Work Text:
Hob's lover is unusually clingy. And that's really saying something, considering his typical possessiveness.
It's 1957, and Hob is living in Cairo in a tidy room on the third floor of a boarding house. The sun bakes the earth and glints off the Nile, and the hum of life reaches into every part of the city.
Despite the oppressive heat of the day, Dream of the Endless is wrapped around him like an octopus, cool skin sticking to Hob's fever-bright flesh, begging with incoherent noises for Hob to fuck him harder, deeper, longer. His body is dripping with sweat, everything hot and sticky and borderline oppressive, but it’s worth it, anything is worth it, to make Dream happy.
"Do not let me go," Dream whispers, nails digging into Hob's shoulder, five bright points of pain amidst the storm of his pleasure.
"I've got you, sweetheart," Hob promises. He runs his nose along Dream's cheek, resting their temples together. Dream’s face is blissfully cool against his skin. "I'll never let you far, lover mine. I'd follow you anywhere."
Hob is as good as his word, and Dream knows that—he trusts him. For over thirty years, now, they have been together as consistently as possible when one person is an eldritch manifestation of the collective unconscious. Which is to say. Quite consistently.
Dream is sometimes unable to visit Hob in the Waking, but then they meet in his dreams, sometimes for scant moments, often for long hours. The more of one another they get, the more their appetites seem to grow, their hunger never slackens, and their wanting never wanes.
“Hob!” Dream shudders and cries out, jerking as the space between their bodies turns slick with spend. Hob kisses him, and bites the sounds of pleasure from his mouth, fucking him through the peak of his orgasm.
“Hob,” Dream says again, this time slow and savouring, blinking up at him with a heavy gaze.
“Love you.” Hob pecks him once on the cheek, his lips lingering there as he chases his own end. Dream clings to him harder than ever, murmuring incoherent sweetness in his ear. Some of them may not be English. Snatches of Latin, and Greek, and Arabic caress Hob like physical things as he shakes through his climax, the words an almost physical manifestation of Dream’s love around them.
Afterwards, there are few sounds in the room, save their heavy breathing and the thud of Hob’s pulse, reverberating through them both. Dream waves away the mess of their lovemaking with a lazy gesture, unwilling to release Hob for long enough for him to do it the old-fashioned way.
Hob drifts, overheated and uncaring, with his head cradled on Dream’s chest, and those long, dextrous fingers sliding through his hair. It’s damp with sweat, as is most of him, but Dream doesn’t seem to mind.
It’s only early evening but Hob already drifts perilously close to Dream’s realm.
Dream is silent, his chest unmoving under Hob’s head. No blood flows through his veins, no heart beats against his ear. The dream stuff that lives within Dream is quiet in the waking realm, a barely perceptible hum below his skin.
“There has been.” Dream pauses as if selecting his next word very carefully indeed. Hob’s heavy eyelids drag themselves open. “A complication.”
“What sort of complication?” Hob asks, his fingers twitching against Dream’s side with the urge to grasp, to hold, to protect him.
Dream pauses, whether for dramatic effect or because he does not wish to speak at all is unclear.
“My siblings have realised you are my consort.”
“Ah,” Hob says, in the moment it takes him to fully process the words. Words that make little sense to him, when strung together in a row and coming from Dream. “You have siblings?”
Then, when the word consort imprints itself in his brain, in flashing neon lights. “What do you mean, realised?!”
*
So, it turns out they are married. Hob is not exactly shocked by this revelation. There had been vows, after all, and he does wear a ring that Dream crafted for him from the remnants of his ruby.
But still, it’s a bit of a shock to have it acknowledged, after all these years.
“Marriage is such a trivial concept to contain the way I feel for you, Hob Gadling.”
Hob is not impressed.
“You could have at least told me I was your consort or whatever. Does everyone know?”
Everyone does, in fact, know. From Jessamy the raven (Hob’s first friend among the denizens of the Dreaming) to Lucienne the librarian, to the guardians of the Palace and the Major Arcana. With the advent of Dream’s siblings making the discovery, Hob is frankly the last to know.
He is sulky about it.
But in a dignified way.
