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Did His lips kiss here, too? Hob thinks as he trails his mouth down the strong jawline, now thick with a beard instead of the scruff of 1589. Why does He still visit you? Is it to torture me? That I may despair to find where His tongue lingered?
Hob has pressed Will, multiple times now, about if he still sees the dark Stranger they share in common. The playwright always hedges.
Shakespeare is a terrible liar.
Hob can smell it on him. As if he could ever forget that distinct combination of mist after a rain, fog under the light of a full moon, and chamomile tea that always follows his Stranger around.
My Stranger, Hob’s mind growls. Mine. He will never be yours, not for long. He bites at Will’s neck, leaving a mark and making him groan. I have seen you age, youngling. And you are older than I was when He gave me a gift greater than anything that could be wrought by your little pen. Hob bites again, harder, darkening the bruise that has bloomed. You will grow old. You will die. And I will be here for Him well after your body has been returned to the earth and your soul has found its home in Heaven or Hell.
For the briefest moment he thinks of Eleanor and the baby, gone. Then of Robyn, who he can scarce look upon without crying even now, sleeping soundly under the kind eye of Ms. Winslow, who keeps the house while he left the manor tonight to, once again, drown himself in his cups.
When Hob sits up, he sees his hand around the mottled neck of a dead man, skin the pallor of sickness as Hob had known during the Black Death. He squeezes.
The moan Hob feels under his palm might be a death rattle or it might be Will coming between them—Hob knows not, cares not, and fucks into the pretty body beneath him harder.
Hob can see the bruises from his mouth between his fingers around the younger man’s neck. Would He notice if I left those there? Would He know it was me? Would He care?
A few more thrusts and Hob flips Will over, face down and arse up, and rakes his nails along the long pale back. The parallel red lines make Hob wonder if he could write a note to his Stranger on the playwright’s smooth skin. If I carve a message into His favored little pet’s back with my fingernails would that be enough to get His attention? To summon Him?
Hob imagines it, hazy in his mind’s eye. He would use the nail of his pointing finger to dig into milky skin, leaving welts in the shapes of letters.
No, that doesn't feel right. Too crude. Perhaps it should be something more elegant, like a dagger?
In his mindscape he sees thin red lines appear on Will’s back, tiny bits of blood beading at the surface as the sharp tip of a silver blade scrapes his skin.
No, not bold enough. At least not without permanently marking him. Besides, it should be more poetic. Poetry. Writing. Yes! I should use Will’s damned quill.
And while he would love to cause the man beneath him some pain, Hob imagines that summoning something such as his Stranger would require a sacrifice of his own and not of his canvas.
The fantasy solidifies in Hob's mind, so vivid that he can almost feel the featherpen in his hand. And somehow that makes the ritual seem even more right. He digs the point of the invisible quill, the twin of the one over on Will’s desk, into the flesh of his palm, right along the crease that an old beggar woman once told him was his surprisingly long “lifeline.” Then he uses the blood that wells up there to start writing using a large flowing script, large enough that he has to dip back into his own blood every two letters or so.
Hob
Gadling
wants
You
The moment he lifts the quill from forming the last letter a gust of wind, cool and sharp despite the humid summer night, blows through the window in the bedroom of Will’s small apartments, snuffing out the few candles that were lit. The whole room falls into blue-hued shadow and Hob freezes, his cock buried in the playwright’s arse.
“Nnngh, R’b’rt,” Will turns his head out from where it had become buried beneath a discarded shirt. “Why’d you st-” He, too, freezes the moment his eyes open. It takes a minute of staring before Will gasps, “You!”
Slowly Hob turns his head to follow Will’s gaze.
No.
It can't be.
Even with long hair falling in waves to his shoulders, even shrouded almost completely by shadow, Hob would never mistake his Stranger for anyone or anything else. When he steps out into the moonlight it is only more obvious that it is Him. And, dear God, he is even more beautiful than ever before.
“And what do you want of me, Hob Gadling?”
Fuck.
“Who's Hob Gadling?” Will murmurs, turning and pulling himself off of Hob's prick so he can sit and tug at the linens to cover himself. Hob feels no need for such propriety—his Stranger can see and take of him whatever he wants and Hob feels no shame in that.
“Well?” His black bootheels are loud on the wood floor as he takes another step towards them.
Will makes a quiet sound of discomfort at his approach, but Hob ignores the noise. It is easy for him to do so as their dalliances are no more than a pretty means to an end, but a thrill coils fire-hot in Hob's belly when his Stranger, too, ignores the playwright. Hah. You pay me attention now.
But that does nothing to soothe his confusion. “I…” Hob looks down at his hands and at Will’s back and sees no blood. There was no actual ritual. “Why are you here?”
His Stranger's head tilts to one side, birdlike. “Do you not want me here?”
Hob’s mind immediately jumps to an image of his Stranger sliding in behind Hob and the evening continuing its previous course. He swears those uncanny blue eyes widen slightly. “I mean, why now?”
“I saw Master Shakespeare recently,” he says as if that explains it all.
“I know.” Will squawks at Hob's answer, but remains summarily ignored by them both. “That doesn't answer my question.”
“No. It does not.” He considers Hob for a long moment and then nods once. “I cannot answer you here.”
Before Hob can get another syllable out a whirl of golden sand whips out from his Stranger’s hand and wraps around them both, leaving them alone in a sparkling pocket of the universe. He can’t look away from his Stranger and it seems, for all that Hob does not understand it, that he cannot look away from Hob, either.
