i love all of your avian writings so much omg i am a very happy bird man thank you rommy!
Hehe ty!!! Now, imagine with me forced avian!ghost finally feeling safe enough to be intimate with avian!reader....
Ghost is splayed out in his nest, one that you built for him after realizing he had no instincts to create something comfortable for his wings, chest to the matress. His comfy sleep pants are still on, but his back is fully uncovered.
You had been hesitant when ghost asked you to preen him. Even after so long of knowing him, of nearly dying next to him on the battlefield, you never once thought you'd ever touch his wings.
But despite how foreign they feel, ghost can still feel them. He knows, from accidental brushes and desperate nights, that they can be sensitive. He wants you to touch them. To rewrite the bad with new, honey-sweet sensation.
"Mmh, let me know if you need to stop," you warn, hands hovering over the wings. You start at the edges, hardly sensitive on an avian but it still makes ghost inhale sharply. You can't help yourself, going faster than you should to hear ghost gasp.
"Ah! Fuck– bloody hell, seriously?" He whines, hands gripping the bedding beneath him desperately. The valley where wing meets back is a clear-cut line of scar tissue, like a fence of keloid diving ghost from this foreign body. There's no soft gradient, here, no dawny feathers or fluff to speak of.
Still, you gently dig a nail into the tender flesh just to the side of the scar, and grin when you're rewarded with a full-body shudder and a deep moan. "Feels good, huh? Nice and sensitive?"
Ghost just replies with a garbled groan. You're straddling his lower back for ease of access, but that doesn't stop ghosts hips from grinding into the bed anyway.
He cums embarrassingly fast, wings snapping open and thumping against the wall, the other knocking over his alarm clock. He doesn't have the instincts to drop as low and fuzzy as you'd like, but a bit of overstimulation gets him damn close. Muscles limp while he keens and scrunches his face, overwhelmed but so fucking good.
He drifts for maybe twenty minutes while you idly preen the feathers on the edge of his wings like you were supposed to do before he finally speaks up "...can you do that again?."
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a/n: and what if i said surprise smut. what then :) my soft launch of the fact i can and do write smut... <3
word count: easy peasy barely over 1k-squeezy
synopsis: Given particular knowledge, you try something new. wing!fic
Your knees sink into the black satin sheets of Azriel’s bed and you sigh contently.
Across the room at the window, the curtain is haphazardly drawn, letting in a curious ray of moonlight. A dim glow lights the room.
You’re thankful for it now—the moonlight allowing you to drink in the sight beneath you with a ravenous gaze. Thighs straddling across his hips, you take in Azriel under you with, what can only be described as, ardent hunger.
But, well, it’s not often enough you get to be on top, after all.
Azriel’s wings splay out on the bed, gloriously on display. His scarred hands rest easily on your waist. His hazel eyes, narrowed in a suspicious way, are focused entirely on you. He, as always, looks devastatingly handsome.
“I’m not sure if I like the look of that look.” He comments slyly, shifting his head to flick a stray curl back from his eyes.
His hands on your waist give a gentle squeeze, as if to reassure you that he’s only teasing. His shadows lurk, traversing the rumpled bedsheets with a lazy designation, unbothered.
“Oh, hush,” you respond. “As if I haven’t been on the receiving end of this before.”
At the mere mention of your reversed positions, Azriel grins, even as a hot glow takes to his cheeks. The dusty rose colour sets a warm spark off in your chest and the heat wastes no time heading south, between your thighs.
Your relationship with Azriel is of the newer side, despite how long you've actually known each other. Long time friends, eventually, finally turned lovers.
But these new steps forward together, getting to know each other in an entirely new way—it's still enough to make Azriel fluster. Centuries old he is but a bashful shyness still remains, if only you can coax it out.
Bringing you back to the moment, Azriel squeezes your waist again, one hand shifting across your skin, his thumb dipping closer to your waistband.
“I don’t know what you mean,” He says, even as his satisfied smile gives him away. He watches closely as you pluck up his large hand and move it back to your waist, the message clear. He's not in charge tonight.
“Y’know,” you say, voice softer suddenly.
You haven’t let go on his hand. As you speak, you let your fingers travel down his veined and chiseled forearm slowly. “I learnt something today. From Feyre.”
Azriel watches you intently, the very feel of your skin across his enough to make him shudder in muted pleasure. No one touches him like you do.
Goosebumps break out along his arm as your hand reaches his bulging bicep and you drag your nails across it lightly.
“Is that so?”
Despite all his body betrays him, Azriel is a master at keeping his face and voice cool and calm. You smile at the sight of it, goaded on by his unwavering voice, and let your hand linger, resting on his collarbone.
