his hips.
“Yes. And the makeup,” Hob adds. His ears are still red.
The compliment winds up Dream’s mind, like a string tuned a hair too tight. Dream does not perceive himself outside of appearing as he should as monarch.
“I enjoy the fashion of this century,” Dream agrees.
“I couldn’t wait to see what you came in. It’s always a gamble. I like the goth ‘fit, though. Better than what I thought you might show up in,” Hob says.
“What did you think I would wear, Hob?” Dream asks. The seatbelt digs into Dream’s jugular when he turns his neck to face Hob.
“Uh, a suit, maybe?” Hob turns the car into a parking garage.
“These clothes suit me. An outfit like yours would not,” Dream observes. They go past the turnstile, and Hob rolls down the window and takes a ticket from the window.
“I suppose not,” Hob says.
It’s dark inside the garage, and mostly empty. Hob drives slowly, and the car winds its way up to the open roof of the garage.
The sun is low on the horizon, and they are alone at the top. There are no other cars parked here. Hob pulls the car into the center of the grey concrete box. There is nothing but sky above them; they are far enough from the center of the city that the skyscrapers don’t block out the sky—yet. Hob kills the engine, and steps out of the car.
He jogs over to a closet at the top of the garage, built into the side of the building. He opens the door, and pulls out two large orange traffic cones.
“You’ve done this before,” Dream says loudly. He pushes open the door, releasing himself from the bounds of the seatbelt and grounding himself with his feet on the concrete.
“Never with anyone else, just you,” Hob promises as he trots down to where they pulled up, and places the cones to block the entrance.
“Maintenance,” Hob calls up to Dream, a mischievous grin gracing his features.
The evening air is just a touch warm, but not cold enough that either Dream’s coat or Hob’s suit jacket are strictly necessary.
Dream leans against the rim of the car, and the leather roof digs into his back, just below Dream’s shoulder blades. He keeps the passenger side door hanging open. Hob crosses the white-striped lines of the parking spots, until he’s standing in front of Dream, their chests nearly brushing.
“Thought you’d prefer to see the sky and the city,” Hob says.
“I’d prefer to see you,” Dream replies. He’s not being romantic.
Hob’s quick inhale is all the warning Dream gets before Hob’s lips are on his. Hob’s so warm, and his lips are a little chapped, but he parts softly for Dream. Dream snakes his arm around Hob’s neck, and anchors him closer, so Hob bends down to him. Their lips slide against each other, and once their teeth clack, which causes Hob to stifle a laugh and Dream to kiss the jut of his chin.
“I know I say it every time, but you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” Hob confesses with lips swollen from devotion.
Flattery is not Dream’s downfall, but it is one of his flaws, and the compliment causes his flesh-and-bone body to react with a rush of blood to his cheeks and his fledgling erection.
“You’re an incredibly vain creature,” Hob laughs, his hand ghosting near the button of Dream’s jeans. Hob knows how much the adulation riles Dream.
“I would not be here if I thought you were unsightly, Hob Gadling,” Dream admits.
Hob just shakes his head, and then he glances over Dream’s shoulder.
“Let’s put this down first,” Hob decides, and his broad hand strokes over Dream’s hip before he leaves Dream, flushed and aching, to wrestle the top down.
Dream presses the heel of his own hand against the strain in his jeans, but it only causes him to hiss and jerk. His touch is inadequate.
“I’ll be right there, baby,” Hob coos. He’s on the opposite side of the car.
The use of the nickname causes Dream to gasp out loud, his hips rutting up into the press of his hand, and from Hob’s leering eyes and how he slams down the last catch, Hob’s noticed. Hob circles the cooling hood of the car and the open door, and now there’s nothing for Dream to lean against.
Hob kisses the junction of Dream’s ear and jaw, and leans into him, pressing the whole length of his hale body against Dream’s, as he grabs the seat behind Dream.
“Let me put the seat back,” Hob breathes into Dream’s ear, and Dream’s hand scrambles up Hob’s back, trying to clutch him closer.
Somehow, Hob gets the seat pushed back, and then he’s directing Dream:
“Come on, baby, put your ass up there.”
Dream climbs into the tiny backrow seats, and perches on the folded hardtop of the car, his boots resting on the back seats. His knees spread to let the strain of his erection at least try to breathe in the tightness of his pants.
Hob clambers in after him, except he kneels on the seats, his knees spreading Dream’s feet further apart.
The rise of the car’s leather hardtop and the thick wool of Dream’s overcoat provide more than enough cushioning for Dream, and he wants.
Hob is running his hands up Dream’s thighs. The front of his dove-grey pants are tented. Dream wiggles his hips closer to Hob’s face.
