Work Text:
“I can't feel anything.” Dream huffs. “I have been accused that I am not even able to love.” He takes a sip from his mug of beer, not quite looking at Hob, though he can tell that Dream wants him to say something. Maybe confirm his self-condemnation, maybe soothe him over the fact? But that's not like Hob, is it? He has always been a man who embraces practicality and hence lived a good life, even through the worst of it. Never giving up is ingrained into his bones, seeing the positives his one and only motto.
“You can feel alright,” he disagrees. He used to imagine it was fondness that brought Dream here, like a clockwork. But ever since he missed their appointment, he has been around more and more, and Hob knows. For sure. “You don't behave it, mostly, all that stuff of eternity, and so, but...”
“You're a liar.” Dream makes it sound final, but all Hob can hear is “convince me.”
“You've had sex, yes?” He asks, already prepared for the answer.
“What does that have to do with anything. Yes, I did, but that's just physical sensation, not... emotion.”
Hob can't help but smile. Dream knows all the dreams, but only from the outside. It's a pitiful existence, if one asks him, Hob, who is just some normal man, according to basically everyone he meets. “Trust me. Just this once.”
He could probably ask for more, but he won't. Dream isn't... equipped for long-term commitment. He needs to be led step by step. For now he is on it, and Hob grins. “Bring us somewhere, where you feel safe.”
That is quite the task for Dream, really. Ever since his ordeal he has been less trustful than a cat. But at last he decides, bringing Hob to a house that seems mundane, if not for the fact that it has no door Hob could open. The handles are just missing, but the doors swing open with just a wave from Dream. There Dream shows his curiosity, or is it care? “What do you need?”
“Nothing. Nothing I don't have already on me.”
“Then...”
Hob shuts him up with a smile, than takes his time to undress him. Dream is... Dreamlike, for sure. Not a scar, not a blemish on him, the skin white with an alabaster shine, like someone who doesn't get enough sun, but can pull it off. A bit like those sexy vampires, everyone likes and who are not at all like the legends he remembers.
Dream isn't ashamed, why would he be, but a little bit flustered about Hob's looks – apparently he isn't used to getting looked at. That's okay, Hob isn't scared to show him new things. He is... a bit anxious, because this is more than he ever imagined, and he doesn't want to blow it, wants to make it so good it will happen again. But that's an entirely different topic.
For now he makes Dream lie down, then pulls the belt out of his trousers, using them as makeshift hand-cuffs, fixing Dream's hands to the bed-frame where he lies down. “I know this is... nothing to hold you.” He grins apologetically again. “Just a reminder to stay where you are. For... the sake of the learning experience.”
Dream watches him curiously but says nothing, as Hob starts to explore. He used to think men weren't... interesting. Or rather, they weren't supposed to be interesting. But as times go by, things change. What was once frowned upon and only mentioned in gaudy songs about monks, is now accepted part of reality, giving him every excuse to follow the trend.
He can indulge, can run fingers, lips, his whole face over the skin that filled his sleepless nights, as if he knew he wasn't allowed to dream about it, lest Dream found out. Now he certainly knows, and he certainly reacts to it. Not as much as Hob hoped he would, but enough.
Within the physical world he is a physical being with physical sensations.
“What is that supposed to prove, Hob?” he mocks now, looking down on him with just a little arrogance. “I already said...”
“Fine.” Hob is a bit miffed. “You want to play it that way? You don't trust the process? You want to be a naughty boy and make me hype things up? Gladly.” And just like that he opens the belt, heaves Dream into his lap, which is easy, he weighs next to nothing. “Say stop, when you feel like behaving.” With that he fold the belt in half, considering it for just a moment. But no. It's... too impersonal. Instead he raises his hand and brings it down on the white, white backside, one slap left, one right, a slow and steady rhythm. Left, right. Left right. Waiting between each slap for Dream to speak.
At first he makes no noise at all. But soon there are little gasps, even moans, something that almost sounds like a sob. Hob stops, checking Dream's face and his body temperature, and finds both... satisfying. Dream is neither too cold nor too warm, and the tears on his face, well they are integral part of the process.
With a sigh Hob takes his task up again, left, right, left right, reminding with no longer angered voice: “You can say stop at any time.”
Dream doesn't, not before the colour of his skin distinctly changes from white to red. Not before his buttocks are sufficiently warm, almost glowing. Not before the first drops of his tears splatter onto the ground. It is Hob, who puts an end to it.
“I see you can behave. Now be good and let me do my thing.”
Dream nods, but moves as if he was dreaming, slow, disconnected. His eyes shine like the haven't before.
“I'll suck you off now,” Hob says. “But I won't let you come before you cry again.”
Much of Dream's arrogance is gone. He still scoffs, but it's no longer with the full security of where he started. “As if.” It's a quiet challenge, not the one from the start, loud and brash. It is a “make me” yet again.
So Hob does. His hands find sharp hip bones and hold them down, his mouth finds something much more promising. Dream's cock is... a dream. Hard and yet velvety soft, thick and long enough, though never exceeding what Hob finds comfortable. Flushing now, more with every move. It's a pity that he doesn't smell nor taste of anything. Hob would very much like to taste him, but he hasn't been in the physical world for long enough to evolve that. But he makes do with the feeling, the sensation of Dream's helpless little thrusts against the resistance of Hob's hands, the kicking of his cock when Hob hollows his cheeks, the noises, oh, the noises.
He pays careful attention to them, they are so telling. Dream refuses to give him the satisfaction of proper groans, so he breathes in sharp exhales instead, trying to conceal his excitement as he can – it's useless, Hob is onto him.
He teases and edges, he brushes and rubs, sucks and licks, and whenever Dream comes close, he stops, again, again and yet again. Until he truly, literally can't bear it anymore, and cries. Like a whirlwind Hob is there, giving him just this last push, this last moment it needs.
He watches Dream come, and still look triumphant. He think he has won. He thinks it's just sensation. He lets his guard down.
With a smile Hob lets him believe it, as he comes close, embraces him, pulls him close, comforting and real. Dream's head sinks against his shoulder in comfortable relaxation. “That was... good.”
It will take days, maybe weeks, before he realizes how safe he felt, how kept and warm. It will be weeks before he realizes, it's not the physical reaction, but the closeness that did it to him. A feeling. Of connection.