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The bed is almost comically large, and the sheets are soft--silk cashmere, perhaps; rose-coloured.
His lovely stranger sighs prettily as Hob undresses him. He looks up from the pillows, coquettishly, under his thick lashes, and reaches up to shyly touch Hob's cheek, guide him into a sweet, gentle kiss. Hob smiles, and the stranger smiles back. It's difficult to kiss like that, but they manage it. He's so small, under those black clothes; he has narrow shoulders and a tiny waist, bones as delicate as a bird's. His skin gleams palely against the sheets on the bed, but for the flush on his face. Hob strokes his fingers down the stranger's sides as he sinks down the bed, almost coming to a yoga resting pose, with his mouth in the centre of the stranger's slim hips.
The stranger flushes harder and looks away, but his tender hand brushes encouragingly into Hob's hair, and Hob whispers, "look at me, my darling, please."
"Hob," the stranger replies, his soft, deep voice sounds almost scandalised, but it's yearning too, as though he wishes for all the things Hob wants to do to him, but he hardly knows how to admit it to himself. Hob laughs softly into his thighs, nuzzling happily at his skin, and the stranger twitches underneath him, jerking his pelvis up involuntarily. When Hob laughs again, the stranger covers his face, though he's smiling. He's as pretty as a girl, as fragile as a faun; a gorgeous, ethereal thing; soft, in shades of pink and white and blue and black.
"You're so lovely," Hob tells him fondly, kissing along the stranger's sharp hipbone. He kisses lower, sighing, "you're a dream, my darling."
A dream...
Dream--
He is the man on the bed, earnestly pleasuring a beautiful stranger he has known for over six hundred years. He feels what is happening on the bed, every kiss, every movement, every gasp of breath.
He is, abruptly, also standing (fully-clothed) at the side of the bed, watching himself (fully naked) earnestly pleasuring a beautiful stranger he has known for over six hundred years. The stranger, dark-haired, blue-eyed, whimpers and writhes underneath him, almost supernaturally responsive to every touch, shy and sweet when Hob compliments him, when Hob praises him, when Hob does something he likes that he'd never before thought he might like. When Hob drives into those narrow hips at last, he gasps breathily, throwing his head back and arching his body up to Hob's. Even from across the room, Hob can see how he trembles.
It ought to be extremely hot, and it may well have been, but for the beautiful Stranger beside him, also fully-clothed. In fact, the Stranger is more than usually clothed; his black coat flows all the way to the floor, and its high collar covers him almost to the chin. It does not cover his expression.
On the bed, Hob kisses hungrily at the stranger's neck, and the stranger makes soft, sweet noises, cutely clinging to him with those pale, slim hands. He nuzzles as close as he can, hiding his face in Hob's shoulder, because Hob knows (somehow) that there are tears in his eyes; he's overwhelmed with pleasure, with the closeness of someone he has wanted for so long.
"Oh, my God," the clothed Hob chokes.
"I agree," the Stranger beside him agrees, in a deeper, infinitely more terrifying voice than the stranger on the bed used to speak.
"Oh, my God," Hob repeats, mortified. "What are you doing here? What's going on?"
He turns to the Stranger, whose gaze does not waver from the couple busy coupling. "Don't look at that!" He yelps, and goes to put himself between the Stranger and the bed, but he finds he cannot move. "Fuck!" He adds, emphatically. As if taking that as a cue, on the bed, he starts very enthusiastically fucking the stranger, holding on to the headboard for purchase, and the stranger sobs and whimpers, helpless with pleasure. Hob feels a truly horrible mixture of knee-trembling bliss and world-ending shame.
"This is so embarrassing," he says, for lack of anything else.
"I agree," the Stranger agrees again.
"Then why don't you leave!" Hob shouts, his face burning. He wants, more than anything, to be the man on the bed, rather than to be watching him, but he is the man on the bed. It is a dizzying, mind-boggling sensation. When he closes his eyes, he sees the soft, ecstatic face on the bed-stranger from above, the pretty pink on his cheeks, his lush, red mouth hanging open, panting wetly with no thought for his usual poise.
"I leave?" the Stranger retorts incredulously. Hob stabs an accusing finger at the two men groaning and sweating, though he keeps his own eyes on the floor. The Stranger twitches one shoulder in an indolent shrug. "I didn't imagine myself as a pathetic, mewling little milktoast," he says dismissively. "It isn't embarrassing for me."
