Inkkstar ⭐️🔞

Other than that, it never really interfered with school. Sure, you may have the odd boy that skips class for the day to 'rest and recover', if they were that dramatic over it. Well, until now that is.

What was a regular cold being spread around campus, had turned into all classes being cancelled and the entire school being put under a lock down. All teachers and students were locked in their rooms, not allowed to leave unless it was to go to the toilet. Which was fine for the teachers, most of them had their own toilets so they didn't need to mess around like the students did. Honestly, it was such a hassle having to ask and wait until someone permitted you to go to the bathroom. But there was no way around it with a staff member always on guard in the hallways.

When the news of a lock down first spread around, students were thrilled. To them this was perfect; no classes, no learning, no schedules and a chance to mess around with their dorm mates.

Alex couldn't relate.

He was stuck with his roommate. The roommate he wasn't even meant to have. The guy who intruded on his personal space without a care. The boy his father needed to make good impressions for, all because of his stupid club. Nigel Colbie.

Being alone all this time would have been better than sharing a room with this man. This freak of nature.

Said freak was currently sat on his bed; crisscross apple sauce, his back against the wall, a book open in his lap. Alex hadn't caught a glimpse of the front cover but he had no doubt it was a book on something vile, the pictures of animals anatomically dissected only further backed the idea. Yet, what caught Alex's attention the most was not what the boy was doing, but his clothes. So used to seeing him in uniform, it was almost a shock to see him in casual clothes. The dark green of the jumper clashes with the paleness of his skin and the darkness of his hair. The slight peak of the white that slotted from where the jumper had risen, caught Alex's attention more than he cared to admit. The bottoms weren't that drastic, casual black loose pyjama bottoms. His feet were tucked under his legs, but Alex had seen earlier that he wore no socks, he was barefoot.

He doesn't bother looking up from whatever he was reading when he finally speaks. "You'll make the floor creak if you carry on."

For hours now, it had been nothing but silence. It's been nearly 40 minutes of Alex pacing. He was surprised he hadn't gotten any reaction from the other boy besides that. Not that he was after a reaction- or was he? Maybe that's what he wanted. A reaction. To annoy him. To get under his skin, just like he had him. To scratch away at his sanity until he blew. To see what Nigel was like when consumed by anger. To see what he looked like when he surrendered to that boiling feeling that raced through Alex's own veins every time. Rage would suit him. Finally, that calm boy exterior would be gone, replaced with the monstrosity that is Nigel. The psychopath.

But no, no reaction. He didn't even look slightly irritated.

Alex huffed, not stopping his pacing, simply rolling his eyes at the other. "So what, it's my side of the room."

"You'll only complain later," the soft sound of a page being turned can be heard "besides you're not the one who will have to hear it when you get up in the night. Seen as you're incapable of staying still." The last bit was slightly biting, a jab meant to prick at Alex.

Unfortunately, it worked. Freezing mid step, Alex's head whips toward the sitting figure. "Well if you didn't stay up all night with your projects," he glares at the desk next to his. Though, it's less of a desk and more of a weird laboratory project. Correction, projects. The window in front of his desk was blocked off by wooden shelves, each with an array of bit on them; at the top laid a taxidermied cat in a tray, one the shelve below where jars of preserved mice or were they rats... followed by small clear cases of bits that Alex didn't want to look too close at. Next to the small shelves were a small row of books, above them where anatomically labelled diagrams of animals and humans were stuck to the window. Off to the side of the desk, in the other window, were more books lined along the bottom and hanging on the top was this upside down bottle of this yellow liquid with a tube leading onto the desk. On the actual desk area was; a stainless steel instrument tray with what Alex assumed was all the tools a surgeon would need on it, a large white side lamp that was somehow a magnifying glass at the same time, as well as a bunch of jars and a weird item that looked like something a mad scientist would use. "then you wouldn't be bothered with the noise."

Only now does Nigel lift his gaze, sharp as though he's staring into Alex's very soul. "And if you didn't stay awake watching me with my projects, then you wouldn't be constantly getting up in the night."

"Yeah right, cause it's so easy to sleep with your weird ass roommate dissecting a bird on his desk." He pauses his pacing, well he more accurately freezes, gesturing to the desk with an aggressive wave, his face pitching in disgust.

With the same uninterested tone he last used, Nigel responded, only briefly glancing towards his desk. Part of him was surprised that Alex remembered the bird. It had been one of the first animals he had dissected inside the dorm and that was a while ago now. "You could sleep with ease, at least you know I am not going to try to dissect you in the night when I have my projects." He grins at his own joke. "You simply stay awake and watch me."

Alex feels his stomach twist at the uncomfortable thought. In truth it had crossed his mind briefly, but that was when Nigel was first moved into his room. Yet, the idea that it had also apparently crossed Nigel's mind sent shivers down his spine. "You wouldn't dare touch me." His voice seethed. He turns, plonking himself onto his bed, feet planted on the floor as he stares at them. "I'd kill you if you tried."

The sound of Nigel's book closing sounded loud in the quiet afterwards. The air had changed, not dramatically, but it had changed. Shuffling could be heard and when Alex looks up, he sees Nigel copying his seated potion. Both of them mirroring each other. His eyes had that glint to them, the one he got when he pushed Alex too far and suffered the consequences. The glint that meant he had found something to sink his teeth into. "Have you imagined that often, killing me?" Gone was the bored uninterested tone, now replaced with curiosity. He almost sounded like he'd just heard something amazing. Sicko.

It was true though. Deep in some dark corner of his mind, Alex had thought of it. But that's all they were, thoughts. They often made him feel disgusted. Nigel always made him feel uneasy. Like a predator that had been caught by its prey. Almost impossible, the predator never would have expected the roles to change so quickly. Yet the prey was smart, easily chipping away at the predator's skin until it bled. It made fear and adrenaline rise under his skin. Ready to snarl and bite at this pitiful creature that had trapped him. "I'm not sick like you." He spat, but it was too venomous, it gave him away.

And of course, Nigel caught on. "Ooh Jack, you can tell me." His smirk reminds Alex of a panther barring its teeth before pouncing. "We often think so a-like you and I."

Alex's teeth grind together, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he bites out. "Will you just piss off."

A huff escaped Nigel, though it sounded like a laugh especially as he flashed his teeth to the boy opposite him."You're the one who started this conversation, Jack."

That name. The one that Nigel kept using. Despite Alex clearly protesting against it. It never stopped Nigel, nothing ever did. In his mind Alex was his Jack, his rogue man. His unprincipled man. His Jack. And of course, no Jack is ever ill-equipped. Always paired with their pike. Their implement for killing. Their spade. It was almost enough to make Alex lunge at the other guy. Rage searing through his veins, his vision tunnelling as his fist clench.

Those gleaming eyes take Alex in, observing how wound up his body was, how he was so close to snapping. One comment is all it would take. One comment to push him over that edge. One comment to feel his Jack's anger.

Nigel's eyes flick over to his desk. The silver tray shined under the light coming through the windows. "Your blood would stain them in the most righteous way." His voice filled with awe, the same tone he used when he told Alex they were brought together for a reason. Nothing. No reaction. "Not how Susan did. She just dirtied them-"

Hands wrapped around his throat. Burning hot against his cool skin. The world flipping as he's slammed backwards. His head narrowly avoiding hitting the wall behind him. His eye's widening in panic before he see Alex above him. Face furious. Strong hands restricting air flow around his neck. The look of rage on the other boys face is enough to sooth Nigel. His body relaxing under his grip. His lungs are burning. He wants to breathe, but he wants his Jacks anger more. His beautiful and holy anger.

"Don't you fucking talk about her!" Alex seethes, his face above Nigel. His body is shaking above the others. "You vile fucking monster! Don't you dare say her name!" His hands tighten. "You hear me?!"

His answer isn't verbal, he couldn't breath let alone speak with Alex's grip on his neck. Instead he keeps eye contact, his vision swirling slightly, smiling at him.

"You're vile. You're a vile freak." His words are spat across Nigel's reddening face. "I'd be doing the world a favour by killing you."

Nigel's vision darkens at the edges, his lungs burn like someone had poured gasoline on them and lit them on fire, his body fought subconsciously. Yet he kept his eyes on Alex's, if he was going to kill him (which he severely doubted he would) then he would have the last thing he saw be his Jack. His body jerks as it tries to get some room to breathe, hands gripping the sheets below him. It's a pathetic attempt. Why would he let his body take Jack's hands off him? Why would he let it escape his Jack's rage?

Then he could breathe. Air rushing into his lungs. Scratching his throat as he gasps. Going lightheaded from all the oxygen rushing into his veins. "You-You wouldn't kill me." His voice is rough as he lifts his gaze to Alex. He had moved off Nigel, but still stood between his legs, looking down on him as he pants. "That's why you need me."

Sneering down at him, Alex denies him. "I don't need you."

Sitting up, Nigel looks up at Alex. His face is at the perfect height with his stomach. "Is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, his stupid smirk still hadn't left his face. The cat who got the cream. His eyes glancing down, just lower than where his head was. "Your body disagrees with you."

Alex's head snaps downwards. Sure enough, Nigel was right. He was hard. When the fuck did that happen? He's was angry, why the fuck did his body do this? He takes a step back, Nigel was too close. The thought made his skin burn. Shame, that's all it was. Shame and disgust that's all Alex felt, that's all that tight feeling in his stomach was. Shame. "No. That's not-"

"Not what? Not an erection?" Nigel gives him a 'really? I'm not stupid' look. "There's no shame in it, it's natural." His grin hadn't left. This wasn't how he had expected today to go, but he wasn't complaining. It's another way that him and Jack could be one. He would guide his Jack through this. They would further their legacy. "We can be closer now, we can be more than the knights Templar."

With a shake of his head, Alex snaps. The anger that had been re-leashed for shame now makes its appearance again. "No! No, you're wrong. You did something, you- What did you do to me?!" His body was shaking where he stood, a step away from Nigel.

Nigel's gaze was different. That gleam is still present, the game was still on for him after all, but it held something intense. "I did nothing. It's fate. We're meant to be united." Again that tone was back, the one he used when he first told Alex of their destiny. "Don't fight our destiny Jack."

Alex is torn, so much is happening at the same time. This wasn't right. He's not fated to Nigel. He's not into guys. He's certainly not into Nigel. Yet his body disagrees, this has to be some sick joke Nigel's pulling on him, some sort of manipulation from the other. He stood trying to find a way to explain this, to out Nigel's twisted plan, but he couldn't figure a single thing out. Rage, disgust, shame, all mixed together to one burning sensation that made it difficult to think straight. A haze clouding his mind as he tries valiantly to think of anything Nigel could have done to him; did he drug him with something?

Whilst Alex is stuck in his own head, Nigel takes the opportunity to move, closing the distance between them once more. Not standing before the boy, currently balancing on the border of a mental breakdown, but instead kneeling in front of him. His voice seems to resonate through Alex when he speaks, his eyes focusing on the boy's new position. "Jack"

Sharp blue eyes anchor him, keeping him frozen. His legs won't move. He should move. He should back away from the dark haired boy in front of him. He should yell. He should hit him. He was too close. Closer than anyone had ever been to him before. And yet despite the electric urge to move, he couldn't. Staring down, his mind swirling yet his body still.

