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hardly-an-escape · 2 days ago

Note

I know you've sort of migrated over to Arcane for the time being, but would happily take any Sandman thoughts or WIP updates floating around in your brain!

(Also please feel better soon. ❤️)

Thank you! :)

Funnily enough, I just started working on the seventies SF AU (Lighthouses tag) again after months away. I'd been feeling really uninspired on it but something this week called me back! It's in that awkward stage--maybe you know it, depending on your writing process?--where you've got all the really good solid bits down but it's missing some vital connective tissue. It's 32K and I think I can come in under 40, but those last bits really are the most treacherous and annoying.

As far as Arcane goes, I don't think I've migrated as much as been scooped up temporarily and dropped into my own private obsession. It truly is one singular fic and a highly specific haunting that I need to exorcise. I just cannot and will not get over the idea of these two characters being foils for one another, who are alike in so many ways but living on opposite sides of a coin (a coin that says, I have made myself into a weapon, a coin that says I measure myself by my service to others, that has manacles engraved on it with the word loyalty underneath); who collide once, by chance, and then come together again and again, like magnets, a visceral inexplicable yanking; recognizing themselves in the other, and believing, despite knowing better, that love can transform another person enough to change who they are, and change them enough to save them. It's the Fox and the Hound. It's two knights in warring kingdoms. It's lovers trapped in a story that always ends with facing each other down on a bridge. It's holding hands in the dark, and trying to rewrite the ending. I digress! Very normal about it. As you can see. Super normal.

Have a big long (1.5K) Lighthouses excerpt under the cut. Any of you who've been following along and waiting for this fic are saints in your own right. Dream phones Hob while sick, and Hob talks to him until he falls asleep:

When the sound of the phone ringing cuts through his sleep, Hob stares at the ceiling for another ring or two before he fully understands it’s a phone, and his, and he has to get out from under the covers to answer it. Groaning, he stands and turns on the light, blinking hard. The kitchen clock says it’s just after five, and he jolts the rest of the way awake, hurrying to pick it up. Something’s wrong at home. Nobody here would call him at this hour, but it’s already eight o’clock back east. “Ma?” he answers.

“Oh. No.”

“Dream,” he breathes out. Relief unknits his shoulders. “Hey. Why are you up so early? Did something happen?”

“I did not sleep. In the first place.”

Hob waits, but he doesn’t say anything else. The sound of Dream’s voice, scraped raw, answers the rest of Hob’s question anyway.

“I’ll bring you notes from class. Is that why you called? You sound rotten.”

“Yes,” says Dream, haltingly. “Thank you.” He starts to say something else but stops and coughs sharply. Then he speaks again, in tight measured bursts, and Hob can nearly feel the titanic effort of Dream stubbornly holding off from coughing. “Did I wake you. You said. You were. An early riser.”

Then he muffles the receiver and resumes hacking. Hob grimaces in sympathy. He glances sidelong at the clock, and bites his lip. 5:05. He’d bet a crisp Benjamin he doesn’t have that Dream was staring at the clock too, waiting for the first acceptable moment to call. The sudden wash of protective fondness threatens to drown him.

“I am. I’m up for the day,” he says, as soon as Dream catches his breath again. It is, technically speaking, the truth. He’s not going to go and let Dream feel even worse for what the man presumably deems the mortal sin of needing a small favour when he can barely string together a sentence.

The quiet susurration of static hisses between them. When he realizes Dream isn’t hanging up, he eyes the front door. “Listen, if you can’t sleep, do you want company? I could come over.” He shifts and stretches, putting clothes on in his mind.

“No,” says Dream, and his imagined self, half the way out the door already, turns back and glares bitterly at the phone.

Hob chews his lip instead of asking, Can I come over anyways? He can’t bring himself to let Dream off the phone just yet. “Well, let me distract you from your misery. If you’re lucky, I’ll be boring enough that you finally catch some sleep.”

