Chapter Text
Now
Hob wakes up slowly, the mellowness of sleep dripping off his skin as he blinks at his surroundings. His bedroom is lit by the greeting morning light, and as he stretches in the comfortable bed, he already knows what he’ll find.
Or not find.
Dream is gone. His side of the bed is cold, and when Hob scoots over and sighs into the empty pillow, he can smell the memory of last night. The aftertaste of skin and sweat and slick, rich like a good wine on the back of his throat, and under it the unmistakable scent of Dream. Cool, crisp like the first bite of winter berries.
He sighs again and closes his eyes, and lets what sleep is left to cling to him. It’s all he can do, really.
*
Before
Dream de Endless is the most annoying, pretentious, stuck up bastard Hob has ever met in his life. Hob does not use the word hate lightly, but if it ever did apply to someone, it would be Dream. And probably his second grade PE teacher who always made Hob run laps when he knew Hob had a deep philosophical hatred for any form of cardio.
What he’s saying is, the list is short and Dream is winning the gold fucking medal.
Normally, Hob would have no interactions with Dream. They both run in two different worlds, and Hob’s nerdy academic crowd would barely make contact with Dream’s ‘I am an important filthy rich artist, gaze upon me and despair’ circle.
But then Jo had to hook up with Rachel who is best friends with Nuala, who is also Matthew’s cousin who is best friends with Lucienne who is, of fucking course, Dream’s best friend and agent.
The world is a village, and Hob would love to burn it to the ground.
They keep meeting, Dream and him, and Hob hates it. Dinner parties, birthday parties, pub nights, that one horrible wine tasting Matthew dragged him to, every gallery opening this side of the Thames because Hob’s friends probably hate him.
And every time, it’s a shitshow.
In his defense, Dream started it.
It was a regular Tuesday, and Hob decided to join Rachel and Jo for drinks because he needed at least two pints for his mental health, as well as the chance to whine about academic bullshit. Dream was also there with Lucienne, looking elegant and dressed in all black like he was attending a funeral for all things happy in the world.
And look, Hob is not blind. Dream is frankly painfully gorgeous and Hob noticed it from the moment their eyes met, because he is a nice person, but he also has eyes and a fucking cock that always gets him into trouble.
He must have made it obvious, stared too long, and he regrets it now, but it was Dream who took one look at him, sniffed like he was offered boxed wine or maybe stepped in a turd, and ignored Hob for the rest of the night.
And okay, ouch. But also, what the fuck.
Hob wasn’t even sleazy, he just looked surprised, and maybe his scent spiked for a second before he could rein it in. He wanted to apologize, but Dream just gave him a look like Hob wasn’t even worth the air they shared.
Hob tried to diffuse the situation that first night, convinced they just got off on the wrong foot because of a misunderstanding, that’s all.
He made a joke, laughed about the ridiculous chain of mutual acquaintances, but Dream just stared at him over his wine glass, all glares and sharp cheekbones and said, “Yes. Unfortunately the world is small.”
He then turned away like Hob was not even worth a proper insult.
It’s just gotten worse and worse since then.
Every meeting, Dream looks like he is in pain as soon as Hob walks into the room. Hob’s even caught him pinching his nose when Hob is too close like his very presence gives him migraines. Hob knows his scent has never been the most alluring, but come on. That’s just rude.
Because Dream is rude, and he clearly thinks he is better than everyone else, especially Hob, and Hob hates him.
The bastard can’t help himself. Every meeting, he can’t let the minutes pass without throwing a pointedly sharp comment or thinly veiled insult Hob's way, like Hob’s his designated favorite target. And yeah, Hob gives as good as he gets but, like he mentioned, Dream started it.
Hob has just decided he will end it, not scared of the angry narrowed eyed glare Dream seems to be so fond of sharing with him.
(He doesn’t think about the fact that he’s never gotten even a whiff of Dream’s own scent. Hob knows some people use scent blockers, and he thinks it’s fair enough. But he can’t help the nasty, vindictive part of himself that hopes Dream does it because his own scent is bad. Being petty keeps him happy, so sue him.)
It all comes to a clash when Matthew drags him to an art expo. Hob’s usually not into art, especially the one that gets shown in weirdly lit warehouses with price tags that look like his own bank statement, but Matthew doesn’t take no for an answer. Nuala has her very first showing, and Hob thinks a night of looking at pretty and/or weird shit while drinking free champagne is just what he needs after a week of grading papers. End of term is always exhausting, and he is actually quite excited to loosen up, even putting on a proper shirt and his good shoes.
He’s actually quite pleased with his decision as he makes his way inside.
And then he spots Dream.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he groans, maybe a little too loudly by the dirty look an older woman gives him. He shoots her an apologetic smile, and turns back towards the personification of his own personal hell. It’s only a second, but he catches Dream’s bored eyeroll before the bastard turns around and walks away in a tornado of black silk. Of course he’s dressed like a fucking vampire, leather jacket thrown over floor length silk, those stupid clunky black Docs he’s fond of, not that Hob’s noticed.
“So I take it he’s still getting under your skin?” Matthew says from his left, sounding positively amused, and Hob scoffs.
“No one is getting under my skin,” Hob grumbles, maybe too fast and defensive, and ignores Matthew’s pointed look.
“Sure, Hobsie.”
“Don’t you have some paintings to stare at?” Hob snaps, but Matthew doesn’t seem to be affected by his tone, just grinning as he walks away with a bounce in his step.
Hob takes a few steadying breaths and thinks about leaving, but he won’t give Dream that satisfaction, no way in hell.
He takes a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and starts mingling. As he expected, some of the art pieces are weird and he feels a little bit out of his depth, but he does find some things of interest.
A few pieces in the back catch his eyes. Two giant canvases, an explosion of dark charcoal melting into paint. From up close, they look like a swirl of chaos, like Hob could just step into them and get lost forever. But as soon as he steps back, his eyes catch the moments of peace in the chaos. It reminds him of the beautiful religious paintings he always finds in his research books, remade into anarchy, into chaotic rebellion.
They are beautiful.
He stares at them for a long time, and when he finally moves, his gaze falls on Dream again. He is staring at Hob, a small frown between his elegant eyebrows, lips parted in something akin to soft surprise. The moment vanishes as soon as he sees Hob watching him, the familiar disinterest Hob’s gotten used to making any softness melt like snow in summer heat. With a quick flick of his gaze, Dream goes back to ignoring Hob as he always does, his disinterest almost palpable from ten feet away.
Hob throws back his drink in one gulp, and pushes back the sharp edge of irritation. He will not let Dream ruin his night.
Half an hour later, he finds Matthew gushing over Nuala’s works, and enjoys a pleasing conversation with them both. He drinks more champagne, ending up happily buzzed and not thinking about Dream once. He also has to pee though, and Nuala points him up the stairs for the bathroom.
He is more buzzed than he thinks because as soon as he finds himself on the empty second floor, he’s forgotten every one of her directions. He tries a few different doors, all locked, the hallways empty and quiet except for the buzz of the lights and the faded hum of conversation on the gallery floor.
Finally, he spots a door left slightly open at the end, and pushes through.
It is not the bathroom.
It is an office space, and to make it worse, it is also occupied by the leading cause of Hob’s irritation.
“Oh for fuck’s—“ he sighs, and Dream’s eyes narrow in a glare.
“Can’t you read? This is a private office.”
Hob feels his irritation spike up like an angry thorn in the back of his throat. “There’s no plaque on the door, asshole.”
Dream just lifts his chin, looking all kinds of haughty. “It is still private.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I’m one of the artists on show tonight. I belong here.”
“Is that why you’re hiding up here like a miserable troll?”
Dream’s nostrils flare in anger. Hob has the sudden, surprising thought that it makes him look devastatingly handsome, anger fitting him like a well worn glove. He quickly and desperately pushes that particularly annoying thought to the back of his mind immediately.
“A troll?!” Dream splutters, and Hob just shrugs smugly. “Says the man stalking me.”
“Excuse me, I was not stalking. I was also invited to this shindig.”