"Oh," Hob says, "oh, I see, so you're just here to make me feel bad about it?"
"Not at all," the Stranger replies lightly, "what you get up to in your mind is your business. But you called my name."
"I don't even know your name!" Hob snaps, at the end of his tether, because the lovely stranger on the bed has just locked his knees around the other Hob's back, and is enthusiastically responding.
The Stranger looks wryly at him. "You called it nevertheless," he says simply. He turns his glorious head back to the mess of bodies on the bed, as though it's a mildly interesting television programme. Hob hides his face in his hands, but this simply transports him fully into the body of the man on the bed. This man is pressing his stranger deeply into the mattress, giving him long, slow thrusts which grind their bodies together. He feels so fragile, Hob can feel him shaking, he hopes with pleasure. He kisses the turn of the stranger's sharp jawline, and bites deeply into his soft flesh, sucking a bruise there.
"Oh," the bed-stranger whimpers, in a particularly helpless and tremulous way, "oh, Hob..."
"Oh, Hob," the real Stranger repeats, disparagingly. He sounds more mirthful than Hob has ever heard him before.
"Shut up!" Hob begs, from behind his hands, "shut up, shut up, shu--argh--"
His bed-self gathers the bed-stranger to him, folding him almost in half, in order to drive down into him, and the bed-stranger begins, breathily, to wail. Hob thinks he might throw up. Beside him, he can hear soft laughter. "I hate you," he says, untruthfully.
"I don't believe you have the evidence to back up such a claim," the Stranger replies mildly. Hob glances at him. There's very little change on his stoic face, except for the rare upturn of his lips in a smile. He is, the bastard, genuinely amused. "In fact, he continues, "all evidence seems to point to the contrary. This certainly isn't a hateful dream."
"That's your opinion," Hob mutters, digging his nails into the meat of his own cheeks to distract himself from the phantom sensation of ploughing a beautiful, ethereal creature into a mattress. The Stranger snuffles his soft little laugh again.
"I sense no hate here," he says, and he turns, stepping in front of Hob, blocking his view of the bed with a face so like, and yet unlike the one contorted in ecstasy behind him. This man's face is fuller, broader, his jawline is sharp but it's strong. His lips are still full, but they're curved upwards, a little more so on one side, in a smirk with a wicked spark all its own. His eyes, God, his eyes. In almost seven hundred years, Hob has never seen more beautiful eyes. His imagination did them no justice at all. "Quite the opposite, Hob Gadling." he murmurs, and those eyes glimmer at him meaningfully.
"Yeah, well," Hob grumbles. The Stranger steps closer, into his space. He's a little shorter than Hob, which always feels so strange. Not by much, but his personality looms, so it's always a surprise to find he's not preternaturally tall. He is very close indeed. And his lovely eyes are so intense. "Oh!" Hob says, in surprise. He raises an uncertain hand, stopping just short of the Stranger's pale cheek. "Are you...are you sure?"
"I do not undertake this lightly," the Stranger tells him, tilting his head until Hob's fingers touch his skin. He is neither warm nor sweaty, like the figment on the bed. He's cool and his skin is almost powder-soft. Hob strokes along his cheekbone with just his fingertips, awed.
"I think you'd better tell me your name," he says, a little shakily. The skin under his fingers moves as the Stranger smiles.
"You may call me Dream," Dream says softly. He leans very close. His breath tickles Hob's upper lip, his thick lashes are lowered almost all the way as he watches Hob's mouth. The cool tip of his nose brushes Hob's cheek.
"I may call you that because it's your name, or...?"
"It is one of my names," Dream tells him, mysterious to the last.
"Dream," Hob breathes. He curls his fingers to draw Dream closer to him, to kiss him. "It's the same," he says softly. Dream makes a questioning sound. "Your name," Hob explains, "it's the same in modern English and Old English. Dream. I love words like that." He could almost cry, his heart feels soft and broken open, but so pleased, so relieved; he realises he's known Dream's name, and has always known it. Dream and the moon are his two constants, over six hundred and sixty-odd years.
