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moorishflower · 3 months

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Eating Out (Dream/trans!Hob Explicit)

i heard we were writing trans Dreamling and then I saw that one ask someone sent @gabessquishytum and I blacked out for a few hours and woke up with this on my desktop please enjoy

Contains: FtM Hob Gadling, public sex, oral sex, free use/multiple partners, voyeurism, multiple orgasms, scent kink, hair kink, little bit of eldritch Dream as a treat

The club is almost violently loud, and the instant that Dream materialises within it he wishes to leave.

He could. There is nothing holding him here. Not even his new agreement with Hob Gadling, that they meet twice a month, holds sway here – they have already held their pre-arranged meetings for December, have 'caught up' with each other, as Hob calls it, though Dream always feels as though he has nothing to contribute. He tells Hob about the unceasing tedium of ruling a kingdom, of settling disputes between his creations, of shoring up the defences of the Dreaming such that it will be prepared for any onslaught, and it is all the same, always the same things over and over again for aeons, but Hob leans towards him and listens with the most fascinated air. He asks questions. He is interested.

Dream would much rather hear about Hob's life. His many lives, in fact, within the last two centuries. It seems as though Hob is always doing something: viewing art with noted professors on the subject, or attending poetry readings, or assisting in the building of various installations of a political nature at protests, or organising a play put on by trans youth from local universities. In this century he is highly invested in matters regarding gender and sexuality – which Dream supposes makes sense. His own gender would have been considered at best a novelty in his own time, and at worst an affront to God. These days, however, he lives openly and freely as the man he has always known himself to be.

It is all of these things, and more, that are the reasons why he is here tonight. The Dreaming is stable at last – there are no pressing matters for him to attend to this eve – but he is shortly expected to meet with Lucifer in order to renegotiate their ancient treaty of tentative peace, and he is, as Hob would say, not looking forward to it. He is, in fact, dreading the experience. He is certain that Lucifer has neither forgotten nor forgiven his brief foray into Hell when he retrieved his helm, and the humiliation they were forced to endure at his hand. He will freely admit that he was. Not as gracious. As he could have been, upon his triumph.

He does not want to think about it. And so he is here, looking for Hob Gadling.

It occurs to him, however, as he watches the ebb and flow of people around him, that Hob may not wish to be found this night. He had assumed, when he'd reached for Hob's presence in the Waking and drew himself towards it, that he would appear in Hob's flat above the New Inn. That is where he is most often to be found, this time of night, unless he has prior engagements.

This club, though...it is of a distinctly sexual nature. Its patrons dressed in leather and latex, and some dressed in almost nothing at all. There are sheltered alcoves with faux-leather seats where two or three or more humans whisper quietly to each other, and kiss, and touch sensuously; there are other stations that Dream recognises, but only from dreams: a St. Andrew's Cross, a whipping post, a wooden bench over which a young man bends while a woman dressed entirely in white lace strikes him with a thin crop, raising fine red weals on the pale skin.

Perhaps he ought to leave. If Hob is here to procure a partner for the evening, then it is no business of Dream's.

Except.

Except the thought makes him. Unhappy.

He examines this realisation with detached interest, because he knows if he allows himself to become invested in the idea there will be no going back. Hob is his friend. They have known each other for over six-hundred years. He does not want to ruin their friendship, burgeoning as it currently is.

Neither does he wish for Hob to be here, seeking something that he believes Dream cannot provide for him.

Is that the crux of it? The source of his displeasure? Hob has come here, seeking fulfilment, instead of seeking out Dream? He would have no reason to approach Dream. Their friendship has never had a sexual component.

Although.

He remembers the way Hob had looked at him in 1589, so proud of the largess he had provided, eager for Dream's approval. He remembers the slow up and down glance of 1389 when he had approached Hob's table, when he had still been a beardless ruffian, binding his chest with scraps of wool. He remembers, in 1789, how Hob had looked at him, how he had tugged at his ear, how eagerly he had come to Dream's defence.