There’s a long pause. “Alright,” Dream replies. “Since you insist.”

Hob grins. “Can your phone reach your bed?”

“Why?”

“Well, you’re definitely not going to fall asleep if you’re standing by the phone, are you?”

“Oh. No.”

Hob smiles at his own bed across the room as he listens to the sounds of shuffling. His stomach does something funny, with Dream in this state, still him but not, slow and pliable from exhaustion. Letting himself be bossed around by Hob. Just a little.

He hears a distant cough and then Dream brings the receiver back to his mouth. “Alright.”

“Good?”

“Miserable.”

Hob snorts. He can picture Dream sitting propped up in his bed with his phone beside him, receiver cradled in his hand. Chest aching like hell, probably. Delirious with exhaustion. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor. Doesn’t even know what he’s going to say until he opens his mouth, still thinking of other nights he’s been up, sleepless. Thinking of withstanding suffering. “Alright. When I played football in high school,” he starts, smiling when he hears a little huff on the other end, “Coach would lead us in this prayer before games. Same one every time, sent up to the patron saint of athletes. Saint Sebastian, give these boys the strength and fortitude to prevail. We must’ve heard it a hundred times. I end up looking him up in the library one day on my free period. I’m killing time and I see this big book of illustrated saints off the shelf. Alright. I wanna know. Who’s this guy that’s supposed to stop us from getting our asses kicked, right? What’d he ever do?”

“I know who he is,” rasps Dream, who even while sick as a dog can’t resist showing off his omniscient knowledge. “He-”

Hob hushes him. “‘Course you do. But I didn’t. Picture me, sixteen or so, finding his entry. In the school library. Saint Sebastian, martyr. Commanded to be shot to death by archers. But the art. He’s in this little loincloth, bound by rope to a tree, muscles straining, pierced with arrows. I stared at it until the bell rang. Then I did something terrible.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I tore the page out of the book and shoved it right into the pocket of my letterman jacket.”

“No.” A scandalized croak.

“Oh, yes. I took him home with me,” he says, laughing. “Hid him under my mattress between the pages of a Playboy. He became my patron saint.”

“Undignified.”

“No way. Undignified was me imagining how I’d come upon him in the woods, and rescue him. I was one of his loyal converted soldiers, wasn’t I. I’d untie the ropes, suck the venom out of his wounds-”

“Venom?” interrupts Dream.

“Listen, I’d just seen Strange Cargo.”

“That’s a myth. It doesn’t work.”

“Come on, you’ve gotta give me a little creative leeway for my sexual fantasies, man.” Then he realizes what he’s said and feels his ears get hot. “But it doesn’t work in the movie either. The guy doing it knows it won’t do anything. He just wanted the guy who was poisoned to know somebody cared about him, before he bit the dust.”

Dream is quiet. The hush of static over the line feels charged in a way it didn’t before. Hob winces. He’d just wanted Dream to laugh at his expense. He grasps for a change the subject, but Dream speaks up before he can find something, anything, better than sexual fantasies.

“That’s very kind of him.” A beat. “Is that what you’re doing now?” His voice is low. He doesn’t sound like he’s teasing at all.

“God, you’re dramatic. You just have a cold,” Hob says, while trying very hard to not imagine pressing his mouth tenderly to a mortal wound on Dream’s thigh. Failing.

“But you do,” says Dream, very quietly.

“Do what?”

“Care. About me.”

Hob swallows down the first three traitorous words that spring to his lips. Dream must be feeling pretty damn sorry for himself, talking like that. Doesn’t mean Hob has any right to say what he wants to say. “Yeah,” he says. “I do. Of course I do. You’re my best friend. I’d suck the venom out, any day. Even if it did no good.”