“It is not a shindig,” Dream snaps, grimacing like the word has offended his entire bloodline. “It is the Academy of Arts’ most prestigious showing, you uncultured twat.”
Hob rolls his eyes on purpose, just to watch Dream’s irritation spike harder. And oh, it does, Dream’s expression going sharper, furious, even as his posture stiffens like marble.
And then, something else. For a moment, Hob catches the edge of a new scent, something cool, like the break of ice under his molars. It’s barely there, but it is enough to make his pulse skip a beat.
Thankfully, his anger at Dream is enough to help distract him. Mostly.
“I may be uncultured, but at least I’m not a snobby bitch about it.”
He aims for easy, and yet it comes out annoyed, his irritation breaking out of him like the pop of champagne bubbles.
“Oh yes,” Dream drawls, his blue eyes narrowed in a glare so sharp it could draw blood. “It is so much better to act superior while swimming in mediocrity. Tell me, how does being stunningly average feel?”
“Quite nice, thank you,” Hob shoots back, a grin more like a show of canines. Dream’s jaw works silently for a moment, and Hob does not think it makes the lines of his face look even more beautiful. The thought springs to his mind like a sharp, thorned bloom, and he tries to cut it as soon as he notices it.
“That charm,” Dream says, drawls the word out like it is venom. “Is that what it is for? To keep people from realizing there is nothing of value underneath?”
“Oh, that’s rich. Coming from someone who wears misery like a fucking fashion statement.”
“At least I do not wrap myself in performative warmth like my life depended on it.”
“So your version is better? Confusing emotional constipation for depth,” Hob snaps, one step forward, then another, can’t help himself. “You act like being a cold bastard is a quality.”
Dream doesn’t flinch, just keeps glaring at Hob with fury that has stopped being contained, body pulled taut like a violin string on a high note.
“It’s called having boundaries,” he says, voice tight. “Something you clearly lack.”
Hob laughs at that, a short, sharp sound. “Boundaries, sure. Is that what you call acting like you’re just too good for everyone else.”
“Unlike you, I do not need to impress everyone I meet. Like a good little dog waiting to be liked.”
“Better a dog than a statue, so cold and stiff and pretending I don’t care about anything.”
Dream tilts his head, his smile cruel like the sharp edge of a blade. “No, you just pretend everything does. Constant noise, constant charm, anything to fill the void.”
It hurts, the way it should, and Hob’s jaw tenses. “Right. And you what? Think silence makes you deep? That if you glare hard enough people won’t notice there’s fuck all underneath?”
Dream’s smile slips, for just a second, but it’s enough. Hob should love it, and he does, but there’s something else under it all, something too sharp and too good and too much at the same time. It feels like touching a bruise and feeling both the pain and the push of satisfaction.
He should back down, knows this has gone too far. And yet he can’t help but say, “You walk around like the world’s not good enough for you. But guess what? It’s you who is the problem, always has, always will be.”
Dream’s glare is poisonous, the bitter drip of it settling over Hob’s skin like he’s been drenched in it. Hob’s heart is hammering a symphony in his chest, and he realizes he sways with it, closer to Dream. He barely stops himself, the air crackling with it.
Dream notices it too, and his eyes settle on Hob like a vice. For a moment, none of them move.
And then Dream leans forward, his voice a tight whisper.
“You may leave now,” he says, words the snap of an elastic between them, teeth grit like it hurts him.
Hob should do just that.
Instead, he just smirks, dizzy with something he can’t name. “Say please.”
Dream growls, and takes an angry step forward, body like a storm waiting to wipe the earth clean. “Why do you always insist on being so— so aggravating?”
“I’m aggravating? You’re the one who always acts like someone stuck a pole up your ass,” Hob snaps back. “I was just minding my own business before you started it all.”
A laugh, sharp like a whip. “Of course, you just happen to always be around, like a happy little alpha puppy.”
“Oh trust me, baby. If I were a happy little alpha puppy, you would not be walking straight now.”
Hob has no idea where that came from. Okay, that is a lie, he knows exactly where that came from. The snarl in Dream’s tone, the little curl of his lip, and the spike of that goddamn scent again. Winter in the air, cool and crisp and perfect; undertones of something sweet, delicious and mouth watering. Hob tries to not inhale, and he fails.
Dream’s eyes widen, and Hob knows he’s definitely gone too far, and yet he holds his ground. He’s unsure why, but he can’t move under Dream’s fiery gaze, the buzz of something too loud and deep holding him in place.
He expects Dream to walk out, to maybe even yell at him, say something meant to hurt so deep Hob would hold the scar of it for weeks to come.
He would deserve it.
But Dream just tilts his head and fucking laughs. It is mean, just like the curl of his lips, like the cutting caress of his glare. There is nothing amused about it, nothing sweet. He leans back on the desk like he owns the room, crosses his legs with slow precision. The dress slips then, and Hob notices the slit on the side for the first time, and hates how his stomach swoops as he catches sight of a pale, perfect thigh.
“Arrogant through and through,” Dream drawls, sounding unimpressed. “You are such an alpha.”
The word is spoken like an insult, like filth against those perfect teeth, but it’s there again, that scent. The smell of crisp winter air hitting the back of his throat, the sweetness like a knife in the dark, pointed right at the soft parts of Hob’s throat.
Hob grins, can’t help himself, bares his teeth like a promise. “Oh, you have no idea, sweetheart.”
Blue eyes narrow, and Dream’s fingers twitch against the edge of the desk where his hands grip it. When he takes a breath, his mouth parts on the slow inhale and fuck, Hob can’t help himself, he takes a step forward.
And then he freezes.
Shame floods his veins like a tidal wave. He may hate Dream, but it is a shitty thing to do; assuming, closing space without permission, this isn’t him, no matter how tense the situation goes.
He opens his mouth for an apology that barely has time to catch in his throat, when Dream just lifts his chin with a dangerous hum. His mouth curled not in protest, but in a fucking challenge.
(Later, Hob will think about how that challenging look was all it took.)
The tension in the room ignites.
Then, his mouth is on Dream’s.
It is not a kiss, not even close. Dream’s lips part on a growl, his teeth catching Hob’s bottom lip like he plans to rip Hob’s soul out of his body. Hob, godsdammit, goes willingly. He pushes into the onslaught, grips Dream’s hips and pulls him close, feeling incredibly smug when Dream’s legs part for him be it from fury or instinct. Hob doesn’t find he cares which.
Dream makes a shocked noise, a moan that slides into a high whine when Hob’s thumbs dig into his bony hips then drag lower to grip his thighs. His left foot hooks around Hob’s leg, the heel of his boot digging painfully into the soft parts behind Hob’s knee, a tether and a vice at the same time.
He kisses Hob with heat, with anger, like it’s both a gift and punishment.
“You,” Dream says, vicious nails digging into Hob’s skull. “Are so fucking annoying.”
Hob laughs and pushes his hips forward. Dream gasps, the obvious bulge under his dress so impossible to miss.
“You don’t seem to mind, baby.”
Dream pulls back, eyes narrowed, a fiery anger in them that Hob wants to lap up like a starving man. Before Dream can open his mouth to throw whatever scathing remark he’s thought of, Hob pulls back with a grin. Dream’s eyes widen for a moment before he is gripped and twisted around, hipbones hitting the edge of the desk with a loud thud. If it hurts, Dream doesn’t acknowledge it, just lets out a low growl in the back of his throat.
“I do mind,” Dream says, ass pushing into Hob’s crotch with purpose. Hob has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his breath under control at the sudden heat against his already aching cock. “Because so far all you’ve done is run your mouth. All words, no action.”
His voice is tight, but the words snap like a challenge.
Hob bares his teeth, mouth pressed right behind Dream’s ear. “You want fucking action?”
He shoves at the silk of Dream’s dress, pushing it unceremoniously to the side, and slides his hand over the curve of his ass, nails scratching over pale skin. Dream inhales sharply, chest rattling with a gasp when Hob digs his fingers into flesh, just this side of too hard. When Hob’s fingers move lower, sliding over wetness, Dream’s chest hitches like he’s been burned.
