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"Our...preferences." Hob's brow furrows as he repeats the words slowly, examining each unfamiliar syllable with care. "I'm afraid I do not take your meaning, my dear."
"Well, are you allergic to anything?" Best to start off gently. "I'd hate to make you sick by serving something you can't eat."
"Court or no court, I remain a goblin." Hob quirks a smile. "And there is very little that can truly trouble a goblin's constitution."
"Yes, but—" Rue catches his hands in theirs. "I'd like to think we can do a little better than 'not actually going to kill you'."
"I—thank you, my dear." Hob tilts his head in thought, ears flapping gently with the motion. "I do not have any allergies as such, but I will admit that I've never been fond of sesame seeds." He grimaces. "They get stuck in my teeth something awful."
"Fair enough." Rue gives his hands another squeeze. "And is there anything...else?"
Hob shrugs. "I mean, I don't know why so many people insist on ruining perfectly good fish by cooking it, but I suppose there's no accounting for taste."
Rue smiles to themself. "Remind me to take you for sashimi when we go to the mortal plane."
"Sashimi?"
"It's a mortal dish, you'll love it." They lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, slow and lingering, reveling in the way it makes Hob's breath catch in his throat. "And, ah. What about things other than food?"
Hob draws back, face creasing with uncertainty. "My dear, you know that I am unaccustomed to, er. Courtly intrigues, and the like."
"Hob, that's not—I'm not trying to—"
"Delloso." He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "If you wish to know something, I beg you, ask it and be done with it."
"Oh, for—" But he's not wrong, really. "I'm sorry, I'm being silly." Rue drags their hands over their face, sighing. "I just thought it might be a good idea to discuss what we want—or what we don't want—when we're being, ah. Intimate."
It's not possible for a bugbear's face to go pale, but Hob gives it a solid effort: ears back, eyes wide, mouth twisted into an unhappy knot. "Delloso— Rue —my darling, if I have done anything to cause you the slightest discomfort, I implore you—"
"Hob," Rue tries, "dear, no, that's not—"
"—tell me at once, and I will—"
"Hob—Knickolas—"
"—most profound remorse—"
"Knickolas Pnackleless Hob."
Hob jumps as if struck, staring at Rue with wide, dark eyes, his flood of apologies cut off midstream. Rue lifts a hand to his face, cradling the fuzzy line of his jaw in one palm. "Knickolas, there is nothing we have done together that I have not welcomed with my entire heart."
In truth, the list of things that they have done together is not a particularly long one. Hob has held Rue in the meticulously appropriate closeness of a waltz, and he has flung his arms around them in desperate, instinctual need. He has pressed his lips to their hand, slowly and gently, eyes not leaving theirs, and they have kissed long and lingering in the dappled shade of the forest. They have slept together, curled close under the reassuring darkness of night and Binx's magic, sharing breath and blankets, the relief of rest and the terror of the coming unknown.
Such a short list, for all the time they've shared together, and yet—
Well. There's been plenty of time to think, and the list of things that Rue has imagined doing with Hob—and to Hob—is quite extensive.
"You have done nothing wrong ," Rue tells Hob again, trying to dispel the doubt that lingers in his face.
"It is only—" Hob swallows, his eyes fluttering shut for a long moment. "I fear that you are more kind than you are honest, sometimes."
"And I worry that you are more concerned with the comfort of others—with my comfort—than with your own well-being," Rue retorts.
Hob huffs out a shadow of a laugh and meets Rue’s gaze again, his face full of wry acknowledgement. "Then we are to be the guardians of each others' best interests, it seems." He twists his head enough to brush a kiss against the inside of their wrist, ruffling the delicate feathers there with each carefully measured breath.
Rue traces their claws against his cheek. "There is no one I would trust more." The words seem to go through Hob like an electric current, a minute shiver that presses his face into their hands.
"You honor me," he says, his voice rumbling against Rue's palm.