“How am I going to get these off of you?” Hob asks, more rhetorically than anything else. His nails scrape down Dream’s inner thighs, and through the denim they are barely a suggestion of touch.
Dream doesn’t have to think too hard about it; his clothes are Dreamstuff. A thought, and the pants are gone, the boots with them.
Hob inhales, and his eyes seek out the swollen length of Dream’s cock.
“Well,” Hob says with a smile. His hot breath caresses the bare inside of Dream’s thigh, and Dream whines.
“Hob,” Dream breathes out.
“I only see you once a century, let me take my time,” Hob says. “Greedy creature.”
Dream clutches the ribbing he’s sitting on top of, and the cool metal of his rings dig into his fingers. Hob’s hands circle Dream’s shins, each finger pressing against flesh and the bone underneath like the action alone will bring Dream closer to him.
Nobody touches Dream of the Endless, and the rough pads of Hob’s fingers are so foreign and familiar that every touch feels like a separate entity. A tendril of Hob’s hair has come undone from its perfect formation, and it tickles the inside of Dream’s thigh when Hob presses a wet kiss to the fleshy skin close to Dream’s loins. Hob’s dark eyes flick up to Dream’s face, and his hands slide up to the space where thigh curves into asscheek, kneading the sensitive flesh there.
Hob is trailing kisses up Dream’s thigh, and he is taking his sweet time. Dream twitches and bucks underneath his ministrations, but Hob is in the position to do what he will.
Hob avoids Dream’s cock entirely. He rubs his cheek against the milk-white skin of Dream’s thigh, and he sends a cocky grin to Dream.
“Get up here,” Dream growls, and he grabs Hob’s head with one sinuous hand, wrapping his fingers around Hob’s hair and tugging it by the roots, closer—closer—!
“Okay, geez,” Hob laughs, and his breath is warm above Dream’s cock.
Hob opens his mouth, and his tongue flattens against the skin behind Dream’s testicles, which Dream is not expecting in the least.
“Ah!” Dream gasps out, curling his spine to look at why, but Hob’s hand shoots out and presses the flat of Dream’s abdomen back against the trunk of the car. He takes the time to push up Dream’s shirt, just to the flat of his ribs, so Dream’s cock can bob against his skin.
Hob removes his tongue, and the spit left behind chills in the breeze, and causes Dream to shiver all over.
“Let me do what I’m going to, Dream,” Hob says roughly. His thumb is rubbing circles over the jut of Dream’s hip.
“Fine,” Dream huffs, thumping his head against the metal of the trunk.
Hob chuckles, and returns to running his tongue up Dream’s perineum, finally mouthing over Dream’s balls, delicately sucking once, which causes Dream to tense and a bead of fluid to collect at the head of his cock.
Dream’s still got his hand tangled in Hob’s hair. Hob’s perfect hair is irrevocably mussed, but at the angle Dream can do nothing but weakly tug the ends of the strands between his fingers, which are oily with product.
Dream can feel Hob’s lips tense into a grin, and then he’s—
His tongue is flat over Dream’s asshole, and it is—Dream is sure that is not what tongues were created for, but Hob licks over him, slow and dirty and reverent, so Dream writhes and uses the foot still planted on the seat to offer himself up.
“Do that again,” Dream orders him, surging up and getting his hand firmly around Hob’s skull.
Hob gazes up at him, his pupils blown wide in adoration and lust, a smear of spittle across his chin.
“Your wish is my command, Stranger,” Hob murmurs, and his broad hands reach around Dream’s knees and yank Dream’s waist over the back of the seats, until he places the back of Dream’s left knee against the smooth cotton of Hob’s suit jacket, propping Dream wide and open.
Dream tries to stay quiet, but Hob is making little pleased sounds in the back of his throat, like he’s been offered the nectar of the gods, except his nails are pressing into the delicate flesh of Dream’s asscheeks, spreading him obscenely open. Hob’s thumbs squeeze into the hard bone of Dream’s pelvis, exposed as his legs are wide, and Hob’s so close, and yet—yet—
Hob buries his face against the most private part of Dream, his tongue so hot and wet and prodding inside him now, so Dream can do nothing, think of nothing except his occasional lover’s skill and warmth and love, displayed freely.
Hob’s making little noises, like he is eating a sumptuous meal after weeks of fasting, and well—he seems to be enjoying himself. Dream’s lost in the sensations, but he doesn’t know what he should—what he’s supposed to do beyond shake and ground himself in the burning heat of Hob’s tongue and the grasp of his hands around the tops of Dream’s thighs like irons. Dream squirms and moans and gasps, and his cock is twitching, smearing wet across his stomach, and he does not know what he’s supposed to be asking for, what he should plead—he should be pleading, Dream thinks.