Dawn is starting to lighten the room. Hob hums. “You know what, I’m pretty sure that’s why I imagined it. Embarrassing as hell, but that’s what it was for me. I mean, it was hot. But mostly it was the thought of putting my mouth to another guy’s skin and, God, and showing him I care, you know? Acting all swaggering like Steve McQueen or Clark Gable but secretly saying, I cared about you. I really cared. Being somebody’s arms to lie in, as they died. As long as there was mortal peril. Saint Sebastian, barely surviving the arrows, or that poor bastard in the desert, bit by a snake. Because there was no other good reason I could think of to hold another man that close.”

He twines and untwines the cord around his fingers, itching for a cigarette. This is the sort of thing he could never say to somebody’s face. Not even Dream’s.

“Sure, it would be nice to be somebody’s arms without all the tragedy. But that didn’t occur to me back then. To be honest, I’ve only just started to realize it is. Never felt possible before. So I never got around to wishing for it. Until here.” Until you.

He trails off into silence. Dream says nothing.

“Dream?” he asks, softly. His heart is pounding again like he just got woken up.

Nothing but the faint hush of static answers him. Hob squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. “Hey. You still awake?”

There’s no response. Well, for the better. To be spared of hearing Hob empty his guts like that.

He gently hangs up the phone, and groans as he stands up, stiff, and walks back to his bed. He imagines Dream in his own bed, dozing curled beside the phone, receiver lying next to his face, and wishes he could be there. Wishes he could see him, getting some rest at last.

Wishes, so stupid that it hurts his chest like holding in a bad cough, that he could be his arms to lie in.

#dreamling #fic rec #LIGHTHOUSES #MY BELOVED

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hardly-an-escape · 6 days ago

Text

A Soft Place To Land

Rating: Explicit

Ship: Dream/Hob

Warnings: none

Additional Tags: Human AU, fat!Hob, Body Worship, Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, a little bit of bad blow job etiquette, strangers to lovers

Summary: Hob likes his body well enough, but that still doesn't prepare him for how much the stranger at the bar thoroughly appreciates it...

Includes art! 👀

Thank you @gabessquishytum for all the support and inspiration 😘

Read on AO3

The thing is, Hob likes his body.

More or Less.

He’s been fat his entire life. From a round, squishy newborn, to a chubby child, to the full-bodied man he is today. There’s been ups and downs- he wasn’t immune to society’s fatphobia more than anyone else- but overall, he feels like he’s been pretty lucky. His parents always encouraged him to be confident in himself, he wasn’t bullied in school, he had good friends. He couldn’t really complain, in the grand scheme of things.

But at the same time... Everyone around him was so quick to assure him that looks were unimportant, that it was a person’s character that really mattered (something Hob was acutely aware that no one said to people they found attractive). His partners were always kind, assuring him that they loved him no matter what he looked like (something no one said when their partner was thin). Sometimes people would call him cute, or adorable. They love to tell him he ‘looks like he gives the best hugs’. He’s been called handsome a couple of times, mostly by family members during fancy functions that involved him wearing an ill-fitting suit.

More often than not people don’t talk about his body at all.

Hob is charming, kind, funny, sweet. A list of qualities meant to make up for the part of him no one wants to mention.

So maybe saying he ‘likes’ his body isn’t quite right. He’s accepted his body. He will rant and rave about how his weight and his looks don’t determine his worth, how he is just as deserving of love and respect, how society’s views on fatness were toxic and damaging. And he honestly believes it. He certainly doesn’t think he’s ugly.

Still, when he takes his seat at the bar in the pub below his flat, he expects to have his usual after-work drink in solitude as he always does. Sometimes some of the other regulars would wave at him, and he would wave back, but in general he was ignored by the hub of the crowd, left to sip his drink and answer emails on his phone.

Tonight, his solitude is disrupted.

The man who slides into the seat next to him is breathtakingly gorgeous. He’s slender, wearing a suit with the shirt still fully buttoned up but no tie around his neck, the type of outfit you’d expect from someone who probably was just grabbing a drink after a long day at the office. Except, as the man turns to him, Hob finds himself faced with wild black hair and dark, smoky eyeshadow, like he’d expect from a rockstar. Long, pale fingers are tipped with expertly applied black nail polish, and when he leans against the bar and tilts his head towards Hob, a flash of silver catches his eye. A long silver feather dangles from his ear with two thin chains leading to a cuff around the cartilage.