"I love you," Rue reminds him. "And truly, we don't have to talk about this now, but I do think that—"
"No, no." Hob's eyes flicker open and he brings both hands up to cradle Rue's wrist. "I can see the wisdom of it." His mouth quirks in the hint of a smile as he meets their gaze. "I would be a poor tactician indeed to refuse information offered freely ahead of an engagement."
Rue draws back slightly, eyebrows raised. "Are you comparing our relationship to a military campaign?"
"Well, they do say that love is a battlefield, my dear," Hob points out.
The next few minutes are lost to the thrill of the hunt as Hob darts away, cackling with laughter, and Rue throws themself after him. They knock against an end table, sending a squat crystal vase to shatter against the floor; ahead of them, they see Hob's claws dig gouges into the wood of the door frame as he flings himself around it and into the kitchen. It's messy and noisy and deeply indecorous, and Rue loves every moment of it.
"Going to have to do better than that, my darling," Hob chuckles, ducking under their arm and evading their grasp with a surprising grace. "If you're interested in learning about tactics, I'd be happy to show you—ack!"
"What was that, dear?" Rue arches an eyebrow, looking down at Hob where they've pinned him to the floor, claws still tangled in the area rug that they yanked out from under his feet.
"Just my admiration of a—superior strategic mind." Hob's chest is rising and falling with exertion, brushing gently against Rue's keelbone with each gust of breath. His eyes are bright and sharp, meeting Rue's stare with a hunter's focus.
"That's what I thought." On a hunch, Rue lets a little more of their weight press down onto Hob, savoring the way it makes his breath skip, the way his eyes flutter shut.
"Rue," he says, his voice barely more than a sigh. "Rue—"
"Here, now." Rue eases their weight back and gets to their feet. "Let me help you up."
Decorum would require Rue to back away once Hob is standing, and they do—eventually.
A change of scene feels in order, and so the coming evening finds them on the loveseat in what has become Rue's dressing room. It's a shabby wreck of a piece of furniture, the brown velvet unevenly faded from years of sun, one of the legs visibly carved from a different wood than the other three; it's also the most comfortable piece of furniture Rue has ever encountered.
Rue sits at one end and stretches an arm across the back, beckoning Hob in. He settles against them easily, naturally, as if they've had years of privacy to become accustomed to each other's bodies and not a heavily-scrutinized fortnight in polite society.
They sit in silence for a moment, time stretching out long and golden in the last of the late-afternoon light. It feels easy to be quiet with Hob, just as it felt easy to chase him wildly around the house, rumpus and refinement coming into harmony.
"It is not that I wish to be secretive." Hob's tone is thoughtful, but not distressed. "The Rule of Sneakery aside, there is no part of myself that I would not share with you, and gladly. It is only—" He huffs out a sigh, pushing back to meet Rue's gaze.
"I find that I don’t know."
Hob's voice is just as delicious as ever, low and rough, twining its way around Rue with the dangerous grace of a great cat, claws only barely sheathed.
His face, however, is positively comical in its befuddlement.
"That's—"
"I mean, I'm not an innocent," Hob says, bristling against an attack Rue has no plan to aim at him. "But affairs among the Goblin Court, as you can perhaps imagine, are somewhat—rough and ready." His nose wrinkles. "And anyway, you don't want to hear about any of that."
"Mm, agree to disagree." The ‘rough and ready’ affairs of the Goblin Court feature prominently in several different specialist periodicals that Rue is subscribed to—for the articles, of course.
"But let's start with something a little more straightforward." Rue lifts a hand to cradle Hob’s cheek. "Do you like it when I touch your face?"
"I—yes?" Hob frowns. "I can't imagine why I wouldn't."
"You don't need to imagine, dear." Rue tucks their fingers into a loose fist and brushes the backs of their claws against Hob's jaw. "Just tell me if you like it."
Hob takes a slow, unsteady breath. "I like it," he says softly, the words scarcely more than a murmur. "I like it very much."
"I’m glad." Rue trails their fingers up to brush against the fine, delicate skin of Hob’s ear. "And this?"