“Come, now, my beloved. You have always known our commitment was more than some passing interest.” Dream pauses in his sweeping about the room, catching Hob’s chin between his fingers and pressing a stinging kiss to his lips. “I did not think it strictly necessary to lay it out in such stark terms before now, and for that, I apologise, but it simply never occurred to me.”
Hob sighs, sinking back into the mattress of Dream’s ridiculous bed. The black sheets cradle him, caressing him as lovingly as Dream himself would. Of course it would not occur to Dream, to lay out what his affections meant for Hob’s standing in his realm, the power it places on him, and the dangers it courts. Not that Hob is afraid for himself, not in the least. He would have simply preferred that Dream remembered to use his words.
(Getting Dream to communicate has always been an uphill battle in their relationship, in their companionship prior to that, but Had had thought they were making some progress, at least. Maybe Hob would have to start a reward system to keep him in check.)
“Well, I suppose I will just have to forgive you.” Hob sniffs, turning over to bury his heated face in the cool sheets.
Dream gives his ankle a tug, shifting Hob down the bed and holding his foot expectantly until Hob looks at him over his shoulder.
“Are you planning to actually attend this dinner, or must I endure it alone, lover?”
Dream looks very fetching, dressed in his black robes and a sleek black suit beneath it, a pair of earrings in one ear, and kohl lining his impossible cosmic eyes. Even standing over Hob and attempting to intimidate him into getting ready, he’s the best thing he has ever laid eyes on.
“I’ve half a mind to make you go alone, you impossible creature.”
Dream growls, and Hob hides his smirk in the circle of his arms.
“Robert Gadling,” Dream warns. Truly warns, no playfulness or teasing about him. The hand around his ankle tightens and then yanks hard, pulling him clean off the bed.
The sheets release him reluctantly, and Hob is equally disinclined to leave them.
Not because he doesn’t want to meet Dream’s elusive siblings, but simply because he is enjoying being difficult. Being managed.
Dream picks him up as if he weighs nothing, holding Hob’s back to his chest, his arms strong bands around his waist and shoulders. Hob’s feet alight on the floor, though Dream takes much of his weight, his face buried in Hob’s shoulder.
“You would not leave me to face my siblings alone, would you?” The tone is all challenge, but Hob can hear the thread of anxiety beneath the bluster.
Hob smiles wanly, chest warming and petulance melting away. He presses a kiss to Dream’s forearm. “Never, my love. I would stand with you at the gates of hell if you needed me to.”
Dream grunts, his nose buried determinedly in the soft hairs close to his ear.
“Marching through hell would likely be a more pleasant way to spend an evening.”
“Can’t be worse than that last war!” Hob says cheerfully. He wiggles and Dream lets him down, watching as he bounces around the room, clothes coalescing on him, made from dream stuff. Dream huffs quietly, amused that a human could have such a strong grip on his realm and not know that Dream considers him his equal, in spirit, if not in power.
Dream ignores the reference to the second world war, neither of them actually ready to look too closely at that violent, gaping wound that exists in both their psyches. It had been almost as horrifying to witness Hob’s participation in the fighting as it had been to watch millions battle through the conflict in their dreams.
“Just remember what I have told you of them, my siblings are all…”
“Tricky, I know. Difficult.” Hob waves a hand. “It’ll be fine, Dream. I’m not scared of them.”
He turns, holding out his arms to show off his outfit. He looks very fetching in a slim-fitted suit reminiscent of the 1920s, navy plaid with a bright white shirt. The tie is navy, and Dream narrows his eyes at it. He approaches to run his fingers over it, before whisking it away with a hum of contemplation, creating a much more fitting one of creamy gold silk, which he takes the time to knot and tuck neatly into Hob’s waistcoat himself.
“You look extremely fetching, my heart.”
“All your siblings will be jealous that you managed to catch me,” Hob says with a charming smirk.
Dream cannot help a sardonic smile of his own. “All of my siblings will be shocked that I have maintained your affection for so many years.”
“None of that now, dove.” Hob presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Where’s that confidence that I enjoy so much?”
“Some might argue that is pure arrogance.”