The kisses they had shared in his imagination were tepid, he finds. Dream kisses like--like he's trying to stamp something indelible on Hob, like he's trying to make this the most unforgettable kiss of Hob's life, like he's trying to ruin Hob for anyone else. Which he is. Hob feels possessive hands on his waist, and the cool line of Dream's lean body against his front, herding him towards the wall. He's forward and uncompromising, completely unlike the soft, shy creature Hob had imagined.
This man is no stranger to love, he thinks dizzily. Dream's hands creep up to the curve of his head, and he grabs a handful of Hob's hair. It doesn't hurt, but Hob goes where he's bidden; Dream's teeth stay around his lower lip as he's pulled. Again, it doesn't hurt, but it's a heady sensation, something heightening, exciting, wild. Hob looks down at him, dazedly. Dream's eyes gleam up at him, full of mischief. "Fuck," Hob gasps, "fucking--hell", and Dream smirks.
Hob slides his hands up Dream's thin chest, under the lapels of his long, black coat. As he brushes it off Dream's shoulders, it seems to simply melt off him, so Dream does not have to move his hands from Hob's body. "That's handy," Hob remarks distractedly. When it falls to the floor, he sees it's lined with stars. No, not stars, three-dimensional skies. "Fuck me," he breathes incredulously, staring at it.
"Gladly," Dream says, with a sharp, lightning-quick grin. Hob snorts a laugh back, reaching for Dream's narrow hips to pull him in closer. What is he, really, Hob wonders, as Dream kisses him like he has something to prove. Hob slides his hands under the hem of Dream's plain, black, long-sleeved top, upwards over his cool back. He is almost worryingly thin, but there's nothing fragile about him. The planes of his back may be narrow, but they feel strong. There is no softness in him at all, not an ounce of fat to spare. Hob puts his hand in the centre of Dream's back, between his shoulder blades and holds him as close as he can.
His other hand copies Dream's move from before, and creeps into his hair. To his surprise, it's perfectly soft. He'd assumed it would be full of gel, like some of the kids he taught, whose hair looked so full of shit he almost asked if it were white and crunchy outside. His hands move it, and it stays where he leaves it, perpetual bedhead. He combs his fingers through it, longer in the front and on the top, but there's something intensely pleasing about plucking the short hair at the back of his head between his fingers.
A thigh slides between his own, and he realises his mind has been wandering into more mundane avenues to comfort him that what he's doing isn't extraordinary. Dream bites his lip, harder than the sensual drag of teeth before. "Pay attention to me," he commands, and Hob babbles some curse words. He wonders if Dream's top will melt away from him like his coat had, and is delighted when he finds that it does. It comes away from him like black smoke, becoming whole again when Hob flicks it to the floor.
There really isn't an lick of fat on him. He's--he almost doesn't look human, and Hob has to remind himself that Dream is not human. He's skinny, but in a lean, muscular way; everywhere sinew stands out on him like whipcords in his taut arms, his flat chest. He's exquisite in the way a tiger's focused eyes are exquisite; perfect and dangerous. His skin gleams like new snow in the moonlight; Hob almost expects him to shimmer. "You'd make a tough meal for a wolf," Hob says, with absolutely no input from his brain whatsoever.
Dream actually looks torn between bewilderment and amusement. Hob tries to just go in for another kiss, face burning, but Dream holds him off with fingertips on his sternum. "What?" he asks, and there's soft laughter in his voice. His eyes are glimmering, and they seem darker than usual.
"You know, just," Hob gestures to him, "you look like you'd be difficult to chew. Oh, fuck-king hell."
Dream laughs, honest to God laughs. There isn't much of a sound to it, but his body shakes and Hob can see all of his small, regular teeth. "Please," Hob says, although he's grinning all over his bright-red face to see Dream's laughter, "please, just pretend I didn't say any of that!"
"I'm gratified to learn the sight of me has put you off the idea of eating me," Dream tells him, his lovely, serious face all alight with amusement.
"I didn't say that," Hob disagrees, gathering him close. He means it flirtily, he doesn't expect Dream to order, 'tell me,' and he certainly doesn't expect to comply. "Fuck. I--I want to consume you," he says nonsensically. "I want to crush you into me, I want to swallow you whole into my body so nobody ever sees you again, but I want to show you off to everyone so they all know you're mine." His hands, large, rough, sun-browned, close around both of Dream's thin, pale wrists and squeeze as he crowds in closer.