"Well—" The involuntary twitch gives them their answer even before Hob can wrinkle his nose in apology.
Rue laughs. "Ticklish, then?"
"No, no," Hob says, but the earnestness of his tone is undercut by the way his ear flicks back and forth at each pass of their fingers. "No, it’s just—" Rue raises an eyebrow and Hob sighs, defeated. "A little sensitive, yes." He butts his head against Rue’s hands, half apology and half plea. "But if you—just at the bottom, where it meets the skull—"
"Like this?" Rue moves their hand, rubbing their thumb firmly around the base of Hob’s ear, and is rewarded with a low groan that seems to arise from their chest as much as from Hob’s.
"’s so good," Hob mutters against their shoulder. "Why is that so good?" He blinks, drawing back just enough to meet Rue’s gaze. "That is—it is, isn’t it? Good? For you?"
"I like it very much," Rue assures him. "And I like—this."
Rue may have discarded their glamor and shown the world their true self, but the habits learned over millennia in the Court of Wonder are proving difficult to unlearn. So it is with the claws they've kept carefully blunted all these years, even when there was no risk that anyone might so much as see them, much less feel their edge—
—and yet a claw trimmed and buffed is still a claw.
Rue uncurls their hand and sets the points of their talons to Hob's scalp.
"I—oh." Hob's eyes fly open with a jolt, even as he keeps his head still enough not to dislodge Rue's tentative grasp. "That's—"
"Some people think it's too much." Rue trails their hand over Hob's scalp, the pressure too light to break the skin, too solid to go unnoticed. "But I like it." They trace aimless patterns over the crown of Hob's head, around the base of his ears, down the side of his throat and back up again, watching every minute shiver and unsteady inhalation. "I think you like it, too."
"Yes," Hob breathes, "oh, that's, yes, I—" He twists his head to press against their hand, teeth bared. "Delloso, please."
"Of course, my dear." Only a little more pressure—still far from enough to do any real damage—but Hob trembles against them. "And I wondered if perhaps—" They pause with their hand spanning the front of Hob’s throat, claws resting firmly against his jugular. "This?"
Hob blinks, frowning slightly, but when Rue attempts to remove their grip from his throat, they find his hands firmly around their wrist, holding them in place.
"I—" Like this, Rue can feel it when Hob swallows, the muscles of his throat working under their hand. "I—"
"Hob?"
"I like it," Hob murmurs, the words barely more than a breath. "I like it—" he sucks in a breath, his chest rising and falling against Rue’s side, "—rather more than I should." He swallows again, shifting his weight in a way that makes no sense until Rue glances down the length of their bodies.
"On the contrary, my dear." They give his throat a gentle squeeze, just to hear the gasp he tries to stifle, and then pull their hand free from his grip. "I think you like it exactly as much as you ought to."
Freed from the Goblin Court’s demands—or, perhaps, free from the things he demanded of himself—Hob nevertheless tends to dress in something of a uniform. The medals are gone, folded carefully away into a box with the sash that bore them, but Binx has provided him with an array of jackets in the same style he has always favored: strong, clean lines, minimal detailing, the faintest suggestion of epaulets.
He has not, however, begun to wear trousers with any regularity, and so it is all too easy for Rue to look down and see his cock, hard and flushed and slightly wet at the tip.
"Delloso—Rue—" Hob swallows, eyes darting down to follow Rue’s hand. "I hardly require—that is, you have no obligation—"
"Who said anything about obligation?" Rue rubs their thumb in another small circle, spreading the wetness over the head of his prick. Their own cock, still tucked away for the time being, throbs in sympathy and anticipation. "I can’t think of anything I should like more, my dear."
Hob huffs a shaky laugh into their shoulder. "By all means, then, carry on," he says, gripping the back of the sofa hard enough that the velvet threatens to split under his claws. "I’m sure I would hate to deny you anything."
