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suddencolds · 2 months

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The Worst Timing | [5/5]

we made it!!! part 5/5 + a mini epilogue (5.6k words) at long last 🥹 (aka the installment in which i remember that h/c has a c in it in addition to the h, haha.) [part 1] is here!

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

The world comes back to him in pieces—first the wooden panels of the ceiling, the sloped wooden beams. The coldness of the room, the slight, monotonous whir of the air circulating through one of the vents overhead.

He’s leaned up against the wall, seated on the floor in the hallway, and Vincent is kneeling beside him, his eyebrows furrowed.

It takes him a moment to realize where he is. He had been about to head back to the courtyard, hadn’t he? He doesn’t have much memory of anything that happened after, but judging by Vincent’s reaction, he thinks he can probably guess.

“Hi,” Yves says, for lack of a better thing to say.

He watches a complicated set of expressions flicker through Vincent’s face—relief, first, before it turns to something distinctly less neutral.

“You’re awake,” Vincent says. He turns away, for a moment. Yves notes the clench of his jaw, the tightness of his grip—his fingers white around Yves’s sleeve.

“Was I out for long?”

“A couple minutes.”

Yves wants to say something. He should say something. Anything to lighten the tension, anything to get the point across that this is all just an unlucky miscalculation, on his part. It really isn’t something Vincent should have to be worried about.

“I’m sorry for making you wait,” he starts. Really, what he means is, I’m sorry for making you worry about me. “I promise I’mb fine.”

The look on Vincent’s face, then, is something that Yves hasn’t seen before.

“Why do you have to—” he starts, frustration rising in his voice. He sighs, his jaw set. “I don’t understand why you—” He drops his hand from Yves’s sleeve, and it’s then when Yves notices the stiffness to his shoulders, the tension in his posture. He runs a hand through his hair, lets out another short, exasperated breath. “You’re not fine.”

It’s strange, Yves thinks, to see him like this—Vincent, who usually never wears his emotions on his face, looks clearly displeased, now.

“Hey,” Yves says, softly. He reaches out to take Vincent’s hand. Vincent goes very still with the contact, but he doesn’t say anything. “I—”

Fuck. His body seems to always pick the worst time for unwanted interjections. He wrenches his hand away just in time to smother a sneeze into his sleeve, though it’s forceful enough to leave him slightly lightheaded.

“Stay here,” Vincent says, getting to his feet. “Lay down if you get dizzy again.”

Yves blinks. “Where are you going?”

“To tell the others that we’re leaving.”

Yves wants to protest. Dinner is already halfway over. It’s not as if the festivities are particularly strenuous. They’ll probably move inside after dinner, where it’s warmer.

But he thinks better of it. Judging by how exhausted he still feels, how much his head aches, it probably wouldn’t be wise to push it.

“Don’t tell them about this,” he says.

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“Aimee is going to worry if she finds out,” Yves says, dropping his head to his knees. He doesn’t want to look at Vincent, doesn’t want to know what expression is on his face. “Just—let them have this night. It’s—supposed to be perfect.” I really wanted it to be perfect, he almost adds. There’s a strange tightness to his throat as he says it, a strange heaviness to his chest.

He knows what it means. If, after he’s tried so hard to do his part, their evening still ends up ruined on his own accord, he’s not sure if he could live with himself after.

For a moment, Vincent doesn’t say anything at all.

“Okay,” he says, at last. “Just stay here.”

And then he heads down the hallway. The door at the end of the reception hall swings shut behind him. Yves thinks he should be relieved, but he finds that he doesn’t feel much other than exhausted.

—

The ride home on the shuttle is silent. Vincent sits next to him, even though all of the other seats are empty. Yves thinks the proximity is probably inadvisable. He opens his mouth to say as much, and then shuts it.

Vincent sits and stares straight ahead, his posture stiff, and doesn’t say anything for the entirety of the ride. It’s strange. Yves is no stranger to silence—Vincent is, after all, a coworker, and Yves has endured more than a few quiet elevator rides and quiet team lunches at the office, but it’s strange because it’s Vincent.

Vincent, who usually takes care to make conversation with him, whenever it’s just the two of them. Vincent, who stayed up through the lull of antihistamines a couple months ago to talk to Yves, until Yves had given him explicit permission to go to sleep.

Yves tries not to think about it. Through the haze of his fever, everything feels unusually bright—the interior of the shuttle, with its leather seats and metal handrails.

The shuttle stops just outside the main entrance to their hotel. Just before he gets to the doors, he stumbles. Vincent’s hand shoots out, instinctively, to steady him.

“Sorry,” Yves says, a little sheepishly. It’s not that he’s dizzy. The roads are just uneven, and it’s dark. “I can walk.”

But Vincent doesn’t let go—not for the entirety of the walk through the cool, air-conditioned lobby, through the hallways to the hotel elevators. Not when the elevator stops at their floor, not when they pass by the grid of wooden doors leading up to their room.

Before Yves can manage to reach for his keycard, Vincent has already swiped them in, scarily efficient. He slides the card back into his pocket, pushes the door open.

“Thadks for walking me back,” Yves says. “Sorry you couldn’t stay longer. You mbust’ve been halfway through dinner.”