“What did she tell you?” Azriel asks, his dark brows raising.
Purposefully, you shift your hips an inch, grinding against his own. Azriel barely manages to hide the grunt it pulls from him, his fingers flexing against your waist as if he’s resisting something more.
“She told me,” You say, dragging out the words, sultry and low.
Your hand begins to move, tracing the line of his defined chest and feeling it heave slightly beneath your touch. Tantalisingly slow, you let it trail down, skimming across his toned stomach where you pause.
“That if I ask you nicely, there’s a certain spot—”
Your teasing, trailing touch moves sideways, dipping down his ribcage and nearing his wings. They rustle against the sheets, a minuscule motion, that you hope is in what’s anticipation.
If what Feyre said is true...
Moving slow, so there’s time for him to interrupt you, you reach down and hover your hand over the delicate membrane of his wings.
Intentions clear, your eyes dart to Azriel’s to check.
Pupils blow wide, the ring of hazel you love so much barely visible, Azriel looks debauched before you've even begun. His hands are stilled on your waist and his cheeks are that same glowing scarlet. After a beat it becomes clear he’s waiting, not stopping you.
Grinning, you take your cue.
Brushing your fingers gently across a section of his wings, the reaction is instantaneous.
Azriel shudders, his whole body shivering as a strangled breath passes through his clenched jaw, his eyes fluttering closed. The hands on your waist constrict, tightening his grip, and beneath you his hips shift up, into you.
The shape of him, pulsating and hot, suddenly feels much firmer than before.
“She’s—right.” The words come out in two stilted breaths, Azriel’s chest rising and falling a little faster now as he fights to compose himself. His eyes open, heavier lidded than they were a moment ago. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
"Is she?" Your voice is lilted in mock uncertainty, given away by your mischievous grin. "I think I better check again."
This time, instead of a small brush, you try something bolder. Two fingers on either side of a prominent vein, you draw a delicate stripe up his wing.
Azriel whines— a soft, pitiful noise that leaks out through his clenched teeth. It melts into a soft groan as his whole body shifts, his hips shoving up, seemingly out of his control. His hands pull you down at the time, dragging you forward against his hardness.
Something fiercely hot simmers in your gut, both at the friction and his glorious reaction. He's been fucking holding out on you.
"I don't know, I'm still not sure..." You continue, far too delighted to abuse your newfound knowledge.
Stroking another soft line up his wing, this time you're rewarded with a needy whimper. His chest arches up, his head thrown back lightly—nearly writhing in pleasure from just a few touches.
"Oh, Az," You murmur, half consoling and half wicked. His screwed up eyes take a moment to find yours and you relish the panting of his chest. The rosiness of his cheeks has spread, crawling down his neck and beginning along his toned chest.
"This your plan?" He says, but it's nowhere near that unwavering voice from earlier, raspy and on the way to ruined. "To—" He takes a sharp inhale as your nail scrapes the membrane again. "—to tease me all night?"
You're impressed he's got the words out, given the sight of him. His hair looks messier now. Paired with his heaving chest and eyes bright with lust, he looks downright sinful.
"Doesn't sound too bad a plan to me." You say, letting your hips draw forward, then back, the smallest rocking motion against him.
Azriel hisses, his large, scarred hands threatening to bruise your hips with how tight they grip them. He makes no attempt to stop you though.
"What do you think?"
You purposefully retract your hand, hovering it over his wing, and watch his face. Wings are very personal to Fae and Azriel letting you touch his own, in such an intimate way, was not lost on you.
You don't want to overstep, even if you do desperately want to see what happens if you stroke once, twice, three times in a row. Gods do you want to watch him fall apart beneath you, whimpering and whining through it all.
"I think you're a temptress," Azriel says, breathless. His eyes, heavy with desire, give away his answer. A grin spreads across your face, devious and enamoured all at once.
"A temptress you'll let have her way with you?"
"Depen—ah," His voice shudders into another whimper as you touch your fingertip back to his velvety wing, drawing a small circle.
Eyes crushing closed, it takes another moment for him to catch his breath before he speaks again, breath ragged. "Mother above..."
His wing, the one you've been taunting, rustles against the bed. It lifts up an inch before flapping down in an almost impatient motion. Like a cat, wagging its tail. Azriel wets his lips again, their skin cherried and plush.
"Alright," He says, faux begrudgingly. His eagerness is given away by another impatient rustle of his wing and the throbbing length of him, pressing firmly up against you.
His gives your waist another squeeze and then lets go, letting his arms fall lax to his side. Trusting you completely.