It lasts maybe half a heartbeat and then the sand disappears, revealing them to be in Hob's own bedchambers in the Gadlen estate. Hob is kneeling in the middle of his own, much larger, bed instead of Will’s and his clothing sits in a pile in front of him. His Stranger stands the same distance away, but given the size of this bed, his thighs are touching the edge of the mattress.
He gestures to Hob's clothing. “I assumed you did not want to leave them.”
Hob doesn't even tilt his head down, just glances for a moment. “Thank you.”
Another curious head tilt, this one with a flash of something glinting in those azure eyes. “Do you not wish to dress?”
“You already saw me when you entered Will’s room. What good does shame do me now?” He shrugs one shoulder. “Unless you would rather I cover myself?”
“I…” He starts to answer but then his gaze trails downwards, dropping as if drawn by the same inevitable force that makes rain fall from the sky, only to stop and stare at Hob's half hard cock. It had flagged even before Will removed himself, but just a single look from his Stranger and Hob can feel it coming to life again. He is rather suddenly reminded that he has yet to climax.
Hob cannot help a small smirk at the fascination that flitters across his Stranger's features. And he continues staring. “Am I that much different from Will?”
That, sadly, seems to snap his Stranger out of it. He looks back up and meets Hob's eyes. “Have you engaged in a carnal relationship with Master Shakespeare for all these years since last you and I parted?”
“No,” Hob sits back on his heels and he can already feel his arousal ebbing once more. “Only since…” As it often does, the pain hits him in the chest like a horse’s kick. He hisses through his teeth at the suddenness of it, how quickly it overwhelms him, weighing his shoulders down and hunching his back. “My Eleanor. Died in childbirth. The baby, too. Little more than a year after our meeting.”
The bed dips with his Stranger's weight as he sits, but Hob cannot bring himself to look up at him. He also cannot stop talking.
“Been drunk most nights since. Drowning myself on land, as they say. But still can afford to keep a nurse around to tend to Robyn. Lord knows I have no idea how to be a mother and a father.” He fidgets with his own fingers in his lap. “Saw Will again at the White Horse, few years after our centennial… and I wouldn't have paid him any mind except he—well, I’m sure you'll think me daft for saying, but I thought I could smell you on him. Always had a strange nose for such things, can tell the spices in foods or the variety of flower by scent alone. Ellie called it my very own little magic.” He's babbling, Hob knows this, but he can't seem to get himself to stop. “I thought I smelled you on Will and it intrigued me, so I befriended him. Just friends, at first. Tried to ply him for information about you, to no success. As he has aged he has managed to get more attractive and I have not managed to get less lonely. And every few months he’d smell like you again and I-”
Hob’s jaw snaps shut, his teeth clicking audibly, when he realizes what he was about to reveal. He pursued Will purely to feel closer to the creature in front of him. It's a twisted thing to do, from the outside, but Hob doesn't regret it.
He risks looking up to find out what his Stranger thinks of all this only to gasp at what he sees there.
His eyes are no longer blue. They are no longer human, even, but dark as the darkest night from end to end. Except it isn't a darkness that scares Hob, not in the least. Actually, he wants to fall into it. To get lost. It's beautiful. Did I cause this?
And then a few stars appear in the vast openness and Hob’s heart skips a beat.
“I could tell that you had been recently… entangled… with William Shakespeare in some manner when I met with him two days ago.” His voice is soft and slow and as captivating as ever. “It was not the first time I had sensed such. And I was curious. To see if I could find out why he carried wisps of you so close so often. So I lingered near the border of my Realm this time. Close enough that when you brought forth that fascinating daydream it was easy to answer your call. I did not intend to interrupt y-”
“You don't fuck him, do you?” Hob blurts as the realization smacks him in the face.
One ravenwing eyebrow arches. “No. I do not.” His head tilts again, eyes narrowing as he reaches a realization. “But you thought I did. And you took him into your own bed because of it.”
A blush runs like a wildfire from Hob’s cheeks down to his chest. “Aye.” If he can see Hob's daydreams then there is no use hiding it. “That shouldn't be a surprise, if you can read my thoughts.”
He shakes his head. “No. Not thoughts. And I have not looked at your dreams, either day or night, before now. But I am wondering…” His Stranger draws his gaze down Hob's body again, like he is studying a painting or something equally fascinating. “Perhaps I should have.”
That turn makes Hob bold. “That depends. Do you like the idea of having sex with me?”
He looks up again and Hob sees a hint of an amused smile in the lines around those depthless eyes. There are more stars there, too. “Do you often dream of knowing me more intimately?”
At this rate Hob's blush might become permanent. He only has a second to weigh telling the truth versus lying. “I’ll cut my losses and call it often enough.”
The impossible happens: his Stranger laughs. It is only a huff of a sound, but its meaning is unmistakable. Hob feels like he could fly.
“I see.” He turns and brings his knees onto the bed, so that more of him can face Hob. “You continue to surprise me, Hob Gadling.”
“And here, based on our last encounter, I thought that I was starting to bore you.” Hob Gadling, ever letting his mouth run away with him.
“So jealous.” He doesn't quite chide Hob, but it is said too breathlessly to be only teasing.
“Are you truly surprised by that? That I, amongst my many sins, include greedily coveting every small slice of time with the one being in all the world who knows that I am more than what I seem?” Hob watches as his Stranger frowns, his eyebrows drawing in. “That I lust for not just your beauty or your body, but for your attention?”
“I have hurt you.”