“I already finished eating,” Vincent says.

“Even dessert?” Yves says. “I think Aimee got everyone creme brulee from one of the local bakeries. I was excited to try it. Maybe Leon can save us some.” he muffles a yawn into his hand. It’s too early to be sleeping, but his pull out bed looks very inviting right now.

“Take the bed,” Vincent says.

Yves blinks at him. “What?”

“The bed’s warmer.”

There’s absolutely no way he’s going to let Vincent take the pull-out bed in his place, Yves thinks blearily. He’s spent the past couple nights muffling sneezes into the covers—if there’s anything he’s certain of, it’s that he really, really doesn’t want Vincent to catch this.

“I dod’t think we should switch,” he says, sniffling. “I’ve been sleeping here ever sidce I started coming down with this. I’mb— hHeh-!” He veers away, raising an elbow to his face. “hh—HHEh’IIDZschH’-iEEW! Ugh, I’mb pretty sure I contaminated it.”

“We can both take the bed, if you’d prefer,” Vincent says. As if it’s that simple.

Yves opens his mouth to protest—is Vincent really okay with sharing a bed with him?—but then he thinks about Vincent finding him in the hallway—the stricken expression on his face, then, his eyes wide, his jaw clenched—and thinks better of himself.

Instead, he lets Vincent lead him to the bedroom. The bed is neatly made—the covers drawn, the pillows propped up against the headboard.

“Lay down,” Vincent says, pushing lightly down on his shoulders. Yves sits. He peels off his suit jacket, folds it, and sets it aside on the nightstand.

“Hey, I kdow that was sudden,” he says, in reference to earlier. “I’mb sorry you had to witness it. I… probably shouldn’t have pushed it.”

Vincent says nothing, to that.

Yves lays down, shuts his eyes. “You didn’t have to accompady me home, you know.”

Silence. He exhales, burrowing deeper into the covers. “It’s not as bad as it looks, seriously.”

He opens his mouth to say more. He has to say something, he thinks, to convince Vincent that it’s really not that big of a deal. Anything, to assuage that look on Vincent’s face.

But he’s so tired. He can feel the exhaustion now that he’s finally let himself lay down. The bed is traitorously comfortable, with its soft feather pillows and its fluffy layers of blankets, and Vincent was right—it really is warmer.

He feels the press of a hand on his forehead, feels the cold, unyielding pressure. Feels gentle, calloused fingers brush the hair out of his face.

“Sleep,” Vincent says, firmly.

And Yves—

Yves, already half gone, is powerless, when Vincent says it like that.

—

When he wakes, it’s just barely bright outside. He takes it in—the first few rays of sunlight, streaking through the curtains. The bed, a little more well-cushioned than the pullout bed he’d spent the past few nights on—higher up and decisively sturdier. He blinks.

Beside him, seated on a chair he recognizes as belonging to the desk at the opposite end of the room, is Vincent.

Vincent, awake. Yves isn’t sure if he’s slept at all. He certainly doesn’t look tired, at first glance, but closer inspection reveals a little more. It’s evident in the way he holds his shoulders, stiff, and perhaps a little tired, as if there’s been tension sitting in them all night.

He’s reading a book. Whether he bought it at the convenience store downstairs, or on one of the other days when Yves was busy running errands for the wedding and Vincent was elsewhere, or whether it’d been sitting in his suitcase since the start of the vacation, Yves doesn’t know.

“How’s the book?” Yves says.

His throat is dry, he realizes, for the way it makes him cough, afterwards. Vincent’s eyes meet his, unerringly. He shuts the book, sets it down on the bedside table.

“It’s a little boring,” Vincent says. “How’s the fever?”

Before Yves can answer, Vincent leans forward and presses the back of his hand to Yves’s forehead. His touch is unerringly gentle, and Yves allows himself to look.

Vincent’s eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, and Yves wonders, suddenly, if he’s been this worried for awhile, now. If he’s been this worried ever since he’d walked them both back into the hotel room last night.

“I’m fine,” Yves says.

It has the opposite effect he intends it to.

Vincent’s expression shutters. “The last time you said that, you passed out in front of me,” he says, withdrawing his hand with a frown. “So forgive me if I don’t entirely believe you.”

Yves sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. It’s a fair point. “I’m usually more reliable whed it comes to these things.”

“What things?”

“Kdowing my limits.”

Vincent says, “I think you knew your limits. I think you just didn’t want to honor them, because you decided the wedding took precedence.”

He’s… frustrated, Yves realizes. Still. He’s sure he can guess why. Their fake relationship does not extend to Vincent having to look after him, to Vincent having to drop everything in the middle of a wedding, of all things, to take him home. To Vincent having to worry about all this—the fever Yves knows he has, now, and the bed he’s currently taking up—on top of everything else. As if being in a foreign country, surrounded by people he knows almost exclusively through Yves, who, for the most part, converse in a language he barely speaks, wasn’t already enough work on its own.

And Yves gets it. He hadn’t wanted this to happen, either. He’d told himself that if this—this pretend relationship, this pretense—is contingent upon both of them playing their part, the least he can do is be self-sufficient outside of it.

