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Hob slows down his hand, the supernatural being beneath him trembling and shuddering. "Gonna bring you down once more. Just once more. Then, I promise, you'll get to come, sweet thing. It's gonna be so good. I know it."
As he slows further Dream makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a cry and gods does Hob wish he could see this client's face. It's a helmet, the insectoid mask he wears, he's almost sure of it. Almost positive that he has seen the seam of where pale skin meets carapace split open as Dream has arched and thrashed, revealing more marble skin within. Hob wants to touch all of it with his mouth.
Usually he doesn't get this deep into it. He always enjoys himself, enjoys his job, but it is rare these days that it cranks him up like this Dream has. But there is something about this creature that calls to him. Perhaps it is because Hob has always had such vivid dreams? But honestly, this was a foundational concept of the universe, the anthromorphization of the collective unconscious of all worlds, so it wouldn’t surprise Hob if every creature and every thing felt connected to him.
The information about the Lord of Dreams and King of Nightmares that had been made available to Hob before they met was uncharacteristically sparse.
“I’m sorry we don’t have more,” Sage clacked her beak at Hob and even through the video call he could tell the tengu was almost upset, “but our cross-checking has nixed some of the original content from the entity’s sibling as unlikely to be factual.”
Hob pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, well, when the referral comes from someone who says the client is,” he flipped to the second page, “‘fundamentally allergic to happiness…’” Hob shook his head. “Let’s just say I am glad Florence is good at her job.”
“You and me both,” Sage agreed, feathers ruffling as she kept typing on her keyboard. “What we can confirm is that since you are human he will appear at least tangentially human to you. But he likely has myriad forms and none are more his true nature than another.”
“Noted,” he scratched a few words onto the margin of the papers in front of him with his pen. Hob could deal with that, easy. “So likely to change forms as he loosens up.”
One of the black tentacles that appeared after the third time Hob brought Dream back from the edge of climax tentatively wanders up his side and it knocks Hob bodily out of his thoughts.
Oh. It is warm and so soft and he thinks of a thousand different ways he wants that appendage to touch him right now. It feels blindingly good. So good that his breath hitches as the tentacle curves around to his back and all of Dream freezes. "No, no. That's alright, dove," Hob soothes, voice gentle and quiet, "you can touch me."
Two more tentacles join the first and dear Christ he should have guessed that the personification of dreams would feel like heaven itself. Oh, he is nowhere near as prepared for this as he thought he was. And they are just touching his torso and arms. Oh fuck.
Hob keeps an excruciatingly slow pace on Dream's lovely prick as he lets him explore. One tentacle seems to get distracted by his chest hair, swaying back and forth through it, and Hob is about to giggle it is so sweet, but then it brushes a nipple and Hob's body turns electric with pleasure. Fuck, his nipples aren’t usually very sensitive, but it is like his nervous system has been dulled for all of his life and suddenly it is turned on for the first time. He gasps and arches back and his grip on Dream's dick tightens.
Dream cries out again, all three tentacles gripping Hob tightly and Hob just loses the thread of it all. All common sense flown far out of the window, Hob grabs one of those ridiculous tentacles and guides the tip into his mouth. Dream outright sobs, bucking up into Hob's fist, and, as the black-as-space form drops back to the bed, a desperate little whine slides out of him. "Hob, please."
Everything.
Every.
Thing.
Stops.
Well, everything except for the jackhammering of Hob's heart in his throat.
He doesn't... he hasn't gone by that name in centuries. Literal centuries. There are sparing few ways that a being such as this could have learned that name, none of them good, and acid-hot worry lances through him. Johanna. Mad Hettie. His Stranger.
A mistake. It has to be a mistake. When in doubt the simplest answer...
His voice, when it comes out, is raw and small. "What... did you call me?"
The tentacles retract and Hob mourns their loss but then that helmet is being lifted away to reveal a strong jaw and carved cheeks and oh. my. God.
The insectoid helm fades away into sand but Hob pays that absolutely zero mind as he sees, laid out beside him, slightly beneath him, is his Stranger.
"Hob..." he whispers in that voice and Hob is up and on the other side of the room in half a blink.
Anger surges hot through him. How dare he! King of Dreams or not…
"No. Absolutely not. I know for a fact that the contract says no mind reading and for you to pull this information–my name, the image and the voice of someone I love–from my very dreams is a gross violation of the documents you signed. You are in breach of-" Dream is suddenly right in front of him, has backed him against a wall and dammit Gadling, you are such an idiot to get cornered like this. And for what? For a feeling? Because he felt somehow connected to this client? Christ on a cracker.
Gentle fingertips barely alight on Hob's jaw and draw his attention. "Someone you..." Dream, Hob realizes, is looking at him with crystal blue eyes wide with terror... and wonder.
And hope.
Bright, shining, newborn hope.
"Hob..." he whispers and it sounds like a prayer, "You said... someone you..."
It can't. It can't possibly be Him. "Prove it. Prove that you're him. That you are not just stealing images and sounds and smells from my memory, from my dreams."
The creature before him, who looks every inch his Stranger, except naked with black tentacles emerging from his back and thighs, frowns as his brows furrow. "If you believe me invading your mind, then I do not know what I might possibly say or do..." He tilts his head and his eyes plead with Hob.
“Try.” Hob growls. “Or leave.”
Dream winces. He nods once, before closing his eyes and biting at that sinfully pink bottom lip of his.
How could a creature, even one such as a concept, pull such detail from Hob’s mind? Conjure such a perfect likeness? Is it even possible? But what is impossible for a billions of years old fundamental force of the universe? Hob feels dizzy.