"I want you to never look at anyone but me again. I want a collar around your neck, I want--I want to possess you, I want you never to walk away from me in a pub for a twink with a pen and a big mouth ever again." He glares at Dream, and Dream jerks his chin up to meet Hob's eyes, haughty as ever. His lush upper lip curls in a smile so smug it's almost a sneer; he's so insufferable Hob has to kiss him, hard and demanding.
"Well," Dream purrs, "I suppose you'd better get on with it, Hob Gadling."
Who knew that voicing his most insane, dark, possessive fantasies he tried to pretend to himself he didn't have would be so rewarding? Dream lifts a long leg, and Hob hooks his fingers around it; with one light little hop, like a cat, Dream locks the other leg around Hob's hips, and allows himself to be borne to the ground, Hob's hand cradling the back of his dark head carefully. Hob presses into him as hard as he can, crushing him, as though he really can absorb Dream into him. Dream pushes back, as if he agrees.
Hob burns, but Dream has yet to break a sweat. He's as pale as a marble statue, cool to the touch. Hob trembles with desire, but Dream is as still as he ever is, every movement seems calculated and thoughtful, and it's driving Hob insane. Dream responds to him, but nothing has taken him by surprise, there have been no delicious little noises teased from him, or gasps of ecstasy. Yet.
When all clothes are finally crumpled heaps around them, Dream turns them over, a lean, white predator looming above him. Hob thinks of the Dream he'd seen in the bed, how soft, how pretty, how pink. He had been slender, with gently rounded arms and legs, ending in beautifully tapered wrists and ankles, showing blue veins and delicate bones. How fragile Hob had imagined him, how feminine. Dream is rangy, strong without being muscular, his stomach and his chest are firm, his arms are taut, his long legs shapely. There is nothing like a faun in him; if he's an animal at all, he is a dark jungle cat; lithe and effortless and graceful, packed with casual strength.
He's not a tame, pretty creature; he's a wild thing, a savage, a force of nature. He's bottled lightning. Hob touches him disbelievingly, awed at his own sense of privilege; he slides his hands up Dream's legs to his hips, holds him there by his sharp bones, curves his hands around the slope of his back. Hob feels big and clumsy beside him, touching him, it makes him ashamed of his own ordinariness. Hob's hands look very brown against Dream's dead-white complexion. He has a couple of freckles, one or two scars, but Dream is almost as perfect as porcelain.
And as dangerous, Hob thinks, as asbestos. He presses his lips to Dream's firm stomach, and makes his way upwards, finally latching on to a pale pink nipple. Dream cradles his head in one hand; the other slides down Hob's spine, and drags its nails back up, lightly, barely touching him. Hob's muscles twitch and shudder involuntarily; he gasps into Dream's chest. Dream, in his deep, slumberous voice, gives a pleased hum which is almost a sigh. Hob surges upwards to kiss him again, but Dream, without breaking the kiss, nudges him back until he is lying down again, Dream hovering above him, white knees astride Hob's hips.
When Dream takes Hob into his body--just like that, dream-logic is the best--he stretches, long and languorous, his pale belly curving as he arches into the feeling. He makes a tiny 'ah!' sound, as if he'd just taken a bite of something delicious, just finished a pint he had been craving for days. Hob reaches a hand out, stroking upwards over his chest. "Fuck," he says hoarsely, "fuck, you're beautiful." The word is inadequate. Hob has not found, in over six hundred years, the correct term to express how he feels seeing Dream at that moment.
Dream blinks slowly at him, like a satisfied cat. He's not smiling, but it's in his eyes--his eyes, which are fathomless, liquid black, dusted with the light of a thousand stars, spilling over his cheeks like light refracted from diamonds, casting soft flicks of shadows on his skin from his eyelashes. He hums, as if in agreement, swirling his fingers over Hob's nipple almost absently. Hob jerks his hips up, and Dream's eyelids droop, his only outward sign of pleasure so far. Hob grins, and Dream sparkles back at him.
Dream rides like he's the sluttiest guy at a bar with a bucking bronco. It's all Hob can do to stare at him with his mouth hanging open; the grace of every movement, the utter debauchery of it. Dream seeks his pleasure, finds it and takes it, like it's what he's due, perhaps simply as a reward for being so beautiful. The more Hob gives him, the more he demands. Hob is running with sweat, but Dream merely has a splash of pale colour in his cheeks, though his lips are almost scarlet. The feel of his cool skin against Hob's super-heated flesh is incredible. Dream's mouth is open, upper lip twitched upwards over his teeth so it looks like a snarl. He looks more wild than ever.