But now—because Vincent is here with him, and because they share a hotel room—all of this is now Vincent’s problem, too, by extension.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asks.

Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly, as if the answer is evident.

“You gave up your bed just for me to steal it,” Yves says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s really comfortable, and all, but I’mb pretty sure they make these kinds of beds for two.”

“Is that a proposition?” Vincent says.

“Maybe.” Yves thinks it through. “Realistically, probably ndot, until I have a chance to shower.” He’s still dressed in his dress shirt and slacks from yesterday, a little embarrassingly—he should probably get changed. “Speaking of which, I should do that soon, so you don’t feel the need to stay up all night reading—” Yves leans forward, squints at the book cover on the nightstand. “—Hemingway? Somehow, I didn’t expect you to be the type.”

“I’m not,” Vincent says. “Victoire lent it to me.”

“Oh,” Yves says, trying to think of when Vincent would’ve had time to ask her for a recommendation. “Yeah. She’s—” He twists aside, ducking into his elbow. “hHEH’IIDzschh-EEW! snf-! She’s quite the literary reader. Is it really that boring?”

“I can see why people think the transparency of his prose is appealing,” Vincent says. “But I’m fifty pages in, and nothing has happened.”

“Isd’t that the sort of thing Hemingway can get away with, since he’s straightforward about it?”

“In a short story, maybe,” Vincent says. Then: “You are trying to make me feel better.”

Ah.

Yves laughs. “Where in the world did you get that idea?”

Vincent just sighs. “I would be exceptionally unobservant not to notice when I’ve seen you do the same thing all this week.”

“What?”

“Telling people that you’re fine,” Vincent says. “And distracting them when they don’t believe you.”

Yves doesn’t think that’s entirely accurate. It’s not like he was trying to be dishonest. It’s just that it was never the most important thing to address.

“Distracting is a bit disingenuous.”

“I don’t get it,” Vincent says, with a frown. “You’re so insistent on putting yourself last, even when you were obviously—” He sighs. There it is—that expression again, the one that makes itself evident through the furrowed eyebrows, the tense set of his jaw—frustration, and maybe something else. “You’re surrounded by people who care about you, so why not just—”

“There are plenty of things more important than how I’mb feeling,” Yves says.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

But of course it is, Yves thinks. A wedding is a once in a lifetime occurrence. An illness is nothing, in the face of that.

“I promised I’d be there,” he says, because when it really comes down to it, it’s true. He had no intention of going back on his word. “I didn’t want to be the one to let them down. Is that so hard to believe?” He reaches up with a hand to massage his temples. His head aches, even though he’s slept for long enough that he feels like it ought to feel a little better, by now. “It’s already bad enough that I had to drag you into this.”

“You didn’t drag me into this,” Vincent says. “I came on my own volition.”

Yves tries a laugh, but it’s humorless. “I made you leave halfway through the wedding dinner.”

“I’d already finished eating.”

“Ndot to mention, you practically had to carry me upstairs.”

“Because you’re ill.”

“That’s no excuse.” Yves wants to say more, but he finds himself beholden to a tickle in the back of his throat—irritatingly present, until he concedes to it by ducking into his elbow to cough, and cough.

When he looks up, blinking tears out of his vision, Vincent isn’t looking at him.

“You should get some rest,” he says, simply.

Yves can tell—just by the way he says it—that there is no argument to him, anymore. Just like that, Vincent is back to being closed off—poised and perfectly, infuriatingly unreadable, just like he is at work, his face so carefully a mask of indifference, even in the most stressful presentations, the most frustrating disagreements. Yves wants none of it.

“Hey,” he says. A part of him itches to crack a joke, to change the subject—anything to take away this air of seriousness. A part of him wants to reach out, again—to take Vincent’s hand, entwine their fingers; to reassure him, again, that he’s really fine.

“I’m sorry,” he says, instead. Maybe it’s the fever that loosens his tongue. Maybe it’s just a combination of everything.

He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him, still. Vincent has always held a sort of intensity to him, a quiet sort of perceptiveness. “I’m not sure I follow,” Vincent says.

“This visit was supposed to be fun for you,” he says. “And now you’re here, stuck in the hotel room because of me, even though today was supposed to be for sightseeing.”

It doesn’t feel like enough. What can he say to make it enough? There’s a strange ache in his chest, a strange, crushing pressure. Yves is horrified to find his eyes stinging. He’s held it together for so long, he thinks. Why now? Why, when Vincent is right here?

But a part of him knows, too. Of course traveling to a different country would be more involved than going to a party, or spending an evening at a stranger’s house. But there was a time when he thought this could really just be a fun excursion for the both of them—half a week in his family’s home country, with someone who he thoroughly enjoys spending time with.

And now, because of this untimely illness—or because of his own short-sightedness in managing it—it isn’t. He didn’t get to stay through dinner, didn’t get to wish Aimee and Genevieve a good rest of their night, like he’d planned to. He has no idea if things went smoothly in his absence. To make matters worse, Vincent is here, having endured a sleepless night, instead of anywhere else.

And really, when he thinks about it, who does have to blame for all of this, except himself?

“I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” he says. “So I’m sorry.” He resists the urge to swipe a hand over his eyes—surely, he thinks, that would give him away.