Hob takes his hand, giving in an encouraging squeeze. “Let’s have that then, darling. Just you and me, now, hmm? Chin up.”
Dream is exceedingly tempted to take Hob back to bed and continue the theme of just them for as long as Hob will allow him. Unfortunately, a timely knock comes at the tower window to disabuse him of any such indulgent notions.
The window opens at a thought and Jessamy flies into the room, alighting on a perch left out for her use. Hob winks at her in greeting, and Jess fluffs her feathers up in a charming avian wiggle.
Your guests have arrived, sire. The Endless congregate in the throne room and await your hospitality.
Dream sighs, drawing himself up to his full height. Hob gives his hand a final squeeze before placing it in the crook of his arm and leading him from the safety of their room.
*
Dinner is. Shockingly tolerable.
Almost entirely because the Endless siblings are fascinated with Hob from the moment Dream introduces him, and do not stop taking turns with his attention for the length of the meal. And those not currently engaged with Hob himself speak to Dream only of Hob, asking him never-ending questions of their courtship, their bond, the nature of their relationship.
Within an hour, Dream is almost as flayed raw and infuriated as if he’d actually gone ten rounds with Desire and their razor-sharp tongue. In actuality, Desire has not said a single word to him other than a lascivious greeting, and that is somehow worse.
As attuned to him as ever, Hob rests a hand on Dream’s knee at the beginning of the second course and slowly shifts his touch up the more irritable Dream becomes. By dessert, Hob’s hand rests at the widest part of his thigh, his fingers trapped between the muscles of both legs. His thumb rubs a soothing circle, the sensation keeping Dream grounded enough that he doesn’t lose his grip.
Although Dream’s form, his body, is not constrained to human biochemistry, there is something about this situation that affects him. He is. Warm. Sweltering, the air of the throne room intolerably humid against his exposed skin. Everyone else seems unaffected, so Dream can only assume this is some sort of uncharacteristic emotional reaction that only he must suffer.
Hob’s touch keeps Dream calm right up until the last of the meal is cleared and Hob is swept up from the table to dance with Delirium; most of Dream’s siblings follow. Dream is left with Destiny, forced to watch as first Del, then Death, Desire and Despair each have a dance with him. It is a joyful sight, all full of laughter and delight, Del’s butterflies swirling around him, the Dreaming offering music and floating globes of coloured light as an accompaniment.
It is a happy scene, and it fills Dream with anxious rage, something in the middle region of his torso twisting itself into knots. The sight of their hands on his lover drives him ever closer to throwing them all into the sea of Nightmares.
Well. Perhaps only Desire.
The others are tolerable enough, cooing over Hob as if he is a particularly interesting toddler (in Despair’s case) or maybe a fascinatingly coloured bug (in Del’s opinion). Death keeps her boundaries clear but friendly.
But Desire. Desire dances with Hob as if they plan to take him to bed, and they look over at Dream in the midst of their song, as if they know exactly the possessive wanting this opens up in Dream.
(Which, of course, they do.)
“No more, Delirium,” Dream says firmly when his youngest sister tries to begin the dancing anew. “Please return my husband.”
“Ooooh,” Desire croons in their dulcet, velvet voice as they carelessly collapse back into their chair at the table. “Your husband. It’s been so long since you were married, brother, it suits you.”
Ignoring the jibe as best he can, Dream deflects. “It has been some time since you were entangled, Desire, are you not due for another muse?”
Desire almost, almost, blushes, but rather than triumph, Dream only feels an old, familiar affection rise up at the softness of their expression as they glance away.
“Has someone caught your eye, my sibling?” Dream presses, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. For a moment, all his hot, confusing feelings hum in the background, his attention more pleasantly occupied by genuine interest.
“Perhaps.” Desire trails their finger, the nail painted blood-red, along the rim of their glass. “She is more a thing of your realm, big brother. I am not sure she could ever truly belong to me.”
Hob flounces down in the seat beside Dream, flushed with exercise and pleasure. He wraps a comforting arm around Dream, reviving the possessive, twitching beast thrashing in his chest.
“I hope it will prove a pleasant relationship for you, sibling.”