He watches helplessly as Nigel leans forward, his cheek pressing against the side of Alex's predicament. The small sensation sending ever so faint sparks up his gut. He wants to rip him away. He wants to move his arms. He wants to do something. Yet he remains, watching as the other practically scents him. He watches Nigel's chest rise and fall as he breathes Alex in, a flicker of mortification passing through him. Nigel's having too much fun with this game of his.

Just as Alex thinks he can muster the strength to lift his arm and shove Nigel off him, just as his hands are hovering over the boy's head, ready to yank him away, that's when it happens. Nigel shifts his head. Blue eyes meet green ones, as Nigel puts his mouth on him. Those glinting eyes watching as his tongue laves at the fabric between them, watching as Alex falters.

His hands once ready to yank Nigel away, now grasp onto him like a lifeline, smooth hair under his palms. His legs once still, buckle slightly under the heat. His lips once shocked silent, now parted as a shaky exhale leaves him. He hates Nigel. He hates how he knows exactly how to twist things, to mess with him. He hates how even now, Nigel's eyes gleam up at him, he knows he has won. And Alex hates.

Nigel doesn't let him recover, his tongue working over the tip of him as his soaks his bottoms, the bastard looks to be enjoying this. Well, that just won't do.

Alex lets him think he's in control as he 'thinks of a plan'. Until he tightens his grip in his hair, watching as the others eyes flutter, a slight groan leaving him. It makes something spark deep inside Alex as he pulls him away, watching the other look disappointed, his mouth slightly open, before he steadies his gaze. His eyes testing Alex even as he says nothing.

He glares down at the boy on his knees, as he spits "Fucking knew you where a puff, look at you." He pulls his head back to an uncomfortable angle, yet Nigel doesn't complain if anything he looks pleased. "Always so desperate to use your mouth." He nudges him forward ever so slightly, trying not to let nerves get the best of him. As much as he hates Nigel and would love to see him put in his place, he's also never done this before and is making it up on the spot. He's just hoping Nigel can't see through his ruse. "Go on then, use it."

Nigel's eyes flicker from his face to his crotch, his head now allowed to move back to its positioning before Alex had dragged him. For a moment he looks unsure, after all what action could a freak like him ever get?

Distantly, Alex recognises that they are both in the same boat, the thought soothing somewhat.

Before all thoughts are gone. Everything focusing on the boys hands sliding from where they were resting flat against Alex's thighs to now moving towards the tent in his pants, circling around it before going to the waist band. Cool fingers brush against the hot skin of Alex's naval as Nigel hooks his fingers into the waistband, pausing for a second and taking what was probably meant to be subtle breath, then pulling.

The cool air of the dorm reaches his skin first, his heart jack hammering in his throat as he's exposed. For some reason, he watches the other reaction, as if that should matter to him. Part of him expects Nigel to tease or get cocky, what he's not expecting is the look of devotion in the boys eyes. It's intense.

For a beat, there is nothing but both of them idle, Alex exposed with his hand in black hair and Nigel kneeling in front of him. Alex thinks that they would be stood like this for the rest of eternity, but Nigel breaks it. His voice is full of devotion, cracking slightly. "Jack..." Blue eyes flicking up, his mouth open slightly as he breathes heavy. He looks wrecked already.

That snaps Alex to it. His hand tightens slightly as he nudges Nigel once more, now towards his bare skin. "Get too it."

The next thing he registers is heat. An ungodly amount of heat surrounding him, not fully but it's enough. He fights to keep his hips still, unlike the boy below him, he has some manners. But it's difficult, Nigel's mouth engulfing him like it's his soul purpose in life. "Shit!" Alex wasn't stupid, he knew what this was meant to feel like, he'd learnt the ins and outs of it but he never expected this.

Nigel gags as he pushes himself to far, pushing to fast, taking Alex as far as he could in one go. He wants this bad, he doesn't think he's ever wanted something more than this. His Jack was using him. History was true again, the Jack was using his Spade and Nigel would have it no other way. He doesn't give up as he gags, no, as anything else it can be learned, he pushes himself little by little until he get's where he wants. He inhales through his nose the musky scent of Alex surrounding him, a noise leaving his full throat, vibrating through Alex.

His hips twitch at the sensation, hands in Nigel's hair gripping tight, his head tilted upwards, eyes shut. God this was so good. He glances down when he can breath a bit, seeing Nigel on his knees; his mouth around him, his hands on his thighs, holding him close, his eyes closed as if he where enjoying this just as much as Alex was. The idea flames inside Alex, making him feel like he's burning from the inside out. This is where he should say something snarky, where he should bite or snap down at the other, but he can't bring himself to. Not yet.

Eye flicker open, a puff of breath fans against Alex, then movement. Nigel pulls back, tongue tracing the underside of Alex as he does so. Pausing with the tips resting between his lips, not moving.

Alex thinks he's simply adjusting or catching his breath, but it stretches on. Nigel remains, not moving, Alex's leaking tips resting on the tip of his tongue, eyes slowly rising to meet Alex's.

Willing himself to speak, Alex swallows around the cotton feeling in his mouth, "what too much to handle?"

He gets no response.

He simply lets it stretch, each of them watching the other. Then it happens, the flick of Nigel's tongue against his sensitive tip. He can't help it, his eyes flutter as he hips jolt forward.

Now that, get a reaction. Nigel's eyes seem to shine as he hums in approval, his mouth warm and pliable as Alex nudges himself forward ever so. So that's what he wants.

Alex starts slow, cautious, watching Nigel's reactions, part of him in awe. Before remembering, this is Nigel. His hips no longer held back, he pushes in one smooth motion until Nigel's eyes water, hearing the other gag around him but he makes no move to remove himself. It makes Alex grin. His hips setting up a rhythm, watching with sick delight as Nigel struggles; every gag making him tighten around the head of him as he slip down his throat, yet the sound coming from him cause Alex to buck. This is what Nigel was made for.

He uses the boy for his pleasure, eye fluttering as he struggles to remain stood, now guiding Nigel along himself; every drag backwards yanking his hair, earning a pathetic groan, fuelling Alex.

It's only once Alex registers that one of Nigel's hands are no longer gripping his thigh that he focuses his eyes. Seeing the other man gliding along him, his arm moving in time, yet his hand couldn't be seen. The bastard was getting himself off, whilst sucking Alex off. A mix of arousal and something primal mixes inside Alex. He doesn't stop guiding him as he speaks, trying to keep his voice steady but it catches as he hit the back of Nigel's throat. "You that desperate to get off? Couldn't even wait, I might have returned the favour." He wouldn't have. He punctuates the end with a sharp thrust, hearing the other gag and sputter.

Nigel's hand stills on himself as he raises it back to Alex's thigh, stubbornly looking up to meet his gaze as a tear slips down his cheeks, but not in a pathetic way, no, that look meant 'go on then.'

Alex shakes his head, "No, why would I help you when you didn't even have the patience to wait." He groans, god he was close. "Always jumping the gun, that's your problem. You don't think."

Nigel watches as Alex loses himself above him, his head tilting back, his hands pushing Nigel down in uneven movement. He catalogues it all. His jack is gorgeous.

Salt spatters across his tongue, that's his first warning to quickly prepare himself as he's shoved as far as he can go, Alex's hips stuttering into his face, the salty tang filling his mouth. Taking him inside him, feeling him settle in his stomach.

Nigel gasps as he's pulled off, a string of saliva keeping him connected to Alex. His lungs burning as oxygen floods through them, despite that, he misses the weight against his tongue. He rests back against his legs, feeling like a puppet with its strings cut now that Alex's hands have left him, his mind blank. It's almost relaxing.

Panting, Alex tries to recover, his mind hazy, every part of him wants to collapse, but he can't, not whilst he's stood in the middle of the room. So he locks his knees in hopes of staying upright, he eye flickering down to Nigel. If he didn't look wrecked before, he certainly did now; his hair a mess, his cheeks flushed, his eyes red with tears, saliva running down his chin and rosy lips. He looked- no Alex wouldn't finish that thought. Instead he moves his gaze down, seeing the other wanting, just as he had been when using his mouth. He doesn't realise he's staring until Nigel shifts.

A pale hand stands in stark contrast against the dark fabric of Nigel's trousers, cupping himself shamelessly in front of the other. That shouldn't have affected Alex the way it did, for a brief moment he wants to tell him to stop but how could he stop him when he looked such a mess; his lips parted as he pants, starring up at Alex like he's his world. That does things to a man. So he settles on watching, covering himself back up absentmindedly, knees locked as he watches Nigel get off in front of him.

Smooth fingers press and move, hips ever so slightly rocking into the friction, no noises just heavy breathing, the blush from the boys cheek never fading. Then his hands moving, going to slip under his waist band.

"Stop." The word leaves Alex before he has the chance to process it, his eyes meeting Nigel's as his hand stills. He licks his lips, his mouth feeling dry, trying to sound a little in control. "Like that, don't-" he gestures towards the boy on the floor, referring to him going to directly touch himself.

Nigel's eyebrows pitch together slightly as he blinks at Alex, eventually moving his hand back, watching as Alex tracks the movement. His hand resuming its movement across himself, he pushes into his hand, if Alex wants to watch then he'll give him something worthy of watching.

Green eyes track every movement below him, watching as Nigel puts himself on show; his legs spreading under him, his hand shifting with purpose, his hips pushing to meet his own touch, leaning back slightly, supporting himself on his free hand, his head tilted back as he watches Alex through heavy lidded eyes and worst of all he let his throat relax, releasing soft whines and whimpers. Alex can feel heat flush his face, he knows Nigel's playing him, but he's not going to tell him to stop.

The soft noises seem to swirl around the room, ricocheting inside Alex, and as much as he hates to think it, it wouldn't be much longer until he was able to go again. He can feel every noise Nigel lets slip inside his bones, vibrating through his entire being before settling inside his very essence.

It seems like no time at all before a broken moan leaves the boys lips, his head tilted back, eyes shutting as his entire frame stiffens. Alex watches it all, taking in every detail, he hates to admit it but Nigel is pretty when he isn't being a cunt.

Everything stills, Nigel's eyes open once more onto Alex, watching the other take a deep breath, licking his lips. And with a smirk he shifts his weight onto both his hands, basking in his gaze. "Wanting to see?"

This snaps Alex back, he straightens up, his face grimacing. "Piss off."

Nigel smiles, the smile he does when he knows he's got Alex where he wants him, not bothering to move. "So harsh to me, I just made you cum with nothing but my mouth," he licks his lips as if savouring the faint taste "there's no need to push me away now. Not ever."

Hob stood from his bed, his knee buckling under him, forcing him back down. His hand holding the joint as if body heat was all that was needed to ease the pain from a nearly 4 centuries old wound.

The conversation that he had with Dream popping into his head. He still couldn't figure out how Dream knew of the wound, let alone how it happened. He had tried and tried to figure out a single way that Dream could have been there, but in the end he always came out with a blank slate. Hob knew for a fact, that if Dream had been anywhere near him that he would have been drawn to him, as he always was. His eyes would find him no matter the situation.

Yet, nothing. Nothing came to mind.

This repeated every time Hob's knee twinged or buckled. The ache would come and go and so would the thoughts. It nagged at Hob as he went about his days as usual; teaching at the local university, marking papers, reading a book that he's read nearly 100 times but never gets old (they just don't make books like that anymore), before finally relaxing for the night and repeating.