He turns away. It’s convenient, he thinks, that the embarrassing sniffle that follows could be attributed to something else.

“You’ve been nothing but accommodating to me, this whole visit,” Vincent says. “If anything, I should’ve insisted that you take the bed earlier. You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?”

He says it with such certainty. Yves opens his mouth to protest this—or to apologize, for all the times he must’ve kept Vincent up, including but not limited to last night—but Vincent presses on.

“You spent all of yesterday morning helping everyone get ready, and when I got back, you apologized for not being around—as if the reason why you weren’t around wasn’t that you were so busy making sure everything was fine for everyone else.” Vincent pauses, takes in a slow, measured breath. Yves is surprised to hear that he sounds… distinctly angry, in a way that Yves is not used to hearing.

“And then you showed up to the rehearsal and the wedding, even though you weren’t feeling well. And you still think you have something to apologize for? Are you even hearing yourself?” Yves hears the creak of the chair as he stands, the sound of quiet footsteps. Feels the dip of the bed as Vincent takes a seat at the edge of it.

“You know, after you left the dinner table, Genevieve was talking about how much she liked your speech? Do you know that yesterday morning, Solaine told me how grateful she was that you helped her with fixing her dress? Do you know that when I got lunch with Leon and Victoire, they told me how much time you spent preparing for everything—the speech, and the wedding, both?”

Oh. Yves hadn’t known any of those things, and he knows Vincent isn’t the kind of person who would lie about this sort of thing.

“I don’t get it,” Vincent says, sounding distinctly pained to say it. “How could you possibly think that you haven’t done enough?”

Yves finds himself taken aback—by the frustration in his voice, by the fact that Vincent has noticed these things in the first place, by the fact that he’s deemed them important enough to take stock of. He makes it sound so simple.

“I don’t know,” Yves says, at last. He shuts his eyes. “If it was enough.”

“I’m telling you that it was,” Vincent says.

But Yves knows that he could have done more, if the circumstances were different. If he hadn’t been so out of it during the wedding. If he’d taken the necessary precautions to avoid coming down with this in the first place. If he’d been able to stay through dinner, at least; if he hadn’t needed Vincent to accompany him home.

“You don’t believe me,” Vincent says, with a sigh.

Yves doesn’t say anything, to that.

“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Vincent says. There’s the slight rustling of the covers as he shifts, rearranging one of the pillows at the headboard. “But I had fun.”

Yves’s heart twists.

It’s sweet, unexpectedly. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better,” Yves says.

“When have I ever said anything just to make you feel better?” Vincent says, with a short laugh. When Yves chances a look at him, he’s smiling down at himself. “I mean it. Meeting your family has been a lot of fun. It’s not often that I get the chance to be a part of something like this.”

Whether he’s referring to France, or the wedding and the festivities, or being surrounded by Yves’s large extended family, Yves isn’t sure. But if Vincent is trying to cheer him up, it’s working.

“I can see why you like France so much,” he says, turning his gaze out the window, though the view outside is filtered through the semi-translucent curtains. “It’s beautiful.”

“Today was supposed to be the last day for sightseeing,” Yves says, a little regretful. “But you’re stuck here.”

“In a sunny, luxurious hotel room, with a view of the pool and the garden?” Vincent says, with a scoff. “I could think of worse places to be.”

Staying up all night, just to check up on Yves, more accurately. Vincent must be tired, too—yesterday was already tiring enough. And now it’s morning already, and he hasn’t gotten any sleep.

“Reading Hemingway,” Yves adds.

Vincent looks a little surprised. Then he laughs. “Yes. I guess you’re right. Perhaps it’s an agonizing experience after all.”

The yawn he stifles into his hand, after that isn’t half as subtle as he tries to make it.

Yves feels his eyebrows creep up. “Are you sure you don’t want to get some sleep? There’s plenty of room.” He scoots a little closer to the edge of the bed, just to make a point.

Vincent peers down at the space beside him, a little hesitant. “At 10am?”

“It’d be, what, 4am, back in Eastern time?” Yves says. “By Ndew York standards, you’re supposed to already be asleep.”

“That’s not how it works,” Vincent says, but he dutifully moves a little closer to Yves anyways. He’s changed out of yesterday’s wedding attire, more sensibly, but now he’s wearing a knitted cardigan which Yves thinks looks unfairly, terribly good on him. Yves finds himself marveling at the unfairness of it all. How can someone look so good wearing something so casual?

Vincent smells good, up close. When he lays down next to Yves, pulling the covers gingerly over himself—leaving a careful amount of room between them, but still dangerously, intoxicatingly close—Yves feels his breath catch in his throat.

Vincent is right there, less than an arm’s length away from him, closer than he’s ever been, and Yves—Yves is—

“See,” Yves says, as evenly as he can manage to, in his current state, as if his heart isn’t practically beating out of his chest. He swallows. His throat feels dry. “This bed definitely fits two.”

“I suppose it does,” Vincent says. “Now you can tell me if I’m a terrible person to share a bed with.”

“After everything I’ve put you through,” Yves says, “I think I’d honestly feel reassured if you were.”