“Gods,” Hob says, feels his own growl vibrate everywhere they’re pressed close. “Look at you, fucking wet already.”
Because Dream is wet, Hob’s fingers sliding over the thick, warm slick of him, the fluttering of Dream’s hole. Dream pushes back against his hand with an annoyed whine, and under it, the delicious hint of desperation.
“No underwear, huh?” Hob asks cheekily, mouth pressed to Dream’s nape, teeth a slow drag over pale skin.
“Ruins the lines of the outfit,” Dream says, biting back a gasp when Hob just toys with the rim of his muscles, thumb circling over and over. He’s teasing just to be a prick about it, and they both know it. “I would not expect your unfashionable ass to understand.”
Hob can’t help it, he laughs. It is just like Dream to be a prissy bitch about fashion when Hob’s fingers are playing with his hole. For a second, he wants to keep teasing Dream, wants to see how high he can make Dream whine just from this, just from the delicate touch of his fingers. He thinks it would be a beautiful sight. But before he can take that thought to the finish line, Dream arches in his arms, left hand coming up and over his head to dig into Hob’s hair.
“Is that all you’ve got, Gadling?” he spits through gritted teeth and it’s all it takes. Hob’s free hand slides over Dream’s lower belly to keep him still, and his fingers dig into the waiting heat, two at a time.
Dream’s whole body tightens like the most beautiful electric line, before a broken moan rips out of his throat. Under his palm, Hob can feel the shaky flutter of Dream’s belly, the useless breaths he takes. He pulls out his fingers slowly, enjoying the drag, the tension, before he drives them back in again, over and over and over again.
It feels so good, the heat of Dream around him, the perfect tightening of his hole, the way Dream takes it like he was made for Hob’s touch. Hob is already so hard himself by the time he adds another finger, his cock straining as he grinds his crotch to the warm body in front of him.
The room is filled with nothing but the sound of slick, as well as Dream’s gasping, needy breaths. Hob presses his forehead to the back of Dream’s neck, right over the pointy bumps of his spine and when he inhales, the scent is like a burst of winter all around them. He can’t help his own moan, the aroma like nothing he’s even felt before, like the burst of ozone before a lightning strike to his bones.
His mouth fills with saliva, and he wants to lick at the bumps of Dream’s scent glands, until he is drunk on the scent of arousal and slick.
Dream is shaking in his arms, back arched beautifully as he pushes against Hob’s fingers, and when Hob looks down he is mesmerized by the shiny, wet slide of his fingers inside that inviting hole. Dream is so, so wet, slick dripping down Hob’s wrist, shiny and perfect.
“Fuck, look at you,” Hob says, his own voice a breathless rip from his throat. Dream’s nails dig into his skull, yanking at his hair until his scalp bursts with pain. Hob just laughs and curls his fingers inside of Dream, and feels Dream’s entire body shudder when he hits the perfect spot. “Feeling self conscious, baby?”
Dream gasps, hole fluttering around Hob’s fingers.
“Just wondering when the fuck are you gonna make me come? Or—“ another half bitten moan. “Or is teenage fingering really the best you can do?”
It’s a fucking dare, a push on all the right buttons. And yet, it works.
Hob slides his free hand down the trembling muscles of Dream’s belly, and pulls at the satin impatiently until his fingers curl over the perfect length of Dream’s cock. He is so much smaller than Hob, expectedly, but his cock is hot and soft like velvet and fits in his palm perfectly.
It’s exactly what Dream wanted, apparent by the way his moan cracks in the pit of his chest, the spike of that scent, a burst of cool light in Hob’s nose.
Dream trembles in the circle of Hob’s arms, and Hob has to grit his teeth so he won’t stick his nose right over Dream’s scent glands and bite.
Hob wants to ruin this man, this fucking annoying, exasperating omega. Wants to make Dream feel it for days.
He works Dream harder, a frantic edge to his movement, fingers fucking into his hole quickly to the disjointed rhythm of his hand on his cock. It doesn’t take long before Dream drops his head, bumps of his spine starkly visible, hair curled with sweat at his nape, and then he’s coming. Dream’s body goes taut with it, trembling gasp breaking free from those lips as he comes all over Hob’s fingers, come and slick dripping over them in a rush.
It takes all of Hob’s self control to not come right there in his own trousers just from the onslaught on his senses.
He keeps fingering Dream though, slow little thrusts of his hand, just enough to keep Dream on that teasing edge, just enough, just that edge of too much. It stops when Dream suddenly growls and pulls away, blue eyes like a snow storm in the night as he grabs Hob with surprising strength and twists them around.
Hob’s ass hits the desk with a loud thump, Dream’s mouth catches his in a biting, vicious kiss that pulls the breath from him. It’s vicious, teeth and the same deep growl, Dream’s nails scratching over the side of his scalp until it hurts.
“That good, huh?” Hob manages with a breathless laugh.
Dream pulls away and glares like he wants to cut Hob in two, and before Hob can make another snappy comment, Dream falls to his knees in one elegant, predatory motion.
Hob would be lying if he didn’t say he stops thinking immediately, any and all blood he had sliding down to his cock in a dizzying flash.
Dream, the bastard, just smirks up like he knows. Hob wants to bite that smug look off his face, but all he can do is grip the edge of the desk as Dream’s long fingers push at his clothes without any sense of finesse. He bites at his bottom lip to keep a gasp in when Dream frees his cock from his underwear.
“I expected you to be bigger,” Dream says, almost bland about it, and Hob splutters an indignant, “Oi!” but doesn’t get to say anything more before Dream just takes him into his mouth in one quick motion.
“Fuck,” he gasps because Dream doesn’t even give him a warning before he swallows down his entire length, mouth tight and hot and wet. Hob’s legs twitch on a moan, a useless thrust, but Dream just glares at him before his hands dig into his thighs to keep him still.
When Dream pulls back with a gasping inhale, he looks so fucking smug but for once, Hob can’t necessarily fault him.
He holds Hob’s gaze as he licks up his cock, the slide of his tongue like a hot brand. Hob honest to god whimpers, can’t help himself, and Dream’s lips twitch into a smirk this side of cruel, before he slowly sucks at the flushed tip of Hob’s cock.
When he takes Hob down again, the heat of his mouth is so good. Dream bobs his head up and down, sucking at every upstroke, his tongue lapping greedily at Hob’s length. There’s a deliberate languid edge to it all, like Hob’s cock is a good wine he still has not decided he will buy.
It is infuriating, and yet Hob couldn’t stop Dream even if he wanted. And gods, he does not want to.
He’s already breathing harder, has been lost since Dream dropped to his knees, and it doesn’t help that Dream is ridiculously, annoyingly good at this.
“That fucking mouth of yours,” he says, and Dream’s right hand grips the base of his cock, right over the telltale bump of his knot. “I was sure you were good at this.”
Dream pulls back, teeth grazing right over the underside of Hob’s cock and Hob is convinced it is on purpose, a threat even as his tongue soothes the bite. Hob likes it.
“I will fucking bite your cock off,” Dream warns, and Hob just rolls his eyes because as much as Dream is glaring at him, he still sucks Hob back down. He is more vicious about it though, throat opening up every time he goes down, humming deep and it’s enough to make Hob’s body thrum with arousal.
Dream’s nails dig into his hips, an almost possessive edge to it, and Hob’s body almost shatters from the feeling.
He would be ashamed of how hard and quickly he comes, but Dream’s slick is still drying in his hand, the room permeated with the scent of his omega arousal, so he is not feeling too bothered about it.
He tries to warn Dream, but Dream just licks at his cock and opens his mouth wider. When Hob comes, Dream swallows it all down like a man dying of thirst and Hob has to close his eyes so he won’t say something stupid.
Or something dangerously real.
Dream laps at his softening cock through all of the aftershocks, mouthing at the bump of his knot until Hob has to twitch his body away, overwhelmed in the best way possible.