Perhaps he had simply not been in the best position to notice any interest. Hob's, or his own. Too prideful. Too convinced that Hob was just like every other human, grubbing about in the dirt for power and acclaim. Too assured of his own high status – one such as he, friends with one such as Hob?

He knows better now. Knows that Hob has lived rich and varied lives, which Dream has, for the past several months, taken succour in, experiencing them through Hob's tales, learning more and more about his friend. Liking what he has learned.

This, he decides, is a new aspect of that learning. And perhaps a new chapter in their friendship, if Hob is amenable. It has been long and long since he has laid with a human – he spares a moment to thank the memory of his sister for withholding her gift from Hob, for it means that Hob is not, strictly speaking, mortal – and perhaps it would be wise of him to observe Hob in this environment first. If Hob is here, he reasons, then necessarily he will be familiar with the etiquette of such a place.

And if Hob is otherwise occupied with a lover already...

He decides not to continue that thought.

A path forward decided, Dream wends his way through the crowds. The club is densely-packed with people, all ages, all nations and creeds and genders, and of them all he is the least-appropriately dressed in his coat and t-shirt and jeans. He does not bother to change, and no one approaches him – he is as a ghost, drifting between the revellers, a visitor to this holy house of Dionysus and Pan, following the faint trail of Hob that guides him like a ball of twine. Gentle prodding at daydreams reveals that Hob was here at the bar, that he, also, had been dressed-down for this occasion, in a white button-up and a pair of loose trousers. Still, others had looked upon him and had, in gauzy fantasies, wondered what he would look like dressed in less. Had wondered what his stubble would feel like against their cheeks. Had imagined his hands – broad, callused, peasant's hands – on their hips, their thighs, their genitals.

Dream does not linger in these daydreams for long, but pursues his true quarry, slipping through the gathered throngs, enjoying, for the moment, the feeling of stalking his prey. It is only infrequently that he is allowed to feel this, the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit; he is, by necessity, a guardian of his dreamers, but he is dreams and nightmares both, and often he longs for an end to the mournful tedium of his duties. Longs for peaceful oblivion or, at the very least, something that he can sink his teeth into.

The club is much larger than he had initially thought, and Dream follows Hob's trail up stairs and down corridors, until he finds himself in a section of the venue that has been cordoned off; several security personnel stand stationed at pre-set points, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings within.

There are significantly fewer clothes in this part of the club, Dream realises. And what is worn is designed for easy access.

It is less crowded here, but no less quiet – the air is filled with the sounds of pleasure, moans and squeals and throaty whispers, creating a chorus of rising debauchery that drowns out the thumping music below them. He remains unseen, untouched, as he slides through the gaps in the crowd, around amorous couples, ignoring the slick sounds of bodies entangled and flesh entwined, until, at last, he reaches the end of the trail.

Hob Gadling has arranged himself in a secluded section of the upper floor, where dark curtains have been set up to give a modicum of privacy, though the acts happening just beyond are still within full view of the rest of the floor. He is seated in a chair, one of the low, slightly reclined ones that pepper the rest of the club, though this one has been considerately draped in plastic sheeting. The reasoning behind this is immediately obvious: Hob Gadling sits with his thighs spread, revealing the hole that has been cut in the groin of his loose trousers, and there is a woman kneeling before him, with her face buried between Hob's legs.

Dream does not care about the woman, though objectively he recognises that she is beautiful, and clearly quite happy with her current position. His eyes are fixed on Hob, who has his head thrown back, sweat dappling his forehead, mouth open as he gasps and pants. His neck is pulled taut, revealing the tempting line of his jugular, and his shirt has been unbuttoned to reveal the thick hair on his pectorals, almost completely hiding the scars beneath. The woman between his legs does something that must be particularly pleasing, because Hob's eyes slip shut, and his hips rut upwards, and even through the music and the noise and the crowd Dream can hear the sound of his moaning, reaching a fever pitch as he climbs towards climax. When he comes, all his muscles strain at once...and then he slumps, panting, while the woman leans back and licks her lips. The entire lower half of her face is soaked in fluid, and Hob's thighs glisten with the same. It is clear that he has been here for some time.