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Why has no one given Simon wings yet? He’s like, the epitome of bird trapped in a cage. And there’s options, too! For what wings he has and for what happens to them. [I got real exploratory under the cut, see images here]
Angel/Dove wings? Eden’s religious undertones (overtones, really) and the struggle with faith. Purity vs perceived crime. ‘An angle is a warrior of God.’
Bird of Prey wings? Preconceived notions and the assumptions made of prisoners. Butcher implications. Doing what nature requires of you to survive. Emphasis on “I just want to live.”
Owl/Corvid wings? A lack of information is a lack of safety. Simon’s intelligence. “Knowledge and skill fade every year, why wouldn’t they rescue you?”
Bug wings? Seeing certain people as beneath others. Another commentary on prisoner treatment. Ava and David basically see him as a bug anyways.
Wings from a Mythical/Mars related creature? Homesickness for a place to which you can never return. Being othered in your own community (if people on Eden don’t also have similar wing types) or being dragged out of the only community you ever knew. The betrayal hurts even more.
He loses them during Filament? His attachment to Eden. His brothers ‘betrayed him’ and the lack of weight where his wings should be will always be there to remind him of that.
He loses them to the COI’s prisons? The Consolidation’s cruelty. Yet again, commentary on the treatment of prisoners. It makes his desperation to live just that much more tragic; what is left for him? Being stuck on the ground, looking up at dead stars in a dying universe.
He manages to keep them long enough to get inside the Iron Lung, only for the blood to latch onto them? Sacrifices in the face of something bigger than him. Weighing the cost of his life, chunks of himself, full limbs and balance, against the rest of humanity. Losing an arm sucks, yeah, but it’s probably nothing compared to losing a wing or two. It doesn’t matter what type of wings he has for this option, the religious imagery triples when you crucify a man with wings. [The blood in his feathers from all those tumbles he took would also be fun to explore; how would wings break down in the blood ocean?]
He actually keeps them to the end? Blood soaked tenacity. The indomitable human spirit. It doesn’t matter if he lives or dies, he kept his identity intact the entire time despite the massive force outside trying desperately to subsume him. Again, it doesn’t matter what type of wings he has, he’s going to look like a bloody angel standing over salvation.
I’m not really partial to any wing type for canon Simon, but I like the idea that he would have wings in the Iron Lung. What got me thinking about this was my in progress Appalachian AU “Canary in the Depths (Clipped my Fucking Wings).” I can’t have a title like that and not think about Simon with wings. It’ll be a fun mutation idea, he might even get to keep them.
Dream of the Endless/Hod Gadling, wing fic, rating E (hurt/comfort, PWP, smut)
Read it on AO3 here
*
Hob is not entirely surprised by Dream's appearances while he sleeps, these days. He's never going to make the mistake of taking the luxury for granted, but it has stopped feeling so entirely foreign, the presence of another living creature in his flat, usually lurking around like an oversized crow waiting for Hob to wake up.
He had once opened his eyes to find him perched on an invisible chair, reading one of Hob's books. Another time, Dream pronounced he had accepted an Amazon parcel from one of the pub's cleaning staff, to save them rousing Hob. What he did not say at the time was that he had appeared before the poor lass like Black Shuck made human before she had even managed to knock on Hob's door, sending her scurrying back down the stairs to the safety of the kitchens whilst swearing quietly in Mandarin. She had run into Hob the next morning as he was leaving for the university, and told him in halting English, "Your boyfriend is very pretty - but he is perhaps a bit… a bit too quiet."
Hob had taken 'quiet' to mean 'the only word I can think of in English that even comes close to epitomising how utterly creepy your goth lover is'. He completely understands.
This morning, however, Hob senses something troubling outside of the general eerie that Dream supplies to the every day. The flat is usually silent even when occupied by Dream. He seems to move without stirring the air, like the human plain of existence isn't entirely sure what the rules are. Even when he handles things like cups, spoons, the sound is muffled - nearly delayed. But this is different. The change in the atoms is palpable even to Hob's rudimentary senses. He gets out of bed hurriedly, smelling ozone and char. Distress.
"Dream?" He asks. There is no answer, but an awareness in the quiet that does it for him. Progressing into the living room, Hob stalls when he catches sight of Dream. His breath leaves his ribs as if knocked out by the buck of a stallion. "Oh shit-"
His prone form is shielded almost entirely from view by a spill of black feathers. He is on his knees, white hands stark against Hob's warm wood floors, and the breadth of what Hob finally contextualises as an enormous pair of wings is alarming in the small room. The tips of the longest flight feathers trail on the floors, curling like ferns. He is panting like something hurts, and he is… smoking vaguely. Hob has a half-boiled flash of The Lament for Icarus.