He doesn’t realize he’s been staring until he glances at the man’s face and finds him staring back with a smirk on his face. Blushing, he prepares to stutter out an apology, but is interrupted before he has a chance.

“Pardon me,” the man’s voice is deeper than expected, sending shivers down Hob’s spine, “but it seems a crime for someone so… stunning. To be sitting all alone.”

All of a sudden, Hob realizes that while he had been busy staring, the other man had been staring at him .

Is staring at him. Is checking him out, currently, eyes roving up and down his figure and Hob wonders if the pause before he said ‘stunning’ had been because he wanted to say something less socially acceptable to say to a complete stranger.

When a long moment passes and all Hob does is gape, the man falters, ducking his head as his expression flickers with a flash of anxiety. “Forgive me,” sincerity drips from his voice as he leans back in his seat, straightening his spine as though Hob had chastised him, “That was very forward of me-”

“No, no, no!” Hob blurts out, startling the stranger, “I-” he laughs a bit, “Sorry, you’re fine, I was just surprised. Um,” he tugs his ear shyly, “Surprised someone as stunning as you would even notice me.”

Blinking, the man tilts his head like a curious bird. Then, he seems to regain some of his confidence, relaxing a bit and smiling slyly, “How could I not?” Once more, he rakes his eyes up and down Hob’s body, a blatant appreciation that Hob has never experienced before and it makes his skin go hot.

Hob doesn’t get approached by strangers in bars. His friends will bring people over, giving their sales pitch about their friend Hob who is such a good guy, the silent ‘just give him a chance’ deafening despite being unspoken. He’s approached strangers before, trying to put as much of his ‘great personality’ into the interaction right at the start, that same unspoken ‘just give me a chance’ practically sharpied on his forehead.

“May I buy you a drink?” The stranger asks, eyes half-lidded and hopeful. Hob hears his silent ‘just give me a chance’.

A smile stretches across Hob’s lips and suddenly, almost unconsciously, he finds himself sitting up straighter, leaning against the bar and looking up through his eyelashes, “I suppose one drink couldn’t hurt,” he teases.

The man’s face lights up, startling blue eyes shining with a relieved kind of joy, like he hadn’t expected to get this far. Still, his lips curve in a smile as he flags down the bartender. They each order a drink, the stranger clarifying to put them both on his tab, and as the bartender steps away to grab their orders, he turns back to Hob.

“I apologize,” he bows his head, smiling bashfully, “You have flustered me to the point of rudeness, though that is no excuse.” He is so formal, and so genuine with every word, and Hob finds himself flustered in return. “I have not even introduced myself,” he elaborates, holding out a hand, “I am Dream Endleis.”

Dream. Of course his name is Dream.

Hob clasps his hand, “Robert Gadling, but I go by Hob.”

“Hob Gadling,” his name sounds sinful in the deep voice, Dream’s pink lips curling around it as though savoring the taste, “it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Hob responds. And he realizes that he is flirting, and when the bartender places his drink in front of him, he feels a surge of confidence that makes him pick up the glass and down it in one go. He basks in the way Dream’s eyes fixate on his lips and the bob of his throat.