He’s wonderfully responsive under Rue’s hands, working so hard to hold back his reactions and failing so beautifully. With every pass of Rue's hand, he tenses further, his muscles taut with anticipation and need, breathing heavily against their shoulder, fangs bared, murmuring, "Rue—Rue—" in tones of increasing urgency.
"Shh, my dear." Hob has his eyes closed, so he doesn't see them angle their free hand in the familiar gestures that accompany a muttered, "Manus luminis."
"What was that?" The question is somewhat distracted; given what Rue's hand is doing, that's only to be expected.
…Rue's physical hand, that is.
"Oh, just a little something I thought you might like," Rue tells him, and uses the spectral hand they've conjured to grasp his prick in a firm, twisting grip.
Hob makes a strangled, gasping noise that might contain Rue's name, his eyes flying open as he grabs at both of their arms in vain.
"There's nothing wrong with something sharp." Rue suits action to their words, scratching their claws across Hob's belly. "But sometimes it's good to have other options, don't you think?"
"Very—very good," Hob chokes. "Delloso—Rue—my love, please —"
"Shh, shh." With no dangerous edges to worry about, they can hold tighter, move faster, all while trailing their claws over his stomach and thighs, chasing every shiver and sigh that he gives them. "I've got you."
"And gladly I am caught." The spell-crafted hand glows gently as Rue uses it to work Hob's cock, slowly and then faster, faster, until he's groaning and shaking and spilling over their translucent fingers. They gentle him through his peak with slow, languorous movements, savoring the way he shivers against them with every motion.
"I feel fairly confident that you enjoyed that," Rue says eventually, "but please let me know if you have any requests for next time." A thought brings the spell-hand to float near their face; from there, it's simply a question of tilting their head to the side and flicking out their tongue to taste Hob's spend. Salty, with undertones at once acrid and sweet: objectively terrible, but nevertheless delightful.
"My only desire," Hob says breathlessly, "Is that it should happen as soon as possible." He turns in their arms, propping himself up on one elbow to regard them directly. "And that I should be allowed to bring you equal pleasure." His eyes are dark and fathomless, pupils blown wide with desire and pleasure; his breath is warm against Rue's face and his cock presses damply and insistently against Rue's side.
…very insistently indeed, given his recent exertions. Rue taps the back of a claw against his stand and raises an eyebrow.
"Ah." Hob's gaze darts away to fix on a patch of wall several inches above Rue's right shoulder. "I ought perhaps to have mentioned—that is, it's generally used for more martial purposes, but—"
"Hob?"
"It is possible," Hob says slowly, "for me to, ah—carry on—even when otherwise exhausted."
"Is it, now." Rue trails the point of one claw along Hob's prick. It's of a length commensurate with his lanky frame, and the girth is—generous, to say the least. Rue rubs their thighs together in anticipation. "And it's not…that is, I should hate to cause you any discomfort."
"Delloso." As always, the sound of their full name sets Rue's nerves alight, the rumbling resonance of Hob's voice shivering up and down their spine.
"Before," Hob says, "when we were—when you pinned me. When you caught me." A fine shiver rolls through his body. "I enjoyed that very much. Which is to say," he adds, shaking himself slightly, "that you should feel free to use me as you see fit."
"Well, if you insist…" Rue gives Hob's cock one last affectionate pat and stands, stretching out their shoulders and bending their knees slightly. "I suppose I shall," they say, and hoist Hob over their shoulder.
"I—you—Delloso—"
Seven feet of muscular bugbear is not exactly easy to carry, but Rue has the advantage of surprise, and Hob only really recovers himself enough to struggle when they're already most of the way over to the bed, at which point the battle is more or less won.
"What was that, my dear?" Half a thought brings the mage hand up to whisk the covers down, allowing Rue to drop Hob onto crisp white sheets; the fresh linen sets off his dark fur to perfection. "Did you want something?" They follow him down onto the bed, swinging one leg across his body to sit astride his hips.