"Dream - love, sweetheart, what's going on-?" Hob skids under the great canopy of one coal-black wing to find his lover, knees groaning their protest. The feathers are thick and plentiful, fluffed in mad disarray. It puts Hob in mind for one hysterical moment of the time a blackbird fell down his chimney; the way it had been trapped before Hob freed it had left the down of its wings bend and splayed in a way that must have been painful. Now, when he gets level with Dream's face, white as moonlight, he sees the shine of tears in his eyes. "Darling-"
"Hob," Dream whispers. It is the smallest his voice has ever sounded. "It hurts."
A needle of pain lances Hob's heart. His hands flutter for a moment, unsure where he can touch, but he can't do nothing and so he gets a gentle arm around Dream's ribs and lifts him until they're both on their knees; until Dream's wings can splay out in their entirety. His weight, slight and insubstantial, sags against Hob's chest. His chin rests on his shoulder, and he clutches gently at the back of Hob's shirt with a soft groan.
"What hurts? Where? Where did these come from, darling- what happened-"
"I had- forgotten- usually my… my perception by others does not affect my corporate form-" Dream sounds so utterly miserable, wincing when Hob touches uncertainly at the base of one of the wings. "But angels - the creator - they are more powerful in their own realm-"
"The cre-" Hob stops himself, his peasant brain rearing up as if from the basement to shout, DO NOT ENGAGE. He swallows. "What were you doing… being perceived by them?"
"It is too complex. For a human mind to comprehend. The simplest explanation is that I was seeking… understanding of the order of things. And I should have simply left the ineffable undisturbed."
"The wings… love, does… so angels see you as an angel?"
"They do. And I have asked too- too many impertinent questions- and- now I am being given leave to understand them all too well." He shudders, face a mask of pain. "The burden of judgement is indeed a heavy one."
"They - they're heavy? They're heavy and they're hurting?"
"They are a newly grown limb, to my awareness. It is… overwhelmingly sensitive."
He's shirtless, Hob can feel, and he wonders what happened to his customary robes. Were they torn by the wings?
His instinct to soothe moves his hands without his conscious permission, and he strokes up between Dream's sharp shoulders, gentling him with a hum when he shakes out a little cry of distress. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help. To- can I touch them?"
Dream hesitates, chest shuddering against Hob's once more. Despite the nervousness, he trusts Hob - has clearly come to him seeking some panacea to the raw new nerves. Jaw set, his jewel bright blue eyes soft with fearful need, he nods.
"Thank you, dove," Hob whispers. He kisses his jaw. "Tell me if it's too much. I just want…" fingers gossamer light, he starts to stroke some of the glossy black feathers down into place, startling when Dream jolts against him. "Should I stop-?"
"N-no. No, it is… just new." Dream swallows heavily.
Taking him at his word, Hob starts to work with more confidence to try and groom some of the feathers down from their disorderly tumble. Dream must have come hurtling back from wherever he was as if - as if.
Hob stalls, looking at him with a new understanding.
"Dream… did you go to ask why God had cast Lucifer down from heaven for asking questions?"
He winces as soon as Hob says it. "The creator is not… God as you understand it. But a being that encompasses. All the monotheistic deities that humans pray to. In this instance, in simple terms though, you are correct."
Awash with a mixture of horror and awe, Hob gasps in sympathy, switching gears to simply hold him for a moment with his free arm. The other fingers keep gently working, guided by instinct, preening the petrol-coloured plumes back into some order as he murmurs against Dream's ear.
"My darling. Why- what possessed you?"
"When last we spoke… Lucifer was laid low by shucking the responsibility of Hell. They seemed… lost. I wondered if it was just that… the Creator did not think they had paid for their crime. The crime of curiosity. Surely a despotic ruler is the only kind who does not allow for questioning- but-"
"Did you accuse God of being a despot?" Hob's voice goes a bit high with his own marrow-deep fear. The answering silence, however, is so absurdly sheepish that he barks a laugh. "Dream. My darling-"
"I have known Lucifer for a long time," Dream whispers. "And… I have always thought them the willing ruler of their domain… after a fashion. It is only recently I realised that a kingdom is its own prison. A crown no different than a scold's bridal, for those who are forced into it."
Contemplating this, Hob starts to use both hands to order Dream's feathers, smiling when the first knots of tension start to unspool in him. Sure, he's only got a puny little mortal brain, but even he can work out that Dream sees parallels in himself and the former ruler of Hell. Though he'd like to argue on the basis of personality differences, Hob can certainly understand the basic prospect of wanting to free your peer from the petard you have also been hoisted by.
"That was… possibly very sweet of you. Not overly smart, but it gets a ten out of ten in the moxy department."