Vincent smiles, again, as if he finds this humorous. “Are you sure you’re going to be fine?”

“Positive,” Yves says. “You should sleep. I’ll wake you if I ndeed anything.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.” Vincent shuts his eyes.

It’s not long before his breathing evens out, not long before he goes perfectly still. He must really be tired, Yves thinks, with a pang.

Yves, for some reason, finds that he can’t get to sleep. He stares up at the ceiling for what feels like minutes on end, shuts his eyes, all to no avail. Maybe it’s because he’s already slept far more than his usual share. Maybe it’s the jetlag. Maybe it’s merely Vincent’s unusual presence—the strangeness of having him so close, in an environment so intimate.

But when he allows himself to look, he sees—

Vincent, his eyes shut, his eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks. From the window, the filtered light gleams unevenly across the crown of dark hair on his head. There’s almost no movement to him at all, aside from the even rise and fall of his shoulders.

And Yves knows what the feeling in his chest is. He’s regrettably, intimately familiar with it.

He just isn’t sure he likes what it means.

—

Vincent—despite falling asleep so quickly—is up before him. When Yves wakes, next, it’s to a hand to his forehead.

“Hey,” Vincent is saying, softly. “Yves. You have a visitor.”

Yves opens his eyes.

He’s feeling—a little better, remarkably. Still feverish, still a little unsteady, but leagues better as compared to yesterday. When he looks over, he sees—

He doesn’t jolt upright, but it’s a close thing. “Aimee!”

He barely has a chance to ask before she’s crashing into him, encircling him in a tight hug. “Yves!” she exclaims, pulling back from him. “How are you feeling? Oh my gosh, when I heard you left early because you were unwell, I was so worried…”

Yves grimaces, turning away. “Sorry, I had every idtention of staying until the end—”

“You came all the way out with the flu!” she says. “I honestly can’t believe you. The fact that you still took the trouble to attend with a fever—”

“It—” Yves starts, but he finds himself twisting away, lifting an arm to his face. “hhEH-! HEEhD’TTSCHH-iiiEEw! Snf-! It’s fide, snf-! I’mb practically recovered already.”

“I should’ve told you not to push yourself when you told me you were coming down with something,” Aimee says, shaking her head. “And you stayed and gave such a lovely speech, even though you weren’t feeling well? When I was talking to Victoire after, she mentioned that you’ve been sick for days and Genevieve—you should’ve said something.”

“I’ll say somethidg next time,” Yves says, a little sheepishly. “Did the wedding go okay?”

Aimee visibly brightens, at this. “It was more than okay,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “It blew every expectation that I had out of the water.”

Aimee fills him in on everything that happened after he left, last night—dessert, the first dance, the cake-cutting; her favorites out of the photos they’d taken after the ceremony (a shot of Genevieve braiding her hair during the cocktail hour; a shot of them leaning in close, for the dance, tired but smiling; a shot of the cake with its multiple tiers, the frosting strung like banners across it; another where both of them are holding onto the cutting knife together and Genevieve looks like she is trying not to laugh; a shot of the bouquet toss, the flowers suspended in mid-air). She tells him about the conversations she and Genevieve had with others about marriage and their futures and their plans for their honeymoon.

Then she lectures him on how he should worry about his health first, next time. She tells him, in no uncertain terms, that she’s fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind the next time he tries to pull something like this. She insists that his health is more important than anything. Vincent stands off to the side the entire time, his arms crossed, passively listening in, but when Yves looks over helplessly, mid-lecture, he definitely looks a little smug.

All in all, she doesn’t seem disappointed in him at all. And, more importantly, she seems happy. Yves finds himself relieved, at this.

Genevieve stops by, too, a little later, to thank him for the advice he’d given her the day before the wedding. She hugs him too, and she leaves him a bag of tea that she promises “is practically a cure to anything—I hope it makes your flight home tomorrow a little more tolerable.” Victoire stops by, with Leon, and Yves resigns himself to more lecturing from the both of them. It’s humbling, a little, to be lectured by his younger sister and his younger brother, though he concedes that perhaps this time, it might be at least partially warranted.

Then Leon opens their hotel fridge to show him the two creme brulees he and Vincent had missed out on, packaged nicely in small paper containers. (“Vincent told me you were interested in these,” he says, and Yves finds himself slightly mortified—but perhaps also a little endeared—that whatever it was that he’d said last night, offhandedly, Vincent had deemed it important enough to text Leon about.)

Later, after Yves showers and gets changed—when he and Vincent eat the creme brulees at the table in the living room, and Vincent tells him that he’s finished the book, perhaps a little masochistically (“it doesn’t get any better,” he says, sounding a little spiteful)—Yves finds himself smiling.

He’s happy, he realizes, despite everything that’s happened. Even with the slight headache, and the lingering congestion, the fever that hasn’t quite gone away entirely. The revelation comes as a surprise to him, at first. But when he thinks about the people he’s surrounded with, he thinks perhaps it isn’t all that surprising.

—

EPILOGUE

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Vincent asks.

“Yes,” Yves says. It’s not a lie.

