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just-french-me-up · 18 hours

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IN THE DARK

Fandom: The Sandman Ship: Dreamling Rating: E | 2k | Read on AO3 Tags: Smut & Angst; Post 1889 Meeting; Porn with a Hint of Plot Mixed In; Smut in the Dark; Dream Can't Use His Words for Shit; Angsty Ending

The whole evening was a blur. A succession of steps, one in front of the other, fueled by anger at first, exasperation even, that quickly soured into gut-wrenching sorrow. Most of the fuel after that had been liquor. Hob could not even remember where he'd ended up. Not the White Horse, surely. That would have been too painful. Too fresh. At least he'd managed to secure a bed with fresh enough linens and privacy, which was not-half bad, considering his state. The room lacked windows, but it was all the same to him. Wrestling with your thoughts hardly required lighting.

The whole evening was a blur. No. Not all of it.

Not the part that kept haunting him. The cold stare glaring at him with indignation. The smile that turned to a hard line once he'd dared suggest the possibility of friendship. The striding steps, eager to distance him from that very notion. It all whirled inside Hob's mind, as vivid as when he'd seen them. Fucking idiot. He should have played his cards better. Their 1789 meeting had left him too comfortable, too bold. Wanting, also. He could have sworn...

Hob tossed around in bed, unable to fall asleep, replayed the scene again and again, what he could have done differently, said differently. Would his Stranger have stayed, then? Would they have parted as friends, in anything but name, the nature of their relationship hanging in the air, an ever-growing question mark never to be answered?

The candles had long burnt out, leaving him in the dark, his musings for only company. Hob imagined himself still at the inn, in centennial company. That was two meetings cut short. Perhaps next time... Would there be a next time? He'd had to run his mouth, daring his Stranger into admitting their friendship. What if he did not show, a hundred years from now? What if he sat at their table in 1989 and no one came? The loneliness of it made him ache. No... Surely, he would not...

The floorboards of the room creaked, making Hob start, his eyes flying open. No one had opened the door, of that he was certain. There was nothing to see, yet he stared into the darkness, not so much afraid than expectant. He had lived long enough to know he was the only ghost roaming this earth.

Something pressed into the mattress, digging a slight dent into it. A hand. A knee, perhaps. Hob swallowed. He could have sworn there was a dim glint shining in the darkness, like an eye blinking as something shifted on the mattress. Deep and ruby-red.

It occurred to him he ought to scream, call for help, anything, yet Hob could not bring himself to. The tension in his muscles lacked the crisp grip of fear. It was something different. Something more all-encompassing still. Something eager, deep inside of him.

Legs, for they were irrefutably legs, straddled his, trapping him under the covers. The raspy whistle of his own breathing filled his ears, making him deaf to anything else. Something wet seeped through the linen covering him, dampening the sheets. As the invisible form leant forward, Hob felt drops falling on his chest. On his neck. Rain. Or rather the aftermath of it. One does tend to get soaked, making a dramatic exit under the usual London drizzle.

Hob's clothes had long been peeled off, discarded, abandoned in a careless heap on the floor. Now the sheets stuck to his skin like a sheen, sole barrier between him and the darkness. He could feel his heartbeat reverberate through the fabric as a warm breath tickled his lips. He swallowed thickly, trying to think of something to say, something clever, something funny, but words eluded him. Words had brought him nothing but trouble that night, truth be told. Better not fuck things up further. Whatever quip he would have come up with hardly mattered, in the end. Hob couldn't have delivered it anyway. Not with the lips suddenly pressed against his own.

It was the furthest thing from tender. It was rushed, demanding, tasting of latent anger and frustration, almost pining him to the mattress. The initial shock barely lasted a second before Hob answered in kind, his body coming alive under the sheets. He reached in the darkness, his hands landing on wet clothes, wet hair, gliding, slipping, holding onto anything available with a primal urge. It would not have looked pretty under any light. A good thing that was not a concern.

Eventually, his fingers hooked around a delicate chain, his fingertips following it to the familiar emerald shape weighing at the end of it. It would have shone from a deep red by the candlelight, Hob knew it. He could picture it in his head, the same way he could picture his Stranger over him, his brow infinitely serious as his teeth grazed his lower lip. Hob's thumb brushed the side of the ruby, and he felt the body over his shiver, almost as an echo.

His Stranger pulled back sharply.

You dare, Hob could read in the silence, although neither spoke a word. All he could hear was the Stranger catching his breath, bursts of air coming in and out in a captivating rhythm. He'd gone too far again. Pushed past what he was allowed. The Stranger would storm out any second now, disappear into the very fabric of the night, the same way he'd gotten in.

The air was knocked out of his lungs as a hand closed around his wrist, pining it to the mattress. The pressure against his thighs and his groin increased at his Stranger leant forward once more, as though to face him. Hob imagined him stern, his lips thinned with disapproval, eyebrows drawn into a frown. He could not say he disliked it. Some attention was better than none.