"Lucifer… propositioned the joining of our realms once," Dream admits. He's starting to go a bit boneless against Hob now, words periodically interrupted by a little hiccuping gasp of sensitivity.
"By your realms, I'm guessing you don't mean it was a business arrangement."
"I believe they are lonely. It can certainly be isolating to believe you have no one on whom to lay your burdens. Perhaps they thought… I might share them. I did entertain the idea, but they are… too unsteady for me. I knew we were both too similar to have entered into such an alliance."
"Too unsteady, eh?" Hob smirks at the thought of himself as being steady.
"You have been one of my few constants over the last several millennia, Hob. I know you believe yourself deeply flawed, but believe me when I say you are at least several steps above the literal devil."
"Flatterer." His grin turning fond, Hob kisses Dream's cheek and then moves onto the other wing, stroking gently to lay them back down into some semblance of order. Each feather is enormous, some the length and thickness of his finger, the dominant flight feathers longer than his forearm. Dream has gone quiet against his chest. "How's that feel?"
"It feels…" Dream doesn't finish the sentence.
Heart answering the silence with a little flutter, Hob peers at him. "Nice?"
"Mmm."
That tone is familiar, a breathy quality to it that speaks of… certainly not pain. Hob smiles and, in a fit of daring, gently digs his fingers in to scratch gently at the tender skin below the feathers. The reaction is immediate, a low, startled rumble that tails off with a more vocal pitch at the end.
He's heard that noise before. Hob's hindbrain, only too happy to turn away from the concept of biblical morality and satanic rehabilitation, revs its engine in response.
"C'mere, darling," he instructs Dream briskly, "you prop yourself up on the sofa there, let me go behind you."
Despite grumbling protests, Dream crosses his arms on the lip of the couch, sagging his weight against it with the air of someone grabbing hold of a life raft. Hob slips under one of the wings - easily three metres at full length, he reckons - and kneels behind Dream. This way, he can reach more of the tender joins between his shoulders without scrabbling blindly. And, he acknowledges as they flex back in a stretch, he can more readily admire them.
"You know," he says conversationally as he goes back to his work of preening and grooming, occasionally working his fingers beneath a fanned layer to scratch at soft, down-lined skin, "these are very beautiful. You - you always look incredible but. They really work for you."
Dream, who appears to be trying hard not to turn into a liquid against the couch, does not answer.
"Sort of look right on you," Hob continues. He's as happy to hear himself talk as he's ever been when it comes to Dream. It doesn't upset him, if Dream stays quiet. He just naturally runs his motor at a constant hum.
"Mm?"
"You're gonzo, aren't you?" Hob laughs. He pushes himself up on his knees to smooth his palm along the full line of one outstretched appendage, laughing when it flexes out. It puts him in mind of a cat stretching its toes to have the space between its paw pads scratched. "Wonder if Matthew would like this as much as you do."
"I should hope you would not care to find out," Dream mutters. He sighs. "It feels - much… mm. Much better. It felt- sore. Like… pins and needles."
"You've had pins and needles?"
"When I was in the care of Roderick Burgess, I had periods of intense stillness. I do not know if we would experience it the same way, but I had… pain. From being in one attitude overlong."
"Hm. Remind me again to ask you about a revenge dream for that one."
A soft huff of amusement. "Do not waste your energy on the dead… when it could be spent continuing your vital work here…"
"Noted." Hob lets his fingertips scritch deeply into the pile, gentle among the quills, one hand on each wing. Dream's corresponding moan is trembling and completely stunning, ringing through the morning quiet like a dawn chorus. Hob looks down at his own burgeoning hard-on. Well, it's certainly among the strangest things he's been turned on by, but not the strangest by any stretch of the imagination.
It's hardly a surprise. Dream is naked from the waste up, returned hurt from a noble pursuit of answers on behalf of an old flame - Hob's only a bit jealous - and now he's quivering and keening under Hob's touch. And he's a vision from a Pre-Raphaelite painting, a dark-haired beauty with creamy skin and the wings of a great black swan.
And Hob - Hob apparently has very crude feelings about Dream looking like the personification of virtuous innocence. He'd examine them more closely if he were in a self-emollating mood, but he's disposed to petting his inhuman boyfriend right now and wouldn't like to be rude. Or to know himself that well. It might take away the sparkle.
"Beautiful," Hob sighs. He kisses between the wings on a whim, the space between Dream's shoulder blades the perfect size for his face. With the down against his cheeks, flickeringly warm, he rests his forehead and breathes in the scent. A certain keratin compound, and the smell of a burned down fire. Dream's distinctive smell beneath, cool air and old books.
A soft, high keen stirs him. He lifts his head, and sees Dream's fingers are digging into the leather of the couch, dark nails biting.