Desire smirks at him as if they know he is trying exceptionally hard to behave himself in front of Hob. “Thank you, brother mine. We shall see.”
Dream’s attention snaps away as Hob’s fingers trail along the nape of his neck, chasing a bead of sweat, igniting a spark of need. The beast purrs and wants to pounce, but Dream once again has to hold himself carefully, torturously in check.
Hob’s thumb caresses the curve of Dream’s ear, stroking over the two small rings pierced through his lobe. Dream shudders, and his restraint snaps.
“Hob Gadling,” Dream says, standing abruptly. His siblings all turn to stare at them. Dream swallows harshly, mastering himself. When he speaks again, his voice is marginally more controlled. “Perhaps it is time to bid our guests a good evening.”
The trip to the gallery, and the subsequent goodbyes, take an inequitable amount of time. All along, Hob is pressed close to Dream’s side, even as he smiles, charms, and teases his siblings. Even Destiny, the most implacable being in the universe, seems somewhat taken with Robert Gadling.
Finally, after dodging invitations to both the Threshold and Madness, Dream and Hob stand alone in his gallery at long last. For the first time since they left Dream’s bedroom at the start of the evening, there is blessed, blissful silence.
Dream sighs heavily, allowing Hob to drag him forward and press a firm kiss against his temple. One hand rest against the solid plane of his back, and the other tangles in Hob’s suit jacket, holding it in a clawed grip.
“See now, my love, that wasn’t so bad,” Hob says, with a kiss to Dream’s temple.
“It was interminable,” Dream says disagreeably. Arm in arm, they begin the walk from the gallery to their bedroom, their steps slow with Dream’s bone-heavy weariness. It’s the only true exhaustion he feels, a weight that hooks around his chest and tries to carry him down, down, down into the dark waters of desolation.
Hob makes a soothing noise, his grip on Dream’s waist tightening as they step out of the gallery—and directly into Dream’s bedroom.
Dream pauses, frowning. It is not a difficult thing, in the Dreaming, to move from one place to another instantly. The landscape bends to his will, melding itself to his desires as easily as time forges along one second at a time.
But he had not intended to move them, hadn’t pulled on the fabric of the Dreaming to carry them along. No, it was not him, so it could only have been Hob.
“How did you do that?”
Eyes narrowed, Dream looks around inquisitively as if the answer to his curiosity will fly through the window on raven wings.
Hob grins proudly, wagging his eyebrows as he steps further into the room, dragging Dream along with him by the hands. “I’ve been practising with Jessamy. I have a bit of a talent for shifting dreams about, apparently. I wanted to wait to show you so I could actually do something a bit interesting.”
“Like ferrying the Dream lord through his own palace.”
“Does my lord husband find such treatment unacceptable?”
Dream rumbles, pulling Hob into him firmly, catching him around the waist. “On the contrary, I find it exceedingly alluring to feel you using my power so capably.”
Hob hands wind through Dream’s hair, fingertips pressing wonderfully against his scalp. Dream tips his head into his touch, eyes fluttering closed.
“Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, king of Dreams and Nightmares, are you horny about this?”
Horny. What a term, such a turn of human modernity, so small compared to the way Hob inflames Dream, body and soul, consuming him with want and need both.
Dream rests a hand over Hob's chest, slipping it between his jacket and waistcoat. His heart beats there beneath the skin, and here in the Dreaming, that pulse is just as much a construct of Dream as everything else. It makes him acutely aware of Hob, of his form and his function, the power and vitality of him. He burns in Dream’s veins like starlight and something older, something deeper and more piercing. Some magic that leaves Dream more and more altered the longer he is blessed to call Hob his own.
“I am. Aroused by you for a great many reasons, Robert Gadling.”
Hob hums knowingly, the sound travelling through Dream’s body from the palm of his hand to his toes and back again, leaving demanding heat in its wake. He smiles and raises an eyebrow, hand coming up to tug at his earlobe in a nervous gesture that charms Dream just as much today as it did the first time he was privy to it.
“You’re looking at me like you want to eat me alive, love.”