Silence stretches between them. He doesn’t feel like Dream is entering his mind as the being stands there with his eyes closed, the quintessential image of concentration. But Hob has never had someone rummaging around up there, so what would he know?
Suddenly Dream's eyes snap open and they burn with their intensity. "The New Inn, your New Inn... some of the beams, the rafters of the ceiling, were taken from the structure of the condemned White Horse, were they not? I felt them, there in the New Inn, as we spoke. They retain of some the dreams of the original building, though only in fractured bits. But enough is there to recognize them for what they are."
Hob stares. Never in his wildest... He did put pieces of the original White Horse Inn into the New Inn during its renovation, before Hob opened it under his own management. "I wanted... I thought… If you needed some of the original structure to find it..."
He smiles, a thing Hob has only seen a few times before, and it is blinding up close. "An excellent idea, though I do not think it ever would have occurred to me to try to track parts of the White Horse after I came upon its husk." He shakes his head, wild black hair swaying. "If it hadn't been for your sign I do not think I would have found you again." His fingers, still on Hob's jaw, trace back to curve behind his ear, then down his neck, a caress. "So in that, too, I owe you thanks. Not just for waiting, but also for helping me find my way back."
The beams. The sign. Found you again.
All of Hob's breath leaves him in a rush. "Fuck, it is you." And then he kisses Dream for all he is worth.
Hob has about fifteen thousand questions, not the least of which is why the fuck did you let it get this far with that helmet on if you recognized me?!, but he can't get his brain to form words right now because all that matters is that he promised Dream–his Stranger–a phenomenal orgasm. And Hob takes pride in his work.
They don't even make it back to the bed. They end up sprawled on the plush area rug, Dream manifesting appendages galore and exploring all of Hob at once. There's a tentacle in his mouth and another touching his nipples and another thick one rubbing between his arse cheeks and another around his neck and another touching his bollocks and... fuck, Hob is supposed to make Dream come, not the other way around.
He yanks the tentacle out of his mouth and whirls around to get his lips around Dream's dick, lovely and pink and proudly standing tall in the middle of the chalk white skin that fades into blackness on both sides. When the flat of his tongue presses to the side of the head Dream wails and it feels like reality itself shakes around them.
Hob has only half of the cock in his mouth the first time Dream comes, ocean salty and lightning electric on the back of his tongue. But he gets barely a moment to enjoy it before the tentacle around his neck reels him in and what feels like a hand grips the back of his skull as Dream fucks up hard. An enthusiastic moan rumbles up from Hob's chest and he starts sucking and swallowing with all the skill that a half dozen centuries of practice can impart. Dream comes twice more before his body relaxes and goes pliant. Only then does Hob let him drop from his mouth.
Hob slides up his lover's body for a kiss only to have those sweet, soft tentacles hold him close as their lips meet. Their bodies start rocking together, Hob's prick against that fantastic hot velvet, and he is already at the edge when Dream's body just opens up and sucks his cock into wet heat.
"FUCK!" Hob shouts as he sinks into what Dream must have fashioned as the perfect hole for Hob's prick. It is exactly Hob's favorite moments from all the varied creatures he has fucked and he'll minorly complain about the actual invasion into his dreams later because right now he is gonna come harder than he has in at least a few decades.
Hob blacks out. He isn't ashamed to admit it.
He doesn’t really care, either, not when he comes to and he is looking across a pillow at his dear Stranger, smug satisfaction written all over that beautiful face. Hob inhales sharply when a cool hand comes up to cup his cheek. “Hello, Hob Gadling.”
“Hey,” he sighs, holding the long fingers and palm to his face, not letting Dream retract his arm. He pets along Dream’s thumb absently. All those questions Hob had start jockeying for position at the forefront of his brain and he is quiet for a long while before he asks, “Did you know? Before you arrived at the condo today?”
“No,” Dream’s ice-blue eyes dart all over Hob’s face, as if confirming each detail. “This was actually set-up by my sibling; what I told your agency was not a lie.”
“And you stayed when you saw it was me because…” He holds his breath.
Dream lifts up and looms over Hob, pressing him back into the bed while keeping a hand on his face. “I came to the meeting to apologize for wasting your time. To tell you that I couldn't do it, not casually. That I was breaking the contract knowingly, and would take penalty accordingly. But then you answered the door and I…” a flush comes to his cheeks, pretty as blooming flowers, “I knew immediately that not only did I desire to engage with you… but that this might be my only chance to touch you so.”
Hob shakes his head. “All this time… you didn’t see how much I wanted you? Fuck, that first time when you came to our table? And told me of my immortality? You were and still are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Dre-” he huffs a laugh. “You hesitated. When I asked what I should call you earlier… No. Let’s not count all that.” Hob slides the fingers of one hand up into his lover’s hair. “After all this time, you should get the chance to answer me properly. Who are you? Truly? What is your name?”
He smiles wider, nuzzling into Hob’s palm like he is almost embarrassed with how obviously pleased he is by the questions. “I am the King of Dreams and Lord of Nightmares. Morpheus. Oneiros. The Lord Shaper. The Prince of Stories. I am All the Night’s Dreaming and All Unconsciousness. But my name,” he sighs, “is Dream.”
Hob leans up and kisses Dream, slow and savoring. “Thank you. For telling me.” Another kiss before he speaks again, “Now, what is the refractory period of someone titled the Lord Shaper?”
With a laugh, Hob finds himself pinned beneath a grinning Dreamlord. “It need be none at all, if you wish it.”
He wraps a hand around the back of Dream's neck and brings him down so their bodies are flush. “Oh, I wish it.”