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Jessamy has been Dream of the Endless’s raven for untold centuries. She saw him through many things, was at his side always, as constant and as loyal as the sunrise. And her favourite duty was to accompany her liege to his centennial meeting with the mortal Hob Gadling. Jessamy hadn’t paid much attention that first time, when Death blessed the would-be immortal with long life and youth, but she did enjoy the energy in Dream’s step as he returned to the Dreaming that night. A hundred years later, their meeting had filled Lord Morpheus with buoyancy for decades before his more typical stern melancholy descended back upon him.
So the pattern went, Dream visiting Hob Gadling with Jessamy nearby, century after century.
In 1889, her attention had strayed for but a moment and her lord was striding out into the night, full of anger and confusion, leaving Hob Gadling standing hurt in the rain.
They had not even been together for more than a few moments, and a tremor quaked, the earth opening up between them, a chasm to separate—the Dream Lord on one side and the immortal on the other.
Jessamy fluffs her wings, flicking raindrops off and following Morpheus as he steps between worlds in a flurry of sand.
In the Dreaming, Morpheus paces and snarls, the room making and unmaking itself around him as his feelings swirl in an unchecked mass of raging bewilderment. When Jessamy’s perch dissolves beneath her for the third time, she takes flight, leaving her master to his tantrum and going in search of a more tangible comfort to offer him.
Flying through dreamscapes, Jessamy bides her time, waiting for Hob Gadling to retire for the night and enter the sleeping realm. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it takes some time, but when he comes, she's drawn to his dreamscape at once. It's chaotic with his anxiety, memories flashing by faster than Hob or Jessamy can really process. She waits patiently, knowing that soon enough Hob will settle into the embrace of the Dreaming and allow Dream's creations to meld his imaginings into something substantial.
When the White Horse coalesces around them, a facsimile of Morpheus sits across from Hob. Jessamy watches curiously, observing the meeting that had been cut short earlier in the evening. It's going so well at first that she assumes Hob's mind is changing things to better suit himself; until their tones change all at once and their argument comes to a head. Jessamy flinches, as far as a bird-shaped creature can flinch, while her master's pride mucks things up.
Before he can stomp off as she knows he did in real life, Hob steps forward, grabbing Dream's collar and keeping him in place as Hob lays a desperate kiss across his cruel, lovely mouth.
The Dream of this imagining responds in kind, dragging Hob closer and plying him with aggressive kisses, frantic hands grasping handfuls of soft brown hair. The other denizens of the pub disappear, everything fading away until the only sounds are laboured breaths and the worshipful words of Hob Gadling’s devotion.
Jessamy hopes that whichever dream creature is playing the part of her master knows to hold its tongue when speaking of this to the others.
Before she can observe Morpheus's friend do unthinkable things to his likeness on a pub table, Jessamy uses her limited power to interrupt the dream, sending the other dream away. The scene is abruptly empty, just Hob in an empty tavern and Jessamy perched on the back of a chair close by.
Hob groans, his palms falling flat on the table as the facsimile of his ire and desire fades away from his perception.
Jessamy caws, Hob's attention snapping to her.
He's handsome, the once-human part of Jessamy acknowledges, as his warm eyes settle on her, his hair falling over his forehead. He brushes it away with hands calloused and scarred from countless years of labour and fighting.
Jessamy flaps over to a chair closer to the door, and Hob watches her with open fascination.
"Where did you come from, little raven?"
Jessamy vocalises, hopping from side to side, trying to coax him closer. When he takes a few tentative steps, she drops to the floor and leads the bewildered human outside, not to the soggy London night of his recollection, but to the verdant green plains of the Dreaming.
Hob gasps, awe overtaking him as he takes in the wonders of Dream's domain. Jessamy feels a swell of pride, wishing her master could see his friend enjoying the discovery of his masterpiece.
Jessamy leads Hob toward the palace slowly, letting him appreciate the journey. He finds wonder in all of it, even the nightmares that peak at him from hiding spots. She almost loses him when he tries to follow a miniature dragon on an errand but manages to refocus his fickle human attention span.
Due to Dream's fit of pique, the palace is quiet today, fortunately for Jessamy and Hob. It prevents them from being waylaid by any who might challenge a human entering the home of Lord Morpheus. Even with the Lord’s raven, they might be challenged if they’re caught by the wrong person.
Nothing creates awe in waking beings quite like the throne room, with its glorious stain-glass windows and the expanding cosmos of the ceiling. Dream's throne sits above it all, imposing atop its sweeping staircase. Though it currently sits empty, once it draws Hob's attention, he struggles to look at anything else for very long.