This time, he’s seated right next to the window, and Vincent is in the middle seat. Yves had offered to take the middle seat instead, but Vincent had insisted(“If you wanted to sleep, you could lean against the window,” he’d said, and Yves had accepted only because it would be better to fall asleep against the window than do something embarrassing, like fall asleep on Vincent’s shoulder).

“It’s just the annoyidg residual symptoms, now,” he says. “I—”

God. He always has the worst timing. He veers away, muffling a tightly contained sneeze into his shoulder.

“hHEH-’IIDDZschH-yyEW! Snf-! I’mb — hHhEHh’DjjsSHH-iEW! Ugh, I’m fine. I feel better thad I sound.”

“Bless you,” Vincent says, leaning over to press his hand against Yves’s forehead. “No fever,” he says. “That’s good. But you should take another day off when we get back.”

Yves doesn’t think taking another day off is necessary. “I spedt the entirety of yesterday sleeping,” he says. “I think I’ve rested enough.”

Vincent just raises an eyebrow at him. “Need I remind you that someone very wise told you to take it easy?”

“Since when has Aimee been your spokesperson?”

“She made a lot of good points,” Vincent says, deceptively unassuming. “I think you should consider taking notes.”

Yves looks at him for a moment. “You’re laughing at me.”

This time, Vincent smiles. “Maybe.”

Yves leans back in his seat, reaching up with one hand to massage his temples. The changing cabin pressure is not exactly comfortable—his head still hurts a little, but he’s flown enough times to know that it won’t be as much of a problem once they finish their ascent.

“Thadks again for coming,” he says, unwrapping one of the small, packaged pillows the airline has left on their seats.

“You invited me,” Vincent says, blinking. “All I did was show up.”

But that isn’t true at all, Yves thinks. Vincent is the one who spent time learning basic French, who met Yves’s family and who spoke with everyone with genuine interest, who bought Yves medicine and water, all while being careful to not be overbearing. Vincent is the one who left the wedding early to walk Yves back to the hotel, who stayed with him the entire day afterwards.

“That’s such a huge understatement I don’t even kdow where to get started,” Yves says. “Thanks for meetidg my family—they love you, by the way. They’re going to be askidg about you every summer from now on, I just know it.”

He can already picture it—June, this year, after busy season is over, if their fake relationship lasts that long. Another flight where they’re next to each other. Another dozen conversations about how they’d met, about what it’s like dating a coworker, about what their plans for the future are.

Perhaps it’s wishful thinking. This was never meant to be a long-term arrangement in the first place. But something about this—about being here with Vincent—just feels so unthinkingly easy.

“It’s no problem,” Vincent says. “The feeling is mutual. I’m glad I got to meet them.”

“Thanks for looking after me, too,” Yves says, with another apologetic smile. “I’mb sure being stuck in a hotel room all day wasn’t how you were planning on spending your last day of vacation.”

“I don’t mind,” Vincent says, sounding strangely like he means it. “I like spending time with you.”

Yves nearly drops the pillow he’s holding.

When he looks back at Vincent, Vincent looks faintly amused. “Is that so surprising? I think I’d be a terrible fake boyfriend if I didn’t.”

“You make a really good one, as it stands,” Yves tells him, sincerely, and Vincent smiles.

Yves looks out the window—where the city beneath them begins to resolve itself into miniature, where the sky stretches where he can see Vincent reflected faintly back at him, from the glass—and finds that he feels impossibly light.

#sneeze fic #snz fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snzfic #when i set off to write a slow burn h/c fic i don't think i expected it to be 28k words #this was a journey for me... thank you sincerely to everyone who's joined me for the ride 😭#i am not sure if this specific chapter feels rushed? or if it's too short? (if it does i'm very sorry 🙇‍♀️)#some thoughts... (spoilers ahead; pls read the chapter before proceeding)#1) this installment in particular is something of a turning point in their relationship development (and i hope that's not too subtle)#2) vincent not being like a traditionally 'soft' caretaker and having his frustration show a little more openly is something i've had in my #head for awhile :') it was fun to let that crystallize this chapter #yvverse #my fic

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five-and-dimes · 9 months

Text

Undisclosed Desires

"I have written smut." "You fucked up a perfectly good sex scene is what you've done. Look at it. It's got hurt/comfort."

When they get together, it comes out that Dream has never been on the receiving end of oral sex before. Hob decides to fix that immediately.

Ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been over six hundred years, and Hob still felt like this was happening so fast.

Granted, most of those years had been a one-sided friendship, a rigid dance where he was constantly held at arm's length and then farther after losing his temper in his desperation for connection. He spent a hundred years holding on to hope and then another thirty-three hanging on by sheer stubbornness. He did not live for his stranger, but that did not stop him from missing him.

And then he’d returned and it was like the floodgates opened.

On a random Thursday, not in June, not on the 7th, not in a year ending with ‘89’, his Stranger walked in and apologized. Called him a friend. Hob had spent the first half hour in a calm kind of bliss, a feeling as though he had exhaled for the first time in thirty-three years, finally able to breathe again. He learned his stranger’s name, and then he said it any chance he got. And then they were meeting once a month, twice a month, once a week, and Dream was explaining in a monotone voice why he was so tired, so thin, why he had missed their meeting, and then Hob was hugging him and Dream wasn’t pushing him away.