"Delloso," Hob says again, his eyes dark and fathomless. His hands slide slowly up Rue's thighs and back down, disarranging the feathers only to smooth them back into place. "Rue—"
"Knickolas?" Rue shakes their feathers out, unable to resist the urge to preen under that avid gaze. If the motion shifts them back just enough to brush against the warm, insistent weight of Hob's cock, that's just a happy coincidence.
"You are enchantment itself, my dear." There's no attempt at seduction in his tone, only honesty and awe, heartfelt and inescapable. "And if I could bring you even a fraction of the pleasure you have brought me—" His claws curl around Rue's thighs, tugging them forward with a gentle inevitability.
"Oh?" Some wicked impulse has Rue resist the coaxing of Hob's hands just for the pleasure of feeling his grip tighten. They raise an eyebrow and look down their beak at Hob, spread out across the pillows like a feast. "Do tell."
"I want to taste you," Hob says, crumbling with gratifying rapidity. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips as he stares at Rue's cock where it has begun to press forward from their feathers. "I want you to fuck my mouth, and I want to feel you spill on my tongue, and I want to please you until you are begging me to stop. And then," he says, his eyes flashing with dark intent, "I want to do it again."
"...fuck," Rue says, courtly airs and graces annihilated in that blast of weaponized sincerity. "I was going to ride you until you forgot anything but my name, but that's—" they hiss in a breath. "You raise a compelling argument, sir."
"—I what? That is, I mean." Hob blinks rapidly. "You want to—"
"Yes, but—"
"—hadn't occurred to me to hope—"
"—happy to be flexible—"
"—whatever you would prefer, of course—"
"—both very compelling ideas—"
"—your thing," Hob says, claws flexing ungently against Rue's thighs. "Your thing first."
"First?" Rue does their best to arch an eyebrow coyly, but if it works, it's only because Hob is already so discomposed. "Really, Hob, you shouldn't tease me like this."
"I have yet to make you a promise I did not intend to fulfill," Hob says, "and I do not mean to begin today."
Faced with a statement like that, there's really nothing else for Rue to do but sit on his cock, and so they do.
It's unclear which of them groans the loudest: Hob, Rue, or the much-abused wood of the bed frame. Hob's cock is thick and blunt, still wet with his spend, pressing into Rue's body one exquisite inch at a time: a slick, delicious stretch right where Rue needs it most.
"Fuck," they say, working themself onto his prick in excruciating increments. "Fuck, Hob, that's good."
"Nglrk." Hob digs his claws into the mattress, shuddering as Rue shifts their weight.
"You like that?" They twist their wrist, raking their claws through the dense fur of Hob's chest and tugging. "You like being good for me?"
Hob gives a low groan and fucks up into Rue's body—one, two, three thrusts, hard and fast and perfect—before he sags back against the bed.
"I'm terribly sorry," he says between panting breaths. "I didn't mean to—"
"You didn't?" Rue lifts their weight up just for the pleasure of dropping back down onto Hob's cock, reveling in the slick slide of their bodies together. "Because I quite enjoyed it, myself."
Hob blinks. "Rue—"
"Knickolas." A raised eyebrow and a pointed tightening of muscles has Hob hissing out a curse. "The only thing you need to apologize for is stopping. "
"Is that so?" Hob's expression goes sharp and predatory. "I see." His gaze slides over Rue's body in hot speculation. "In that case—" He sits up just enough to wrap a hand around Rue's waist, tilting them forward as he shifts his legs. "Perhaps—like this?"
Rue scarcely has time to take stock of their new position—spread over Hob's body, braced on all fours—before Hob lifts his hips in a powerful thrust, his cock pressing deep enough to make them see stars.
"Leverage, you see?"
Hob doesn't wait for an answer, just does it again, fucking up into Rue's body with steady, devastating thrusts. Every movement drags Rue's own prick rubs against the soft fur of his belly, a shivering, teasing counterpoint to the delicious stretch of him.