There is a small sign, Dream realises, that has been set up beside the chair, and a few people positioned around it, reading its words, watching with interest. Some of them watching with eagerness. Eat me out, the sign says. Accepting all comers. Face-sitting offered for best orgasm. Beneath this titillating invitation is a short list of the things that Hob is not interested in. No PiV, says one, and, No S/M.

He watches the woman climb to her feet and then lean down again, whispering something into Hob's ear. It makes him laugh, whatever she says, a full-throated, beautiful display, his head tossed back as he guffaws. Then the woman kisses his cheek, and Hob takes the opportunity to pull her in for a generous hug. Dream has been on the receiving end of such hugs before, but he has never considered that he might be gifted them under such. Specific circumstances.

Then the woman moves away, and he is treated to the sight of Hob on full display. And Dream stops. And looks. And breathes.

Hob had been beautiful, with the woman between his legs, but now that it is only him he is even moreso. With no one in the way Dream is able to see the thick trail of hair on his belly, leading down to the dark thatch of his pubic hair, curls wet with spit and slick. The lips of his sex are parted, red and swollen from the attentions of Dream knows not how many, and here, too, he is wet and open and wanting, with his cock jutting proudly upwards. The plastic sheeting beneath his seat is soaked in his own fluids, and even as Dream watches a newcomer approaches, speaks quietly to Hob and, at Hob's cheery nod and grin, kneels down and begins to lick the plastic clean.

He could remain here unseen, Dream realises. To interrupt Hob's revelry would surely lead to a foul mood later on, but. But.

He wants.

For all that he is neither flesh nor blood, he responds as the form he has taken bids him to, his trousers growing tighter as his erection fills, his stomach clenching with desire, his heart beating faster. His mouth floods with saliva at the sight of Hob's hairy thighs flexing, the dark, spit-damp and abundant curls of his sex, the thin trail of sexual fluids that drips from his fluttering opening and is caught on the tongue of the man kneeling in front of him. And he feels a flash of jealousy, when Hob reaches down and pets the man's hair, and says something softly to him. He recognises the look in the man's eyes, one of fervent adoration, and knows that, were he in the same position, his own expression would be much the same.

He does not wish to ruin their friendship, but. But.

He must make a decision. To remain here, unseen, a silent watcher, is a violation of Hob's trust in him. To reveal himself is to potentially face Hob's ire, but he might take pride in the knowledge that at least he tried.

Dream inhales, breathing in the sharp smell of lust and sex, and steps forward, allowing himself to be seen.

Hob does not notice him at first, still murmuring to the man between his legs. After several moments, though, he looks up, and Dream sees the exact second that Hob spots him: his eyes go wide, and his legs reflexively clamp shut, nearly trapping the man between them, and his muscles shift as if he plans to launch himself upwards before his expression turns resigned, and he relaxes back into his seat. A quick word is had with the kneeling man, who shrugs and then clambers to his feet; he gives Dream a lingering glance as he takes his leave, as do several others of the assembled patrons.

"Dream," Hob says, raising his voice to be heard above the muffled music and the moans and screams emanating from other rooms on this floor. He is still sitting with his knees locked together. "What are you...I mean, far be it for me to judge what you do in your spare time, but what on God's green earth are you doing here?"

"Seeking you out," Dream says. He takes a step forward, and then another, until he has come to a stop almost directly in front of Hob. There is a pillow on the floor, he notices. He had not seen it before; it bears the indents of many previous lovers. He wonders how many have serviced Hob this evening.

He sinks down to his knees.

"Um," Hob says. His eyes are huge, the pupils so dilated that his irises appear as two drops of ink in white clouds. "Dream? What...?"

