Abyssal Cryptid

"Come here," Hob breathes, dropping his hand to hold Dream's and guide him around the end of the desk. He pulls Dream in against his chest, wraps him close in his arms and kisses him again. Dream makes a shivery little sound like this is everything he's ever wanted and then he's surging forward, pushing Hob down into his wide leather chair, kneeling on the seat pan to straddle his lap. His hands are on Hob's face and his tongue is in Hob's mouth and Hob drops his own hands to Dream's thighs, slides them around the back, caressing the silky stockings. He traces over their frilly tops and plucks gently at a garter, strokes the smooth skin underneath, runs both hands up higher until he encounters lace halfway up the curve of Dream's arse.

"What are you wearing for me under here, beautiful?" he murmurs, right against Dream's eager mouth, not even breaking the kiss.

"Panties," Dream answers, a character-appropriate waver in his voice and a wicked out-of-character gleam in his eye as he draws back, because something about Dream saying that word never fails to make Hob a little feral.

And this time is no different. Arousal lances sharp through Hob and he scoops both arms under Dream's thighs and lifts, leaning forward to sit him on the desk as he does, then smooths his hands up the tops of Dream's pale legs beneath the skirt. He strokes down along the insides of both thighs, fingertips brushing Dream's warm skin just above the frilly tops of his stockings, and pushes his legs wide open.

"Let me see," he breathes, fixated on where the black plaid skirt dips between Dream's spread thighs to hide his crotch. He reaches for it, flicks his eyes up to Dream's at the last second. "May I, sweetheart?"

He must treat his semi-virginal student right, after all.

Dream leans back on his hands, props his shiny black mary janes on Hob's knees. "Please, Professor."

The ornament in the middle of the bows on his shoes is his helm, Hob notices, which makes something in him curl up in affection. The Prince of Stories and his attention to details. But he's got panties to discover, to move their game forward; reverently, he touches Dream's skirt, lifts it out of the way.

The picture presented is absolutely perfect, Dream's knees raised and angled out, sheer black stockings catching the light, the frilly tops of them bisecting the pale length of Dream's porcelain thighs and the stark lines of his garters running parallel along the rest; and there, at the apex of it all, is a stretch of black lace straining over the hard press of Dream's cock.

"Oh, love," he breathes, fingertips skimming over the flimsy fabric and the warm flesh beneath, loving the way that Dream's breath hitches and trembles, the way he bites his lip. "How did you know a stiff prick wrapped in black lace is my favorite?"

"I'm your best student," Dream offers, voice unsteady.

"Indeed you are." Hob leans in, plants a kiss to the side of Dream's knee. "My favorite student too, for the record." Another kiss to the inside of his thigh. "And my prettiest." Finally he presses his lips to the shaft of Dream's cock beneath the lace. It twitches, and Dream makes the softest little sound of trembling pleasure.

"Professor—"