Then Dream stands up like an elegant cat, not looking at all like someone who spent the last few minutes on his knees eating cock; like he hasn’t broken Hob’s brain with a delicious mouth and a hungry hole.
There’s a flush on his skin though, like cherry blossoms against a white sky, and his lips are shiny, wet with spit and maybe Hob’s own come.
Hob tries not to stare, tries to not think how beautiful Dream looks in this moment that seems, just for a second, frozen in time.
“So,” Hob starts, trying for casual even as he’s still half melted over the desk, glistening cock still out.
“Shut up,” Dream snaps, eyes rolling with disinterest. He pats his dress down primly, and then makes a face. When Hob looks down, he notices the wet spot on the edge of the silk. “I’m sending you the dry cleaning bill. This is a Prada”
“Good to know,” Hob says, and when Dream just glances up at him he continues, “that you’re still a fucking prick even after a good shag.”
“Is this what you call good?” Dream says, his left eyebrow quirking in the most annoying, unimpressed way. Hob’s eyes narrow into a glare, but Dream just shakes his head. “Yes, yes. I know. I’m a fucking prick.”
He gives Hob one last once over before he turns around. He doesn’t slam the door, but for some reason Hob wished he did. Hob stares at the closed door for a long time before he finally shakes his head with annoyance and gets himself in check.
“Dude,” Matthew says when Hob finally finds him. “Where the hell were you?”
“Surprising detour,” Hob says, and before Matthew can ask for details he pats him on the back. “I’m off. Not feeling too well, and need an early night.”
Matthew looks worried, but he does not push because Matthew is a good friend.
An hour later, after Hob’s scrubbed the stench of Dream off his skin, he sits in bed for a long time just staring at the ceiling and decidedly not thinking about Dream.
He manages to not think about Dream for five whole days until he has to go out for drinks with Jo and Matthew. He knows Dream is also invited, and he tries not to think about the fact that once a day, his body remembers the way Dream’s body felt around him, the way Dream’s eyes shone when he had Hob’s cock in his mouth.
He makes it to the pub with a weird, fluttering feeling right in his belly.
Dream doesn’t show up.
When Hob finally asks, Matthew shrugs.
“He said something came up,” he says easily. “You know that man usually has ten different plates spinning.”
Hob doesn’t know because he doesn’t know Dream. He clings to that though and decides he will keep it that way. It is better like that.
Knowing Dream seems to only cause him trouble, after all.
*
The days pass.
Hob tries to keep busy, as much as he can. He meets his PhD students, does lectures, spends late nights at home reading drafts until his eyes hurt. He goes to pub trivia night with people from work, he visits every Sunday market in London and buys things he does not need, he meets his football mates in the park, the ones who don’t know Dream’s name so they don’t ask. He moves, because moving means he won’t think.
(Won’t think about the shine of Dream’s lips as he pulled off his cock, about the shiver of Dream’s body when Hob’s fingers were thrust inside of him, about the perfect marbling of Dream’s spine as his head fell forward with an exhale, unguarded and soft.)
It helps, at first.
What also helps is that he doesn’t see Dream at all for over two weeks. Hob meets Matthew for drinks and laughs at his ridiculous jokes, joins Jo in a walk in the park and lets her rib him about his taste in pastries, bumps into Lucienne at their favorite coffee shop and ignores the way she watches him a tad too closely, and Dream is never with them.
Hob doesn't ask, doesn’t let his tongue shape around the syllables of his name, because he does not need to know.
Hob tells himself it is a good thing; a clean break, without any awkwardness or something more, a perfect line drawn in the sand.
With every passing day, the night gets easier to accept. They were both drunk on something too sharp and bitter that tasted like want, they were both angry, feelings burning too high. A stupid mistake, everyone makes them, everyone ends up in a messy situation because of stupid feelings, everyone fucks.
It doesn’t mean anything.
He even goes on a date one weekend. A friend of Jo’s, a nice omega with a gentle, sweeping scent, summer flowers and lavender, her hair blonde and pinned up perfectly, her smile like sunshine. She is clever too, and funny, and Hob wants to learn how to drown in her laughter as it rings around the table.
But when she kisses him outside the restaurant, her lips sweet against his, all Hob can think is that that’s it. Sweet.
It doesn’t burn.
He wishes her goodnight, careful and polite, then goes home alone. That night, he jerks off in the shower, forehead pressed to the cold tiles and hot water burning down his spine. It’s not even the phantom touch of Dream’s mouth that does it, but sounds; the perfect, needy broken moan as he came, the snarl in his voice as he gripped Hob’s skin so hard it bruised.
It is not his best night, he thinks later, as he stares at his reflection in the mirror.
There won’t be a next time. It was a mistake.
He convinces himself of that fact, etches the words into his chest, into bone marrow.
And then, one week later, he sees Dream again.
It’s his undergrad’s birthday, Katie, and she manages through a combination of pleading, threatening and just a little bit of bribing to convince Hob to go out to a basement club in Shoreditch. It’s dark, and it is sweaty, red lights everywhere that make the room feel suffocating, but the drinks are good and surprisingly cheap, so Hob stays.
Hob’s two drinks in, his shirt sticking to his lower back from the heat of too many bodies half lost to the thrumming bass. The music is the kind that’s more beats and loudness than anything he recognizes, but it settles in his bones in a way that is almost pleasant.
He’s laughing at a joke Abel makes, when his gaze falls towards the bar.
And that’s when he sees him.
Dream.
Leaning against the bar like he owns the place, quiet elegance dripping off his limbs, like the room was made to exist just for him. He stands there, an unattainable creature in the chaos, legs for miles and throat bare to the world. He’s wearing dark jeans that grip his thighs in a way that can only be described as sinful, and a shirt that’s so see-through Hob can make out the shadows playing on the planes of his body, the dip of his waist, the curve of his ribs as he inhales.
Hob freezes, and that’s when Dream’s eyes find him.
There’s a beat where Hob feels the bass melt his bone marrow, a full heavy second where the floor seems to vibrate with a buzz of energy.
Hob expects Dream to look away. He doesn’t.
He tilts his head, expression unreadable as he pins Hob in place, a moth to a corkboard. A flicker of recognition in the shadows of his eyes, not surprise exactly, but something worse: cold, calculated disinterest.
Almost a month since he’s had those lips on him, and now Dream is here, gorgeous and glowing like a fucking fever dream under blood red lights and looking like—
— like nothing ever happened.
Hob tears his eyes away, even as he feels his pulse choking him, stomach molten and heated in the center of him. He laughs at a joke that doesn’t register, tips his drink back until his mouth tastes bitter, and tries to ignore Dream.
He fails.
Because the next time he sees Dream, it is worse. He’s on the dance floor now, bathed in those glowing lights like they were made for him, moving like he owns every note of the song. His sheet shirt clings to his body like oil, catching the lights as he sways in the embrace of two beautiful people.
As Hob stares, pinned to the floor, helpless, Dream arches into their touch. He lets the woman’s fingers trail down the lines of his abs, lets the man swipe crimson lips over the curve of his throat. Dream’s lips part in a sigh that Hob knows the sound of, that Hob can feel in his belly and lower, mouth curved into something indulgent and lazy.
Hob doesn’t even blink.
Dream grinds between the two bodies, no hurry, no shame, the rhythm catching in the angles of his body like hooks. There is something lethal about it, like he is performing for himself and no one else, everybody around him just background players to his game, grace dripping off him like rain water.
But every now and then, Dream glances up, sharp eyes piercing Hob like arrows in the dark. His mouth curved, and it feels personal, a tease, a knife pressed to Hob’s throat.
As he holds Hob’s gaze, he lets his head fall back, letting the man kiss his throat, and Hob turns around so hard he spills his drink all over his fingers.
Hob makes it to the bar, pulse loud in his ears, mouth dry. He orders another drink, his own nothing but a spilled trail behind himself, and gulps half of it down before the glass has time to hit the bar.
The music grows louder, a deep sensual bass that Hob feels in his fingers. And that’s how Dream finds him.