“I want you. Far more acutely than I am ever prepared to endure. With a constancy that surprises even me, though I know my own selfish nature very well.”
Hob wraps a hand around Dream’s wrist, hot and solid around the delicate bones, a heat that burns through Dream’s clothes and proves the final ignition to the blaze that roars through him.
Surging forward, he captures Hob’s mouth in a kiss, nothing like calm or gentle, a whole-body devouring thing. Hob meets him, settling his hands on Dream’s hips, suddenly bare as one of them wills their clothes away into incandescent dream stuff. Cool air hits Dream’s overly warm skin, so blissful that he moans.
Unable to contain himself any longer, his need pushing against the constraints of his current form, Dream shifts and grows so he stands over Hob, gaining inches on him until he has to lean up to keep their lips connected.
“I love it when you get big.” Hob moans into his mouth, hands cupping his neck, fingers kneading the muscles there. He uses the leverage to keep them close, their kiss never-ending even as they exchange quiet, heated words.
“I know.”
“Over-confident git.”
Dream smiles, a true smile that blossoms of joy and contentment, and he presses it into Hob, offering him the euphoria he so easily inspires. He reaches down to grasp Hob’s thighs and hoist him up. Hob wraps arms and legs around him, clinging to him desperately.
In the way of dreams that he so enjoys, Hob is slick and relaxed, ready for Dream when he runs a hand over the swell of Hob’s arse to press a finger inside him. He moans and bites Dream’s lip, rocking back to fuck himself on Dream’s hand.
Unable to deny himself even a moment longer, Dream walks them back to balance Hob against the wall, his broad shoulders pressed flushed to cool plaster.
“Ready?”
“For you? Always.”
Dream lines himself up and sinks inside Hob in one smooth movement. They both groan, the sound echoing around the room, ringing in Dream’s head on repeat as he sets a steady rhythm, fucking Hob as if he can merge them into one being. He wants to bring them together so completely, ingrain himself in Hob’s body so that even when they are apart, his body will be half Dream, all of himself reaching out to cling to his essence even in Dream’s absence.
It is selfish, perhaps, how much he wants to be inside Hob, how he wants every cell in his body to exist as an extension of Dream, all of him vibrating and pulsing in his veins as he goes about his life. It is selfish, but Dream loves like that, with burning, gripping, all-consuming fire, and Hob sees that in him, and matches it.
Sometimes he even outshines it.
It is different. To be met in his ardour, instead of it overwhelming his partner.
It is a blessing Dream counts every day.
Hob cries out and clutches Dream’s arms, incoherent words falling from his mouth, begging for more and mercy both. At this angle, Dream drives against Hob’s prostate with every thrust, and before Hob can catch his equilibrium he is coming spectacularly, his body squeezing tight around Dream as he fucks him through his orgasm. He shudders through it, every wave of pleasure just as acute for Dream as it is for Hob, a hazy, shared ecstasy magnified by the Dreaming echoing their feelings through each other in a shared feedback loop.
“Holy hell,” Hob mutters, slumping against Dream’s shoulders. He slows but doesn’t stop, just rocks gently into the welcoming warmth. Hob rests in his embrace, hands fluttering over him in lazy caresses. Dream does not tire, not physically, not here in his realm, so it is no struggle to hold Hob and make love to him for as long as it takes for his body to stir once more.
“I feel like jelly,” Hob admits, his lips pressed to the skin of Dream’s neck, his tongue darting out to lick at the line of his throat.
“Just as I like you.”
“You are insatiable, dove.”
Hob strokes a hand up and down Dream’s sweaty back as his pace increases again, his legs clamping tighter around his waist, his cock hardening between them once more. It’s slower this time, Dream driving Hob to his peak more gradually, so when it comes he falls harder and for longer, shaking and spasming around him until he’s almost sobbing with it.
Dream kisses the tears off his face, salty and viscous, and carries him over to the bed, gently laying him down. Hob curls onto his front, face hidden in a pillow, and Dream climbs atop him like a blanket, covering his body with his own. He slips back into Hob, just resting inside of him as Dream nestles into his neck and runs curious fingers over every inch of skin he can reach.