The Stranger shifted once more, his body brushing against the outline of Hob's cock through the sheets. An accident, no doubt. An unfortunate consequence of the position he'd chosen. Hob doubted his Stranger had even noticed. Except it happened again. And again. And again, maddeningly slow, hindered by superfluous layers, leaving Hob achingly hard and frustrated. Wanting. Yet he could not bring himself to move. What if his Stranger left again? What if he stopped? He wasn't sure he could bear him stopping, no matter how frustrating his current ministrations were. The grip around his wrist tightened, sending a twitch through his cock. God's wounds, surely his Stranger could feel how hard he was. Hob bit back a strangled sigh, a plea for more at the back of this throat. No. He would not ask. He would not risk breaking the delicate spell that bound them to this moment with another ill-chosen word.

Something cold rolled against his lips. Another drop of rain, Hob through, but it bore more weight, felt more solid. He could feel the ruby's elegant edges against his mouth, hanging close, taunting him. There was another roll of his Stranger's hips, and Hob instinctively closed his lips around one of the curved angles. A low groan answered instantly, sending alarms through him. Hob waited a second. Then two. His Stranger did not pull back. If anything, he leant closer, offering more of the ruby as his hips kept rubbing against Hob's cock. No words needed. Hob ran his tongue across one of the facets, delighting in the lewd sound that earned him. He'd always suspected his Stranger was not made of stone, in spite of the latter best efforts to prove him otherwise. How much more could he get out of him before he'd be rejected as too familiar? Too bold? A flick of his tongue seemed acceptable enough, judging by the Stranger's loud approval.

Soon, toying with the gem got insufficient. Hob could feel it in the hand holding his wrist, in the slight wheeze in his Stranger's laboured breathing. The sheets were yanked off him, somehow. Where he could have sworn his Stranger wore clothes, his touch only met skin. Cold, still-lightly-damp-from-the-rain skin. His was scorchingly hot, clashing at the junction in a tantalising way. He could now feel the weight of his Stranger's cock against his own, heat flaring through him at the realisation. He would have given everything he owned to see them now, flesh against flesh, seeking pleasure in friction, his Stranger's body aflame.

The exhilarating grip around his wrist did not loosen, but Hob suddenly remembered he had another hand he could use freely. Instinctively, he wrapped it as best he could around both of their cocks, stroking down. Over him, his Stranger gave an approving moan, his hips rolling in tandem with his touch. Hob's tongue twirled around the ruby again, hot breath blowing against the gem, sending both him and the Stranger into a frenzy. He was hardly more than his hand, his cock, his lips, his burning skin in that moment. The rest of him was secondary. He was barely aware of the Stranger's hand bracing against his chest, nails almost digging into his flesh in a delicious bite. What he felt, however, were the fascinating spasms jolting through his companion, tension mounting, mounting, until his body gave, warmth spilling across Hob's stomach. Overwhelmed, Hob followed with a hoarse shout, stroking them until the last spark of pleasure had left him.

The rest was a blur. Yet another. A blur caught between wakefulness and the drowsy glow of pleasure. Hob remembered the content feeling as he lay against the mattress, still warm from exertion. He closed his eyes for a second, expecting his Stranger to join him, to take place against him in a bed that fit only one. He must have fallen asleep, for when he awoke, daylight flooded the room.

He was alone, that morning, the sheets neatly drawn over his body. As he looked around, Hob saw no evidence of a visitor, either in the room itself, or on his own body. The taste of the ruby still lingered in his mouth, but there was little proof he had actually touched it, or anyone, for that matter.

A dream, he thought mournfully. Wishful thinking.

He'd have a hundred years to mull it over. It wouldn't be the first time he'd thought of his Stranger that way. This was only the most vivid imagining from a centuries long string of them.

As he dressed in damp clothes, Hob didn't notice the half-moon shapes dug into his chest. They were barely a hint, a dent, his immortal body resorbing them the same way it would resorb any wound, from the lethal to the benign. They would not leave a single mark in an hour's time. A clean slate.

The mind hardly healed the same. It clung to the memory of it, flashes, sensations echoing through him as he looked around the room once more before closing the door behind him. An itch to scratch for the century to come.

Next time I see him, Hob thought to himself, I'll know. In 1989, I'll know.

His whisky had warmed in its glass a long time ago.

It was past midnight. Most of the patrons had found their way out of the White Horse, perhaps heading to the latest trendy club to spend the remainder of the night. Not Hob. Stubborn, he refused to leave, leaning against the bar, his gaze set on the entrance door. He'd started jittering about an hour ago, the realisation slowly sinking in.

Perhaps it had all been a dream, after all. The sensations still haunted him, a hundred years to the day. Come on... Show yourself...

"You waiting for someone?"

"I think I've been stood up."