He doesn't stop his own voice from rising in volume, consequences be damned. “Of course you bloody well have! I see you once a century and this time I can welcome you as you rightly deserve—not to mention tell you of so many more, different things about the human experience because of my new station—and I get out, what, three sentences before you silence me like some child and leave without a single word to prance off wi-”
Warm, dry lips press against Hob’s own and take every thought out of his head along with the words.
“Peace, Hob.” There is no breath that ghosts over Hob's lips, though his Stranger is at a distance that there should be. “I meant you no slight.” His fingertips trace Hob’s jawline, tilting his chin up. “I am not one whose attention others seek. Few would be so reckless.”
Hob smiles, he hopes a bit roguishly, and takes the hand near his face in his own so he can press his lips to the pale palm. “If I knew who you were, perhaps I would be more cautious,” he whispers, leaning so close their noses brush. “But I doubt it.”
This kiss deepens quickly, his Stranger's mouth opening as if he is just as desperate as Hob is to taste and explore. Their tongues curl together and Hob moans; that only seems to encourage his Stranger to take more. And more. He drinks down each sound Hob makes like the finest wine, until Hob finds himself pinned on his back with the most beautiful creature in the universe perched atop him.
His Stranger sits on his thighs and looks down at Hob, as imperious as if he were on a throne. He must be royalty. A ruler. Of some sort. He is definitely one who is used to being obeyed. Hob would rather like to show him how he might enjoy not making any decisions for a while.
Hob watches as he brings his hands up to the buttons at his neck and starts to slowly undo them. “I wonder what you imagine is beneath these garments. How do you dream of me?”
He can't contain his laugh. “I’ve had more than two hundred years of nights to work on that. A shorter list might be how have I not dreamed of you.”
Another curious tilt of his head. “You know little of my vanity. Perhaps I would enjoy hearing them all?”
Oh, two can play this game. “And you know even less of what I might desire in a bedmate. Perhaps I would much rather know how you wish to present yourself to me. Or, even better, what would feel most pleasurable for you.”
That strikes something, because all of his movement above Hob stops. “You would deny me my function? Of fulfilling your dreams?”
He fulfills dreams. Hob latches onto that tidbit like a dog to a bone. Because he wants this to be, above all, about his Stranger and no one else.
“Ah, now I see.” He pushes himself up until he is sitting and frames this gorgeous creature’s face with both of his hands. “Then I will reveal my most treasured dream of you. The one I return to most often. The one that gives me the most pleasure.” He looks at Hob with more intensity with each sentence. “The one that is worn at the edges from overuse, yet perfected with years upon years of practice. Is that the dream I should tell you of? How I dream of you when all else of me is stripped away, when there is naught in the universe but me and you?”
Pink lips part and dark eyelashes flutter. “Tell me, Hob.”
Got him.
Hob slides one hand around into silken black strands and gently urges him closer so that he can whisper into a perfect seashell ear. “I dream of you without function.” He gasps and it pushes Hob forward. “I dream of you with me for no other purpose than your own pleasure, with no worry for what is outside the bower we make. I dream of you taking whatever shape that feels best for you in the moment and changing as you will. I dream of you letting me see you as you truly are, letting me know you. And I dream of somehow being able to make your dreams come true.”
“Hob,” he moans his name, but it is not solely with pleasure. He also sounds vulnerable. And perhaps a little scared.
“Shhh,” he kisses a sharp cheekbone, then the corner of a trembling mouth. “I told you I am greedy. But I would not force you to give anything.” Except then something horrible occurs to Hob. He once again takes his Stranger's face in both of his hands. “You must tell me: if those are my dreams, is it possible for you to not fulfill them, if you do not wish to?”
He laughs, almost teary-sounding, but before Hob can get a good look at him he is leaning in to press their foreheads together. “I am Morpheus, Lord of Dreams and King of Nightmares. I am the Prince of Stories and Monarch of the Sleeping Marches. I am the Shaper of Forms and Master of the Realm of Sleep, the Dreaming. I am Dream of the Endless, son of Time and Night, born when the first thing that could dreamt.” He pauses and Hob feels dizzy with all the names and titles he suddenly has to hold all at once in his mind. “I tell you these not only because you have earned them, sweet Hob, but to reassure that you could no more force me to do something against my will than you could turn salt to gold. So trust me when I say,” his voice drops to a whisper, “I want to be here. With you.”
Their mouths and bodies collide. Hob tugs and claws at the clothing separating him from pale skin and it comes off in clumps, dissolving between his fingers into shadow. He surges up and maneuvers himself above this stunning creature who wants to be with him. “An hour ago I had no names, and now I have too many.” He pushes midnight hair back and away onto the pillow so that they can look at each other fully. “Please, what should I call you?”
“Morpheus.” He smiles up at Hob, wide and wonderful. “It is the only of my many names that is not a title or associated with… loves lost.” Then he scrunches up his nose in an adorable display of dislike. “Well, there is a small pocket world where they call me Murphy, but…”
Hob laughs from deep in his belly. “I think it's cute.” He kisses the tip of Morpheus’ nose. “But it will be as you wish, Morpheus.”
An all-too-elegant hand curls around Hob's neck and cards back into his hair. “You said I can take any shape, yes?” Hob nods. “Then, for now, I will let my impatience guide my form.” Marble thighs part and long legs wrap around Hob's hips. Hob groans when an unfamiliar hand takes his cock. Then he gasps when the head is guided between slick, hot folds. “Give me pleasure, lover.”