So yes. Six hundred some odd years was a long time to get together, but truthfully Hob was really only counting the past six months, and yeah some people would call that reasonable but right now, with Dream’s tongue in his mouth, it felt fast .

It wasn’t particularly late, but they had moved from their table in the New Inn to Hob’s flat upstairs once the dinner rush started pouring in. Dream wasn’t one for crowds, and Hob wasn’t one for making Dream uncomfortable. So they had ascended the steps, Hob feeling a slight buzz from too many pints and too few chips, and Dream a silent shadow behind him. Dream humors him and removes his shoes when asked, and even surprises him by slipping off his coat as well. He is still fully covered, a long sleeved black t-shirt revealed beneath the coat, but it is still significant to see him with one less layer shielding him, after everything he’s been through.

Maybe that was why he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from him, the silence stretching as he looks his friend up and down. When he reaches his eyes, he realizes that Dream is staring at his mouth.

Hob has no idea who moves first, but suddenly they are crashing together like the tides. Dream has his hands on Hob’s shoulders, bony fingers twitching like he’s trying not to cling to him, while Hob winds one hand through his wild black hair and curls the other around his lower back, pulling their bodies flush together. The kiss itself starts clumsy, noses bumping together and teeth clacking as they scramble to arrange themselves as close together as they can.

When they are both finally satisfied with the solid press of their chests and hips, they manage to smooth the slide of the lips together, and Dream takes advantage of Hob’s need to gasp for breath to slip his tongue into his mouth. Hob takes a step back, and Dream follows without granting a centimeter of space between them, fingers curling a little tighter as though afraid Hob is trying to leave. But he has nothing to fear, as Hob guides them farther into the living room. He moves his hands to cup Dream’s arse as he drops onto the sofa, grips at his hips and thighs until he has Dream straddling his waist.

Dream brings his hands up to cup Hob’s face as they part. Seated as they are, Hob has to tip his head back to catch Dream’s mouth, biting at his lower lip until he can feel a low moan reverberate through where their chests are pressed together.

“Hob…”

Hearing his name in that deep, breathless voice somehow makes everything so much more real. He has to take a moment to just stare half-lidded up at the gorgeous figure in his lap. Dream's hair is even messier than usual, and there’s a bit of color coming to his cheeks. His lips are dark and slightly swollen, and the look in his eyes can only be described as hungry .

He feels like he should say something- maybe slow things down, or clarify what exactly they’re doing, or just ‘I love you I love you I love you’- but before he gets a chance, Dream is pulling away from him. He has a split second of that old insecurity, the ache of an old wound as he thinks that he’s pushed too far and now Dream is leaving. Only a second though.

Then Dream is sinking to his knees in front of him.

If he could die he’s pretty sure he would have. “Fuck, dream…” His voice cracks embarrassingly, and there’s not enough blood above his waist to say anything more intelligent than that.

Especially not when Dream smirks up at him and runs his hands over Hob’s thighs, letting his thumbs ghost torturously close to his zipper, “Is this alright, Hob Gadling?”

It’s not fair that Dream’s voice is still so even and smooth. Hob lets his head drop back against the back of the couch, letting out a long groan, “Fuck, yes, please -”

That’s all the encouragement Dream needs as he elegantly pops the button of his jeans open, sliding the zipper down. It is a miracle Hob doesn’t come the second long, cold fingers wrap around him, pulling his cock free, but it does destroy any self restraint as he starts babbling before Dream finishes the first stroke.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so gorgeous, how is this happening, how am I so lucky, wanted you for so long-”

He nearly screams when Dream leans forward to lick daintily at the precum beading at the head of his dick. He gives a soft hum of satisfaction, and then he meets Hob’s eyes and takes him into his mouth.

“OooooohmyfuckingGod-” There is no way this is real. But when he runs his hand through Dream’s hair it feels more real than anything he’s experienced in his centuries of life. Dream starts at a slow pace, sinking down and up steadily while Hob’s rambling becomes rapidly incomprehensible.

At some point, as he pulls back, he presses his tongue hard against the underside of his cock at the same time as one hand slips into his pants to palm at his balls. Hob keens, and his hand tightens in Dream’s hair unintentionally, holding him in place as his hips thrust upwards mindlessly. Dream lets out a choked, wounded noise as he hits the back of his throat, wincing slightly before quickly smoothing his expression.

Hob releases his hair immediately, gasping out through the sensation, breathless but still full of guilt, “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

Dream pulls back, lips red and shiny with spit, and blinks up at Hob in confusion, “It’s fine. You need not concern yourself with me.”

Hob opens his mouth to say ‘sex is all about concerning yourself with the other person’, but all that comes out is a long moan as Dream swallows him back down without hesitation. His thighs tense with the effort of keeping himself still, and he brings a hand up to pet Dream’s hair, careful not to grip or tug. Dream hums around him, runs his hands up Hob’s trembling thighs and presses his thumbs into his hip bones.