Jessamy lands on his shoulder with a pleased noise, running her beak through his hair, attempting to make him presentable for her Lord. It would not do for Dream to see finger-tousled hair and make incorrect assumptions. Hob does not seem to mind the grooming, head tilting towards her obligingly.
"Why have you brought me here, small friend?" Hob asks quietly, his hand coming up to stroke her breast.
For him, Jessamy thinks, and the words echo in the immortal's mind.
Still lost in the magic of a dream, Hob merely hums in understanding.
I will leave you to await him. Show patience, Hob Gadling.
And then the raven is gone, flying away on sure wings, leaving the immortal to await his next meeting with the Dream Lord.
The whole of his realm is an extension of Morpheus, created of his very essence. Some parts are more remote, less sensitive, but the throne room is the beating heart of the Dreaming and of Dream himself. He knows the moment someone steps foot into his inner sanctum, as surely as if a hand reached into his ribcage and caressed his heart.
Annoyingly, he is not immediately sure of who it is, which can only mean a dreamer has wandered in.
Abandoning the wreckage of his bedroom, already repairing itself in his wake, he strides through the palace, long cloak sweeping behind him. He encounters few denizens of the Dreaming as he goes, those he does shying away from the dark look on his face.
The doors swing open on silent hinges as he approaches, Dream blowing in with the silent fury of a deadly hurricane.
Faced with Hob Gadling, he stops in his tracks. Dream skids a little on the polished floor, though no being witnesses this and he would deny it to his last breath. He might not have the self-control to stop himself from behaving like a spoiled, rash brat, but he still has his dignity.
The immortal faces away from him, much of the way up the marble staircase leading to Dream's throne.
Dream is helpless to do anything but watch, bound by surprise and secret pleasure, as his friend alights on the dais. Hob touches the arm of his throne with pure supplication, his expression full of affectionate awe where Dream can see the profile of his face.
All the anger drains out of him, leaving Dream only exhausted, weary to the bone at his own destructive, selfish nature. At the fear that led him to leave his friend, perhaps his only friend, alone and hurting in the rain.
"You may sit upon it if you dare." Dream's voice, resonant and echoing in the large chamber, startles Hob. He turns to find Dream only a few steps below him on the stairs.
"You!" Hob is so startled that he points an accusing finger at Dream. A charming, awful smile cracks his features, rending Dream’s emotions in twain. So delighted to see him despite his earlier bad behaviour.
"Is this your place then?" Hob looks around, still awed even though he must have been in the room some time, waiting for something to happen.
"It is," Dream allows, climbing another step closer. "You have made your way through my domain quite skillfully, Robert Gadling."
"A raven brought me here," Hob admits with a wry smile. "I thought I was dreaming,” –a gorgeous, curious blush stains his face, and Dream is so, so tempted to peak into his sleeping mind and find the reason– “and then… there she was."
Jessamy, Dream rolls his eyes internally. Not nearly so prone to interfering as Lucienne, but just as sensitive to her master’s whims, and far more creative in her attempts to enable them.
"You are indeed still asleep. You are in my domain and at my mercy."
Uninhibited by his sleeping state, Hob answers with a raw honesty that would steal Dream's breath if he needed it. Taking one step down, now so close Dream can see the threads of gold in Hob's eyes, he says, "I have always been at your mercy, old stranger. You just never liked to admit it."
Perhaps it is unwise.
Perhaps it is downright delusional after his earlier actions, but Dream cares very little for human concepts like wisdom and constancy.
So he kisses Hob. He takes the final step up, bringing them level but for the single inch Hob stands above Dream, and cups his nape, drawing him close enough to claim his mouth.
Hob kisses back with the confidence of a man who has loved many with his whole body and soul and not an ounce of reticence. He kisses Dream like he has been waiting to do it for five hundred years, and would have waited for five hundred more, but is grateful he doesn’t have to.
He drags Dream forward, then acquiesces to his demands as Dream slides greedy fingers into his hair and guides his mouth as he wants it. Hob is delighted to be kissed, to be used however Dream likes, as long as he can feel the press of that body against him, as long as he can wrap his hands around Dream's waist and stroke over the fine fabric of the fancy black clothing he still wears.
"You are a marvel, Hob Gadling," Dream breathes, leaning into his lips as Hob kisses along the sharp curves of his neck. "Always so ready to do as I like."
"Well," –Hob noses at a spot below his ear and Dream shivers pleasurably– "it's not every day someone offers you immortality, you know. It creates a certain healthy respect and affection."