Hob rolls his hips and slides into what he can only surmise is a body made of pure bliss. “Oh God,” he moans as he bottoms out in one stroke, actually shaking from resisting coming immediately. “Of course the Lord of Dreams has a perfect cunt.”
And oh how Morpheus preens at that. He is a vain little thing. “As it should be. I created what was beneath my clothes from your dreams.”
And yet Hob doesn't ever remember dreaming of his Stranger as a woman. “But I dream of taking you to untold heights of pleasure?”
“And what better way to do that than give your lover a body that will respond exactly as you want it to?” Morpheus rolls his hips and gasps, eyes widening. “Oh! Please move!”
Hob doesn't need to be told twice. It's true that he's swived more women than men over the years. And if his lovers’ responses are anything to go by, he's quite good at it. Ellie certainly seemed to reap the benefits of two centuries of his experience.
He puts his hands on either side of Morpheus’ slim hips and tilts them up a little as he thrusts, snapping forward at a regular pace, changing his own angle slightly on each one. He knows that there should be a way to make those sweet little grunts and moans Morpheus is making turn into something more robust.
It takes maybe ten or so tries, but suddenly Morpheus’ spine goes rigid, his head snapping back and both of his hands rushing to press low on his belly. “YES!”
He chuckles. “There you are. Slide those pretty fingers lower, darling. Find your pleasure while I concentrate on driving you mad, eh?”
Watching Morpheus do as he's told is one thing, but hearing him mewl when his fingertips first rub against that swollen bud of pure pleasure reaches into Hob’s core and sets him on fire.
“Ah! Ah! Ah! I- It’s-” Morpheus’ thighs fall open like butterfly wings, allowing Hob that little bit deeper. “Don't stop!” Hob starts fucking faster and it only drives his lover more wild. “Please! Yes! Yes! Yeeessnnnn.” Morpheus’ hips start rolling erratically, his eyes screwed shut as his cunt spasms with his first climax of the evening.
“So quickly?! God, you're gloriously responsive,” Hob moans, lifting one of Morpheus' hands away from his sex to suck on the wet fingers. “I bet I can make you scream at least once more ‘fore I finish.”
He licks the pad of his own thumb before he pushes Morpheus' hands away and starts making circles around the sensitized nub. Morpheus practically sobs from it, trying desperately to open his legs wider.
“Grab under your knees, love. Pull ‘em back to your shoulders. Will let me get deeper.”
Again, Morpheus obeys without question. And, given that he is not actually human, it is not really a surprise when he ends up being flexible enough to get his knees close to his ears. As his pelvis shifts so does Hob, moving over Morpheus and using his bodyweight to fuck down harder.
Hob starts rubbing back and forth over Morpheus’ clit at a clip doubly faster than his rapid thrusting and, exactly as he predicted, Morpheus screams. It is the most beautiful music Hob has ever heard. “Once more for me, love. Come on my cock again.”
Morpheus is gasping for breath he didn't previously need, wailing on every exhale, absolutely lost in the act. But as his breaths get shallower and the vocalizations louder, he manages a few words. “M’close. Press. Thumb. Harder.”
The moment Hob obeys Morpheus shrieks; it only takes another two strokes grinding his thumb along the rigid bud before Morpheus is coming apart all around Hob, muscles from his marble shoulders to his silken calves to his hot cunt twitching.
Hob stops holding himself back at that point, finally letting the pleasure rise higher and higher. When it peaks he folds over and presses his face in under Morpheus' jaw, moaning his name long and low, “Moorrrrrpheeeussssss.”
“I think you need another,” Hob pants. Even though his limbs are part jelly he slides down Morpheus’ body so he can get his mouth on him.
Fuck, Morpheus’ cunt is all loose and wet and sloppy and tastes partially of Hob's own cum. This is it. If his gift is rescinded right now, he can die happy.
Eh, mostly happy. He would really like Morpheus to fuck him.
“Hob!” Morpheus shouts, hands grabbing at his hair and thighs suddenly around his head.
Hob removes himself from what he is doing with a wet pop that makes Morpheus whine. “Yes? Problem?”
Another whine, sweet as honey. “No. Problem. I just- I- I don't think-”
“Good. Don't think. Just feel.” And Hob gets back to work.
It isn't quick, but he's fine with that. He’d rather draw it out, make this unexpected encounter last as long as possible, than have Morpheus pack up and leave. Who knows what something like this means to a being like him. Hell, maybe it will reset the clock and it'll be 100 years from today that they meet again. And wouldn't that be a shame?
He sucks and hums and eventually finds that rolling the flat of his tongue along the same path as he was grinding his thumb earlier gets the best results, the gorgeous thighs clamping about his ears and shaking uncontrollably.
Although he started out unsure, Morpheus seems to be quite happily along for the third ride now, urging Hob along with sweet little ‘Ah’s and ‘Yes’s that sound simultaneously excited and exhausted. He's into it enough that when he comes again he rolls his cunt against Hob's face, riding out the aftershocks as his body writhes like a snake and his voice cracks like glass.
As Morpheus’ hips calm Hob looks up and sees that he has propped himself up on one arm, apparently the better to watch Hob with a hungry expression. His ink-black hair tumbles down over one shoulder and his reddened lips are parted and his cheeks are flushed and his copper-pink nipples are hard and he is quite literally the sexiest thing Hob has ever seen.
Morpheus untangles his fingers from Hob's hair and brings them down to trace Hob's upper lip. When he speaks his voice is deep and slow, languid with satisfaction. “I think your talented mouth deserves a cock in it, don't you?”