Dream has no more room in his head for anything beyond yes, fuck, yes, please, please—
“Fuck, fuck, Dream, I—”
Dream does not know what Hob is asking, but he’d give it—any boon Hob asked of him in this moment, and Dream keens high and loud when Hob plunges his tongue inside of Dream, and the action is obscene and stretches him just a bit—Dream’s cock twitches, and Hob’s fingers are bruising him—
Dream comes with barely more than a whimper, Hob’s tongue pressing past the tight ring of muscle, and Dream shudders through the dark spots in his eyes.
“Oh,” is what Hob says when he comes up for air, and then he’s wearing the most arrogant smirk Dream’s ever seen.
Now—Now! Hob mouths over the base of Dream’s cock, where Dream is still leaking, and the warmth of his mouth against it so soon causes Dream to nearly cry.
“Hob,” Dream breathes, and his breath hitches when Hob kisses the head, and then he seems to notice the cum threatening to run off the sides of Dream’s stomach.
Hob uses that same tongue to lap up Dream’s own spend, sucking at Dream’s skin along the way. His eyelashes are dark over where they search for spots he’s missed, cleaning off Dream’s skin.
Dream clasps a hand to his mouth to stop the sounds from spilling out of him.
“Shh, oh, baby,” Hob breathes, and he carefully takes Dream’s wrist and pulls his hand away from his lips so Hob can kiss them. Dream can taste himself on them, and it should not be this pleasurable, but it is, and it causes Dream to groan. The sound rumbles in his throat, and Hob matches it, tone for tone.
Hob’s hand runs up Dream's flank, his fingers probing the divots of Dream’s ribs, and his thumb flicks over Dream’s nipple and stops.
“Hold on,” Hob says loudly.
He pulls up the hem of Dream’s shirt, and exposes Dream’s chest. Hob stares.
Dream had also forgotten that he’d adorned other jewelry as a complement to the rest of his outfit. The silver barbells shine in the blue light of the sunset.
“Oh God,” Hob sighs out, sounding absolutely wrecked. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Dream cannot help it; he smirks at the expression of awe across Hob’s face, but it only lasts for a moment before Hob ducks and takes one of them into his mouth. Dream jolts at the unexpected motion.
“You know,” Hob says, and his breath blows over Dream and causes him to jerk. “You should keep these, they really suit you.”
“I make no promises to you,” Dream says, but he would be lying if he did not consider it.
“I know, I know,” Hob murmurs, his lips returning, and it is only then that Dream realizes his partner has not gotten his pleasure. Dream can feel the motion of Hob’s body, which is grinding against the top of the seats.
“Hob,” Dream says, tugging at the hair at the nape of Hob’s neck.
“Mm?”
“Get up here.” Dream makes sure his tone brooks no argument.
Hob licks over the bar of metal once more, and then he clambers up next to Dream. The action causes the tiny body of the car to rock, and Dream slides into the place Hob had just occupied.
Hob shifts uneasily on the leather of the car’s top, and his face betrays some uncertainty. Never has Dream offered anything to him. Dream understands his hesitance. But Hob had obeyed him.
The fabric of Hob’s trousers is cotton-soft under Dream’s mouth as he mirrors the same actions Hob had taken before, which had driven Dream insane with want. Hob’s ample thigh tenses under the touch of Dream’s lips, creeping ever-closer to his erection.
Dream runs his black-enameled nails over Hob’s thighs, sliding them up to the leather belt circling Hob’s waist. Dream’s hands grapple to slide the end tip out of its keeper loop, and Dream wrenches back the soft leather to force the prong to slide out of the hole. Hob’s hips buck at the instant of pressure.
“Dream!”
Dream yanks the belt through its loops, throwing it away like the snake it is, and then he places his hands upon the straining length of Hob’s erection. This is what he wants, a third thing offered to Dream as something new and familiar at once, a promise of further pleasure.
“Dream, Dream,” Hob babbles, and his hands are pressed to the sides, so hesitant to touch Dream now their roles are reversed.
Dream bends down and rubs his cheek against the cotton and the length straining underneath, reveling in the heat and the texture against his skin. He eyes the zipper and the invisible clasp that rests under the fly. Dream hooks his finger under the fly, and inches forward, clasping the cold metal of the pull tab between his tongue and his teeth.
“Oh my god, Dream, God!” Hob is shaking above him.