He says it with a laugh, and something warm and abundant blooms in Dream’s centre, so bright that he cannot look on it for too long, lest he falters under its weight.
Instead of acknowledging the words, Dream hums in contemplation. His hands move, settling on the breadth of Hob's shoulders, using the leverage to push him back towards the throne. Hob gasps as he falls back onto the marble, cool and unyielding beneath him. He stares at Dream, delighted and bewildered, panting slightly. Dream has to resist the urge to grow several magnitudes and devour him whole.
"Would you be bare for me, my mortal? Would you show me the whole of yourself?"
Hob's cheeks stain pink with another rare blush, his heartbeat pounding rapidly in his chest. Feeling cruel, Dream takes the sound and magnifies it, Hob's pulse sounding audibly throughout the room, the sweetest music heard in an age.
"If that's what you want."
Dream leans on the arms of the throne, looming over him. "What do you want, dear one?"
From Dream, the words fall like the most affectionate endearment from lips that wish to sample every delight this man offers him.
"I would know your name." Hob sighs, body arching towards him, desperate and unabashedly wanton. "I want to be good for you."
Dream's entire being wavers, his very core igniting at the overwhelming joy of being revered so ardently. Not because he is Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams and Creator of Nightmares. Just because he has earned it by meeting Hob every one hundred years and cherishing his words, his experiences, his very life. Just for being his friend, even if he is a rather poor one.
As is Dream's custom, the jealous desire for more comes fast on the heels of accepting their friendship.
Dream whispers his names, and as he does, Hob’s clothing falls away piece by piece until he sits upon the Dream Lord’s throne as naked as the day he was born, titles ringing in his ears. Hob is finely crafted, even touched with the blemishes every human must bear. These mean nothing to Dream, who only cares for the glory he finds in the imperfection.
“Dream…” Hob whispers, reaching for him.
“Patience,” Dream rumbles. “I will have my fill of you now, in exchange for your impetuousness.”
Hob's arms fall to rest on the armrests, his fingers curling around them as if he needs the anchorage to keep himself in check. Some part of Dream rumbles in satisfaction at the obeisance.
Dream presses his fingertips into Hob’s chest, pushing him back against the throne. He feels acutely where Hob sits against the marble, as if he has nerves there, as surely as he feels the heat of his chest and the texture of his body hair beneath his fingertips. His hand drifts down, petting luxuriously through that hair, following it down to trace over the slight softness of Hob’s belly. There are unmistakably muscles beneath the pinch of fat, but a softer life in this century has given Hob Gadling some very pleasant padding that makes Dream want to purr.
Nestled at the intersection of his impressive thighs lies the object of Dream’s truest desire. Hob’s cock is as well-made as the rest of him, long and thick, and dusky warm, an abundant offering that Dream hopes to make excellent use of.
Such a feast, and so limited a time to enjoy it.
“Would you serve me, Robert Gadling?” So selfish of Dream, so demanding, to seek his ardour in this manner, but it is his way. He has always been a self-centred creature.
“Yes,” Hob promises without hesitation, face turned up to gaze upon Dream as if he is the rising sun, the waxing moon, and every miracle in between. “Anything, my friend.” And yet, he is so bold, so devout as to proclaim his friendship when it had so recently turned Dream away. It only makes him burn brighter to consume it all.
“None have dared to sit where you are, Hob, as it is rightfully mine.” Dream moves to straddle him upon the throne, his clothing dissipating to nothing between one motion and the next. “Anything that dares to sit on it may as well be mine to possess.”
“I am yours.”
No poetry falls from his lips, but his devotion is spoken more clearly by his simple words than could be conveyed by flowery verses.
Hob’s hands wrench themselves off the armrests, where they have remained up until this point, greedily settling on Dream’s waist, hauling him closer to bring their mouths together. Dream allows it, feasting on his kisses as he grinds down on the erection placed so conveniently between his legs, hot and demanding against the aching wetness there. Their bodies speak with more clarity than their words ever have, bringing them to an accord that will not easily be forgotten.
Even as he does it Dream understands that this act, hedonistic and messy and made ethereal by the nature of dreaming, changes things between them in a way that will not be denied. His obstinate, self-destructive nature pushes him to reject it, but that part of him is so quiet now that he has Hob here with him, naked and writhing, skin hot against the cool marble of his throne and the silk softness of his skin.
When Hob’s hands tempt Dream beyond reason to hand over all the dominance in this exchange, Dream gathers them up, pressing them to the high back of the throne above their heads. Hob groans, low and needy, as gossamer golden vines grow down to twine around his wrists, securing his hands away.