Hob’s eyes roll back as he moans and his own spent prick twitches in interest. He nods as emphatically as he can while also not daring to move his tongue from where it stopped. Yes. Please, yes. Let me show you that it is worth coming back for more.
The stars in Morpheus’ eyes dart to and fro as he studies Hob, though Hob has no idea what his lover is looking for. Eventually the long, elegant fingers wedge down between thigh and cheek, curling under to lift Hob’s chin up so his mouth is free. “Tell me, for I know not: how much can your throat take? I have seen dreams where men and women happily choke or suffocate themselves on a prick deeply desired. How would you like me?”
Christ in Heaven, such words! If he keeps saying such things in that sensual rumble then Hob’s heart is likely to skitter to a stop. There is no way Hob can match the Lord of Dream’s turn of phrase. “Can I just show you?”
That seems to be the right answer because Morpheus' eyes get ten shades brighter. “Daydream for me, Hob,” he purrs.
Instead of closing his eyes Hob holds Morpheus’ gaze with tenacity and pulls up a favorite fantasy partially based in memory. And, given that Hob is pretty sure he remembers Morpheus saying one of his titles had something to do with stories, he figures he can give the fantasy some context as well.
It was Hob's maybe third or fourth time sucking a cock, fifth at the very outset. During his days as a brigand in the middle 1400s, when he did whatever he needed to survive and was young enough into his immortality that he was full of bravado and recklessness. Well, more reckless than before or after, at least.
Him and his mates had been robbing a carriage fit for royalty. And they should have known to pick a different target when such an ornate carriage was going along the road with shocking few men in the way of guards. Turned out the young man inside was an accomplished swordsman and fighter. And Hob, well, he didn't have the same things to lose as his mates, did he?
What was more, Hob had gotten his hands on a saber a few robberies back. So, his mates long since scattered deep into the woods, Hob and the young lordling had it out in rather fantastic fashion, blades crossing repeatedly as they danced around (and for one memorable bout, through) the carriage. They were rather evenly matched, so Hob decided that he had to resort to a different set of tactics to get the upper hand. All he needed was to startle the man and he’d get his blade close enough to threaten him and then they could make a deal and move on. Easy as that.
So the next time their blades clashed hard and their bodies came in close, Hob swung their weapons wide to one side and leaned over his arm to press a kiss right on the man’s mouth.
This did not result in the reaction Hob had anticipated.
The young lord, who resembles Morpheus more and more with each passing moment in the memory-fantasy, dropped his blade, grabbed Hob’s face fiercely in both hands, and damned well devoured his mouth.
Let it never be said that Hob Gadling let an opportunity go to waste.
They slammed into the side of the carriage only to freeze when the driver spoke loudly at them. “Might I request that His Lordship retire to the interior of the carriage? I cannot keep good control of the horses if you continue your leisuretime pursuits without.”
“You’re a God amongst men, Stebbins,” the lord laughed and opened the side door, turning to Hob and motioning for him to step inside. “Might I interest you in a different type of sword fight?”
Hob could not help his laugh as he climbed up. “Never been invited into a carriage before…”
“Excellent! I do love to entertain.” He followed Hob into the carriage, leaning out to yell at his servant before the door closed. “Fetch our swords, would you please, Stebbins? And feel free to maneuver the coach off the road.” He looked back inside at Hob with heat in his gaze. “Might… be a while.”
“Yes, sire. Of course,” was the last Hob heard from the weary-sounding man before the outside world was locked away.
The lord sat in Hob’s lap and pulled him back into another searing kiss. Hob had no idea where to put his hands, not when the man’s outfit was all whites and tans and light blues. It was enough that the other man noticed. “You can touch me. Take my clothes off.”
“And get all these fine things dirty?”
He scoffed. “Did it occur to you that I might invite a handsome brigand into my carriage because I want to get dirty? That, perhaps, so much polish is boring?”
Now Hob was laughing. “I’d love to be so bored.”
“You have a smart mouth.” He nipped and tugged at Hob’s bottom lip with his teeth. “I like it.”
They ended up completely naked, the young lord with smudges of Hob’s road dust all over his pristine milk-white skin that, Hob had to admit, was incredibly arousing to see. Their positions had been reversed from where they started when the lord moaned, achingly prettily, “Please, let me fuck your sweet, smart mouth.”
How could he say no to that?
Hob dropped to his knees between slim, pale thighs, and took the lord’s rather impressive cock into his mouth. It stretched his jaw and filled all the way to the back of his throat and his eyes started watering almost immediately. His body tried to revolt, to push the invasion out, but then the lord threw his head back and moaned, loud and wanton, and Hob knew he would do absolutely anything to hear that sound again.
He dove back down, pushing past the discomfort, and as he choked he could feel his cock throbbing in time with each cough. Fuck, it felt so good. Why did that feel so good?
But now wasn’t the time to ask questions. He pulled back, panting. “Grab my head. Hold it still. Use my mouth like a cunt.”
“Fucking Christ Almighty, how could you possibly make me want your mouth more?”
Hob smirked up at him. “Choke me.” The lord sobbed out a moan. “Trust me when I say this, you don’t have to worry about my need for air. Just use my mouth as you will.”
A hand came up to cup Hob’s chin, a thumb pressed to his bottom lip. “First, your name. So I know what to scream as I come.”
That got a real smile out of Hob. “I’m Hob.”
“Hob,” he whispered as he petted back and forth along Hob’s bottom lip. “I’m
Edmund. Not that I plan on letting you have use of your throat long enough to hear my name from your lips.”