"Oh, love. Is that too much-?"
"No-" Dream says it quickly, voice bitten off in a way Hob has rarely heard it before. "Please. I… enjoy your touch."
That is an insulting understatement. Dream seems near-inebriated on his touch, cheek smushed into the piping of the couch to leave a faint mark, breaths growing choppy. Heart rising into the back of his throat, Hob kisses his shoulder again before burying his face into the expanse of one wing and exhaling slowly.
"Hob-" the vowel of his name stretches into a pleading whine. Hob suspects God, or the creator, or whatever, didn't anticipate that Dream of the Endless is weird, and his human boyfriend even weirder. He grins into the feathers.
"You seem to be feeling much better. Is there something you want, sweetheart?"
"You mock me. In the face of my plight, you are laughing."
"Your plight being that you're horny now that I've put my humble human mits all over you? Love, I would never laugh at you. I am teasing you."
"I mislike it."
"Shocker." In apology, Hob keeps his face buried against the plumes of his feathers and slides his hands around to stroke over Dream's cool chest. A couple of gentle pinches and rolls at the shell pink of his nipples gets a groan so low it reverberates through Hob's fucking DNA, and damn, he's absolutely mad for his absurd crow-coded lover. "That's it, my heart. Pretty bird."
Dream swats at him half-heartedly. Hob catches the hand and pulls it gently round behind to let Dream feel just how not-funny he's finding this scenario. Another pleased rumble.
"I should like you to fuck me," Dream announces, "as soon as is practicable. You can furnish us with the supplies. In deference to my current predicament, I will go on top."
Hob would laugh, but every bit of blood that had previously been left in his brain has evacuated with urgency. He doesn't even answer, just kisses his back once more and jumps up to run, bandy-legged with the weight of his hard on, to the bedroom for lube.
When he returns, Dream is entirely naked. His hand is low between his thighs, and Hob thinks he sees - fuck, he's wearing the guise that he knows drives Hob crazy, the soft, pink cunt that's crested with black curls and the swollen cocklet Hob has worshipped a hundred times before. His long, pale fingers play over the plush flesh, seeking the rosy heat almost lazily. If he were feeling more present-minded, Hob might acknowledge it's also the form he wears when he feels the most vulnerable. There's something wrong with Hob that he finds that hot, too.
"Fuck." Winded by the sight, Hob shucks his own redundant boxers and all but throws himself down behind him. Dream peers back at him, jewel eyes framed by the black gleam of hair and feathers. There is definitely something twisted in Hob, because he feels the little spurt of pre that escapes him with that look. "How do you want me-?"
"Lie down. Slick yourself for me."
He's aware of that avian gaze as he lowers himself down onto his back on the rug, letting his knees bow a little open as he curls a hand around his cock. A few languid strokes are enough to get him panting, his length firming almost impossibly under the touch. "Dream, dove-"
"Yes. Now." With impossible grace, Dream slides himself back over Hob's knees and sits himself astride his lower belly. Hob feels feathers skim over his chest and face, but he can't stop looking up the snake-like line of Dream's spine, trailing down to his perfect heart shaped arse. He's touching Hob's cock, letting it grind slickly against his own, his cunt, and that is so much Hob has to hold his breath.
"Dream - Dream, fuck-"
"This is… a humbling reaction to caring for me, Hob Gadling," Dream murmurs. He's wet and hot against Hob's skin, hips rocking, and Hob gets the feeling even without being able to see that he's measuring the depth of his length against his own concave stomach - seeing how deep he'll go.
"Touching you in any way is mostly a turn on for me," he breathes. "You're so special - don't know how you ever even looked my-"
"Do not speak ill of my beloved," Dream cuts him off . He strokes up the length of Hob's cock then, fingertips making a teasing five point star over the head. Hob stutters silent. He can still feel Dream considering. Curiosity compels him.
"Torn, love?" He asks.
"Indeed. I am occasionally reminded that I wish you could fuck me in every possible way, simultaneously."
Hob shivers a bit. He has no idea what that might look like - and his imagination is sort of average, so he immediately thinks of The Thing and pulls a face - but he'd try anything for Dream. "There's always the Dreaming."
"Mm." Dream tilts his head. Twisting his spine elegantly, wings flexing out, he peers at Hob. He's apparently inviting collaborative insight, which is hard to provide when he's still squirming his cunt against Hob's aching sex.
"I have - fingers," Hob points out. "And. We could get one of those toys that adds… it's… I can't explain, my dick has control of the brain cells right now."
"Fingers," Dream hums.
"Just depends where you prefer them."