He places a hand between Hob and his drink, thin fingers splayed like a fucking claim for that spot. There’s a smile on his face, sharp and too knowing.
Hob wants to punch him.
He also wants to kiss him.
“Twice in one lifetime,” Dream drawls, barely audible over the music. “You must be cursed. Or I am.”
Hob laughs, and is thankful for the loud music around them that hides the bitter choke of it.
“If you’re cursed, you’re the only one to blame.”
Dream’s eyes flicker around the room, before he settles back on Hob, like a caress with claws.
“True. But I have a feeling you have a talent for making bad things worse.”
Hob leans into Dream’s space, just enough to see the glistening of Dream’s sweat over his upper lip, over the dip in his collarbones.
“That why you find me? So I have the chance to ruin you properly?” Hob asks, dragging his gaze down to Dream’s lips. They curl, dangerous like a flame, burning in the best way.
Hob should pull away, he should leave. He should not be playing this game.
And yet, when Dream whispers, “Darling, you couldn’t ruin me even if you tried.” The words hang in the air, and on Hob’s next inhale he can feel it. That brittle, sharp edge of Dream’s scent, vague but there, under the smell of sweat and perfume.
Well, that’s a challenge Hob can’t walk away from.
“You don’t scare me,” he says, baring his teeth in a smile that is nothing less than a bite. Dream’s eyes fall to his mouth, his eyes dark like molten lava under the red lights.
“I’m not here to play nice,” Dream says, body leaning into Hob’s space. Hob can feel Dream’s body heat, a spark between their skin, a drip of arousal that’s slowly crawling down his spine.
“Good,” Hob says, grin widening. “Cause neither am I.”
Dream’s gaze turns sharper, cutting through the haze of music and heat. There’s annoyance there, the sharp sting of it that has permeated all their interactions for weeks, months. But there’s also something else, a spark of hunger that’s barely covered by the flash of disdain, the type of hunger that comes with teeth and bruises.
Hob, godsdammit, wants to feel the sharpness of those teeth again. He is a fool, but he can accept that fact here, in this dark room that sways with music, with the heat of bodies, with the delirium of unreality.
“Of course not,” Dream says, his voice an almost bored drawl that snakes around Hob’s throat. “You’re a hero complex that thinks he’s charming.”
Hob laughs again, and this time he is actually amused as he says, “Have me all figured out, have you?”
“I’ve met hundreds of alphas like you,” Dream says, gaze falling cooly to Hob’s chest, dragging over the pulse of his throat. “Full of swagger. Overconfident. So sure they can handle the heat, and then they cry when they burn.”
Hob takes a step forward, pressing into Dream’s space and watching the tilt of Dream’s head, the perfect line of his jaw as the muscles in it clench.
“Maybe I enjoy it.”
Dream’s lips part on a breath like he is tasting the air, eyes gleaming, almost curious, extremely dangerous. “You talk a big game for someone who came down my throat in less than a minute.”
Hob’s grin does not falter, but goes sharp and unrepentant, even as Dream throws the words like they’re sharpened blades in his hands, meant to hit, to hurt.
He likes this, he realizes, heat dripping down his spine like hot honey, nostrils filled with the scent of sweat and under it all, electric ozone, winter bite.
Dream continues, taking a step into the heat of Hob’s space, body an elegant, predatory line.
“You were loud,” he says, whispering the words through his teeth. “Sloppy.”
“And you let me do it,” Hob shoots back, dipping his chin, mouth almost a caress over Dream’s. The scent of him, of them, sparks like wildfire, and Hob wants to dig his teeth into it. “Didn’t stop me. Didn’t say a word. Just held my hair and took it.”
Dream’s breath catches. It’s quick, but Hob sees it.
“I think you liked coming apart in my hands,” Hob says, voice edged with challenge. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Dream’s eyes flash with something too bright and too furious, a beautiful crack in that perfect, cold face of his.
He smiles though, razor sharp, says, “You think so highly of yourself.”
Hob steps closer, chests almost brushing. He can feel Dream’s inhale, can taste the sweet curl of arousal that sticks to his skin like the sheen of sweat.
He should stop this. He promised himself once was enough. But as he watches the curl of Dream’s hands at his sides, the hitch of breath in the elegant dip between his collarbones, he knows he is a one big, fucking liar.
Dream’s mouth parts, and Hob expects another venom dipped sneer, but no words come out. The air is thick with all the things they should not want.
“You liked it,” Hob says, almost too soft, almost too hopeful, his eyes moving back to Dream’s. Even under the blood red lights around them, his eyes shine like an ocean made to sink any sailor stupid enough to brave it.
Hob is stupid.
“I let you,” Dream says, a tremble to his lips even as he lifts his chin in something defiant, “because I was bored. Because you were convenient.”
“You don’t drop to your knees just because you’re bored,” Hob laughs, short and sharp. Around them, the room dips and sways with the intoxicating thrum of music, with the sharp fury of Dream’s scent. “You wanted it.”
I wanted it, he doesn’t say, even as the truth of it sparks in his chest like a lightning strike to his core.
Dream’s jaw tightens, but his pupils are blown wide. There’s a tension in the stillness of his body, something coiled and ready to break or snap Hob in two. Hob isn’t sure which option he craves.
“Careful, Hob Gadling,” Dream says, a tilt of his head, lips almost a caress over Hob’s even as his voice speaks of sharp, cruel things. “Or you might mistake desperation for desire.”
It should land like a gut punch, and maybe it does, but Hob can’t help the hot, deep spike of his pulse. It unspools something reckless in his chest, and he laughs even as it comes out breathless.
“Right,” he says, and his hand finds Dream’s waist, takes in the shiver under his palm as he moves higher, feeling the perfect dips of Dream’s ribs, the sharp inhale. “Because you’re so careful not to look desperate.”
“I don’t need to look anything,” Dream says. “I just take what I want.”
For a moment, they don’t say anything more. Hob’s palm is pressed to Dream’s ribcage, and he can feel the tempest of his heartbeat, can taste the heat of arousal that drips down his throat like honey.
He opens his mouth, hesitates for just one blistering second. But then Dream shivers under his touch, head tilted until Hob can feel the ghost of his breath over the corner of his mouth.
And Hob, a fool, a reckless idiot, says, “Then take.”
Dream makes a noise, a quick inhale through the grit of his teeth, his hands hovering over Hob’s waist before his fingers curl into fists.
And then he steps back, Hob’s hand falling from the frantic beat of Dream’s heartbeat. His eyes blaze, a fire that’s going to burn anything in its wake.
Hob finds he does not mind, not even a little bit, not even at all.
When Dream starts walking away, Hob’s heart does a stupid, horrible flip right behind his breastbone, and he takes a broken step forward. And then Dream glances at him over his shoulder, an elegant lifted eyebrow, cruel and intoxicating.
“Coming then?” Dream asks. It’s a dare, like he knows Hob will fall in step.
Hob laughs once, but he is a fool, and so he follows.
He follows as Dream weaves his way through the mass of bodies, the lines of his own like a stalking creature bathed in reds and violets, in the vibrations of the music around them. Hob has a moment where he thinks he might not follow, but his feet carry him forward like a moth pulled to a deadly flame.
He is too far gone, he knows it, already drowning in shame and the intoxicating scent of arousal. Dream doesn't look back, but Hob knows they’re both aware of the fact that he doesn’t need to.
Dream makes his way past the DJ booth, sparing her a nod of recognition. She gives him a slow smile, and then her eyes land on Hob, smile turning a quick flash of amusement.
Hob’s skin prickles with it, but he looks away and follows Dream backstage. The hallway is cramped with stacked sound equipment and the sticky scent of day old beer, but it is quieter, the world falling away in a muffled haze.
Dream doesn’t pause, just pushes the door to a private bathroom open, not sparing a glance for Hob as he enters, door left ajar.
Hob steps inside like a lamb walking itself to the slaughter.
He finds himself not regretting the decision when the door clicks shut behind him and Dream is suddenly pressed to him, his mouth the same hungry, teeth sharp thing he remembers.