But somehow, as if his beauty is contagious, Hob feels, inexplicably, gorgeous, in and of himself. In actuality, he is probably a sweaty mess, but he feels like he's glowing, like his skin glitters and shines as he moves. His jaw-length hair clings to his cheeks and forehead, but it feels like it's falling in shining waves around his head, like a dark halo. His body does precisely what he wants, and the effort is a joy; it's almost as though he had forgotten, in all his long life, the pleasure of being young. Somehow, it feels as though he has been an old man, stiff and stale, who has suddenly unzipped from an aged body and stepped out again into the sunlight, a young man for whom moving is easy and beauty is effortless.
He laughs, elated. Dream's snarl softens and almost becomes a smile. He circles his hips and moves lower, lower, until his belly is pressed against Hob's, and only the very tip of Hob's cock is still inside him; he creeps forward on his elbows, along Hob's body, until they're close enough to kiss each other, and he can lick the shocked gasps right out of Hob's mouth.
Hob slides his hands over Dream's thighs, all hard sinew and lithe muscle, up to the base of his spine, and Dream bends back, sinking downwards again, effortlessly, head tipping back, arching that beautiful neck. He makes a noise which turns into a sigh, pale body flashing like a murmuration of starlings as he rolls his hips. "I was wrong," Hob gasps, in breathless reverence. Dream raises an eyebrow at him. "I want to be consumed by you. I want to wear your collar--fuck--I want--I--"
"Good," Dream interrupts; he sounds so smug, so pleased, like he's been waiting for that all along. He circles his hips, he bounces, he grinds--his blunt fingertips dig into Hob, and invite him to dig back. Hob stares up at him, at his lovely, chiselled face, in so much pleasure it looks like pain, and he remembers the saints in their coffins from his childhood, the Pieta, the Stations of the Cross, and he thinks it's a beautiful, terrible blasphemy, and he knows he'll feel guilty about it later, but he's a marble statue come to life, a flawless creation from the hands of a true artist.
Even as he watches, stars seem to twinkle into life in Dream's dark hair, at the tips of his fingers, on his eyelashes; on his skin itself, falling from his nipples only to wink out before they hit Hob's skin, dripping from his hair, nestled in his incongruous belly button. He looks like a celestial waterfall; they collect on his collarbone and in the hollow of his throat, and Hob wonders, is this how he sweats? Stars sparkle in his ears like diamond studs; when he throws his head back, they form a diamond coronet of crystals around his head. At his back, Hob sees a shimmering cloak, spread out behind him, transparent, picked out in stars--or is it wings?
Dream flicks the stars gathering on his forehead back with one hand, and looks down at him. "You're determined to make me pretty," he pants. "Very well, I shan't argue."
They are wings. Gauzy, gossamer; two pairs, like a dragonfly's, and he raises them, glittering, around him, pushing his chest forward and his shoulders back as if the sensation is as good as the sex; his palms on Hob's undulating belly. They flutter lazily behind him, as if caught in a draught.
"You're already pretty. I'm determined to worship you," Hob gasps, "I'm determined to heap beautiful things on you--oh! as you deserve, as you should have--"
"My lord," Dream supplies helpfully, and not a little impishly. Hob grins madly, barely in his right mind any longer. If Dream had suggested Hob call him Shirley, he would've gone along with it.
"My lord," he agrees, "let me worship you, my lord; I'm unworthy but let me kneel at your feet, let me give you your pleasure, my lord--"
"'My Lord Morpheus'," Dream adds, in a gasp. He's getting hurried and jerky and unco-ordinated, and Hob is nearly shaking out of his skin altogether.
"My Lord--" Hob sobs, "my Lord Morpheus--!"
"Yes-s," Dream gasps out, the word loud and hissed through his teeth. There's just a hint of a whine, a tiny wobble to his voice which Hob feels in the pit of his stomach. He blazes with starlight, his whole body bearing down on Hob as Hob drives upwards, desperate to make him come. To Hob, with his heart hammering so fast it feels almost like his body is humming, and his mind racing, it almost seems as though Dream is moving in slow motion. Hob stares at him in awe as Dream's hands reach up to sink into his own hair. His head falls back, every one of his taut muscles contracting as he drives his hips forward, hard.