Another beat of consideration, and then Dream turns smoothly to face him. This time he stays elevated on his knees, letting Hob finally get a better view of his gorgeous pussy, wet and gleaming. Hob's own cock twitches between his thighs. With a grin that does something unnamable to remind Hob he is in fact having sex with something not at all human, Dream reaches between his thighs and guides the head of Hob's cock against the tight kiss of his asshole.
"I would have you here," he tells Hob, "and your fingers inside my cunt. And then your mouth when you have taken your pleasure."
"You can have anything you want," Hob gasps. He's making a valiant effort not to come from the gentle pressure of Dream's fingers; his fluttering, hot opening, so tight it must feel nearly painful as he starts to rock down to take him in. He manages to gather enough cognisance to get his own hands on Dream, one thumb coming to circle over the fat swell of his clit. He watches a bead of slick glowing in the shielded heat of his cunt, smears it with his fingers as Dream breaches himself on Hob's hard cock.
"Oh," Dream whispers. His eyes flutter shut, the dark fan of his lashes echoed by the sweep of wings behind him. He's sheathing Hob's cock slowly inside himself, a hot, muscular clench that renders Hob nearly blind with want. "Hob-"
"Anything you want, love. Hard as you want." He keeps working his thumb over Dream, rubbing wetness from the sweet, needy rosebud of his cunt up to the crowning nerves above. He blinks some of the overwhelm away to watch his lover, staggered by his sheer beauty. The great dark wings are silhouetted starkly by the morning light behind, fat fingers of gold prying their way between the feathers. His marble pale torso flexes as he starts to rock himself on Hob's length, mouth falling open in a helpless coral pink 'o' of want.
"More-" he breathes.
Obligingly, Hob tips his wrist up to curl his fingers into Dream's slick opening. His body takes him in like it's pleading for him, and even the awkward angle doesn't stop it from being the single greatest pleasure he's ever known. Dream is moaning soft and deep in his chest, shocked by what Hob can give him, what he can make him feel. Like he had been when Hob had started to gently preen his feathers - oh god, he can't think about that or he'll come.
"Darling," he gasps, "oh god, you're so beautiful - so perfect. Feel so gorgeous around my fingers, lush as hell. And your- fuck - oh, your tight little hole-"
Dream thrives on this kind of talk. Hob sees it in the way he starts to bounce himself faster, his cunt making slick, plush sounds as he rides Hob's fingers and cock at once. He's transcendently beautiful, whole body made aglow with his want, skin luminously blushed and his muscles all in high relief. He feels like the finest silk, like fucking the concept of heaven, and Hob can't ever get enough of the scent and taste and feel of him - never, ever will. He doesn't even mind being used like a human fuck doll - in fact, it turns his fucking crank and always has. Dream's directness is so entirely easy, and he's generous in his reciprocity. Not that getting to fuck both his holes could ever be considered anything but mutually beneficial.
He's getting quicker, voice taking on just the softest quake of overwhelm. Hob knows the signs by now, and the other hand - previously steadying his hip - creeps up the cliff fall of his throat. He feeds Dream his fingers, watching him fasten his lips around them as greedily as a lamb with a bottle. The soft wet aliveness of his tongue between Hob's fingers makes him twitch, his own breaths coming faster as Dream takes his fill of him; suckles his fingers and moans and rides him until Hob is barely hanging on.
"Dream - Dream, sweetheart, I'm going to-"
One of Dream's hands covers his mouth in gentle warning, back caved with tension, wings flexing. It's enough; Hob waits, thighs clenching and stomach locking with the effort. He's slicked with sweat, cramping in the wrist from fingering Dream's cunt, his thumb making an L for his clit - but letting him glut himself on Hob's body is entirely worth it.
He watches Dream's shoulders starting to shudder, his body clamping down tight around his fingers and cock. He's hot and molten inside, deliciously slick, and Hob's whole body aches with the need in his core, balls tight and hips arching, but he holds.
Dream bites down on Hob's fingers and snaps his hips viciously as he comes. His cunt clenches around Hob's fingers, slick spilling into his cupped palm, and the kneading heat of his hole around Hob's length wrenches the orgasm out of him with a sweetly coaxing command. It flashes through him like floodwater, rendering him entirely mindless to anything but Dream, and bliss, and being inside.
Above him, he's aware of Dream's wings - that's weirdly normal to think - flickering out, and then he's bowing down against Hob like a swan, hiding his face in his throat. The feathers shield them, blotting the sun, cocooning them in dusty warmth.
Still panting, Hob shifts his aching arm from between them. They're a mess of sweat and come and slick, but the umbrella of Dream's wings makes it feel altogether holy.
"Wow," Hob mumbles. "If this is the result of you calling God a despot, I'm all in favour."