There is nothing soft about the kiss, nothing but hot fury spilling over Hob’s senses. Dream pushes him against the grimy sink, cold porcelain digging painfully into his ass, but he does not stop. His hands splay over Dream’s waist, pulling him into the circle of his legs, feeling every tremble in Dream’s body like a song he was craving.
Dream makes a sound then, low in his throat, and bites Hob’s bottom lip enough to hurt.
“I hate you,” he says, words hissed against the heat of Hob’s mouth. Hob’s fingers dig in the sweaty mess of hair at the back of Dream’s head and pull, Dream arching into his grip with a gasp.
“Yeah,” Hob breathes, mouth grazing the pale, heated skin of Dream’s neck, the tumbling pulse under it. “I know.”
His senses flood with the scent of Dream, cool like ice, sweetness under it all like biting into a perfect, ripe fruit. Hob hates how much he likes it, how much he craves to dig his canines in the flesh of him.
Another sound from Dream, ripped through the rings of his trachea, and then Dream is twisting them around, his own body pressed to the sink, the angles of Hob’s jawline cradled dangerously in his palms.
His lips are flushed red, wet with spit and breath, and Hob leans forward for another kiss but he is stopped by Dream’s grip, thumbs pressed to the meat of his cheeks.
Dream smiles, those same flushed lips curled like the perfect slide of a venom tipped knife, and he pushes at Hob until Hob’s knees hit the floor with a painful thud. It should be sobering, the sting of it. It should also be degrading, this position, kneeling on the dirty bathroom floor, the air thick with the scent of arousal and sweat.
By the flash of Dream’s teeth, Hob thinks that’s the point.
“Look at you,” Dream says, his voice a murmur in the suffocating quiet of the room. His left hand tightens in Hob’s hair, the other smoothing down Hob’s cheek, thumb catching over his bottom lip. “An alpha on his knees. Or is this how you like it? Crawling for it like a pathetic little pup?”
The words sting like salt on an open wound, and yet Hob’s belly swoops with how much he wants it. His lips part, and Dream’s thumb slides over the wet edge of his teeth, pressing down over his tongue as Hob sucks at the meat of his thumb.
When Dream pulls his hand away, dragging saliva over his lips, his chin, Hob’s breath is a tangle in his chest, and yet he grins up at Dream.
“If I’m a pathetic little pup,” Hob says, his smile sharp, vicious. “Then what does that make you?”
He leans forward, nuzzling at the telltale bump of Dream’s crotch. He can’t help his inhale, can taste the arousal in the back of his throat. And maybe Dream is right, maybe he is a pathetic creature of want, yet above him, Dream makes a sound. It is sharp, needy, barely contained by the grit of his teeth.
And Hob wants to hear more of it.
He places his palms over Dream’s thighs and feels the twitch of muscle as he caresses up the length of them. He holds Dream’s gaze as he presses the heel of his palm over the bulge, as he works the buttons of his jeans open.
Dream exhales like he’s been struck, fingers still gripped in Hob’s hair, his other hand bracing against the sink with a white knuckled grip. There’s a barely there tremor in his body, like restraint pulled to its limits.
“Still bored?” Hob asks, a little bit smug, a little bit nasty. Dream doesn’t answer, eyes narrowed as he looks down at Hob like he wants to push him away. He doesn’t, and Hob places an open mouthed kiss over the waistband of his underwear, then drags his mouth lower. He pauses then, and says, “Tell me to stop.”
Dream’s hand clenches tighter in his hair, hips stuttering under Hob’s mouth and he growls deep in his throat.
“Shut up,” he says, and takes a deep breath, abdominal muscles twitching with the gesture. “Get on with it, or I’ll find someone else who will.”
“Liar,” Hob shoots back and before Dream can answer, he mouths at the aching shape of Dream’s cock through the fabric, inhaling the sultry, biting scent of him.
Dream gasps, body arching and pressing close, like he’s aching for the heat of it. Hob holds close, sucking at the outline of Dream’s cock, until the material goes wet and sticky under his tongue. He savors the taste of it, the sensation of hardness under his tongue, the way Dream trembles as he’s caught between Hob and the sink.
When Hob pulls away, he grins up at Dream and says, “Still want someone else?”
He tugs at the waistband of Dream’s underwear with his teeth, uses his hands to pull them down along with Dream’s jeans. Dream’s cock is small and flushed, wet from Hob’s saliva, twitching as Hob licks at the tip.
Dream’s head falls back, and Hob can see the strain in his throat muscles, in the grip of his jaw.
“Shut. Up.”
And for once, Hob does as he’s told.
He takes Dream’s cock in his mouth. The skin of him is soft, drags easily over his tongue; he is small enough that he barely hits the back of his throat, and yet Hob can’t help the moan that vibrates out of him.
A shudder blooms down the long lines of Dream’s body, his hips twitching before he stills.
“Fuck,” he gasps, and he sounds wrecked already, so Hob hums again as he pulls back, tongue teasing at the underside of Dream’s cock. He sinks back again, not gentle, but hungry, desperate to get more of those sounds out of Dream.
Dream’s fingers twitch over the edge of the sink, and his thighs tremble when Hob swallows around the meat of him. Still, he does not thrust into Hob’s mouth, body held still, control cracking at the foundations and yet holding on.
“You—“ he starts, breath hitching when Hob swallows him down again, slower, teasing. “You’re— pathetic—“ His voice cracks on the words.
Hob swallows his laugh, sucks Dream down with a sinful drag of his lips, tongue working the underside in a way that makes Dream shudder again. He presses in deeper, until he is buried down to the hilt, nose pressed to the hairs at the root of Dream’s cock.
Above him, Dream’s body curls forward, his hand sliding down the back of Hob’s neck like he wants to either hold him there, or push him away in disgust.
When Hob pulls back with a gasping breath, spit gathering over his bottom lip greedily, he rests his chin over Dream’s sharp hipbone with a wicked grin.
He waits for Dream to look at him, takes in the glare in those blue eyes and the flush of that perfect, marble skin and then he digs his fingers into Dream’s hips, hard enough it hurts.
And then he twists Dream around, hears the thump of his hips on the sink’s edge. Dream makes a surprised sounds, tries to step back, but Hob places a hand over his lower back and pushes.
Dream’s body goes still like he’s been coated in amber.
“Good boy,” Hob says, and places a kiss to the outside of his right thigh, follows it up with a bite, teeth digging into the soft muscle. Dream hisses, and it sounds furious and sharp, but he doesn’t move. Hob licks at the reddening skin where his teeth were just a second ago, and feels Dream tense under the assault.
“You’re insufferable," Dream breathes out, but his spine goes lax, head falling between his shoulders with a whine. Hob grins, and bites again, Dream jolting under his mouth.
“And yet, you’re still here,” Hob murmurs, his voice low and hoarse. His hand palms over Dream’s lower back, then slides lower, thumb sliding between his cheeks. Dream’s hole flutters under the touch, slick sliding down the velvet roundness of his balls.
The room fills with the stench of him, needy and desperate, and Hob’s mouth waters just from the smell of him.
Dream makes a sound, defiant yet cracking in his chest like bone, but his ass presses into Hob’s touch, offering despite himself.
“That’s it,” Hob says, thumb sliding over his hole, a tease, a barely there pressure. “Good fucking boy.”
Before Dream can react, he moves his hand away and presses his tongue right over the center of him. Dream chokes on a breath, half snarl, half sob, and his whole body jolts under Hob’s mouth.
“Gadling—“ he gasps, and it’s not really a warning as he presses his ass backwards, an undercurrent of desperation in the act.
Hob doesn’t stop. He licks at Dream slow and deep, moaning at the heady, intoxicating taste that coats his tongue, drips down his throat until his belly flutters with deep hunger. He spreads Dream open with his hands, thumbs digging painfully into the muscles, feeling the quiver of them under his palms. His tongue slides over Dream’s hole, filthy and reverent, the noise of it almost obscene in the quiet.
Dream shakes under him, palm thudding loudly over the mirror until it rattles in its frame, the other clenched over the sink edge like it is the only thing holding him up.