Dream subtly licks his lips as his eyes meet Hob’s, “Good,” he says with a smirk, taking a slow and deliberate sip of his own drink, “it is pleasure I wish you to have.”

~~~

They manage to get through a second round of drinks and about half an hour of actual conversation before Hob is leaning in and whispering into Dream’s ear that he just happens to live upstairs, if he wanted to continue their discussion somewhere more private.

Dream had bitten his lip, eyes darkening as he growled in response, “Lead the way then.”

They practically sprint up the stairs, and Hob nearly drops his keys when Dream’s hands grip his hips from behind him as he goes to open the door. Somehow he manages to unlock the door, and he has just enough brain cells left to flip the latch once they are inside. After that, he is being pressed against the door as Dream’s desperate lips descend on him, and all thoughts of home security leave his head.

Hob gasps at the heat of the kiss, the passion and desire practically coating his tongue as Dream licks into his mouth. Dream’s hands massage the flesh of his hips with a confidence Hob is unused to. Most people are tentative when touching him, afraid of offending him somehow or uncertain if they actually want to touch him at all. There is no question in Dream’s movements that he wants to touch Hob. His hands slide under Hob’s shirt, and he pulls away from the kiss just enough to lick and bite along his double-chin. Hob’s head drops back against the door, breathless with the sensation as Dream mouths at his thick neck reverently, sucking on the flesh enthusiastically in a way that was absolutely going to leave a mark and it made Hob weak in the knees.

Fuck, yes, mark me, he thinks in a daze, let everyone know you wanted me, let everyone see your desire tattooed on the parts of me everyone tells me to hide.

Once Dream is satisfied with the bruise blooming on the gentle curve of Hob’s neck, he starts tugging at his shirt more insistently. Hob doesn’t even hesitate as he pushes off the door, ripping his jacket off to allow Dream to tug his shirt over his head. Dream’s gaze on his exposed body is heavy on him, making his blood burn on its way south.

“Bedroom,” Hob rasps, not even waiting for an answer before darting further into the flat. He can hear Dream following behind him, and Hob can’t remember the last time he’s felt this turned on, his hands scrambling to undo his fly before he’s even made it past the threshold of his room.

He is still several feet away from the bed when Dream presses himself against his back, arms wrapping around Hob greedily. Hob nearly stumbles, but Dream tugs him back firmly. His head drops back onto his shoulder with a groan as one hand reaches up to grab at his chest.

“God, you have such gorgeous tits,” Dream breathes huskily against his ear. Hob has to bite his lip to stifle his moan. He’s never heard someone refer to his ‘tits’ with such appreciation and lust. He glances down at the hand squeezing him, sees the way his flesh bulges between Dream’s fingers and his nipple hardens, the light dusting of hair across his skin.

Yeah, Hob thinks, pressing himself more firmly into Dream’s hand, I do.

Distracted by the mouth at his ear and the groping at his chest, he gasps in surprise when he feels Dream’s other hand knead his upper thigh, his jeans having been shoved down past his aching cock. One hand fumbles behind him to card his fingers through Dream’s hair, trying to steady himself. A thumb just barely brushes against the edge of his underwear and Hob bites his lips so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t taste blood. Probably because it’s all in his cock.

He can feel Dream’s teeth against his skin as he grins, “You like that, beautiful?” The words alone are enough to make him shudder, but coupled with the way Dream rolls his hips against him, Hob thinks his brain might leak out of his ears. Dream presses himself against Hob’s back until there is no space between them and Hob can feel the long, hard length of him rutting against his arse through his slacks.

Hob hasn’t even touched Dream. But here he is, rock hard against his soft flesh just from getting to touch Hob. It’s revelatory. He twists out of Dream’s grip, reluctant to lose his touch but desperate to kiss him again. As they pant against each others’ mouths, Dream pushes him back, guiding him backwards until his knees hit the edge of his bed and they have to separate again to allow Hob to lay back on it.