Which is how they ended up here; Hob in his kitchen making food in his small kitchen, whilst Dream sat on his bar stool watching. He was making creamy sausage pasta, luckily Dream had showed up before Hob had decided to even get up and make it, so he had a chance to add a smaller portion alongside his regular portion.

His back toward the other man, the stove sizzles and pops as 1 cup of chicken stock is added and brought to a simmer until the contents in the pan have been reduced by half. He watches, trying to remember what the next step was. Right! Herbs! He side steps, keeping one hand on the spoon stirring the pot, the other reaching from muscle memory to the rack filled with small bottles of spices; grabbing one and reading the bottle 'Italian mixed herbs'. Usually he would add some chilli flakes, but seen as he's making food for Dream as well, he skips that step. His knee twinges as he stands normally again, reminding him.

"You know, you never told me how you know about that battle." He stirs in a rough amount of herbs, hoping it's the right amount. He knew he didn't need to elaborate.

"I did not." comes the familiar voice behind him.

Hob pours the cup of heavy cream into the pan, stirring it, before leaving it. Turning whilst it simmers, facing Dream. "So, fancy telling me?"

Dream blinks, staring back at Hob from his place at the breakfast bar. "Shadow."

Something takes a second to click. That one word, well, name. Hob frowns, "My horse?"

One nod, the regal type.

"I don't understand, what's my horse got to do with this?" He checks the sauce over his shoulder, he should have a little bit until he needs to parmesan.

For a moment, there is nothing, just the bubbling of the sauce. Then with a blink, Dream was gone. Nothing there, or so Hob thought.

"Dream?" Hob looks around, no swirl of sand that occasionally followed Dream when he came and went, just nothing. He shrugs, turning back to the pan, maybe something urgent happened in the Dreaming. He thinks nothing of it, sprinkling the grated parmesan in.

Meow

Hob freezes, he doesn't have a cat, nor are there any cats in the area that he would be able to hear through the living room window. He turns the heat off, turning towards the sound.

Sure enough, there's a cat. A black Maine Coon, sat proud on the counter top. Right where Dream was. There's no way...that can't be...but the eyes, they're so alike. That's Dream's eyes. He'd know them anywhere. A flash of the horse Hob had in the 1500's popped into his mind. Shadow. Those eyes, they were the same.

"No..." Hob looks shocked. "No, there's no way." He shakes his head, turning towards the stove. His hands braced on the edge of the counter. "You were shadow."

"I was." Back is Dream's voice.

Hob moves on auto pilot, moving the pasta and mixing it into the sauce. Neither of them say anything to each other as Hob dishes up; making up his own plate and Dreams. Eventually sliding the plate over the counter towards the other, settling opposite with his own. He doesn't eat, not right away, simply sat trying to focus his thoughts. "Why?" is all he ends up asking.

Swallowing, Dream almost looks unsure.

Hob picks up his fork, stabbing into a piece of pasta and fixes him with a look. "Dream."

Following his moves, Dream picks up his own fork, not using it, simply holding it. "When you told me about your battles, I was curious."

Hob chews, "You were curious?" he swallows, "What where you curious about? You've never seen a battle before, I swear you're older than me, you must have?!" He's not angry, his tone still uplifting just more just disbelieving.

Dream raises one eye brow ever so slightly. "I have seen many-a-battles." He lifts his fork to his mouth, sniffing at the pasta, clearly deeming it safe to try.

Hob watches as Dream chews, his face staying neutral, but his eyes shifting with every flavour. It was one of Hob's favourite things to watch. "So why, if you've seen so many battles, did you want to see those ones?"

"I wanted to ensure you were safe."

Well, that's not what he was expecting. Dream wanted to make sure that Hob was safe, before their friendship. "And the best way to do that, was to be a horse?" He laughs.

Dream puts his fork down, he had only one bite. "It seemed the most appropriate."

Hob nods, a grin breaking out onto his face. "Can I ask how it was being, well...a horse?"

"It is the same as any other form I take."

Pursing his lips, Hob hums. "Cryptic." He stabs some pasta, holding the fork mid air. "Wait." Hob's face grows pale, humour fading. "Shad- you got put down..." His hand lowers back to the plate as he stares at Dream. "I saw it you- you got-" He trails off, the image in his head as clear as the day it happened.

Dream lowers his gaze slightly. "I was 'put down', yes."

Hob swallows. "Did that, i mean- did it hurt? No, that stupid," he pitches the bridge of his nose "of course it hurt."

Blue eyes meet his. "I am immune to pain as mortals feel it."

A breath of relief escapes Hob. The mere idea of Dream being in any sort of pain is an uncomfortable one. "So, you didn't feel it?"

"No. I did not feel it, it caused no pain."

Nodding, Hob lifts the fork in his hands slightly. "Good, that's good..." He doesn't seem quiet right.

"Hob." Dream says sternly, waiting until Hob meets his gaze again, having drifted off. "I am well."

Hob seems to shake himself back to the present. "Right." He lifts his fork to his mouth, letting a small smile spread across his face. "My cooking that bad?" He gestures to Dreams, still full, plate.

Dream glances down, not moving his head, a tiny scrunch of his nose the response he gets. "This does not sit well on my palate."

"Yeah, many of the pasta dishes I've done, you don't like" Hob shrugs.

That's what rang in Hobs head as he ploughed through the crowds, astride his new companion. His new trusted stead. Of which, performed perfectly in battle, just as he had in training. Steady strides, never faltering as the race across the grounds. He was arguably one of the best horses Hob had ever had the chance to ride. His sword in hand, as he struck down as many enemies as he could reach. They may not be fatal wounds, but they disorientate and potentially hurt the opponents. Enough to allow his men to strike them down easier.

Though despite his effort to help his side out, around him, many of his comrades fought whilst injured. Blood and dirt tainting their armour, creating a rustic smell in the air. However, non stopped or backed away, a sense of duty propelling them forward. One thing on their minds; they will win this, they will survive this together.

time skip

433 years later - 2022

Hob was in his flat when Dream appeared. It was still slightly new for this to happen, making him jump at the silent arrival of his friend. Nonetheless he welcomed him into his home as always, fixing them both drinks and making room for Dream to sit on his ratty couch.

That where they were now; Hob sat one side of the couch, his back to the arm, facing Dream as he rambles on and Dream sat perched, straight backed, his focus entirely on Hob.

"Bill said that he had never heard such a ridiculous thing, of course, but I swore it was true! It came back to bite him in the ass later, I told him it would!" Hob shrugs, pausing his animated talking momentarily to shift his legs from how he had them. Wincing as he moves his right knee to dangle over the edge of the sofa, using his hands to guide the limb down gently. Before looking back to Dream, going to continue talking.

Dream glances at his leg, "Does your leg trouble you?"

"Huh?" Hob eyes flicker to the leg in question. "Oh, yeah, stubborn wound is all." He shrugs. "Got this nasty sucker whilst in battle....what about 1520's ish?" He moves to roll his joggers up so that his knee is shown. Pointing at the scar just to the side of his kneecap; the flesh paler and slightly risen. "Some guy swung at me, lucky to still be able to walk at all, if the bastard had been slightly better at aiming I'd probably have no leg."

Dream leans forward ever so slightly, observing the scar. "It looks much better now."

Confused, Hob glance from his knee to Dream. "I shown you this before?" He doesn't remember showing him it in their past meetings, after all they were in a busy tavern for them, it wouldn't be appropriate to show yourself like that.

"You have not." Dream seems to realise that he had let slip something he shouldn't have.

Tilting his head slightly, Hob tries to read Dream's face, of course nothing could be read from it though. "Then how'd you know it looks better?" His tone isn't judgemental, simply curious.

Dream straightens up, "I saw when it happened."

"You-" Hob flickers through his memories, as chaotic as they are. "You were there?"

One small nod is the response he gets. Nothing more.

Having not remembered seeing any sign of his stranger there in his memories, Hob is left even more confused. "You're going to have to give me more than that, duck."

Swallowing, Dream complies, sounding rather reluctant to share the information spilling past his lips. "If memory serves correctly, you were close to the end of battle, when a soldier slashed you in the knee. You buckled but did not give up the fight, you defeated him shortly after."

Hob listens in shock as Dream recounts the events perfectly. He holds up his hands "Wait, wait, what were you doing in a battle? We weren't doing the visits we have now, so you wouldn't have been popping in to see me." His face is pinched as he tries to think of a reason. " or is this like a power thing, like how people say 'gods always watching', can you just watch things?"

Looking slightly amused Dream shakes his head. "I cannot watch things as you mortals believe."

"So what, you were just in that place at the exact time a battle sprung out?" Hob tries to understand.

"Something like that."

He may be able to see that the horse looks good, but that doesn't count for any issues that are not visible at first glance nor for its temperament. As such he must check the horse over in detail. He starts by checking it's face, the horse willingly lets him guide his head around with no fuss. He pays attention to its eyes, waving his hands near its eyes watching as it blinks. There seems to be no other issues with its face, airways clear breathing is steady, so he moves on. Checking its ears, clean and relaxed, good. He stand back, out of the horse sight, clapping sharply. The horse doesn't turn to look but its ears twitch towards the noise. This carries on, varied sounds from different directions, each time the horse never startles but its ears twitch upon hearing them. Sight and Hearing checked, now it was time for the body. Hob runs his hands along the horse, checking its neck, shoulders, ribs, spine and hindquarters. All as they should be, even in better condition than other horses here.

With the basic bodily check up completed, it was time to move onto the next test: The horses walk.

From what Hob could tell the horse was able to walk well enough along the streets. He could see no issues with how the horse held itself. Now, that was a good test, as that was on a mix of cobblestone and mud. However, that was only a calm walk, it said nothing about its trot or gallop.

It was time to test if this really was the right decision or whether he had just wasted £12.

He started by removing the horse from the post, walking the horse around in different directions, seeing how it turned and seeing how its hooves landed. Again everything seemed well. Next, the trot. He guided the horse into a faster trot, the horse naturally talking it on. A steady beat, the horses head at a good resting place. Perfect so far. Lastly, its gallop. For this Hob borrowed a fellow soldiers horse. This one was well trained and was steady when Hob mounted him. Upon the horse, Hob guides them both into a gallop. To his surprise, the horse keeps excellent pace with him, in a nearly perfect straight line.

After placing the horse back in its stable, Hob rewards his horse. It's not the usual the new horse got carrots but Hob felt like all his horses should be allowed a treat before the disaster and chaos of fighting. Before finding it a stable to rest in.

He pats the horse on the shoulder. "You did well today, rest whilst you can." With that he leaves, it's been a testing day no one would blame him for grabbing a drink or two from a nearby tavern.

Nonetheless Hob smiled back. "I hear you have good horses. Mine was recently lost in battle." He feels a twinge, he did care for the horse he was given, it was sad to see him have to be put out his misery. Needs must, Hob thinks. He ensures he stands tall as he follows the man into the stables. It's not the nicest environment but it makes do for the horses.

"Well we got many a breed," The man gestures to the rows of individual stables "you got a specific in mind?"

Hob looks at the first horse they pass, a thin looking creature. It's bones looked like they would break through it's brown coat. Eyes dull. It looks week to Hob, like it was struggling. He stops, looking at the horse with remorse. He wished he could help in someway.