Dream hears the ripping noise as he manipulates the zipper downwards. He grins, feeling the fabric catch against his bottom lip. When the zipper reaches the end of its journey, Dream unhooks the clasps at the top of the pants, and in one fluid motion, pulls them down. Dream hears pant seams rip, somewhere between Hob’s hips and the bend of his knees. The fabric is as soft as a cloud under his fingers. It is nothing compared to the vision of Hob’s thighs, fuzzy with hair, and the damp spot at the front of his briefs.
Dream looks up at him, and grins again, all teeth. Hob’s mouth is parted in want.
Dream had said he would not be with Hob if he did not find him beautiful, and indeed, he is the most delicate creature, tan and flush and panting for Dream, underneath him. Dream is pleased.
Dream ghosts his fingers over the elastic band, and Hob’s breathing is heavy in the pale blue of the evening. Dream removes them, sliding them down those gorgeous thighs, flinging them somewhere by Dream’s feet.
And here at last, is the evidence of Hob’s lust, and maybe love, for Dream himself.
Hob’s cock lies, nearing purple at the end and engorged down to the swell of his balls, wet around the tip. There is a neat bush of curling brown hair above the base, and a faint scattering of hair curls around his balls. Hob’s face turns away, as if in shame.
“Oh,” Dream says. His own cock hardens in response.
Dream stoops low, bows his head to one of the beings he exists to serve, and wraps his lips around the apex of Hob’s cock.
The cry this action wrings from Hob’s throat is sweet and pleasing to Dream’s ears, and better still is the firm length of Hob pressed against Dream’s tongue. Dream moans around him, and Hob squirms at the vibration.
“Dream!” Hob exclaims, all the breath knocked out of him, and Dream relaxes his jaw and takes him deeper, until Dream’s nose hits the fleshy hardness of Hob’s pelvis, and his pubic hair tickles Dream’s nose. Dream closes his eyes and breathes in, inhaling the smell of sweat and soap and forever-delayed mortal decay. Dream places his hands over Hob’s stomach, splaying out his fingers and holding Hob’s hips down, an unnecessary gesture as Hob’s shaking with effort to hold back. Dream likes the fullness in his mouth, and the feeling of power, and perhaps even Hob himself.
Dream hollows his cheeks and pulls off, tonguing over the slit.
“Dream! I can’t—I’m not going to last,” Hob cries. His hair, once pristine, is an absolute mess. His jacket is covered in wrinkles.
“I am unconcerned with your stamina. You have already held on long enough,” Dream says. He feels a brief pang of sympathy for Hob; was this how Dream had left him their last two meetings? Hard and aching?
Dream will rectify his failings now. He wets his lips, bows low again, and takes Hob into his mouth, relishing in the feel of Hob throbbing against his tongue. How exquisite.
Dream runs his tongue over the head, and bobs his head, sinking farther with each motion, and he looks up at Hob.
Their eyes meet, and Hob’s eyes are heavy-lidded and there are twin spots of red high on his cheeks. Dream feels Hob shudder, a shock running through him.
“Fuck—Dream!” Hob comes with his name hanging off his lips.
A hot, sticky mess spills into the back of Dream’s throat, and he swallows.
“Ah—Dream! Fuck, oh my god.” Hob immediately tries to pull himself out, but Dream’s hands wrap around his hips and hold him back. “You don’t—Dream!”
There is blood roaring in Dream’s mind, and he waits until he’s sure the last of Hob’s orgasm is wrung out of him before slipping off. Hob’s legs are languid and hanging, and he’s panting through a hand over his mouth.
“Fucking hell, you are so—come here,” Hob begs him, and Dream plants a knee into the back of the car and hoists himself over Hob. Dream’s overlarge coat covers their nakedness as he leans over Hob.
“What am I, Hob?” Dream asks sweetly, and kisses him.
Hob opens beneath him, blissed-out and lazy from his orgasm. Dream rolls their tongues together, sharing spit and bitter taste. Hob smiles into it, and when he looks at Dream it’s like Dream holds the entire universe.
“You’re…I don’t know what you are, my Stranger,” Hob says.
“I told you, I am Dream,” Dream says.
“Oh, you’re a dream, alright,” Hob says with a laugh, and then his hand—the hand that held his sword before men laid them down—strokes over Dream’s cheek. His hand is rough. Dream leans into it.
“Will I see you again? In 100 years?” Hob asks.
“Of course, Hob,” Dream promises.
Hob rests his head against the back of the car. “Do you need me to drive you anywhere?”
“It will not be necessary. But I will share another cigarette with you before I go,” Dream decides.
Hob presses a kiss to the same cheek, and scrounges for his pants.