"Fuck." Rue presses their face to Hob's shoulder, filling their lungs with his scent and savoring the play of tendon and muscle as he moves against them. "Fuck, Hob—"
"Delloso." It's just their name, said with a reverence and devotion that echoes in Rue's chest; it makes Rue's feathers prickle like the rumble of an oncoming storm, all electricity and anticipation. "Just like that, my darling," Hob says, "come on, let go; I've got you."
Rue is balancing on the thinnest edge, biting back curses and pleas alike, but they sit back at Hob's words, eyes narrowed, something sharp-edged and competitive rising in their chest.
"You've got me?"
"I, ah—" Hob blinks, abruptly wrong-footed and awkward with it, the delicious rhythm of his hips stuttering into disarray. "That is—I should never presume—"
"Oh, presume away." A sharp edge creeps into Rue's smile, and they make absolutely no effort to hide it. "Please."
A flick of their wrist serves to reposition the conjured hand; a sigh and a tilt of their head more than serves to distract Hob's attention from the movement. Lubrication is, if not standard to the cantrip, at least a well-known adaptation, its parameters defined and refined by generation after generation of randy magicians.
And from there it's just up and in, the cool implacable press of magic against fevered skin—
Hob shudders at the touch of spectral fingers to his hole, every hitch of his hips pressing him up into Rue's body in shivering increments as he clutches desperately at their thighs.
"Rue—"
"Do you like that, my love?"
Hob's only answer is a low, agonized moan. Something stirs in Rue's chest at the sound, something hot and covetous and wild that has them leaning down to drag their beak along Hob's throat in desperate retaliation.
"I like it," they murmur. "I like feeling you like this." They squirm down against his next thrust and curl the fingers of the mage hand at the same time, biting back their own groans in order to better savor the sounds Hob makes. "Maybe next time I'll have you, hmm?"
"Ah—" Hob shudders against them, his claws digging into their skin, ten points of incandescent sharpness.
"Would you like that?" Spectral fingers pull free of Hob's body and linger there, tracing circles against his hole: too firm to be ignored, too gentle to be anything but a vicious tease. "Spread out for me, letting me fill you up?" They slide back in, pressing Hob open with merciless slowness, reveling in the way that every motion of their spell-crafted hand makes Hob jolt against them.
A conjured hand doesn't feel, exactly, but there's something, a ghost of a memory of sensation, the faintest suggestion of pressure against the fingers Rue doesn't actually have. The thought of feeling it for real—feeling Hob clench and shiver on their cock, slick and desperate and clinging—Rue's throat goes tight with how much they want it.
"I think I'd like that." Rue trails a claw down the line of Hob's sternum to trace delicate circles over his belly. "I think I'd like that very much indeed."
"Rue—Delloso—please, I need—"
"Don't worry, dear." Rue doesn't have fangs to bare, but they grin down at Hob, letting their face show every bit of the hot, greedy hunger that roils in their chest. "I've got you."
Hob makes a low, wounded sound, his hands clenching convulsively on Rue's hips. They can feel the moment when he tips over some unseen edge, his hole tightening around their conjured fingers as he spills deep inside their body.
"Ah!" The sudden shock of sensation has Rue hissing out a curse, hands curling into fists that shred the bedclothes. They hold out for a few moments longer, riding the thrashing wave of Hob's body, but it's too much to bear: the heat, the pressure, the sight of Hob spread out for them like a feast, rumpled and mussed and theirs. "Hob, oh—oh —" It's the press of his palm against their prick that finishes them: the slick shifting pressure, the heat of his skin. Hob works them through their climax with ruthless thoroughness, dragging every shiver of pleasure out of them until they collapse against his chest, breath coming in pants and whines.
"You are magnificent."
"And you, sir," Rue says, tilting their head up to meet Hob's eyes, "are a menace."
"A menace, hmm?" Hob's mouth stretches into a sharp-fanged smile. "I rather like that. That is—ah—" His smile wavers slightly. "Provided that you feel the same?"
"Oh, I like it," Rue tells him. "I like it very much indeed."
They're a menace too, after all.