“Mine,” Dream proclaims, as he tips Hob’s face up for a kiss so simple and chaste it rocks Hob’s soul. Between their bodies, he guides Hob inside of him.
“Yours, oh, so yours, love,” Hob sighs. “Until my last breath, though I hope it never comes.”
Dream sinks down inch by inch, lighting up with a million constellations as he learns the shape of his lover so intimately, in the way that can only be found when someone has been inside you, pressing against the most precious, unknowable parts of yourself. He pauses with Hob sheathed entirely inside him, molten hot and soaking wet.
It is not often that Dream takes this effect, equipped with cunt rather than cock. He mostly presents entirely as a man would, when he bothers with genitals at all, as that has best suited all of his previous lovers. But now it is different, with Hob it is different. Less a performance and far more a ritual, a sacrifice laid bare to the god of their pleasure, the lusts of their flesh, such as they are.
“Dream…” Hob moans his name into the skin of his neck, eyes closed with his pleasure, moisture gathered at the corners with the intensity of it. Dream shivers in accord, cradling Hob’s head between his palms, holding him close as he rocks, fucking himself on that impressive, lovely cock, driving them both to a conclusion that feels both unknowable and as familiar as warm sunshine.
“Hob, oh, Hob. My Hob.”
A litany of sighs, pleasured exhalations and soft breath gliding over sensitive skin. Dream runs his hands over the extension of Hob’s arms, cherishing the muscles there, tangling their fingers around the golden vines. Hob shudders, squeezing him tight, thrusting up to meet Dream’s movement.
“Dream, I need…”
So close, such a magnitude of bliss growing between them, inside them, around them. The air glitters with iridescence, responding to their whims. Their whims. The Dreaming bends to Hob’s will, here as he couples with its master.
A miracle. A testament to the wonder that is Hob Gadling.
Dream whines, bearing down on the tension gathering in his core, chasing it jealously. Hob’s chest rises and falls with air he does not truly need, here in the realm of sleep, brushing against the starkly sensitive skin of Dream’s chest. They press their temples together, sharing space, racing toward their peak with the trust that they will find it together.
Hob wakes, sticky with come and panting as if he’s run a marathon, skin burning hot to the touch. He makes a choked-off noise, curling in on himself as reality falls in around him.
Gods, what a dream. What a perfect, insane, impossible dream, leaving him bereft and pleasured in equal measure, his poor nervous system frazzled as it attempts to catch up with waking and imagining.
It had felt… so real. More real than anything in Hob’s long, long life, which is certainly saying something for a man who cherishes each measure of life he enjoys.
As his racing heart calms and he settles further into consciousness, Hob plays over the dream in his mind. The longer he thinks about it, the more his confidence grows that it had been real. As real as anything can be when it comes to the lord of Dreams.
Morpheus.
Hob sits up in bed, blinking hard to adjust to the dim light of his bedroom.
“Dream?”
And there he is, stepping out of the shadows, clad in nothing but a cloak made of the stars, galaxies swirling in the depths of both fabric and Dream’s intense gaze.
“Yes, my lover?”
Hob grins, reaching for him immediately, buoyed beyond reason by their tryst. Dream comes to him, settling in his embrace on his very ordinary bed in his very ordinary bedroom. Lying ensconced in Dream’s cloak, the warm softness of velvet and nebulas, Hob strokes his hands over that beloved body, touching his fill, memorizing the feel of him.
“I’m glad you came back.”
“I am glad my raven sought you out to remedy my mistakes.”
Hob places a gentle kiss on that mouth, unable to resist sucking the fullness of his bottom lip into his mouth. Dream rumbles, a pleasant sort of noise that stokes a fire inside Hob.
“Can I ask you a question, Prince of Stories?” Hob asks as Dream’s touch on him becomes more insistent. It seems they will be consummating their relationship in both the waking and the Dreaming this night.
“Of course, Hob Gadling.”
Hob runs his hand through the diaphanous universe inside his lover’s cloak. “Did you paint all the stars and constellations, or only give birth to the mythos that forms them?”
Dream laughs, a true and joyful smile splitting his face for the first time in Hob’s experience.
“That, dear one, is a question for another time. For now, we have other things to occupy us.”
Hob’s laugh joins the fading echoes of Dream’s, joyous as a thousand shooting stars, as his lover proves his intention to keep Hob very well occupied indeed.
Outside, the night is silent but for the gentle rustle of wings that manages to convey both approval and contentment in abundance.