"Don't mind that one." The guys sneers towards the horse, looking at it like it's a piece of junk. "Useless thing there. Being put down." With that he walks away, expecting Hob to follow.

Further down there are stronger horses, all of which would do the job they needed to do. However, Hob couldn't help but feel like none of them were the right one for him. Not that it should matter to him. They only need to ride him into battle. Still, Hob waited. Not allowing the man to talk him into buying any of the horses.

The guy didn't like the fact that Hob wasn't falling for his tactics, growing increasingly frustrated. Still he tried and tried, describing the horses as if they could win the war themselves. Only to grumble under his breath or pull a face when he thought Hob couldn't see him.

By the end, Hob flashed the guy an apologetic look; not because he felt bad for not giving the guy money, but because he felt bad that he couldn't care for one of the horses. Though a life in the trenches was probably better than life here.

The guy walks Hob out of the stables. His feet stomping in the mud like a child throwing a tantrum. Hob had to restrain himself from laughing as he followed.

All though, as they were walking through the field, Hob caught sight of something in his peripheral vision. He turns his head to look. A horse. Fully black from the looks of it, stood tall. Hob pauses in his steps, eyes not leaving the horse. It felt as though the horse was looking directly at him. "This one of yours?" He calls to the guy, who hadn't realised Hob had stopped.

The guy turns, looking at Hob, then following his line of sight. "Must be a new one, the guys here like to bring in some new'ns occasionally"

Hob doesn't ask or wait for permission before he starts to make his way over, it's not too far from where they had stopped on the makeshift path. Once close enough, Hob could see some more details of the creature.

This horse looked majestic. Stood tall. Black fur, smooth and shiny, covering its body. It looked well groomed. It looked even better than the 'top prize' horses in the stables. Automatically Hobs hand raised to stroke its back. The fur was just as smooth as it looked.

The horse huffed slightly, eyes watching Hob, its foot lifting slightly.

"How much would you be wanting for it?" He asked, taking in the length of the horse, which looked well fed and strong. He would have expected a horse like this to belong to a royal guard, not to be caught by lower-class scum.

The man looks at Hob questioningly at first, then he looks the horse up and down. "Not sure on this one's background, it don't look like it's used to war. Say bout £15?"

Hob shakes his head, "£12. I might have to train it for battle after all."

The guy grumbles under his breath, "£14 then, gotta have profit for this beast, eh?" He reached to touch the horse's face only for the horse to dodge his touch, making an upset noise.

Hob runs a soothing hand along the horse's snout, now able to reach it, calming him down. "£12. Best I'll do, and I'll take him with me right now." He holds his hand out in offer.

For a moment the guy looks like he would argue before nodding and shaking his hand. His palm is gross and sweaty, nearly swallowing Hobs hand as he grips it. "Very well, deal." Though his tone says anything but.

Hob's surprised by how easy the horse is to handle. Despite people chatting and yelling, and even carts passing with other horses attached to them; the horse remains calm, walking next to Hob without a care in the world. His head held high, not so much as glancing at anything that might draw its curiosity.

As they walked down the street, people glance at the big beast being walked by this random guy as they pass by them. Hob pays them no mind; he's too busy thinking about what this horse could have done before ending up at that pastor. After all, this horse was certainly better look wise than all the rest; strong muscle covering its body blanketed in a layer of silky fur, it's stride certainly looked to have no issues and it seemed well trained.

Maybe this horse would be okay noise-wise in a battle, but Hob will need to test if it will be able to run, jump and even attack as needed.

Jake's tongue swirled along your clit in gentle strokes, never quiet at the same pace keeping you on your toes, never knowing when the next pleasurable swipe of his tongue would come.

"God, Jake please" you groan your hips pushing forwards to meet his mouth, a whimper settling in your throat. It felt good. Too good. Not enough good.

For ages now, you have had your legs spread on the bed, as he feasted between them, well it felt like days to you. Your legs shook and tried to close round his head as he, once again, eases away from your clit when you get close to the edge. Yet, despite your attempts to keep him where you wanted him, his firm hands keep you spread for him; his hands flat on the inside of your freshly marked thighs.

You lost count of how many times he's brought you to the edge, only to back away. Your hands claw at the sheets, your back arches, as a sob leaves you. "Jake, please...please" You're covered in sweat, the sheets sticking to you, but that's the least of your concerns.

Instead of getting back to business and actually letting you cum, Jake pulls his mouth away. "You asked me to put my mouth on you, is this not what you wanted?" His tone cocky.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze, doing your best attempt at looking angry, but just succeeding in pouting. "You know that this isn't what I meant." Your hips lift slightly, still wanting, still needing.

Jake's eyes flicker to your core before flicking back to yours, a smirk on his face. "Your body says differently, sweetheart."

You huff, flopping your head back down, resting your neck. This guy might be the death of you one day. The slightest hint of frustration hit, you just wanted to finish. You say nothing, staring at the ceiling.

You're so lost in your mind, pouting over not getting what you want, that you don't realise Jake shifting. One of his hands sliding off your thigh, moving. Two fingers resting at your entrance for a breath. The brief touch sending anticipation thrumming through your veins.

What you do realise is when they enter you; smoothly, your body worked up enough to be able to take them with no problem. Back arching as a gasp leaves you. Panting as you adjust to the feeling. They don't move, just resting inside you.

"This what you wanted?"

Your only response is to nod your head, a muffled "mhm" leaving you. It felt good, finally to have something other than the teasing brushes of his tongue, to finally have something.

Jake moves, swiping his tongue along your centre, from where his fingers are swallowed up to your clit, with a flick making you jolt.

A breathy laugh could be heard. "Sensitive" he shifts again, this time moving up your body. His fingers remain still inside you as he moves with almost a feline grace. His body over yours, one hand keeping him up by your head. His eyes lock onto yours when he finally moves his hand. A gentle but sure stroke upwards of his finger, pressing into that one spot that makes you see stars.

Watching as you move under the small motion; back arching, hips shifting, mouth parting, eyes widening, pupils blowing, and breath catching in a silent gasp.

Such a simple move pull so much from you.

"That good?" That smirk hasn't left but there's a slight shine of something in his eyes.

It's teasing, you shouldn't bite back, yet you can't help it. "Could be better." You shift, wiggling your shoulders as if getting comfy.

A raise of eyebrows, the look of 'challenge accepted' crosses his face. "Could it?"

His fingers move as you go to respond, your answer coming out in a stuttered "ye-ah"

He settles into a pace, a powerful thrust of his fingers inside you, his arm shifting as he puts momentum into it, fingers croaking on every entry, hitting the perfect spots.

You're a mess under him. Breaths catching on moans, hands clutching at him or the sheets. The sound of him filling you echoing in the room. Yet, you couldn't care, not when he felt that good. Not when his fingers pressed just right.

"Holy shit...gunna...oh god" Your voice doesn't sound like your voice, high pitched, desperate.

Jake leans, his hand never faultering. His mouth inches from yours. Your lips trembling with every breath, aching to have his on them. "Cum and you can have a kiss" The bastard.

That's it. Your done for. If that wasn't motivation enough. Your body shakes and tenses as your orgasm rips through you. Your moan cut off by Jake's lips crashing into yours, tongue stroking yours. His hand not easing up until you bite at his lip to remind him. Only then does his hand slow, easing you down gently.

The sound he makes when leaving you is an obscene wet noise. It's gross. But he doesn't seem to care, so you don't.

You shift slightly, feeling wetness on the cover beneath you. Giggling "You better have clean sheets."

Jake gives you a look the 'really?' Look. "Always have spare when you're round, you make a mess." He teases.

You mock gasp in shock "Not my fault you work me up"

He leans down,pressing a kiss to your lips, "I don't do anything, you're just desperate for me" then he pulls away with a smirk, looking at you lounged on the bed as he stands.

You feel exposed under his gaze, which is strange considering he was literally just inside you.

"Sheets and then you can return the favour." He winks, before turning to the rest of his flat, disappearing out the open door.

"And water." You call out, no point moving if he is willing to move for you. You might as well stay bathed in the aftermath of finally getting what you wanted.

It had been a couple days since Dream had felt Hob enter the dreaming. Now, it wasn't unusual for Hob to stay up all night, often marking his students papers and not realising the time. However, he never went days without sleep.

Worry ate at Dream as he double checked Hob's book, just in case he had simply missed him somehow (impossible). Yet even the book had no record, no recent dreams. He flicks to the most recent dream, reading it over. Immediately, it becomes clear that this was no regular dream but a nightmare. No, it was no singular nightmare but multiple nightmares. Dream made a mental list of each one as he read through it.

'Hob was scared. He was back here. In his house, well his house from then. His hands tremble. His body shaking as sobs wreck through him. Yet no sounds escape him. The only sound was a distant infant cry. Looking in horror at his wife Eleanor in their shared marital bed. Blood pooling around her, staining the sheets. So much blood, pouring over the side of the bed to where Hob stood. Standing in his wife's blood. Her belly still round from where she had carried her baby. Their baby. He wasn't able to save them, neither of them. He begs the universe to listen, to give him another chance. To not take her from him. He had failed his son Robyn. Had took his mother from him. Left him with a shell of a father. The scenery changed, she faded from his sight. He tried desperately to stay with her, still he failed in even that. Then he stood looking down at his only son's body; left outside, out of the view of the customers, his son's body left out of sight. Whispers around him, taunting him. He could have saved them. He should have saved them. He should have done something. He has no right to carry on living whilst they rot beneath the earth. It was his fault.'

Dream was so still that not a singular atom of his form moved. He was upset. He disliked the idea that his nightmares would torment Hob so. He knew they were doing their duty; without them, Hob would go mad from memories, just as any mortal would. Without an outlet for; memories, fears and imagination, men would go mad. Their minds need a way to express their inner madness.

He flips through others, noticing that every night for the past week Hob has had nightmares. Pages upon pages of his Nightmares using Hob as a plaything for their entertainment, all progressively getting worse and worse. One of his Nightmares even went as far as to keep Hob trapped when he had woken. Trapping him, tormenting him. What mortals refer to as 'sleep paralysis'.

The Dreaming felt the consequences as Dream read; a dark cloud consuming the realm, the skies breaking into thunder that boomed with the ferocity of Zeus himself. There was no doubt that everyone in the Dreaming would know of his foul mood. Fury flared inside him, there's a point to his Nightmares and it is not to target the mortal mind constantly.

He moves slowly. Vigilantly aware of every movement he made. He knew that if he were to allow his body to move without monitoring every minute movement, that he would be in the Nightmare's territory with no more than a thought. Not yet. He will have words with his creations, but first he has more pressing matters to attend to. He needs to check on Hob.

With little more than a thought, he has reached for the pouch of sand that is on him at all times; pouring a pile into his waiting hand, feeling the soft texture before letting it fall and swirl around him. He briefly catches a glimpse of Lucienne entering the throne room, her face twisting into one of dismay as she sees him leave.

The journey to Hob's is a familiar one. The fabric of reality opening for him with no issues. The air simply adjusting to his form like it had been there the entire time. Immediately, he senses something amiss. All lights are on; ceiling lights and all lamps, even inside his bedroom. There is not one inch of shadow to be found in the entire flat.

His eye's lock onto Hob instantly, taking in how small he was curled up on his sofa; his eyes were closed but he was not asleep, his eyes flickered across his lids and his hands clutched at the blanket that curled around his form. Something ached inside Dream. His friend was clearly not well.