Then Edmund did exactly as Hob told him, fisting his hands in Hob’s hair and fucking up into his mouth and throat. And it was so easy to let him just fuck until Hob couldn’t even cough anymore, his jaw burning with how it was stretched, his throat battered and bruised. Until he went limp under Edmund’s grip and let himself be consumed by pleasure.
Hob came twice that day. The first time untouched, his nails clawing stripes into snowscape thighs. The second as Edmund urged him to keep stroking himself, to not stop until he either came or passed out.
Hob did both.
He always was an overachiever.
“Hob,” Morpheus groans as he assumes Edmund’s form in the daydream and pulls Hob off of the fantasy’s cock. “He almost killed you.”
“The key word being almost.” And, because he is never not reckless, Hob leans into it. “You going to fuck my throat well enough to make me come untouched?”
Hob slams into his body back in his bedroom and already feels the wet head of a cock pressing against his lips.
“Oh, my dear Hob,” Morpheus growls and it sets Hob’s body, his very awareness, on fire. “I am going to fuck your throat until you come dry.”
Hob opens his mouth and takes in Morpheus' cock with enthusiasm. He doesn't doubt his lover's claim and is rather excited to be wrung totally out. Last time that happened was the first night Ellie felt like sex again after Robyn was born: they went at it like cats in a back alley for almost an entire day, nearly sundown to sundown. (God bless the wet nurse.) That he might get something similar with Morpheus, his Stranger, his dear friend and companion through the years… well, the anticipation makes the hairs on Hob’s arms stand on end.
Morpheus’ prick is downright perfect, wide enough to have Hob feel the stretch in his jaw, but not so girthy that it starts immediately hurting. Oh, and the taper of it! Absolutely constructed specifically for cocksucking, with a more gently rounded tip, less blunt than Hob is used to encountering, and so it slips so much more easily past the body’s instincts to force the intrusion out. Fuck, nothing is going to feel this good going down my throat ever again, is it? Have I just been ruined for every new cock from here on out? Christ.
When Hob’s nose presses into the scant wiry hair at the base of the rose-pink cock Morpheus moans and finally puts both hands into Hob’s hair. “That’s it. We’ll start here, work up to longer and wider.”
Hob groans and starts bobbing up and down, only to get stopped by a firm grip on his head.
“No, no. You said use your mouth as I will. All you are going to do is take and try not to pass out too soon. Because I plan on using your mouth whether you are conscious to know it or not.” Hob has to close his eyes to brace for the wave of pleasure that crashes through him at that. Morpheus just watches and pets the side of Hob's face with one hand. “It would be a shame if you had to miss out on some of it.”
If he keeps talking like that, Hob is going to come from that alone; his cock is certainly readying for another round far faster than he could have anticipated.
So Hob lets Morpheus take control. And it is glorious.
At first he holds Hob up high, so that he has to push up off the bed to bury his cock deep. But after manhandling Hob into a few other positions after that, they end up with Hob on his back, head dangling off the edge of the bed, and Morpheus standing to fuck straight into him.
He pets along Hob's neck, cradling his head. The only real downside to this angle is that Hob can't see Morpheus. So he closes his eyes and directs all his attention to touch and sound.
Morpheus has slowed down to these long strokes, pulling almost all of the way out of Hob's mouth and then plunging back in. Hob's throat no longer puts up even token resistance, surrendering to the ongoing abuse. Even so, the somewhat thin cock has been surprisingly easy for Hob to breathe around.
Then, at the end of a luxurious roll into and then out of Hob, Morpheus stops when he has just the tip of his cock resting in Hob’s mouth. “Breathe now, my Hob.”
He obeys, moaning on the exhale, his hard cock dripping onto his belly. Hob has no idea how long he has been hard again, but it is starting to ache.
“Again.” Morpheus wraps a hand very loosely around the side of Hob's neck, fingers at his nape. “I am going to tap out a beat on the back of your neck. All you need to do is inhale deeply on each one. Exhale when you can. Focus on that. And let's see if I can find your limits.”
Initially Morpheus just keeps a steady pace, pulling all the way out, one tap, then Hob inhales as Morpheus slides in, he holds as Hob’s oxygen slowly drops, and finally Morpheus pulls out and Hob exhales with it. Then a tap and it starts all over again.
Maybe Morpheus increases the speed, but if he does it is barely noticeable. Hob keeps waiting to see what Morpheus meant by ‘limits’ and then, on the next instroke, Morpheus' cock goes deeper than before.
That flesh, untouched until now, contracts in surprise and tries to initiate a cough. But Morpheus doesn't move. He stays buried deeper for just as long as the previous strokes, as if nothing had changed, despite Hob’s head and neck and shoulders twitching.
Right on pace, Morpheus pulls out and Hob exhales in a rush. A tap and the needed oxygen is euphoric as it enters his body. His cock throbs with it. Absolutely fantastic.
Morpheus takes his prick all the way out of Hob's mouth. “How was that?”
Oh, it fucking hurts to speak and his cock spurts from it. “Bloody brilliant. Keep going. Choke me long enough and I'll come on the inhale.”
“What a treasure you are,” Morpheus purrs and taps. This time when he drives into Hob’s mouth his cock is most definitely wider and Hob cannot help his moan. Which fucks up his breathing a bit, but oh god, that just means he gets to low oxygen faster and he might… he could…
Morpheus retracts a second or so too soon, taking Hob close to the edge but not close enough that he falls over it when he inhales. Luckily, it is a faster turnaround this time, and Hob barely gets his lungs full before he feels the tap and the thicker cock shoves down even further into his throat.