Hob reaches back with one hand to bury his fingers in Dream’s messy hair, holding him close, ensuring he stays near even though Dream has shown no sign of wishing to move away.
Dream is billions of years old, he has experienced untold aeons, but here in their bed, curled skin to skin with Hob, he is just a person. A man wrought from love and desire, gilded in love, and cherished like the most precious treasure. He is meant to be Shaper of Forms, but it is Hob who refines him into his finest self with his bounteous warmth, his generosity of spirit. His sweet, sassy mouth. His body that welcomes Dream inside and leaves him reduced to his basest desires.
Almost involuntarily, Dream picks up his rhythm again, thrusting shallowly into the welcoming heat of Hob’s body, slick and clutching. Hob’s hand flutters at his head restlessly, a broken-off sound escaping him.
"Dream, love, not that I don't want to..."
Dream nuzzles against his neck, grinding his hips into Hob rather artlessly. "My beloved."
"I may be immortal, Dream, but I am only human, and I do have human limitations..." Hob peters off with a long, languorous groan. His hips move restlessly, rubbing his cock into the silk-soft sheets. He’s not quite hard yet, his senses overwhelmed, everything gone staticky in his brain. He ebbs and flows on a tide of pure sensation, his thoughts washing away before they have much chance to take root.
“This is the Dreaming,” Dream reminds him. “You are not bound by the constraints of the waking world.”
“My cock hasn’t quite gotten the memo on that one.”
Dream's fingers dig into his hips, his face buried stubbornly in Hob's neck. He adjusts the angle of his thrusts, dragging along Hob’s prostate.
"Just one more, my heart." Dream teeth skate along Hob's shoulder, and he twitches under the onslaught. "Please."
Ah, the final weapon. Dream’s trump card. They both know Hob cannot resist giving Dream anything he wants when he asks so nicely.
(It does help that he’s mercilessly fucking Hob with slow, hard thrusts and that Hob’s cock has definitely gotten the message that is time to go again. So it's not exactly a trial to indulge him at this point.)
Hob cries out, fingers twisting in Dream's hair. A breathless, incredulous laugh follows. "Fine, you insatiable monster. Just one more."
“Oh, Hob, my Hob,” Dream whispers the words directly into his ear, the words dragging along like velvet. “You’re so good for me. So eternally lovely.”
“Dream.” And it’s a whine, a real, wild thing that breaks out of him. “Please, I need—”
“I have you, my heart.”
“Come with me, come—” Dream sinks his teeth into Hob’s throat, sharp and painful, and he shouts, whole body shivering, a constant shudder that chases him towards his peak. “Dream, come inside me. Please, I need it.”
“Oh, do you?” Dream rumbles. Still, he releases the careful hold on himself, letting his pleasure crash over him in a wave, all of a sudden teetering on the edge of his orgasm. "Come with me then, my love."
There is a mess of bitten-off moans and cries of pleasure, Dream murmuring sweet endearments that are only for Hob's benefit, and Hob begging for things Dream is more than happy to provide.
Dream doesn't stop, and Hob is too incoherent and fucked out for him to want him to. They rut together, everything slick with come and sweat, Dream's tongue trailing over Hob's salty skin and collecting the taste of him.
With the next orgasm Dream wrings from him, he reaches between Hob's body and the mattress to stroke his cock, collecting the spill of come. He licks it from his fingers, the taste of bitter salt and pure Hob, and finally, the starving roar of want begins to subside, the raving monster in his core settling just a touch, internal temperature dropping back to something closer to normal.
But still, Dream continues. He turns Hob over onto his back, settling in the cradle of his thighs. Hob clings to him, shaking like a leaf, his thighs solid and warm under Dream's hands. Every thrust leaves Hob twitching and moaning, breath coming out in sobs. Dream kisses him, licking along the seam of his lips, coaxing his way into Hob's mouth.
"D-Dream," Hob says between hiccuping sobs, slurring his words. "N-no more, love, I c-can't anymore."
"Just one more, Hob." Dream hides his face in damp, sweaty hair, inhaling his musky scent. "Just for me. I know you can give me one more."