"Hob." He says in greeting, as always. Watching as Hob's eyes shoot open, his body scrambling upwards, the blanket falling off him; half draped on the sofa and half on the floor.

Bloodshot eyes land on the entity. As Hob sits up, looking as though he is trying to act normal. "Dream!" His voice is slightly scratchy, no doubt from the startle the other caused.

Dream steps forward his footsteps silent against the laminated flooring, taking Hob's surroundings in. The flat looked clean, more so than usual, it wasn't right. Hob's place had never been clean clean, it had always looked lived in. It was chaotic, with bits everywhere, homely. But now, his books were organised on shelves, his trinkets were straightened out and the pile of charity items that had been there for 3 weeks were gone. On the coffee table in front of the sofa sat; a coffee cup, a pile of used tissues, papers (presumably his students work), his laptop and bottles of pills. "Are you unwell?" He nods towards the bottles on the side table, tossed onto it without a care.

Hob turns his head, looking at the bottles with a confused face before shaking his head, "No, no, there just-" He looks at Dream, giving him a terrible excuse for a smile, especially from him. Before he shoves himself up from the sofa. His body tries to keep up with him; stumbling as his legs try to keep him up. "-Tea?" He doesn't wait for Dream to answer. He makes his way to the kitchen, keeping his face away from the other. His knee gives out from under him, he had always struggled with that knee ever since he went to battle in 1724, but this seemed different. He had to support himself on the wall as it buckled.

Dream watches as he struggles. He wished to help, his hands moved minusculely by his sides as if to reach for him. He could hear Hob's laboured breathing as he moved around. The problems were small enough that a regular mortal wouldn't be able to tell that Hob was struggling, but Dream was no regular mortal. He could hear every breath as it rattled through his body, he could see the subtle shakiness of his limbs as he forced them to work and he could see the strain on his mind. He was concerned.

Keeping an eye on him in his peripherals, Dream steps up to the coffee table, lifting the bottle of pills up. "You needn't make tea, you should sit." The bottle is almost a joke to him. Sleeping pills. He knows mortals created these, they had done for nearly a century now, though that's not counting the varied methods and substances that mortals have tried for many millennia. Dream frowns. "You are struggling to sleep?"

There's a loud clutter from the kitchen. Followed by muffled cursing.

Had Hob injured himself? Has his knee forced him down?

With no care for grace, Dream makes his way to Hob.

Cups are discarded on the counter, one of them knocked over and the sugar had spilled across the side. Yet Hob is no longer standing. He is on the floor, his head in his hands, legs folded underneath him. Clearly struggling. Had he injured himself? Were Dream's concerns coming true? Dream crouches next to him. "Hob, you are unwell."

To further prove that point, small sounds of sorrow can be heard coming from the man in front of him. For a second there's nothing but Hob trembling in confinement of his own arms. His voice, broke when he spoke. "I just want to sleep."

Dream's confused. "You have been restricted?" He searches his mind for anything that might be prohibiting him from entering the dreaming. None can be found. "You are free to the Dreaming anytime, you are aware of that."

Hob shakes his head, lifting it slightly. "Not that." His face is red, tears running down it. "I want to just sleep, I-I can't take another nightmare. I can't-" A heavy sob escapes him. He reminded Dream of their meeting back in 1689, back when he was the worst Dream had ever seen him.

Everything clicks into place, Hob wasn't saying he couldn't enter the Dreaming, he was saying he didn't have it in him to enter the Dreaming. Dream's Nightmares had tormented Hob to the point that he was afraid to sleep. Afraid they would be waiting for him. Dream's brows pinch together, "You thought tablets would help you better than I?" A part of him is hurt, his closest friend hasn't asked him for help. He could have fixed this issue much better than any mortal tablet could.

Hob looks away, angling his face so that Dream can no longer see him, as he confessed. "I assumed I had done something...that you were showing me I m-messed up in some way...." His head shook, "I couldn't face you if that w-was the case." Tears traced down his face, glistening as they curve across his cheek, landing on his jumper, creating dark grey patches. "Not-not after the last time I fucked up."

This time, there was no need for Dream to ask what he was on about, he knew. He was on about that time back in 1889 when Hob had called them friends. It is something that Dream often finds himself regretting, despite Hob having said that he forgave him for his behaviour. In truth, Dream didn't know why he had gotten so defensive back then, Hob was dear to him, being called friends shouldn't have upset him. Yet, deep down he knew. He knew that he wasn't upset being called his friend, he considered it an honour to be classed as such. No, instead he found himself wanting more than friendship. It just took him being locked away, with nothing but his thoughts, for nearly 100 years to realise it. "You did no wrong. Not this time nor the last."

Hob sniffled, still not turned to Dream, half his face covered with one of his hands. His voice slightly muffled, but Dream could hear him perfectly. "But, my dreams-"

"Are a product of my Nightmares going rogue." He interrupts. He never interrupts people, it's impolite and unbefitting for a king. But he will not stand for Hob thinking that he had done wrong, that Dream would punish him so.

Taking a deep breath, Hob turns his head. His red glistening eyes meet striking blue ones. "So you're not telling me I fucked up or overstepped or anything?"

Dream squints his eyes ever so slightly, "I am not."

Moving his hand, Hob wipes at his face, letting out a wet sounding laugh. "I'm just making a fool of myself, aren't I?"

A small twitch of his lips is the only indication that Dream found him humorous.

Hob groans. "God, I'm sorry, you came to see me and got this." He gestures to himself, where he's sat, legs folded underneath him on his kitchen floor.

"I would visit regardless of your emotional state."

Sniffling, Hob wipes his face again; his eyes are red rimmed, his face has a flush to it from the texture of his jumper scratching at his skin. "Careful, I might hold you to that." He moves, shifting to use his hands to guide his body up from the floor, his knees twinging from the uncomfortable position they were in on the hard kitchen floor.

Dream helps him as he rises, trying to take as much weight as Hob would allow. After all, what's the point of being able to alter your strength if you don't use it to help your friend off of the floor. "Please do."

Once Hob was standing, admittedly he was leaning against the counter so his knees didn't give out on him, he looked at the mess on the side. "Give us a sec and you'll get that tea." He sighs.

Shaking his head in response Dream raises a hand, waving it over the mess. And in a blink of an eye, there were two cups of tea in place of the mess that was previously occupying the side.

"Didn't know you could do that." Hobs voice contains nothing but awe. "You had me making tea this entire time and you could have just done that?" He gestures to the cups as he jokes.

A faint smirk appears on the others face. "You prefer to be providing, do you not?"

Hob can't say anything to that; yes, he does like to provide but the knowledge that Dream has been allowing him to look after him, when he doesn't need looking after, just to please him causes something to short circuit. Instead, he allows Dream to guide him back to the sofa.

They stay together, mindlessly talking or at least Hob mindlessly talked, as usual. At some point Hob ended laying down, a blanket draped over him as his friend crouched in front of him. "Sleep, Hob. I shall watch over your subconscious, I swear."

At first, neither boy could figure out the issue. Nigel had never struggled before. Especially not during intimacy. Slowly pieces begin to click. It was slow, like the realisation was being dripped into Alex's mind like wax dripping off a candle. Usually they were harsh, biting, scratching, degrading each other. Working off each other's anger. Yet whenever Alex would change the pace, going gentler, slower, softening his touches and even uttering slight praises. Nigel would struggle. The fire in his eyes the same, his body just as pent up. But no show off it.

Alex revelled in it. Knowing that Nigel would struggle to get it up all because it was too normal; all because he wasn't being degraded or hurt. It fuelled Alex knowing that despite his complaints, Nigel was under his control for these small moments. 

Today was one of those days.

Nigel had been biting at his heels all day; snark sneers, cocky comments and getting into Alex's space one too many times. Like a bad mannered puppy. Razor sharp teeth and claws ready to swipe and slash at the first sight of bare flesh, drawing blood when least expected. The piercing voice that rings inside your head every time he speaks, leaving you with a distant throbbing every time you remember it. Giving you a happy look when it's told off, as if it's exactly what it was after, a reaction. 

Said boy was thrilled when he and Alex were finally alone, at last, in the four walls of their dorm. He practically pounced onto Alex. Pushing him harshly into the mattress below him (Alex's own mattress), hands rising to claw through his clothes. It was desperate. Just like an misbehaving pup.

"Nigel, fuck off." Alex grunts, as his blazer dumped onto the floor, Nigel's pale hands almost ripping the buttons of his shirt in his haste. It should have been nice to be wanted this way, this desperately. Part of his mind did enjoy it. If only he knew how to feel about the person currently wanting him. Anyone else, and Alex would have given in to the insistent hands with ease. But no. This was Nigel, it was the sick twisted version of a man that wanted him. His own hands on Nigel's hips, pushing him away from him only slightly. A pathetic excuse for the way he imagined it in his head. He wanted to shove Nigel off him so harshly that he landed on the wooden floor. So that he could watch the boys panic look as he realised he had no control of Alex. To hear the wind be knocked from his chest, to hear the wheezing of his breath as he tried to recover. To watch him struggle even momentarily.  

The response was a huff, of annoyance or sass, Alex couldn't tell. His hands never faltering as they push the shirt open. Freezing hands landing on the heated flesh of his chest, causing him to suck in a sharp breath, his body sending a shiver down his spine. Nigel's face millimetres from his own. "I know you want this." The tone screamed 'come on, you know I'm right.' His hips moving to close the gap Alex had half heartedly created between their bodies. Front pressing to front. "Unless you've got a knife in your pocket."  His gaze never faltered, the idea probably fuelled him more.

Gritting his teeth, Alex responds. "You're sick. Sick bastard." A hand moves from his hip, grabbing a fist full of hair. And compared to what he could have done, he gently tugged the hair, rather than try to rip it from its root that is. 

As expected, Nigel's eyes fluttered slightly, that gleam ever present, he was getting what he wanted after all. His hips slightly grind downwards. He knew he just had to push a bit further and his Jack would give him exactly what he craves. "Me sick?" He huffs out a laugh through his nose. "You're the one who fucked a corpse." 

Anger boiled immediately; nausea twisting in his stomach as he breathes harshly through his nose, clenching his jaw. Though Nigel hadn't said her name, Alex knew exactly who he was on about. The mention of Susan was a strict subject. Alex couldn't handle her being brought up, yet Nigel took pleasure in the reaction he could bring from him. His face screamed that he was the cat who got the cream.

Before he even had a chance to process what he was doing, Alex flipped them around on the single bed, practice coming in handy. Nigel's back now the one hitting the mattress with a dull thud, Alex's hand pressing him down via his still clothed chest. The other supporting his weight as he hovered over him. Now straddling Nigel, he took a breath, sounding more like a hiss through his clenched teeth. Glaring at the smug man below.

"Don't." It wasn't what he wanted to say. Really, he wanted to scream at the man below. How dare he bring her up? Him. The one who was responsible for her death. How dare he assume? Alex never touched her. He would never. Yet none of that came out. 

Not quiet satisfied, Nigel smiled, thrilled by the mere glimpse of anger. His Jack was beautiful when angry. When he let go. When he was what he was meant to be. A reckless man. It made heat flare in Nigel's gut. He tilts his head, almost mockingly. "Don't? Don't tell you how you looked at her? Laying there on the slab. Her body in perfect condition, perfect for you to take her-" 

"-Nigel." His tone sharp, a warning that fell on deaf ears.