"I will leave if you wish me to," Dream says. He lifts his hands, letting them hover uncertainly over the heavy curve of Hob's thighs, but not yet daring to touch. He can feel the warmth emanating from Hob's body, more intoxicating than any wine or stimulant, and another wave of wanting crashes over him. Were he standing he thinks he would be staggered by it. "But. If you have no objections. I would very much like to stay."

"No objections," Hob says, voice rising to a squeak. His legs fall apart again, slowly at first, tentative, but widen with more generosity as Dream accepts the invitation, and lays his palms at last on Hob's thighs. They are just as muscled and warm as he had thought them to be, the hair on them coarse where it rubs between his fingers, against his fingertips, and there, at their centre, Hob's sex revealed to him once again. His cock still firm, jutting upwards, his labia still spread and glistening as Dream lowers his head to breathe in the scent of him.

"You smell ambrosial," Dream murmurs, and Hob barks a sudden laugh.

"I've come six times," he says. The tension is slowly leaving his body, allowing him to slump backwards as Dream strokes his thighs. "I smell like sweat and jizz, more like."

"As I said." And to drive home his point, Dream bends down and presses his nose to the sopping curls of Hob's cunt, inhaling deeply. Sweat, yes, and Hob's excitement, and the saliva of others, easily and summarily dismissed in favour of Hob's natural scent, and his friend's murmured, "Oh, oh fuck," as Dream lets his nose brush along the side of his prick. It strains towards him, twitching faintly with Hob's heartbeat. Impudent thing, Dream thinks, though not without a great deal of fondness, and he looks up at Hob through the wild fringe of his hair, blinking slowly.

"You know, I wasn't expecting this," Hob says. His hands clench at his sides. "I only come here maybe twice a year. I wasn't...You don't have to..."

"I wish to."

"...just because I'm. Here. What?"

"I am precisely where I wish to be," Dream says. "And if you truly have no objections. I wish to sample you."

"Jesus Christ," Hob says, and his head falls backwards, thumping against the cushions. "Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Do you know how long I've thought about this?"

"Since 1789," Dream says. He drags the tip of his nose along the length of Hob's cock, and then presses a soft kiss to the head of it, greatly enjoying the sound of Hob's muttered curses. The smell of him is growing denser, sharper, as fresh wetness drips from his cunt.

"Longer," Hob says. "Since the moment I saw you. Thought about bouncing on your cock later that night, even. I would've ridden you so fucking hard."

"Perhaps later," Dream murmurs, and then, for the first time, takes Hob into his mouth.

The effect is immediate, electrifying: Hob goes rigid, mouth opening in a soundless cry as his hips rut forwards, pressing his pubic bone against Dream's nose. His prick is thick, compact, perhaps three inches of trembling nerves that slide along Dream's tongue like silk. The taste of him here is not as strong as it would be directly from the source, but the musky salt of it delights Dream's senses, enraptures him. He lets Hob set the pace at first, trying to gauge how tired he is, how sore...though it quickly becomes apparent that six orgasms in an evening is not, apparently, his friend's limit. Hob does not cry off, nor beg for Dream to give him a moment, but sighs and moans and laughs as Dream sucks at him, first softly, and then with greater force, tracing the thin skin of Hob's prick with the tip of his tongue, then letting it fall free of his mouth so that he can instead lavish attention on the plump lips around it.

Here, he thinks. Here is where his mouth is intended to be, at the nadir of Hob's sex, where his labia are spread like flower petals and his cunt clenches and leaks. Dream hums to himself in delight as he laps a searing path from the root of Hob's prick down to his twitching, wet opening, kneading Hob's thighs with his fingertips as he does so. There is so much hair here that it is impossible to keep his face dry – nor would he want to, even if he could – and Dream leans in to taste, pushing his nose through Hob's pubic hair, committing the scent of him to memory as he licks and sucks at everything he can reach. His wild hunger makes him crude, inexpert, but when he glances upwards to gauge Hob's pleasure he finds his friend flush-faced and panting, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, one hand pushed back into his own hair. When he sees Dream looking he smiles.