There is no hesitation in Dream as he tugs Hob’s shoes off so that he can yank his jeans off the rest of the way. Hob waits for him to tug his underwear down too. Instead, Dream shrugs off his suit jacket, kicks off his own shoes and crawls between Hob’s legs. Hooking his arms under his knees, Dream takes only the briefest pause to lick his lips and then he sets his teeth to the sensitive skin of Hob’s inner thigh.

A mortifying squeal escapes Hob’s lips. Dream holds fast even as he runs his tongue along his mouthful of flesh, so when Hob’s leg instinctually tries to jerk away, he only succeeds in increasing the sensation, skin tugging sharply as Dream keeps his grip. The zing of pleasure-pain shoots up his leg to his pelvis, and he feels his underwear become tacky at the tip of his dick where he’s begun to leak.

Dream finally releases him, giving Hob a moment to catch his breath as he admires the red imprint of teeth he’s left behind just above his knee. He spares a moment to kiss at the spot, laving at it with his tongue to soothe the lingering sting. And then he hikes Hob’s leg up and bites down again.

It’s the best kind of torture, Dream slowly making his way lower and lower, biting and kissing and sucking, leaving a trail of slowly blossoming bruises down his thigh. As his mouth moves down, his hands explore higher, fingers gripping and massaging at his belly, and Hob thinks he might die when Dream finally manages to get a hand on his chest, biting down on his thigh just inches from his throbbing cock at the same time as he pinches and tugs at a nipple.

At some point he realizes that he has closed his eyes without noticing, lost in the overwhelming pleasure being lavished on him. Opening his eyes brings his awareness back to his surroundings, and he realizes that it is not just his own moans echoing through the room. Long, deep groans are emanating from Dream’s throat. When he glances down, he sees Dream, mouth still busy pouring out pleasure, and eyes dark with lust as he watches Hob fall apart.

Everything had happened so fast, he didn’t even realize he had flipped the lights on out of muscle memory when they entered the room. He is accustomed to fucking in the dark, and hands that don’t know what to do with so much of him, but here is Dream. Looking at Hob in stark light with admiration and desire, worshiping every inch of Hob’s body he could reach with eager enthusiasm.

It hits Hob suddenly that maybe “not feeling ugly” and “feeling attractive” are not the same things. Maybe “feeling attractive” and “feeling sexy ” are different too.

Because when Dream presses his hands into Hob’s flesh, drags them across his skin like he wants to touch him everywhere at once, puts his mouth to him like he’s starving for him, Hob feels so fucking sexy. He feels hot, desirable, tempting, and he’s giddy with it. He arches his back, emphasizing his belly instead of trying in vain to suck it in, he stretches his arms above his head, gripping the sheets and letting his chest and arm fat jiggle as he pants and gasps, he bends his legs further and allows the flesh of his thighs to pool around his crotch and press against his straining cock. Dream looks like he’s drooling, and for the first time Hob wishes there was a mirror on the ceiling. He grins to himself and thinks, He should be drooling, a confidence he is unfamiliar with making his blood sing.

Dream has finally finished his journey down Hob’s thigh, his nose just barely brushing against the edge of his underwear. Hob sees his eyes dart to his other leg, and as much as Hob is loving the appreciation, he doesn’t think he’ll survive much more of this.

“God, fuck, just get these off-” Hob’s voice is a breathy whine, and he hears Dream chuckle as Hob scrambles to pull his underwear down. Dream relents, pushing Hob’s hands away to hook his own fingers through the waistband and slide them down Hob’s legs. His cock springs free, bouncing slightly against his lower belly, and Dream’s mouth stretches into a smirk with the barest hint of teeth like a predator. Hob certainly feels like prey when Dream reaches out, stroking just the very tips of his cold fingers along his heavy, swollen length. When he speaks, it is somewhere between a purr and a growl.

“Fat down here, too.”

A startled moan escapes Hob.

No one ever calls him fat.

He’s gotten the speech more times than he can count (“‘Fat’ isn’t a bad word! There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just a descriptor! Don’t be afraid to say ‘fat’!” ) and he agrees, but that doesn’t stop people from pointedly not saying it. The same skinny friends who lectured him on body positivity and the word ‘fat’ were also the ones who would use every synonym they could think of, dancing around it like it was a curse.