"You are in favour of God putting me in the form of an angel and firing me out of the silver city at such a velocity that I experienced adiabatic compression?"
"It was very sexy of you."
Dream, as expected, laughs. It is the surprised rusty gate burst he often gives when he finds Hob inescapably obtuse. "Glad to be of service."
Hob chuckles, stroking up his back and humming in amusement when Dream's breath hitches with another little frisson of pleasure. The wings are still, apparently, very sensitive.
"Gooood is a despoooot," Hob sings under his breath, "when all is said and done… you'll believe God is a despooot…"
"Hob," Dream says. He is likely aiming for disapproving, but it sounds rather breathy with laughter.
"I bet you could change the fabric of reality so those were the words, couldn't you?"
"Not without making a great many other changes that would impact the Waking world more than you know."
"Come on. It'd be funny. Imagine that little blonde lass singing that. She'd become a very different icon."
"I will no longer be indulging you in this hypothetical scenario. Think of a new topic of conversation."
"How about… 'let's go to bed'? Hopefully when you wake up you'll look a bit less like a pigeon."
"Hob Gadling-"
"Kidding, kidding. You put Icarus to shame. At least you survived your immolation."
"Your heartfelt analogy of a great tragedy is truly touching."
"Sorry. You've fucked all the thoughtful right out of me. Oh - you said you wanted my mouth, love."
Dream makes a thoughtful noise, hips shifting where Hob has slipped out of him by now.
"The wings are… unexpectedly heavy," he murmurs. "I do not believe I have the energy right now to balance them."
"No balancing necessary, I'm happy to do the work?"
"You are most gallant. And perhaps I will take you up on the offer when… we have rested adequately."
"Rain check, the Americans call that."
"Do they now. Well then yes. I shall take a rain check on cunnilingus."
Hob shudders, cock giving a valiant twitch despite being very much spent. "Don't be weird and hot again, you'll kill me."
"We will both benefit from une petit somme, then."
"Oui, mon rêve."
"Très bien. Vous devrez peut-être me porter."
Hob squints, brain thoroughly overtaxed by having to think full sentences in English, never mind French.
"I can try. Come on then, mon petit oiseau."
They slowly separate, and even with Hob's 600 year old knees, he's able to gently loop his elbow under Dreams legs and lift him with his other arm around his back. The wings are heavy, he can tell, but Dream is not. He allows Hob to convey him to his room like the king he is, only fluttering in mild alarm once when Hob walks into the edge of the doorframe and swears bloody murder.
"Sorry, sorry, banged my fucking elbow-"
"You ought to get wider doors."
"You're not planning on keeping these, are you?" Lowering him carefully onto the bed, Hob considers briefly how he will actually fit in his own bed with Dream's rather large new appendages. Then he turns pertly onto his stomach, tucking them down against the length of his body… and yeah. It's still doing something for Hob, watching Dream clothed in nothing but feathers, the pale curve of his thighs and backside a shocking contrast to his black plumage and hair. God, he's so beautiful it aches.
"Did I ever tell you you're too good for me?" Hob asks him mildly.
Dream chuffs. "Hob. Please."
"Please what?"
"Since I have known you, you have been the personification of patience, adaptability, generosity, and kindness. When you believed me lonely, you provided me a balm. When I wronged you, you benignly forgave me. When I come to you in pain, your first thought is only to soothe me. To please me. You are the most ardent and exceptionally talented lover I have ever had. Every second you love me is a moment I am blessed beyond conception." He reaches out and covers Hob's hand on the sheets between them, watching him with the tenderest expression Hob has ever seen.
You, Hob Gadling, are the reason I was compelled to ask the Creator about Lucifer. I have always thought of myself as a damned thing, incapable of redemption, and you are… the succour I desperately craved but never thought I might even conceive of. And I have realised that there is no such succour for the devil. And I wondered… if I might be able to change their fortune. In a similar fashion as you have changed mine. Just slightly. With an appeal to a force outside of my comprehension, to see if I might influence the fate of a friend. As you have done for me without even thinking about it."
Hob swallows the knot in his throat and squeezes his hand. His smile is watery when he kisses Dream's knuckles.
"You just want me to provide you succour later when you've had your nap. I know your game."
Dream shakes his head, laughing and tugging their clasped hands under his chin. "You are a rake and a cad."
"Most exceptionally talented lover ever, you said."
"One does not negate the other."
"I love you too, Dream."
Laughter bubbling up, Hob nuzzles in close to kiss him, their noses bumping gently. Dream makes the sweetest, rumbliest noise of contentment, and one of his great wings sighs up to shade Hob in its warm darkness.