"Dream," Hob pants, rising up to meet him with all of his strength. Dream's breath punches out of him with small, intensely satisfied grunts. "Dream--"
"Ah...ah--!"
He looks, Hob thinks, like the most beautiful man, dressed in nothing but stars, but so unconsciously, effortlessly masculine. Hob's trembling hands reach out for him, begging for he knows not what. They should've sent a poet, Hob thinks wildly, as he teeters on his own edge.
Several weird things happen, then. The Dream on top of him is suddenly beneath him, and her hair is long, flowing, inky black. Breasts swell up on her thin chest, her waist sinks and her hips widen, and Hob's thrusting as hard as he can into her slick body; but then again, there is a Dream behind him, buried deeply inside him, holding him by his hair and his shoulder, there is a Dream of indeterminate gender between his thighs, nose pressed to his stomach, there is a Dream kissing him, hard; there are nails scoring eight parallel lines down his back, there are fingers on his nipples, there is a hand on his cock--
Hob utterly, utterly whites out. He thinks he screams, but he cannot be certain. All he knows is that he hears soft, deep-voiced moaning coming from somewhere, and he feels both better than he ever has before, and simultaneously, like he's probably going to die.
When he comes to, it takes a long time to work out that what he's seeing, tasting and inhaling is a good deal of unruly black hair. Dream is stretched out on top of him, head tucked under his chin, idly drawing patterns with his cool fingertips on Hob's shoulder. Hob makes some mumbling noises, and puts a clumsy hand on the dip of Dream's lower back. "Oh," Dream murmurs, "hello again."
"What the fuck was that?" Hob mumbles, through rubbery lips. Dream makes an incurious questioning sound. "That," Hob gestures, "that bit at the end, where you were--you were like, three or four people."
"I thought you would enjoy it," Dream explains laconically, as though this were obvious.
"Oh, I did," Hob tells him fervently, "I did enjoy it. It's just that I think you may have irrevocably changed the density of my bones. I don't think I can stand."
"That is as well," Dream replies, "for I am quite comfortable, and it would be very inconvenient for me if you were to move."
"Ah," Hob strokes his hand down Dream's back experimentally, and is rewarded with the smallest of satisfied sounds. "So, what was with the Lord Morpheus thing, that's like, your dominatrix title?"
"Dominatrices are female," Dream says lazily, "and Lord Morpheus is my name, my dear simpleton."
"I thought you said it was Dream," Hob says. Dream's face is turned away from him on his shoulder; he can only see a curve of white cheek and pink lip.
"I have many names," Dream answers. "Those are but two."
"You're nobility?"
"I am royalty," Dream says haughtily, "I am Dream of the Endless. I am Lord of Dreams and King of the Nightmare Realm."
"Am I supposed to feel guilty that I never guessed that?" Hob asks, "because I'm still no further forward."
"You incorrigible human, will you leave me in peace for five minutes?" It's framed like a snap, but there's amusement in Dream's voice, and Hob smiles into his hair. He wraps his arms loosely around Dream's back, and lets him return to drawing patterns on Hob's bare skin. Hob strokes absently at the feathery hair at the nape of Dream's neck, trailing his fingertip in the tender hollow he finds there. He feels Dream's eyelashes blink on his collarbone, once, twice, and then they stay closed. His fingers still move though, so Hob knows he is not asleep.
"Just tell me one thing," Hob bursts out, unable to keep quiet, and Dream tuts. "Was this real, or is it all a dream?"
Dream freezes. There is a silence, and Hob's heart sinks. Then, Dream shifts like the movement of the seabed in the Book of Revelations. He moves himself so that his legs are either side of Hob's hips, his belly is pressed to Hob's, and Hob thinks he is about to be kissed. He closes his eyes, lips yielding already, but Dream merely pushes their foreheads together. His solemn, fierce blue eyes appear as one, enormous, cyclopean glare when Hob looks at him. "It is both, Hob Gadling," he says, like he's writing it in stone. "Have I not told you I am Dream? Am I not real?"
"You are Dream," Hob repeats, the light beginning to dawn. "You're Dream? You're every dream I've ever had?"
"I am all of the dreams everyone has ever had, will ever have. I am Endless. I have been here since the first creature dreamt, and I will be here until the last spark of imagination is gone from this world."