"-how she felt under your hands, how she probably took you like it was all she was made for-" that's all it took. Alex's fist swung, connecting to the side of Nigel's face before he had even registered he was moving. The anger didn't die down, if anything is practically sung under his skin, weaving itself into every tendon of his body. His hand moved from keeping Nigel pinned by his chest to his shirt collar, hauling him upwards. Dragging him so he was half sitting. His hand scrambling to support himself. His mouth bleeding where his lip hand been split. His breathing ragged matching Alex's. His pupils shining, the darkness consuming the blue of his eyes.

In a haze, Alex worked them both around, until they were how he wanted them. His mind subconsciously arranges them into a position. In a matter of minutes. Nigel landed back beneath Alex. Clothes stripped. Blood smeared ever so slightly across the swollen flesh of his lips. Eyes dark. Breathing ragged. With his hands tied together above his head with Alex's tie. He looked pathetic. 

In the reflection of Nigel's gaze, Alex could see he was no better. His lips bitten and flushed from the harsh make out sessions. Slight nail marks along his chest from Nigel digging his finger nails in, hence the tie. Looking down on the other man, with a mixture of furry and arousal. Both fuelling the other, creating an endless loop.

One hand keeps Nigel's hands above his head, the other going between them to Nigel's groin. Grasping him with a harsh grip. Enough that any other sane person would have pulled away. But instead, Nigel bucked into it. Despite Alex proceeding to twist his hand, dry, along him. He really was twisted. Alex thought as his lips worked over the pale flesh of Nigel's throat. Teeth sinking in once he hovered over his pulse. His life in his mouth. It was thrilling. He could end Nigel. End his torment over him. Yet his teeth never sink that far. Despite the darkest part of his brain telling him how much he'd enjoy it. He wouldn't let the bastard have an ending he would enjoy.

"Your pathetic, you know that. Laid like a cheap fucking whore beneath me." His hand tightens, nails digging into the sensitive flesh ever so slightly. Earning him a choked off moan. "I wonder what the ancestors think. Knowing you. The direct descendant of theirs, moaning under me." The words are bitter. Coming from the deep thrumming anger in him. He wanted Nigel to suffer.

"We're fated- ah -" whatever Nigel was going to say was caught off, as he feels the scrape of Alex's nails along him.

Alex sneers. Hand stilling on Nigel, looking at him. "Fated to a freak." He spits the words like venom. Still no sign of shock or hurt crossed Nigel's features. "Explains why you're so fucking good for me though." The words are half muttered, like Alex is talking to himself not Nigel. 

But the huff it gets him catches his attention. Nigel's face is the same, yet that spark in his eyes has dimmed. Alex cooed menacingly, his hand returning to Nigel, slightly lighter. "Like a dog. Cause that's all you are isn't it. A pet." He leans forward his mouth brushing Nigel's as he speaks. "My good little spade." His voice wasn't particularly soft, but it wasn't biting like Nigel liked.

Conflict tor across Nigel's face. He didn't know whether he wanted Alex to continue. He didn't like being called good. He wasn't good. He wanted Jack. Not Alex. He wanted his Jack to use him how it was intended to happen. Viciously. Violently. 

Alex notices, of course he does. His gaze growing sharper. He bring his hand up, spitting on it. Before taking Nigel back in hand. His hand working him like you would any other man. All he got was a slight buck before his hips settled. A frown of his face. Alex laughed. "What's wrong Ni? Don't you want to be good for me?" 

A part of lips as if to speak was all he gets in response. His hand working over Nigel in a way that's meant to give him pleasure, if he didn't need pain to get off that is. But he can see it's not doing anything for the man below him. He loves it. 

His hand never ceases, mutterings leave Alex with precision. Never uttering anything negative, despite how he craves to. No. This is so much better. This is how he can use Nigel for once. Alex has the feeling of a puppet being cut from its strings, finally free, to have control over the one aspect he never thought he would. 

The praises ringing in the air and the sound of Nigel shifting beneath him, are all that can be heard. Nigel desperately tried to get Alex's grip to tighten, hissing out harsh words or thrashing against his bound. All unsuccessful. 

Alex knew Nigel was twisted. But this just proved it. Nigel softening beneath his hand. Despite how Alex's hand was working him so perfectly, in a way that should be driving him crazy. He squeezes the softening flesh, revelling in the gasp, the small glimmer of hope in Nigel's eyes as he thinks that he's finally getting what he wants, only to watch it fade away. His pace remaining, his grip never tightening.

Sneering Nigel glares at Alex. Hands tugging the bond. "Jack....don't you want to unite us? To use your spade?" His voice is slightly dull but he adds a flare of taunting to it, trying to rile Alex. "Surely you want to use me." His back arches, almost like a sacrifice offering themselves to a god above them. Showing their belly in submission and worship. Yet Alex saw past the act, Nigel wasn't submitting. That's too mundane for him. No. He was tempting him. Showing his stomach, the soft vulnerable flesh, no bone protecting the precious organs laying just beneath layers of fats and membrane. He was daring him. Take what was offered, but be aware it comes at a cost. 

Alex couldn't help but tense slightly, every bit of his body stiffening as he imagines how easy it would be to cut through that soft flesh below him. How the other man would welcome it. Every bit of him going stiff, yet he remain conscious of his hand cradling Nigel, not allowing his hand to tighten. That was exactly what Nigel wanted. He knew how his actions would come across. And it almost worked. Alex's voice comes out slightly harsher when he speaks. "You'd love that wouldn't you." 

Nigel didn't need to answer, his eyes said everything. The subtle hint of a glow in his eyes. He lived for this. For pushing his Jack. For seeing him in his glory. To know that their minds think so alike.

Despite Alex's reaction, Nigel still wasn't getting what he wanted. The hand around him was too soft. Even Alex's face softened. It made Nigel feel almost nauseous. This wasn't right. This wasn't how its meant to be. Non of this is right. Yet despite his body's physical reactions, he found the fire in his gut had yet to calm. How he craved his Jack to use him. To hurt him. To make him feel.

Eventually, Alex's hand leaves Nigel. Reaching past the boy, leaning up and over him, to grab the bottle of lube he kept stuffed between his mattress and the wall. Mainly he had it for himself. Nigel preferred it rough and that meant in every way. Still for this, he would need it.

He situated himself back above Nigel, putting some lube on his hand, slightly rubbing it to warm it. Before his hand moves to between his own legs. Where he was hard and wanting. Having Nigel like this was doing things for him. He revelled in it.

Nigel's eyes burnt past Alex's skin as if he was watching his soul move. Slightly wide eyes as he watch as Alex's hand moves along himself. His mouth watering slightly. "Jack..." he mewled.

Smirking Alex's hand leaves himself, leaning to brace himself over Nigel. Hovering over him. Supporting himself with a hand near Nigel's head. The only bit of contact between them was where Alex's knees bracketed Nigel's hips. "What's wrong, baby? You want something?" His voice sounded foreign to himself. A soft caring tone he had never thought he'd have, especially towards Nigel of all people.

A harsh noise leaves the man below, his face twisted as if torn between anger and sassiness. His eyes narrow as he spits out. "What are you playing at, Jack?" 

"What's it matter to you? You just lay there," his free hand gently runs down Nigel's chest before leaving his body again, watching as he tries to conceal a pout. His hand, still lubed up makes a wet sound as he grips himself once more. Letting himself enjoy the feeling, his eyes fluttering slightly. He can feel the soft coolness that radiated off of Nigel, as if he were already a corpse. ",and make me feel good"

He lowers his hips, grasping Nigel in his hand alongside himself. The softness of his flesh feels odd, yet exquisite against himself. He watches Nigel, always watching, waiting to see if he will react in any way like a regular person. Yet even as his hand speeds up, Nigel shows not reaction, no show of even the slightest bit of enjoyment. His face a permanent scowl. Eyes desperate yet with an intensity. Not even a twitch from his member, which remains flaccid against Alex. It should be concerning. It should feel wrong. Yet It only fuels Alex as his hips move to the friction, his breath coming in gasps against Nigel's face and his body trembles slightly to hold himself up. 

The look in Nigel's glare could only be described as murderous. Like he was plotting. Like he was imagining how to go about killing Alex. It couldn't be a carefree thing. No, it had to be planned out. To be perfect. He had to kill his Jack in a meaningful way. The sick fuck probably was thinking of that. 

It was that thought that tipped Alex over the edge with a low moan. His grip tightening slightly as his eyes closed. Pleasure shooting through his body. Hips jerking. Painting Nigel's skin in him. Claiming him. 

For a while he simply breathes, his eyes closed as he recovers. When he does open his eyes hes greeted with a smug look from Nigel.

"I see why they call it la petite mort, you look exquisite in death, Jack." 

"Piss off." Alex shoves himself up, pointedly not avoiding hitting his joints into Nigel. Specially hitting him harder with his knee as he steps of the bed. Hearing a sputter gasp from behind him. He says nothing as he dresses. Aware the Nigel's eyes were locked onto him.

He eventually turns, dressed, looking somewhat less like he had just got off on his twisted freak of a roommate. He looks Nigel up and down, he's slightly heaving, no doubt a little winded from the painful jabs that Alex just gave him. Still tied up, laid as if waiting for Alex to return. But that is not how this works. 

Instead Alex simply steps to his small desk, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from inside a fake book, slamming it shut as he turns to leave. Casting one last look at the pathetic man sprawled on his bed. "Don't make a mess. Or you'll be sleeping in it." 

His dad has requested him to join in the 'celebrations', as he does every year. But Alex had refused. Why would he spend his time in smart clothes, stuck mingling with people who thought they where so amazing because they where part of the 'secret society' or being told how much he's grown and that his dad must be proud of him. Alex can't even stand the idea of it.

So this year he stays upstairs. He'd rather be in his room, alone. He lays relaxed on his bed, in his comfy clothes; loose pair of grey joggers and a white t-shirt. His back against the wall behind him, pillows cushioning his spine from the solid wall.

Hearing the door open with a creak, Alex sighs, leaving the book open in his lap. "I already told you I don't want to join your stupid-" he freezes mid sentence. He was expecting his dad to be complaining that he isn't joining the party for the millionth time, but instead he's greeted with a sight that he's not sure he welcomes or revolts. Nigel.

Nigel stood in his doorway. The same glints in his eyes that he always seems to have. But something's different. He takes a second to actually take Nigel's form as he shuts the door behind him. That's what's different.

He's used to seeing Nigel in school uniform or the green jumper and black slacks he often 'relaxed' in. But tonight, he's dressed up; a white shirt, a dark grey waist coat, a black jacket and trousers, a blue tie, and shining black shoes. It's not that different from school uniform but for some reason Alex can't help but think he looks completely different.

Nigel doesn't sit, he simply looks at his side of the room, or what was his side of the room. His bed stripped to the flimsy mattress the school provides. The wardrobe back in its original place behind the door, the bed moved back down towards the window. the room completely reset. Untouched. Empty. Before facing Alex. "You're under-dressed."

Scoffing Alex takes up his role. "I think you'll find your over-dressed." Making a pointed look to look Nigel up and down. His face hopefully showing the mock distaste that it was meant to show, yet his eyes took in every detail. Absentmindedly he notes that Nigel's tie was the exact same shade of blue as his eyes.