That's it. That's the fullness he needs. Oh, he can feel his throat just starting to have to stretch to get around this girth. And it's far enough back now that if Morpheus comes at just the right time Hob won't even taste it, it will just flow hot right into his stomach.
On the next tap and thrust Morpheus' cock is noticeably wider, enough to push his jaw to aching, enough to make his body try to gag again. But Morpheus is unforgiving, pressing past it all and down and down and oh fuck down.
Hob can't control how his body tries to jerk away, even if he doesn't actually want to be moved. But his perfect, beautiful Morpheus keeps him from going far, and even brings a hand around the front of Hob’s neck.
Morpheus’ voice when he speaks is rough and shakey. “Oh, how you clench and tighten around me! Just like an eager cunt.” Hob’s getting light-headed and the words are fire in his veins and his hips buck up into the air as the pleasure builds and builds. “Come for me, darling. Come as I drown you.”
Hob’s mouth starts filling with cum the moment Morpheus starts pulling back, which completely fucks up his ability to breathe, so he coughs on the thick liquid. But some oxygen gets through and Morpheus is screaming through his orgasm as he comes and comes into Hob's mouth. It is hot as it burbles out all over his face and then Hob tries to swallow some, which pulls Morpheus’ cock back into his mouth a bit and Morpheus howls, “HOB!”
Names have power, there is no denying that, and to hear his own in that voice with that timbre is too much: Hob is flung bodily into his climax, emptying all over his stomach and chest with a muffled wail. All the while, even as he is submerged in his own pleasure, there is a repeating tattoo in the back of his mind reminding Hob that he has caused such ecstatic sounds in Morpheus, that he has brought his Stranger to such heights of pleasure.
And then, suddenly, before Hob is even completely done coming, Morpheus leans forward and sucks Hob's cock into his mouth.
Hob snaps his head to the side, gasping for air, Morpheus’ cock pressing wet against his cheek as he claws at Morpheus’ sides and groans, “OH GOD!”
“Yes,” he purrs, licking at the head of Hob's cock. “I am the only God you need worry about now.”
When Morpheus takes Hob's prick back into his mouth it feels like he sucks and hums at the same time and Hob is pretty sure he levitates off the bed. He's still so sensitive and Morpheus is merciless.
He pretty much sucks another orgasm directly out of Hob's body—there's no other way Hob can describe it. He feels the start of the rush in the middle of his lower back and then the sensation glides down and forward before it bursts outward. Morpheus drinks it all down greedily, still suckling through the whole thing and dear God it's so much.
Hob is dizzy and having trouble focusing, so he doesn’t know exactly what is moving his face, but there’s a gentle push on his cheek and then Morpheus’ cock slides back inside his mouth. It is smaller than when they started, though no less hard; the perfect size to fill the space between Hob’s tongue and hard palette, to still allow for the heady sensation of Hob’s nose and lips touching the soft skin and hair of Morpheus’ bollocks and around the base of his cock. And, even better, it goes far enough back that Hob feels it but it doesn’t come close to triggering any gagging.
Oh, I could do this all day and all night.
Morpheus sucks, hard, and Hob’s thighs spread and his hips try to buck wildly. Morpheus rides it out without issue, using his hands to caress Hob’s flanks. Those touches feel a lot like praise, like he’s being good for Morpheus, and dear God in Heaven does he want to be good for Morpheus.
He feels adrift and so moves his hands from digging between Morpheus’ ribs to holding his hips, then sliding back around to grab his ass. That makes Morpheus moan and roll forward, pistoning the smaller cock shallowly in and out of Hob’s mouth. Just lovely.
Hob is content in the liminal space where he floats, Morpheus’ relentless assault on his cock gentled for now (though clearly not over as he is very diligently making sure Hob continues to stay hard).
It doesn't last long.
When Hob feels something slick start to make its way to his hole he cries out around his mouthful. Morpheus lets out a pleased hum and then takes Hob's prick all the way down, until his lips are at the very base. It is all hot, wet heat around his cock, so different from Morpheus’ cunt, where the tight grip was consistent all around him. Here there are tighter and looser points, different textures, all with the most intensity right at the head of his cock. It's so fucking good.
Perfect cunt, perfect mouth. Body made from the stuff of Hob's dreams, apparently. Of course it's good.
And it only gets better when that wandering finger penetrates him.
Fuck it, Hob is just along for the ride at this point, relaxing his head and throat, keeping his eyes closed since he can't see anything anyway, and letting his legs drop to the mattress. Only his hands and his cock have any rigidity to them, the former to keep a gentle grip on Morpheus’ ass and the latter because Morpheus wills it so.
Well, he doesn't know that last one for sure. But the Lord of Dreams' will makes just as much of a sensible explanation for Hob's shockingly prolonged erection as how unearthly sexy he is or how badly Hob has wanted him for two hundred years. Either way, Hob knows he isn't getting out of this without a fourth orgasm.
Morpheus curls his finger and Hob’s entire body lights up anew. God yes!
And then the bastard laughs. The fact that Morpheus is not human has never been so apparent as in this moment, as he should be choking on Hob's cock, but is actually vibrating sporadically around it while making a rumbling delighted noise deep in his chest.
It says something about Hob that the notion of bringing Morpheus joy is actually so arousing that he presses his face into his lover, asking the only way he can for more. He's gonna need something down his throat if he's going to come again.