Neither of them are exactly sure if Hob truly manages another, though his body clutches insistently around Dream and his prick twitches with a pathetically small dripple of come. It's a small swell in an ocean of stimulation, and it carries Hob away, leaving him senseless.
" You're so good for me, my beloved," Dream whispers shakily, slipping from his body with a mess of slick. "I treasure you."
"D-didn't finish," Hob slurs, a boneless hand venturing up to rest on his boney hip.
"My satisfaction is more than physical pleasure can currently contain."
Hob murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like 'poetic git' but Dream ignores him.
Dream smiles, sitting back on his heels to survey the mess he's made. Hob is a wreck of come and bruises, his eyes stubbornly closed, his chest still heaving. His muscles shiver with acute over-sensitivity, body swimming with endorphins or some such unconscious equivalent.
"Do you know what it is, Hob Gadling, to kneel here before you, and survey you like the spoils of a conquered kingdom?" Dream runs a finger down his front, from chest to sternum. "To see you undone by our lovemaking, covered in the evidence of our shared pleasure."
Dream's hand moves between his thighs to slide inside of him, fingers easily slipping into the mess there. Hob whimpers, eyes pressed tightly closed, thighs twitching. Too exhausted to close his legs and deny Dream.
"Do not fret, my heart. I'm only cleaning you out."
After all, why use magic when Dream can touch, and feel, and appreciate his lover, every moment they have together one step closer to satisfying the seemingly never-ending hunger inside of him?
Hob lets him do as he likes with a lazy wave of his hand and a thin, reedy groan. Eventually, Dream settles. He strokes his hands up Hob's shapely thighs, over honey skin and springy hair, and all the inconvenient bodily fluids fade away, leaving them both clean and lax.
Dream melts down onto the bed beside Hob, resting with his head pillowed on his chest.
“That was…” Hob starts, once he’s somewhat recovered. Recovered enough to speak, at least. Walking is probably not on the table for several more hours. “Something.”
Dream hums in agreement, the sound coming out in the same deep resonance as his sleeping voice.
“Are you alright?” Hob presses when no further words are forthcoming.
Dream lifts his head to give Hob a bemused look. “Are you asking after my welfare after I just thoroughly ravaged you?”
Hob pinches his side, and Dream chuckles softly, flinching away before arching back into his touch.
“Yes, obviously I am asking. I’m checking on you.” Hob chews his lip, studying Dream carefully. “It’s not often as intense as all that.”
“I am fine… Now.” Dream admits. He runs his fingers through Hob’s chest hair, nail grazing over his skin. “You have soothed me.”
Hob chuckles and leans forward to kiss his nose. “By letting you fuck me incoherent? Sure, why not.”
Dream narrows his eyes, before shifting his focus to nuzzle into his chest. Hob is totally relaxed and boneless under him, one hand lazily caressing Dream’s back. He jumps hard when Dream bites his nipple, teeth sinking in meanly. Hob protests loudly, and a sloppy, uncoordinated wrestle ensues, ending with Hob, still fucked silly, pinned to the bed by the wrists and Dream straddling his waist and gazing down at him triumphantly.
“You are a menace,” Hob announces, with the barest hint of a pout.
Dream smiles, releasing his wrists to cup his cheeks and gather him into a slow, lazy kiss. “I am your menace.”
Hob softens, his arms winding firmly around Dream, pulling him close until he melts down to rest fully against him. “Course you are. I love you.”
“And I love you.”
Not so very long later, Hob’s form wavers and flickers, fading as he wakes. Dream sighs, rolling languidly around his overly large bed, now tragically empty. He considers getting up and seeing to his realm, but after a moment shrugs and with a swirl of sand, transports himself to the waking world, where Hob Gadling is rousing in his small bed, dressed in simple cotton sheets turned muggy with sweat and come. Dream once again waves away the mess, clinging tightly to his lover as he rouses fully.
It’s still early morning, but in Egypt, it is already warm and the air is dry against their skin, trying to urge them apart. Fortunately, here in the Waking, Dream is once again cool and soothing to hold and so they are able to languish in bed, reading and talking, content in each other’s arms.