"Do you know how gorgeous you are?" he asks. "Between my legs? I've imagined this for so long."

The encouragement is. Pleasing. More than he had thought it would be. Enough that it makes his own cock twitch as he basks in the pleasure of Hob's praise. "So beautiful," Hob says, and he lifts his hips slightly, demanding. Dream is eager to indulge him, and buries his face once more into Hob's sex, licking, now, at his cunt, pressing the tip of his tongue inside to where he is wettest and hottest, savouring the taste of him. The scent that has gathered in his hair, surrounding him now, filling Dream's nostrils, making him dizzy with lust. He cannot resist the temptation to bury his tongue deeper, and then deeper still, longer than any human Hob would ever have taken to bed. Muscles clamp down around him, and Hob makes a startled, thrilled little noise, and then begins laughing again, one hand at last stealing to Dream's hair. He does not clutch, but strokes, softly, like a favoured pet, and Dream purrs, mouth sealed around Hob's cunt, tongue buried in him until there is no more space for anything but Dream.

"You're a marvel," Hob says; Dream flicks the tip of his tongue against the opening to his cervix, soft, soft, and Hob's whole body goes as taut as a bow. "A fuh-hucking marvel oh God, oh fuck, Dream!"

A crowd has begun to form, Dream notes, though it is distant and unimportant information, useful only as much as these people may now see that Hob has chosen him, that Hob favours him. He is too focused on the task at hand to feel anything but the faintest hint of possessiveness – why should he, when he already has what he desires? – and he sets to it with relish, pumping his tongue in leisurely strokes, deep enough that Hob will feel him later, like a sweet bruise. Above him, Hob swears a blue streak, his neglected cock pulsing, prompting a sharp outcry of pleasure every time that Dream bumps the base of it with his nose. Eat me out, the sign had said, and Dream intends to follow it to the letter – there will be time enough, he hopes, to worship every other part of Hob later.

"Dream," Hob says, "Dream, I'm, I'm close, I'm–"

Dream does not wish to be warned. He wishes to be covered in the smell of Hob, drenched in him, and so he presses his tongue sharply up at the same time as he moves his hand to stroke Hob's prick with his thumb, humming in satisfaction as above him Hob shouts, thighs clamping hard around Dream's ears, a gush of fluid oozing around Dream's tongue as he works Hob through first one panting, keening peak, and then a second one just after, smaller, Hob squeezing rhythmically with his thighs, his cries of completion turning to whimpers and then to silence, just the sound of his breathing, like thunder, and murmured noises of appreciation from the gathered crowd. Dream slowly pulls back, and looks with satisfaction as Hob's gaping cunt, at the trickle of spit and come that drips from him, smoothing the curls there flat and sleek.

"Oh," Hob says. His voice is shaky, but inexpressibly fond as he reaches forward and cups Dream's cheeks with his palms. "Oh, I've made a complete mess of you."

He does not need a mirror to know that Hob's words are true. Dream can feel the warm air of the club brushing cold against the wetness on his cheeks, his chin, where it drips in thin lines down his neck. Hob smiles at him, his thumb stroking Dream's bottom lip.

"I think I might have one more in me for tonight, if you're interested," he says, and then with his foot he stretches out and tips over the little sign he had set up beside his chair. "But maybe somewhere where it's...just us? If there's no objections?"

His voice is hesitant. Searching. Dream gazes up at him, dazed, as he had known he would be, with how much he wants, and not only with how much he wants Hob's body, but his laughter as well, and his joy, and his time and his company. No, there are no objections.

"It would be my pleasure," he says, and Hob, still smiling, leans down and kisses the damp tip of his nose, and then the corner of his mouth, and then Hob's lips cover his own, gentle, and around them the club continues on in its revels but, for the moment, it is only them, and it is perfect.

#dreamling #dream/hob #dream of the endless/hob gadling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my fic #the sandman #the sandman fanfiction #trans hob gadling

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