No one calls him fat, let alone says it with such blatant want. Dream grips Hob’s thighs under his knees, pressing his fingers into the bite marks as he spreads him wider. He lets his eyes roam over Hob’s hips and sides, eyes darkening with lust. Before Hob can utter a word, can open his mouth to beg for Dream to just touch him, please, Dream leans over, bypassing where Hob wants him most. He ducks his head to Hob’s side, opens his mouth, and presses his tongue to his fat rolls.

Gasping, Hob squirms, clutching the sheets as Dream licks languidly across his skin. When he glances down, he can see the way Dream’s tongue disappears between the folds of flesh, and he can feel his cock twitch at the sight. He moves down to the next roll by Hob’s hip, licking into it with the same focus, dragging his tongue through the valley of fat. Hob can feel himself panting, chest already heaving and cock drooling onto the sheets beneath him by the time Dream moves lower.

Dream’s figure vanishes from Hob’s sight, his belly obscuring his view as Dream shifts lower on the mattress. It becomes irrelevant though when he feels Dream’s face press against his arse and his tongue begin to trail deep into the crease of his thigh, making Hob’s head drop back onto the bed as he moans. Dream has kept his grip on Hob’s thighs the whole time, pressing him up and open and nearly folded in half, and Hob nearly sobs as Dream circles his upper thigh with his tongue buried in the folds of fat.

He finally breaks when he feels Dream’s perfect, sharp cheekbone brush against his aching prick. “Please,” he gasps, writhing against Dream’s hands. He knows that he used to know more words at some point in his life, knows there was a time he could form sentences and articulate himself, but currently his brain has been reduced to two simple words.

“Please, Dream, please, please, please, Dream-”

Mercifully, Dream takes pity on him, grazing his teeth one last time across his love handle as he makes eye contact with Hob.

“One day,” he promises, “should you allow it, I’m going to bury my cock in every crevice of your body.” Hob has to bite his tongue from making a noise even more embarrassing than the ones he’s already made. Dream smirks as though he heard it anyway, “But I will not torment you any longer. After all, I must prove myself if I hope to be invited to your bed again.”

He does not say it like a joke, or sarcasm, or even just a cheesy line to make Hob hot. Dream sounds like he means it, like he really, truly thinks that he is lucky to be here with Hob and that there is a universe where Hob rejects him, where he needs to convince Hob to let him come back. As if Hob wants him to leave at all.

But he doesn’t get a chance to address any of that because his cock is suddenly engulfed in Dream’s warm, wet mouth. It’s a miracle he doesn’t come immediately, and he knows he’s playing with fire as far as coming embarrassingly soon, but he can’t resist pushing himself up to see. He has to see.

Despite Dream’s comments about Hob being ‘fat down there’, it still doesn’t prepare him for the sight of Dream’s perfect pink mouth stretched wide around his length. He bobs his head a few times, the edges of his lips straining as he takes him a little deeper each time. His soft tongue slowly slicks him up, the slide getting smoother and faster and louder, lude slurping sounds beginning to echo through the room. Hob’s arms are shaking with the effort to hold himself up, to keep looking, he doesn’t even have the strength to lift a hand to muffle the increasingly debauched moans escaping his mouth.

He loses the battle when Dream looks up at him through his eyelashes, mouth stuffed full with one hand slipped down his own pants, and takes Hob all the way to the hilt. Hob can feel Dream swallow around him, his nose pressed against the overhang of his belly and Hob’s arms finally give out as he comes. Dropping back onto the mattress, the moan he lets out is probably loud enough to be heard through the ruckus downstairs.

Feeling bold and powerful and so fucking good, he suddenly presses his thick thighs against Dream’s bony shoulders, one hand darting out to thread through his hair to grip the back of his head and thrust his hips up just as Dream is trying to swallow. He feels his cock hit the back of Dream’s throat as he shoves himself impossibly deeper, hears him choke wetly as his throat convulses, the noise muffled by the way he is being smothered by Hob’s flesh. Despite his best efforts to keep swallowing, a gush of spend escapes the seal of Dream’s lips as he gags, and it only makes Hob come harder at the feeling of cum and drool dripping down his balls.