A small smirk tugs a Nigel's lips. "Blame John and Helen. They insisted I dress nice." Despite his smirk, there's something off about his tone.

Alex closes the book on his lap, eyes locked onto Nigel. "You got parent issues or something?"

For the first time, Nigel looks caught off guard, before the shields are put back up again. The cocky, self sure attitude back. "Or something." He doesn't wait for invitation, simply sitting on the edge of Alex's bed. Perching there like he owned it. Alex had to shift his legs so they wouldn't touch. Nigel kept his head turned so that he could look at Alex as he continued speaking. "We are more alike than you see."

Now it's Alex's turn to frown, his guards raising. "I don't think I follow." His voice is snappy.

Now that seemed to spark something. Nigel's eyes seemed laser sharp and the bore into Alex's. "Oh come on, your relationship with your father is obvious." His voice slightly taunting. "You've practically got daddy issues written all over you."

For some reason Alex felt rage bubble up inside him. Though he fought to control his reactions, aware that even the slightest hit that Nigel's tactics were working, he'd pounce. Because that's exactly what they are, tactics. It's a game for him. To see how far he can push him until he reacts.

Subtly, he releases a sharp breath. Responding in a even tone. "It's nothing special, I'm sure most boys here have father issues. Why do you think we are here?"

Nigel hums, "That might be why they're here, but it's not why we're here, know is it?" That fucking smirk. He leans slightly, invading a tiny bit of Alex's space. "We're here because it's destiny. It's been written. The rouge man and his pike." He shifts ungodly close, his body moving with a feline grace. Shifting to face Alex fully. His legs on the bed. His shoes on his bed. But Alex didn't have time to think about that as Nigel continues to move. Shifting himself to sit next to Alex's legs, leaning forwards. In Alex's personal space. "The Jack...and his pike".

The words shouldn't have sparked something inside Alex. He should be freaked out. Part of him was. The other part of him understood Nigel. Maybe he was right. Yet is mind was torn between pushing Nigel away and drawing him closer. His body stock still. The dim light from his lamp the only light in the room. Shadows cast over them both.

Something changes. It's not visible. But somethings changes in the air. And Nigel leaning in. "My Jack." he murmurs. His face moves so close to Alex's, yet despite having time to push him away, he simply stays.

Lips meeting his. Barely a brush, then it's almost savage. He doesn't know who moved first. But Nigel replaced the book in his lap., placing it to the side with a surprising amount of gentleness. Mouths moved and teeth scraped. Breaths are swallowed whole, an endless loop of giving and receiving. They felt whole, for now.

The distant sound of fireworks seemed like a pin drop to Alex. Yet Nigel pulled away, his head resting against Alex's, eyes locked on his. And with the intensity that knocked the wind from Alex's lungs he spoke. "A new year, all for us. My sweet Jack" He sounded excited, but something was twisted. Something lurked beneath it.

Despite the sinister tone lurking, Alex knew he was right. He would be Jack. He would be his Jack. Anything for him.

Of course he has seen the practically infinite library, he's probably not even put a dent in the books even though he has read hundreds by now. He's seen living rooms, dining rooms and bedrooms, all in different aesthetics. He's even come across rooms he would have never thought he would have come across. He once came across a room that was massive. It was an entire store. And not just any store. A toy store. That defined even kids' wildest dreams. Not one inch of the store didn't have some sort of toy section: costumes in racks, balloons floating in the air by themselves, shelves of teddies in all different forms, a massive sandbox with castles in it, toy rockets in the air, a construction area filled with small rideable construction vehicles, giant animal teddies, a whole playground, a kids' library, an arts and crafts area, science areas and fun colourful barrels filled with thousands of toys. Not one bit of the shop was empty; there was always something to look at. Things that reminded Hob he was in the Dreaming and not in the Waking. Kids were running wild, enjoying themselves. He was sure not to linger, it felt odd to be stood there. However, he was sure to ask Dream about it later on. It turns out the Dream King has a soft spot for kids who enter his realm, as such, he created that area so that kids may enjoy their time in the Dreaming rather than have nightmares try to chase them down.

This room is probably one of the many ever-changing rooms that Hob hasn't encountered before. This room had huge thick curtains hanging from the ceiling to the floor. Curiosity fuels Hob to see what's hidden by the velvet fabric. He lets his hand run over the material, it's soft and thick. Now Hob's not exactly weak, nor is he a bodybuilder. However, when he goes to part the two strips of fabric, he finds he can't move them, the weight too much for even him. He only manages a glimpse of a frame? or what looks like the frame of a picture, at least.

He steps back, taking in the curtains still blocking his view, sighing as he reluctantly accepts that he may not find out what's behind them. When a tassel catches his view, long thick rope attaching to the rod above, holding the curtains. He doesn't hesitate walking to the tassel, he tries pulling it to the side, but it doesn't work, then he tries to pull it down. It's difficult, the weight of the curtains even more difficult together. He tries and tries, however, he only manages to exhaust himself, his hands slightly sore from the texture of the rope.

"You merely have to ask, and I would have opened the curtains for you."

Hob's head twists to the side so quick he's pretty sure he got whiplash. Seeing a familiar figure silhouetted in the darkness, Dream. He drops the rope from his hands, wiping them on his trousers, looking like a kid who got caught rummaging in their parents' bedside drawers. "Thought you were busy with the clouds?"

Dream's face isn't visible to Hob where he stands, his entire body a dark shadow. However, he regarded Hob with a fond look. "The matter has been taken care of." He looks to the curtains with a single nod of his head. He speaks again. "Do you wish for me to open them, or do you wish to continue struggling?" His tone is smug.

Hob smiles, walking to stand near Dream, the closer he gets, the easier it becomes to see him. Despite the room being fairly dark, the window allows for the galaxy of stars to provide a little light in the room. He stops just short of Dream, looking at the curtains as if trying to see through them. "Let's see, do I want to see what's behind the quite frankly humongous curtains in a dark room....yes. I absolutely do!" He's joyful as he speaks, then quickly looks to Dream with slightly wider eyes, rushing out. "Unless it's a past family member or lover."

Dream simply cocks an eyebrow at him, turning his head to meet Hob's gaze, his voice a low purr. "And why would I have an old lover on my walls?"

Hob shrugs. "Some people do, like a way of remembering them or...." He trails off mumbling, "...to just look at them." He remembers the pictures of his past loves, after their deaths, he couldn't stand to keep them in his view. Most got burnt, others may be around somewhere.

"I assure you, Robert Gadling, I have no desire to look upon nor remember my past lovers, not when I have you to look upon when I wish." Of course the bastard managed to flirt even now.

Hob plays a long humming with what he hopes is a cocky smirk. "I am good looking." He laughs softly at his own words, they sound so ridiculous. Then his focus shifts to the curtains once more. "So what's behind these titanium curtains, then?"

Both look back at the curtains, and with a simple wave of his hand, the curtains part like a breeze moved them. Revealing what was previously hidden. A portrait. Not just any portrait. It was of Dream. Stood in a no-doubt regal pose. Those piercing eyes are no doubt just as strong in the painting. Hob's mouth runs dry as he gazes up at the huge painting in front of him. It's breathtaking. He looks the same, with the same sharp features, the same pale skin, the same striking blue eyes and the same constant pout he seems to have. One difference, and it's what has Hob practically drooling. His hair is long, so long it falls over his shoulders. The same as when they had met in 1689. When Hob was at his lowest. Even back then he appreciated how his stranger looked. The same long hair falling over his shoulders. He wished he had taken in the details more, but at the time he was starving. He wasn't proud of how he attended the meeting that day, but he had no other choice, it was that or not meeting the other man, and Hob wouldn't have been able to allow that. He remembers the way he seemed to command everyone whilst never raising his voice, that was hot. Many a time Hob had thought of the sheer amount of control and dominance the other man had. Back then he had no idea why, now, of course, it all made sense. He is Dream of the Endless.

He doesn't know how long he's been staring at the painting, eyes flickering over every bit, committing it to memory. But he pulled from his staring with a slim hand, turning his head from the painting to the real deal actively stood next to him. "My dear Hob, you must control your thoughts better." Holy shit. Whatever he was expecting, it isn't the sight that greets him. It's Dream still, however, it's Dream from then, from that meeting. Long hair in front of him. A thumb brushes against Hob's bottom lip, smouldering eyes meeting his own. "It is nice to know you appreciated this look."

Hob was sure his knees would buckle. "Shit, Love-" He doesn't even know what else he could say, heart pounding in his chest, no doubt flushed. His eyes taking in every detail.

With a small smirk Dream leans forward, their lips a breath away, brushing when he speaks. "You look flushed Hob, are you well?" That fucking voice of his sounding like molten lava to Hobs' ears.

He can't help it. Hob brings his hands to Dream's head, only simply cupping the back of his head, the other tangling into the nape of his neck, crushing their mouths together. He is ecstatic at the feel of his lover's lips on his, his hands taking in the texture of his hair. Of course, it's soft as shit. Hob can't help but run his tongue along Dream's bottom lip, begging for entrance, at the same time, his hand on the base of his neck tightens its grip.

He gets a ragged gasp in response as Dream's mouth opens to him. He can't help the smirk on his face. Tugging lightly to test, of course a muffled groan against his lips is all the answer he needs. He pulls away for air, not separating far. "Sensitive are we?" He knows full well that Dream likes his hair being tugged, but this is different, this time Hob can tangle his hand between the strands for a solid tug.

He watches Dream's eyes flutter before they open with determination. "Mind your tongue, Robert Gadling."

That voice, the same one from his memories. The same one he was able to command the entire room with. It shoots through Hob's gut like an arrow, a deep breath leaving him. He manages to work his voice eventually. "Apologies, my king." Then he pressed a soft kiss to Dream's slightly parted lips. "Perhaps you should show me what I should do with my tongue?" He lets his voice become slightly breathy.

This room was shut off behind a dark blue portière. It calls to you for some unknown reason. You find yourself moving towards it, fingers brushing the silky material as it blows softly against a non-existent breeze.

You have no idea what lies beyond this fabric. What room would you stumble upon this time? You hold your breath slightly, anticipation never wavering despite having entered many rooms now. Gently you walk forwards, letting your hand move the fabric in front of you so it doesn't hit your face. The light fabric moving with ease.

Your eyes struggle to adjust, the hallway's brighter than this room, which for a split second you thought was in the dark. However, your eyes quickly adjust to the candles lining the room. All along the side of the room and some in the corner. Although, your eyes are drawn to the centre of the room. Clusters of candles stretching along the centre of a long black table.

You step forwards, the fabric falling back into place at the doorway behind you, fingers reaching for the table. It's not as smooth as you originally thought, but small ridges line the surface. But like a black metal had been spilt on top of the table and left to solidify.

You walk around the end of the table, looking at the room. It was by no means an extraordinary room, simply a dining room from the looks of it. Nonetheless, your eyes took in every detail. At the end of the room on both sides were arches carved into the stone, giving the room an elegant feel. Paintings hung on either side of the table, greys and whites mixing together into a piece you could quite place. And opposite the entryway you had used was another identical doorway, the two portières flipped on the other end of the room. The two chairs at the end of the table gave the room the feel of intimidation. It wasn't welcoming per se; however, you knew Morpheus preferred to have room to intimidate others.