His thighs are shaking already, hips rolling helplessly, like an instinct gone wrong as he pushes into Hob’s waiting mouth, following each hungry pass of Hob’s tongue.
“Fucking—“ he gasps, and Hob holds him tighter, open. He licks him deeper, tongue pressed to the twitching circle of him. Slick drags down Hob’s chin, messy and filthy, and Hob’s own cock pulses in his jeans with each deep swipe of his tongue.
“You’re—“ Dream hisses, then sharper, “I’m going—“
Hob just hums, drags his teeth over Dream’s hole. He is close, he can feel it in the shake of Dream’s thighs, in the short, panting breaths in Dream’s chest and the shallow quiver of his belly.
He presses his tongue in deeper, with purpose, hands holding Dream in his grasp as Dream shudders violently and then breaks under Hob’s touch.
He comes with a ragged, bitten off cry, hand thumping over the mirror again so hard Hob expects to hear the crack of glass. Hob keeps going through all of it, tongue licking at Dream with slow, teasing strokes, until finally Dream slumps forward like all the lines of his tendons have been cut.
Hob pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead on the back of Dream’s thigh. The silence in the room hangs heavy, broken only by the heaving of Dream’s chest, by the way Hob’s pulse rings loud and deep in his ears, between his legs.
Hob stands up on painful knees and trembling legs, staring at the line of Dream’s back. Dream’s hair sticks to the back of his neck, and his spine is bent beautifully. Hob has an instinct to press forward, to let his mouth kiss the bumps of it, let himself melt into the scent of their body heat together.
And then Dream straightens, his eyes meeting Hob’s in the crooked mirror. The look in his eyes is something dangerous, a riptide pretending at stillness. His lips are bitten red, cheeks flushed a wonderful pink, but his gaze is an unsparing blade aimed at Hob’s throat.
Hob holds his gaze even as Dream turns around, the movement of his body slow and carefully poised even while his hands still shake.
He takes a step forward, pushing at Hob’s body until he slams into the wall. His left hand grips Hob’s chin, thumb dragging over his own slick with a glare, his other gripping the bulge in Hob’s jeans, tight and almost skirting the edge of pain.
Hob’s mouth parts on gasp as Dream works his fly open with quick, almost desperate fingers. Dream doesn’t kiss him, just watches him with harsh eyes and flared nostrils. His thumb drags over the slick again, pushing past Hob’s lips until Hob moans against the force of it, the taste of him.
“Still so eager,” Dream says, voice low and cracked. Hob tries to grin around Dream’s thumb, but it turns into a whimper when Dream’s long fingers finally curl around his aching cock. His head thumps back against the wall, mouth falling open.
“Dream—“ he manages, word garbled as Dream presses down on his tongue, hard. His hips twitch uselessly, palms pressed to the wall behind him in desperate search for something to hold on to.
Dream strokes him ruthlessly, like he wants to strip Hob down to nothing. Hob whines, tongue lapping at the pad of Dream’s thumb, tasting the salt of his sweat, the intoxicating sweetness of Dream’s orgasm still lingering in his mouth. Dream drags his thumb out of Hob’s mouth, gripping his chin painfully.
His hand does not falter, tight around Hob’s cock, fingers warm and slick with Hob’s precome.
“You begged for this,” he says, whispers the words as he leans in close. There is no more elegance about him, just the sharp edges of him, just the mean streak that presses against skin like a razor blade. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
Hob’s eyelids flicker closed, and he can’t speak, can’t do anything but let his body throb under Dream’s vicious touch. Because Dream is right. He may have played a game of words, but he wanted it, craved it with all his heart.
Pathetic, his mind rings at him, and it sounds like the vicious curl of Dream’s sneer. It makes arousal burst in his veins, and he whimpers again, sharp and needy. His thighs tremble with it, a wild ache curling in his gut, cock leaking and wet.
“Good,” Dream says. He sounds almost soft, deadly so. “Then take it.”
Gods help him, Hob does.
He lets it crash into him like a wave, lets the heat of Dream’s glare unravel him from the inside out. His hips jerk helplessly in Dream’s grasp, vision going blinding white at the edges as he comes with a sound that he couldn’t help even if he tried, something cracked and hungry that breaks through his chest.
Dream strokes him through each wave of it, watching him like a storm watches a city it ruins under its caress. There is something wild and victorious in his eyes, even as slows his movement, and his grip finally loosens from Hob’s jaw. Hob works the muscles, feeling pain clash with the wave of slow, simmering pleasure.
He breathes through it all, chest heaving and sweat dripping down his spine, and holds Dream’s gaze as Dream’s fingers finally drag away from his softening cock.
He opens his mouth, takes a useless step forward on shaking legs. He’s unsure what he’s doing, what he wants; his eyes fall to Dream’s lips.
Dream takes a step back, and turns around. Like nothing happened.
He’s already adjusting his jeans, movement composed and quick, like he was not shaking under Hob’s mouth just a few minutes ago. He holds his own gaze in the mirror as he washes his hands in the sink, as he pushes his hair back from the wild frenzy Hob’s hand caused, back straight and chin lifted defiantly.
Hob stands there, still breathless, still aching, his pulse a loud tempo at the base of his skull. His hands twitch against his hips, and he is unsure if he should reach for Dream or for his trousers that hang halfway down his thighs.
Dream swipes at his eyeliner with his pinky, presses a palm to his throat for a moment. And then he’s heading for the door, fingers resting on the handle like he’s already wiped the past hour off his skin.
“Clean yourself up,” he says, not looking at Hob. “We’re done here.”
And with that, Hob is alone in the bathroom, skin still stinging with the trace of Dream’s fingers, his mouth, his slick. He looks at his reflection in the crooked mirror and winces. He looks a mess; his chin is shiny with Dream’s arousal, his cock hanging limp between his legs, Dream’s nails still imprinted in the skin of his face.
He lets out a breath, feels the drag of it in his throat, licks at the taste that still lingers on the back of his teeth. He zips himself up, ignoring the way his fingers shake uselessly and rests his palms on the edge of the sink.
He laughs, once. It sounds pathetic even to his own ears.
“Right,” he says to the dull, heavy silence. When he wipes at his mouth, he ignores the sweetness, the memory of Dream’s mouth.
He rolls his shoulders back and leaves the bathroom.
Dream was right. They’re done here.
This was a mistake, again. He steps out in the hallway, walks through the crowd of bodies and the grating shine of music, and tells himself he can walk away just as easily as Dream can.
Tells himself this is the last time. Tells himself he believes it.
And he keeps walking.
*
Dream makes it home on autopilot. He does not remember the cab ride, the dragging elevator ride, just the way his hands shake as he unlocks his door and the sudden, punishing quiet of his flat.
He stands in the dark hallway, his breath coming out slowly, controlled. He closes his eyes, presses a palm hard to his chest, the dull pain almost grounding. His tongue feels heavy on his mouth, the sting of Hob’s taste still lingering like oil dripping down his throat.
Dream drags himself through the hallway, dropping clothes like lead in his wake. The light in the bathroom is too bright, too white, but he leaves it on as he showers until his skin is burned pink and hot, until his body stings with it and the sticky feeling between his legs drips down the drain.
He falls asleep curled up in the middle of his bed, cocooned under the soft blankets and thinks, Last time. And he forces himself to believe it.
The morning hits Dream like a lightning strike. He wakes up with the stale taste of regret on his fuzzy tongue and a sharp, pulsing ache low in his groin. The blankets are twisted around his trembling legs, the inside of his thighs damp.
The air reeks with the stench of himself.
He growls in frustration even as he curls forward on himself, anger blooming in his chest even as his belly aches.
Pre-heat digs its sharp claws into him. Just like the last time. He hoped, he fucking hoped and prayed last time was a fluke, a cruel glitch in the machinery of his body. But no, it’s happening again.