A long moment passes, Hob’s breath loud and his heart pounding in his ears as he comes down from his high, his head fuzzy with the afterglow of probably the best orgasm he’s ever had. Still, he has barely even begun to catch his breath when he feels a shy, hesitantly frantic hand tug lightly at his hand. In a heartbeat he realizes that he is still gripping Dream’s hair, is still pressing his face into his groin, and Dream is still choking.

“Shit, fuck-!” he releases him immediately, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He watches his spent prick slide out of Dream’s gasping mouth, shining with spit. Globs of cum and drool spill from his open jaw as he takes heaving breaths. There are dark streaks on his face from his makeup mixing with tears. Hob feels a little guilty for the way the sight makes his prick twitch.

“I apologize,” Dream rasps out before Hob gets the chance to, “I. Had hoped to be able to take all of you. I hope you will give me a chance to practice more.” His smile is shaky, glancing down with something Hob realizes is genuine nervousness and insecurity. Like he has done something wrong by not swallowing every drop Hob gave him and now he won’t be invited back.

As though Hob wasn’t half in love already and glowing with it.

Even as he lets out a bark of surprised laughter, still breathing just a little heavily, Hob feels his heart melt, “I am clearly the one owing an apology here,” he insists. He does feel guilty, no matter how much his dick enjoys the sight of Dream looking wrecked. Crooking a finger, he smiles softly as he beckons, “Come here, sweetheart.”

Crawling up his body, Dream wipes the mess off his face with his arm roughly, and lets his free hand trace a featherlight path up Hob’s body, appreciative and enamored even after the heat has passed. Hob pulls him down on top of him, and Dream sighs with contentment as his body relaxes against the pillow of Hob’s body. With gentle fingers, Hob combs through Dream’s hair, smoothing the wild strands that he had made even wilder. He brushes a thumb under Dream’s eyes and around the edges of his mouth, his touch soothing and apologetic. When he tugs hims into a kiss, Hob keeps it slow, just the barest hint of tongue licking into his mouth because he can’t resist tasting himself on Dream. And when he reaches down between Dream’s legs, what he finds is a very distinct wet patch.

Dream twitches away from him in oversensitivity, letting out a huff of laughter, “I lasted longer than I expected,” he admits with flushed cheeks, “I was afraid I wouldn’t even make it upstairs given how much you affect me.”

Hob feels himself preen, still high from his orgasm and reveling in the fact that this gorgeous man came without Hob even doing anything.

Although. Hob had been looking forward to returning the favor.

“Well then,” he drawled, pressing a kiss to the hinge of Dream’s jaw, “guess I’ll just have to wait till next time to get my mouth on you.”

He pulls back just in time to see Dream’s eyes light up before he visibly smooths his expression into something more casual, “I have earned a ‘next time’, then?”

“Oh, very much so,” Hob grins. He can already feel his libido ratcheting up at the prospect of more amazing sex with this gorgeous man.

“And…” Dream hesitates, his voice softening as he sits up, perched lightly on Hob’s lap as he bites his lip nervously, “Perchance,” he asks slowly, “have I earned the opportunity to, next time… take you out to dinner first?”

Hob feels like his heart might burst out of his chest. Like his face might split from how wide he is smiling, “I would love nothing more.”

Dream’s shoulders slump as he lets out a breath of relief, meeting Hob’s eyes again as his lips curl with joy. His dress shirt is still fully buttoned, his slacks a little creased and the damp spot at the crotch only visible if you really looked. Hob is naked beneath him, a sticky mess between his legs and love bites covering his thigh. Dream reaches out to stroke his thumb over the hickey he left on the swell of flesh beneath Hob’s chin, admiring it.

If Hob has any say in it, he plans to keep this man forever.

#dreamling #fic rec #this is HOT and SWEET and AFFIRMING and WONDERFUL

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