Your eyes flitted back to the table, seeing the candles burn like a blazing fire in the centre, a huge pool of wax having been left around the candles. You prod the wax gently; it was warm but not hot, the remains sticking to your finger, leaving a thin veil.

"You should be careful, you could have injured yourself."

You swear you jumped halfway into the air. Your eyes snapping to the familiar deep voice. Seeing Morpheus stood at the entryway you had entered, stood still as if he had been there the whole time. The dark shadows of the room adding to his already sharp features. He truly looked like he deserved to be worshipped. Your heart pounds in your chest despite his looks, his presence startling you.

You place a hand over your heart as if you could calm the beating pulse back to rhythm. You softly glare at the man opposite the room. "You need a bell or something, I swear."

This earns you a slight softening of his eyes, though it's difficult to tell due to the lighting situation. He steps forward. Every step measured, control. He stops near the table, on the opposite side to you, looking at the candles between you. "You seem intrigued by the candles. Does the flame draw you in?"

You feel your hand moving, absentmindedly picking the thin layer of wax off the tip of your finger. "Not the flames, no." You don't let him respond, hands now resting on the edge of the table, feeling the texture under your palms. "Why do you need a dining table anyway?"

He looks up at you, the candlelight shining against his features in a way the shadows all other lighting. You make a mental note to get him in candlelit rooms more often. His brows move by a micro, slightly pitching them as he speaks. "There are many functions to a table. Which answer do you wish to hear?"

Cryptic as ever. You nod as you step towards the end of the table, one hand not leaving the table. "Well, you have no need to eat, so we can check that off the list. This doesn’t seem very welcoming, and the seats are only meant for two, so not for hosting..." You reach the head of the table, standing to the side of the chair, hand stroking the table. "...the table's too bumpy and the lighting is dim, so it's not working either." You look up at Morpheus, who's watching you move around and list your reasonings. "So why do you have it?"

Morpheus steps close, slowly, each step bringing him closer to you. Like a storm rolling in from a distance. "Those are some good observations, little dreamer." He now stands opposite the chair, eyes on you. "Perhaps I simply enjoy this room?"

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. "Yet you're never in it."

He doesn’t chide you for your tone; instead, a soft exhale escapes him, as if holding in a laugh. "And how would you know where I spend my time? Do you watch me?"

Shaking your head, you respond. "Well...no, but you're always in the throne room or in the library with Lucienne."

"I am when you find me. Perhaps the rest of my time is spent in here?" He raises a brow, that cocky expression daring you to continue.

You huff slightly, crossing your arms over your chest slightly. "Well, what do you do in here then?"

He steps close, which should have been impossible, there was a chair between you. You glance down to the chair no longer there, the smooth material of Morpheus's coat filling the space now. Your eyes dart back to his. You know there is no point in asking how he moved the chair without moving a muscle; after all, the Dreaming responds to him. He is the Dreaming.

His eyes look almost black from this angle, the candles flickering a deep orange across the side of his face. The other side consumed by shadows. You can't help your breathing catch at the sight of him. And with him this close as well.

"This room provides me with a chance to sit with my thoughts, without being disturbed." His gaze looks down on you slightly as he stops just short of his coat brushing against you. His voice an octave deeper. A tone you recognise easily.

You swallow, him being so close never failing to make your heart race. "Your thoughts?" You repeat blankly.

"Thoughts I would like to savour, much like a well-earned meal." His face leans closer, breath fanning over your lips. "Fitting for this to be a dining room, is it not?"

You nod, lips parted. He's so close, yet he doesn’t lean in. Not yet. Instead his head tilts to the side, one of his hands gently tilting your head up and to the side, giving him room. His breath tickles your skin at first. Enjoying the jump of your pulse. Pressing a gentle kiss to the place where it seems like your pulse would tear through your skin. "I find myself craving a warm meal. Would you indulge me, my love?"

"Indulge you?" You can't help the slight catch in your voice. He always has this effect on you. Knowing how to move, what tone to speak to make your breath catch just so.

His gaze meets yours once more. A hair's width away from you. The candles casting the deep shadows over him, yet catching slightly in the blue of his eyes. His hand gently runs the length of your arm, causing goosebumps to rise to the surface. His lips brushing yours.

"Yes, love." His fingers glide down your arm, resting at your wrist. Fingers over your pulse. As if that didn’t cause it to fasten. "You know how I crave your taste. And it's been so long..." His voice is low and almost like a purr. His lips meeting yours gently.

No matter how many times you share a kiss, it still causes you to feel electricity shooting through your body, making you feel alive. Even the soft kisses cause your chest to tighten with the promise of more. His breath was slightly cooler than most, not cold though. However, his tongue was scorching in comparison. It shouldn't be possible. Not by humans at least, yet this was one of the many things that reminded you that he was an Endless.

His tongue brushes against yours, and all semblance of gentleness fades. The hand off your wrist moves to grab your hip, pulling you flush against him, allowing you to feel the effects on him. His other hand tangles in your hair at the base of your neck, guiding your head back to give him deeper access, his tongue claiming your mouth for his own.

Your eyes are shut as he takes what he wishes from you, your hands grasping his coat as if it will stop you from drowning in his very essence. You pant as his mouth leaves yours, your eyes fluttering open then closed as you feel his mouth on your neck. Gone is the tantalising brush of lips on your skin. Instead, they were replaced by firm, passionate lips. Tongue darting to taste your skin along with the occasional scrape of teeth. All in the places that make you squirm under his ministrations.

Your thighs push together as you surrender yourself to the sensations. You don't even realise he has removed your clothes, the warmth of his body feeling pleasant against yours. You do, however, realise his hands moving along your sides, fingers brushing your sensitive skin down to your hips, where he reaches behind, sliding down to grab your thighs. The implication is clear: you wrap your legs around his waist. Feeling yourself being moved, yet you pay it no mind as his lips are back on yours.

You feel yourself being put down, expecting harsh lines of the table to press into your sensitive flesh, a small price to pay in your mind, yet you don't feel it. You're guided to lie back. So you do, trusting Morpheus. His lips leave yours, much to your disappointment, but you use the opportunity to look around. You're on the table, legs hanging off the edge, the candles burning above you on the table, not too close yet not too far; it sparks something in you. Then your focus is drawn to the man in front of you.

His coat is gone, yet he remains dressed, his eyes flickering in the light as he simply admires your body spread out. Hands tracing soft patterns on your skin. It causes you to squirm. The motion snapping him back to reality. His hands pausing their ministrations, instead moving with purpose, moving to your thighs and parting you to his gaze.

You could feel the air on you as you're exposed; you have no shame with Morpheus, he has seen every inch of you after all. Yet still your legs tense as if going to close, before relaxing anticipation curling in your gut like a hot coil.

His fingers brush the inside of your thighs as he steps between them, his gaze travelling up the length of you before he speaks, his voice nothing but awe. "You are a vision before me." He licks his lips, his gaze going to between your legs, where you want him most. Slowly he bends, not quite kneeling but hovering, his mouth close to where you want it yet so far. He simply breathes before pressing a kiss to your mound. "One I intended to worship."

A small gasp escapes you at his touch, his lips so close yet so far. And by the look his eyes, he knows what he is doing. He lowers; you assume he is kneeling, yet your feet brush the cool texture of the wooden chair that had previously been moved. He was sitting at the table as if he was truly just about to enjoy a meal. The thought makes you clench around nothing, a pitiful noise trying to leave you, only to get caught in your throat.

He leans closer, eyes watching you. You have to lift your head to watch him, the neck pain worth it. His tongue slides out of his mouth, gently dragging a line up the centre of you. Enough to make you arch your back off the table, your head thumping backwards, hands clenching into the inside of his coat. If you could look, you would see the endless galaxies swirling to your touch.

A hum vibrates through you, the deep rumble causing you to tremble, a sob escaping your lips. You feel hands glide up your skin to your hips, gently pushing you to lay back down. "My meals don't usually move."

It was unfair, his tongue flickering out after he spoke. Before he dives back in, wasting no time. His mouth working you like you were a part of the dreaming itself. Like he knew every inch of you inside and out.

All you could do was hold on, gasping and moaning. Your hands clutching at the fabric below you, as you try to keep your hips still against the relentless pleasure.

Yet, just as you feel the glorious high approaching, he pulls away. A pathetic whine leaving you, hips trying to move upwards. He keeps you pinned with one hand, the other having left your body. He stands, leaning over you, mouth wet from his activities. You glare at him as you pant. "You didn't finish your meal." The words were meant to be biting, yet they came out as a whine.

He simply presses his lips to yours, not giving you the satisfaction of deepening it, even when your hands tangle in his hair to try and keep him there. He pulls back a smirk on his face as his eyes watch your tongue dart out. Chasing the taste of yourself. He moves despite your grip on him, making his way down your body with soft kisses. He pauses at your midsection, looking up at you. "Close your eyes, little dreamer."

You sigh, yet do as you're told, relaxing your head back and closing your eyes. Hoping to feel his mouth back on you. Your hands gently caressing through his hair. Yet you don't feel the warm mouth nor his tongue. You feel nothing. Everything stilled. You hear nothing from him. The only sounds are the candles flickering around the room and your own breath.

You almost wonder if he has left you. Yet the feel of his hair under your palms reminds you he remains. The silence stretches, and just as you're about to reach your breaking point, you feel it. Hot liquid on your stomach. Not scolding, but enough to make you arch in surprise. Feeling the liquid quickly harden, it's a strange sensation, and yet it's not unpleasant.

You're aware that Morpheus will be watching you, seeing how you react. If there's ever a small hint of dislike, he will stop whatever he is doing. Yet he sees none. His thumb stroking your hip, letting another drop of what you can only say is wax hit your skin. It tingles, you crave more. Your hands gently tug on his hair as drip after drip of wax lands on your skin.

Then he lowers his head, you're so lost in the feeling of wax cooling that you don't register it. His tongue swiping through your dripping folds as his wrist flicks, dropping wax onto your nipple at the same time. The feeling is the closest thing you can think of to fireworks. Your back arches as if trying to get closer to the wax and his mouth at the same time. Cut off moans leaving you.

He doesn't stop the pattern, driving you insane, his tongue matching with every flick of wax onto your skin. You soon near the edge, thighs bracketing his head. Shaking with pleasure. Using the arms of the chair to find purchase for your feet. Pushing your hips up to his mouth as you mumble and whine. He doesn't pull back this time, he doesn't stop you from chasing your high. Your body is tense as you fall over the edge. Both his hands rubbing soothing patterns into your skin as he moans at the taste of you flooding his mouth.

Your hands are like a death lock on him, your thighs squishing him. If you had any brain left, you would have been thankful he didn't need to breathe.

Eventually, your grip relaxes. His hands guide your legs to dangle off the edge of the table, kissing each thigh as he lowers them. Only then does he stand leaning over you. Your shaking form. One of his hands supporting him to lean over you, the other cradling your cheek. "You did well, my love."

Your eyes open, slightly blurry, adjusting to your surroundings. You focus on him first, his eyes drawing you in, a sloppy smile on your face. He was a mess. His nose to his chin, shining in the candlelight. You can't help but laugh, one hand moving to trace his bottom lip. "Enjoy your meal, love?"