After that night at the gallery, when he let his weakness get the best of him, when he let Hob touch and fill him, he spent the week under the horrible crawl of his pre-heat. He ignored it, even as he stuffed his empty stomach with double, triple, doses of suppressants, and curled in bed like a wounded animal waiting for it to pass.
It was supposed to be a lapse of judgment.
It was supposed to be a single, horrible moment of weakness.
Hob was just that. A fucking mistake.
He drags himself back in the shower, hoping the heat and the sound of water is enough to drown out the sticky, painful nausea. It doesn’t.
He doesn’t know why he approached Hob again.
He wanted to prove something, he thinks; to himself, to Hob, to the world. Wanted to show the irritating, maddening alpha that he didn’t care, that he could take him and not be changed by him. That Hob was just a body, a vessel Dream could pour his anger into until Hob broke.
He thought he could control it. If he dropped to his knees first, if he showed his claws and teeth, if he made Hob beg, then it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t linger.
He was wrong.
He rests his forehead on the cool tiles and lets the spray of the water pound on his back until he feels like his bones might crack. Unfortunately there is nothing soothing about it, just his body not obeying.
When he closes his eyes, all he can see is Hob. Flushed and wanting, smiling like he’s ready to bite, crawling under Dream’s cruelty. Taking everything Dream threw at him, and looking like he wanted more.
He does not know what to do with how this makes him feel.
Sick and seen and hot and broken and all of these things shoved into the confines of his body until it spills out like poison.
He drags himself out of the shower, pulls the sheets from the bed and stuffs them in laundry bags. He opens the bedside drawer and pulls up the bottle of suppressants, dry swallowing two at a time.
This is what comes out of weakness. He thinks of Roderick, of his sickly sweet voice as he lavished praise and poison in equal measure, as he dragged heats out of Dream’s body like he was owed them and made Dream believe it was his own fault for giving.
It’s been fifteen years, and yet the crawling wrongness still lingers under Dream’s skin.
He lays in bed and stares at the ceiling until his vision blurs, until the thought of Hob’s touch, of Hob’s whimpers and gasps, of Hob calling him good boy, twists his gut.
Not because of Hob. He is aware enough to admit that.
Not because of Hob, but because of himself. Because he let it happen.
Because he let himself crave and need and want.
He curls into himself in the middle of his bare bed, eyes closed against the sting of them. His body aches, the sickly tremor of arousal and nausea making the marrow of his bones ache. He doesn’t touch himself, keeps his thighs pressed close and trembling, breathes through his parted lips to keep the stench of himself away.
Still, there is a small, treacherous part of himself that remembers the softness of Hob’s mouth, the way Hob looked at him like Dream mattered, even as Dream was nothing but sharp corners and too sharp teeth.
Hob looked at him like Dream could be wanted without being destroyed.
He hates it.
So he lays there, motionless, silent and waits for the suppressants to dull the world around him, blunt the ache of it.
The days pass in a blur, exhaustion dragging him down and the pre-heat pulling him back to the world with painful confusion. On the fifth day, when he can finally walk without it hurting, he drags himself to his doctor.
He does not remember the walk there, just the cold that lingers over his skin even under the spring heat. He keeps his hood up as he sits in the waiting room, leg bouncing with frantic energy, as he avoids the gaze of the receptionist and the grating music from the small radio on the desk.
When his name is called, he flinches.
Dr. Wanda Mannering has been his doctor since he fled his old life, when he showed up to her clinic in a borrowed coat, skin sweaty with fever, and asked if she could stop this from ever happening to him again.
“Hello Dream,” she says, and steps back to let him pass without being touched.
The lights in her office are soft, no scent to be felt. Dream sits on the consultation bed and breathes steadily through his nose.
“I—“ he stops, voice cracking with disuse. He swallows, and tries again. “I went into pre-heat. Twice.”
Dr. Wanda nods, her expression steady. “Are you in it now?”
“It passed,” Dream says with a shake of his head. “I took— too much suppressant. It stopped it from going into full heat. Blunted it all.”
She does not scold him, only picking up her tablet and clicking it open. “Twice in how long?”
“A month, more or less.”
“That’s close,” she says gently, a small frown between her eyebrows. “Closer than it should be.”
“I know,” Dream says, fingers twisting in the hem of his hoodie. “I thought it was a fluke— the first time it happened. Something broken in me. But—“ he stops, angry, frustrated with himself.
Dr. Wanda is quiet for a moment, but her gaze is gentle as she says, "Suppressing for as long you have, it changes your chemistry, your threshold. There’s no way to have a perfect restart.” She taps at her tablet, then asks, “Was it like before?”
Dream shakes his head, a bit too quickly. “No,” he says, hesitates. “It was—“ he doesn’t know how to continue, how to explain. How it was achingly familiar, but also more raw, like a wound opening too soon. “Different.”
Dr. Wanda nods, not pushing him.
“That’s common. The first time after such a long period of suppression can feel unsettling. Like your body is trying to find a new balance.”
She sets the tablet aside and leans forward, saying, “It’s not a weakness, Dream. You have to give yourself permission to be vulnerable without punishing yourself for it.”
Dream looks away. “I’m scared it will be like— before. I don’t like losing control. And I did. I thought that if I was the one who chose, I could manage it. I did, before— him. I did, for years, with others.”
“Biology does not work by our rules.”
“It is weakness,” he spits. “I spent years killing that part of myself.”
“You didn’t kill it, Dream. You just kept it quiet. That’s different,” she says, still gentle, and yet Dream flinches back like he’s been struck. She watches him closely and then asks, “Did you feel safe?”
He rips his eyes away from the posters on her office walls. “What?”
“Your alpha—“
“He’s not mine. He’s just— someone.”
“This someone,” Dr. Wanda amends, no judgment. “Did you feel safe with him?”
Dream stiffens. Something fragile sparks under his breastbone, so fast it leaves him breathless. Dr. Wanda just waits, her posture calm, her gaze not judging.
“Yes,” he finally says, an undercurrent of anger twitching I with a bob of his throat. “And I hated it. It made me want— more. Like a fool.”
“That’s not wrong, just human.”
He holds her gaze, sharp and wounded. “That’s the problem. It’s the reason I was trapped, before. I don’t want it.”
Her gaze softens, and she nods, understanding coloring her expression. She stands up and moves to the medical cabinet in the corner and says, “I can give you a shot of a booster. To make sure this heat stops in its tracks.”
His spine crumbles with relief, and his voice shakes as he says, “Thank you.”
She draws the vial into the syringe with practiced ease, glancing over at him as she says, “This is not a cure, Dream. Just a pause. It won’t stop another pre-heat, or more, if the trigger happens again.”
He nods, jaw muscles hurting as he grits his teeth.
“It won’t.”
She watches him for a moment longer, trusting him even as he feels like the words coat his tongue like a lie.
He shrugs his hoodie off, and stares at the floor. The prick of the needle is painful, yet over before he blinks. Dr. Wanda disposes of the syringe and turns back to him.
“You’ll feel a drop in a few hours. Temperature, pulse, pheromones. There might be some nausea and headaches for the next few days, but all heat symptoms will be gone.”
He nods, muscles in his face unable to move.
“You might feel hollow, too,” she adds. “That’s normal. Don’t fight it, just rest.”
Dream nods again, gaze settled on a scruff in the linoleum. She steps closer, but not close enough to crowd him.
“Dream,” she says, gentler now, waits for him to lift his eyes to hers. “You’re not broken for wanting. Just like you’re not broken for protecting yourself. But sometimes, the walls we build for survival keep out the very things that might help us heal.” She smiles, her gaze soft. “Just some food for thought, okay?”
He swallows hard, throat tight.
Later, as he crashes back into the bed that’s drenched in the shame of his body, sick sweet and raw, he turns her words inside his brain, over and over again, until they’re nothing but rounded corners.
As exhaustion drags him down, he thinks of Hob.
Not the heat of him. Not the press of his mouth, or the grip of his fingers.
But the way Hob looked at him, like he was seeing something he could drown in.
Dream presses his face in the pillow, and thinks, never again.
And then, quieter, softer, an ache under his ribs, maybe.