Hob's breath is coming short and quick, and he knows it is impossible to be turned on again so quickly, but he wants Dream to bend him to his will and leave him wrung out like an old dishrag on the floor. Again. He leans in, chasing Dream's lips, pathetically grateful when he is accepted. He struggles to sit upright, and then gathers Dream to him, scooping him closer and holding him to his chest. Dream's cool hands rake through his hair. "Christ," he mumbles, against Dream's mouth, "you're amazing, you--you're--"
He holds Dream tightly to him, realising again his privilege to be allowed simply to touch, to have him there. Dream looks at him out of dark, hazy eyes, sweetly half-closed, but full of the warm smile he never quite allows to reach his lips. "God, I love you," Hob tells him feverishly, "I love you, I love you, don't worry, you don't have to say anything, I'm not asking for marriage. Can we still carry on being friends? I just need you to know--"
"Enough," Dream murmurs, possibly because Hob is clutching at him like he's about to disappear into thin air (it wouldn't be the first time). His hair smells sharp, like the air before a thunderstorm, but it is so soft, a contradiction in terms. Hob can't help stroking his hand through it, plucking those short strands through his fingers, cradling that glorious head in the palm of his hand.
"Okay, but--"
"Yes," Dream interrupts, "we will continue to be friends. And occasionally, do this, if that would be agreeable to you."
He moves with a liquid grace, but to all intents and purposes, shuffles back down the bed, puts his head back on Hob's chest, and closes his eyes again.
"Dream?"
His blue eyes fly open again.
"Yes, Hob Gadling, what is it this time?" He's exasperated, but fond. In one swift movement, Hob rolls them, bundling Dream up to him, curling around him almost protectively, all of his long, elegant limbs brought in tight, his cheek pressed to Hob's. He's smaller, thinner, Hob can cover him almost completely, and it soothes an itch in his soul somewhere, something possessive but also something vulnerable and fragile. Don't leave me again. Don't hurt me again. Just let me know you as you know me. Dream gives a long-suffering sigh, the cheeky bastard, and readjusts so he's more comfortable, but he stays more or less where Hob puts him.
"One more--"
Dream's hand snakes up between them and covers Hob's face. "I will answer all of your questions, Hob Gadling," Dream says, "but for now, please, just let me rest."
Hob, who was only been about to ask how and when they got on to the bed, and what had happened to the dream-Hob and dream-Dream, closes his mouth and nods. He has a list of questions, some of them almost as old as himself, and some of them brand new. But Dream, softer and more pliable than Hob has ever seen him, feels boneless in his arms. The dark circles under his eyes, which had been very pronounced when first they met again at the New Inn, are a little lighter, but still present.
Despite his pleas for rest, Dream does not sleep. He closes his eyes and lies still in Hob's arms, but his fingertips still play ticklishly on Hob's skin. Tentatively, Hob does the same, letting his fingers wander over Dream's marble statue shoulders. He strokes down the curve of Dream's back, his flanks, as though petting an enormous cat. Dream sighs warmly, and suddenly his shoulders release a little tension Hob had not even realise he was holding. He angles his head down and kisses the crown of Dream's dark head. "Do you...are you still amenable?" Dream asks suddenly, in a quiet mumble, "to me--to this?"
"Of course," Hob tells him immediately, "why wouldn't I be?"
"I'm not what you imagined," Dream says softly.
Hob feels a pulse of love so great it is almost painful; it seems to throb through his whole body. His arms physically ache; he has to tighten them around Dream or he believes he might cry. To think, this incredible creature, this godlike ruler of his own realm, might for a moment doubt that he was worthy of love from Hob Gadling, simply because he was a real person, rather than a vanity project for Hob to feel manly and protective over. It feels like his heart is being slowly squeezed and pulled apart, like warm bread. He sounds so human, so uncertain, so endearing, and Hob loves him for it.
"I could never have imagined you," Hob tells him fiercely, as Dream turns within the circle of his arms. Lying on his back, he meets Hob's eyes unwaveringly, and Hob nudges closer, sharing his breath, then feeling the touch of his nose, then feeling the adhesive catch of his lush cupid's bow. "Let me kiss you, my lord," he begs.
"Kiss me," Dream demands, in a whisper.
"Oh," Hob murmurs, against his lips, "again and again, my Lord Morpheus."