Morpheus obliges easily, his cock finding its way down past the back of Hob’s tongue and into his neck, lengthening until it just starts to close up his airway. It’s perfect. And it doesn’t move.
Things start devolving quickly from there.
He knows he can't die. He has had that well proven to him by blade and arrow and frost in the past two hundred-some years. He bears the scars as evidence.
Morpheus, too, knows this. Likely with even more certainty than Hob himself.
But Hob’s body doesn't know it. Not yet, at least. Maybe in another two centuries.
Once again, he struggles against his own will. Once again, Morpheus remains steady through it, jabbing and twisting what now must be multiple fingers penetrating Hob's body.
Hob’s lungs start to burn, his hands scrabbling uncontrollably, yet up in his higher faculties the panic makes him feel wonderfully alive and he hopes Morpheus keeps going. No one else would dare push this far. He wants what only Morpheus can give him.
‘This is the least of my powers, dear Hob.’ Morpheus’ voice is clear as a spring morning in Hob's head. ‘There is so much more to show you. So many more ways I can play the fine instrument of your body.’
He can't rightly conceive of what more might be at the moment, but that's likely because his body has slowed to twitches and he is nearing the edge of consciousness.
‘So good for me. Now come.’
Suddenly there is nothing in Hob's mouth or throat and air is rushing into his chest like a charging bull. He gasps, wheezing, his body convulsing, and that presses Morpheus’s fingers harder into the spot inside him that was already being well-abused.
His bollocks ache as he comes, nothing left in him to eject out. Not that you’d know it from how Morpheus moans, as if tasting ambrosia directly from the fingers of a god. It is as if he dines directly on Hob's pleasure, not the fluids produced from it, and that could be true for all Hob knows. Perhaps he will remember to ask Morpheus sometime.
Hob is shivering from crown to heels as he is moved to properly lay in his bed, head on the pillows. It occurs to him how desperately he wants Morpheus beneath the sheets and blankets with him, causing a soft whine to slide out between his teeth. He doesn't want to ask for more—Morpheus owes him nothing.
But Morpheus just shakes his head, a soft smile curling the corners of his lips up. “I cannot linger overly much. But I will stay as long as I am able.” He seems to simply manifest along Hob's side, their naked bodies aligning perfectly as soon as he tugs Hob onto his side so that they can be pressed together all along their fronts. Morpheus tucks a leg between Hob's and tilts his head in to steal a soft kiss.
Hob has a billion questions clambering to get out and fill the space between them, but it is time, as is often the case, that becomes most urgent. “When can I see you again? Is it until 1689? Or does the hundred-year clock reset from today? Or perhaps…” He stops himself from thinking of something more so as to reduce the risk of getting his heart broken.
Morpheus' eyes, now returned to their human color and form, dart all over Hob's face, looking for something, before they steady. “It has been a long time indeed since someone sought out my company.”
“Their loss.”
A little bit of a chuckle huffs out from between his lips. “You would be one of the few to say so. I am prideful and temperamental at best and I-mph.”
Hob stops that string of thoughts with a kiss. “When?”
His expression turns bewildered and the focus of his gaze flies out somewhere past Hob's shoulder and well into the room. “What is even appropriate for you? I am older than most of this universe. Time means something very different to me.”
“I might be the wrong one to ask, greedy as I am. I’d have you with me daily if I could.” Morpheus startles at that, looking back to Hob with wide eyes, no less confused than before. Hob steps in before his lover can start trekking down another self-depricating path. “Perhaps we can start with a means to communicate regularly? To make plans? When I was courting Ellie-”
“You would court me?”
And his blush is back. “I…” Oh God, how could I embarrass myself more? Hob’s voice, when he finds it, is small as a fieldmouse. “Yes.”
Hob wonders how often the Lord of Dreams and King of Nightmares is brought to speechlessness—he can’t imagine it happens regularly. He watches as Morpheus looks down, pink blooming across his cheekbones even as the corners of his lips turn downwards. “I am not one who others court, Hob Gadling.”
“Do you say that because no one has tried?”
Morpheus’ ongoing silence and refusal to resume eye contact is answer enough.
“I wish to know more than just your body, Morpheus.” Hob feels him shiver against his chest, so he brings his arm over his lover’s, resting his forearm onto a pale shoulder so he can run his fingertips through the silken black hair. “Letters, then, I think. If there is a way to get them to you. I wooed Ellie with words and you deserve no less than my best.”
He still isn’t meeting Hob’s eye. “You would put me on the same footing as your late wife?”
The smile that spreads across Hob’s face is so wide his cheeks hurt. “Aye. If you would lower yourself to such a station.”
That makes Morpheus’ lips curl upwards. He even shakes his head a little, as if in disbelief. Then he takes Hob’s hand that is folded between them and brings the knuckles to his lips as he looks up. “Write your letters, Hob. I will get them from any pen and any paper—you do not need a human or blood sacrifice.” Playfulness softens Morpheus’ brow and Hob feels something warm unfurl in his chest. “You need not even keep them after you have written it once; I will make sure they appear not in my library, but in my personal chambers.”
“As you wish,” Hob murmurs as he threads his fingers deep into Morpheus’ hair and pulls him into a kiss that quickly deepens. He traces Morpheus’ tongue with his own, a delicate touch that elicits a gasp so sweet Hob can taste it. “Anything you wish.”
“Be careful. That might get you into trouble.” When Morpheus rolls his groin against Hob’s belly it is clear he is getting aroused again.
Hob smirks. “Promise?”