At some point, Hob realizes he has closed his eyes. He can feel his climax approaching embarrassingly rapidly, and he pulls his hands away, digs his fingers into the couch to prevent himself from gripping Dream. When he opens his eyes, he looks down and sees Dream gazing up at him through long, glistening eyelashes as he sinks down until his nose is pressed against the hair on his belly and that’s it for Hob. His head falls back against the couch, crying out loud enough to vaguely worry about getting a noise complaint, and he thinks he sees stars as he comes hard down Dream’s throat, shuddering as Dream swallows him through it.

When he finally catches his breath, Dream is still kneeling before him, licking swollen lips and waiting patiently for Hob’s brain to come back online.

“Fuck,” Hob let’s out a breathy laugh, slipping his sensitive cock back into his briefs but leaving his jeans undone. Reaching down, he rests a hand on Dream’s cheek, “Come ‘ere, Love.”

He pulls Dream back up onto his lap, but when he leans in to kiss him Dream stops him with a hand on his chest, frowning slightly. “I had you in my mouth,” he says as an explanation.

Hob only smirks deviously, “Exactly.” He grips the back of Dream’s neck, letting his fingers tangle in the soft hairs at his nape, and pulls him forward firmly, kissing him deeply and licking into his mouth when he gasps in surprise.

When he is forced to pause for breath, he grins. “I taste good on you.”

Dream blushes so prettily, eyes wide with something like awe. With Dream straddling him like this, knees pressed into the couch on either side of his hips, Hob can see the way the front of Dream’s skin tight jeans are straining, the outline of his arousal making Hob’s mouth water. Head cleared slightly from his orgasm and suddenly impatient, Hob wraps his arms around Dream’s back and swings him around until he is stretched out on the couch with Hob hovering above him.

With a small, surprised smile on his face, Dream tilts his head, curious like a bird, “Planning to fuck me already, Hob Gadling?”

Hob’s cock makes a valiant effort at stirring when he hears the word “fuck” in Dream’s smooth, deep voice, but ultimately he has to laugh, “My refractory period’s not that good, I’m afraid,” he runs his hands down Dream’s sides, feeling the peaks and valleys of his ribcage through his shirt as he smirks, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t return the favor.”

The smile drops from Dream’s face, and his brow furrows questioningly, “You need not. There is no obligation to reciprocate.”

“I know,” Hob smiled, kissing Dream’s cheek, “but I want to.”

When he pulls back, Dream only looks more confused, “But. You do not have to.”

Now it’s Hob’s turn to be confused, raising an eyebrow, “So you said.”

Dream nods slowly, “So you. Do not have to. Do that.”

“Yeah, we’ve established that,” Hob huffed, “And I appreciate you not wanting to pressure me or whatever, but I want to.”

“It would… bring you pleasure?”

“I mean, yeah? In a sense…” Hob trailed off, narrowing his eyes as he tried to piece together what was going on in Dream’s head. “Do you… not enjoy oral?”

That would make sense, not everyone enjoyed everything, and regardless of the familiar, hard shape he had seen pressing against Dream’s jeans, that didn’t change that he wasn’t actually human. Maybe he needed something different.

For a long moment, Dream stared unblinkingly just over his shoulder. Hob didn’t rush him, and eventually he answered slowly, “I do not know.”

When he looked back, Hob was sending him a questioning look, and so he reluctantly elaborated, “I have. Done this for others. But never. Experienced. Receiving it myself.”

“You’re shitting me.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, the pure shock of it barreling through his filter. Dream stiffens below him, something like hurt in his eyes as he purses his lips and moves to stand.

“Perhaps I should go-”

“ No! ”

Dream somehow manages to tense even more at Hob’s exclamation, and Hob is quick to run soothing hands down his arms, trying to coax him back to softness, “I’m sorry, don’t leave, please. I shouldn’t have said that, I was just…” he allows himself a huff of laughter, “Honestly I’m shocked. I can’t fathom anyone getting you into their bed and not begging to get their mouth on you.”

A blush spreads across Dream’s face, even as his expression remains stoic, and it’s so endearing that Hob can’t help but bring a hand up to stroke one gently flushed cheek bone. He can practically see the wheels turning in Dream’s head, and so he lets him take his time to choose his words.

Eventually, he lowers his gaze and says, “That is not… what I am for.”

Hob tilted his head and frowned, “'For'?”

Nodding, Dream continues, still not meeting Hob’s eyes, “I am. A fantasy. A vessel for other people’s pleasure. And while I do find enjoyment in doing these things for you, that is not the point of it. It is not… about me. It's for you. I. Am for you."

Sometimes Dream does this. Explains something casually, stoically, as if it doesn’t matter. As if he doesn't matter. As if his words don’t slice Hob’s heart to the quick.

Slowly, Hob cups Dream's face in his hands, tilting his face up to look at him before leaning down to kiss him softly. Dream sighs into his mouth, and manages to relax ever so slightly as Hob pulls just far enough apart to speak against his lips.

“You're not a vessel , you’re my friend . And I don’t want to scare you off, but you’re also the love of my very long life. You’re not ‘for’ anything, not to me. I want to make you feel good too, because I love you, and you deserve to feel good."

He can feel the way Dream wants to argue, so he kisses him again, stroking his thumbs across the cold, smooth skin of his jaw. "I want these to be things I do with you, not to you.”

Dream's frowns, brow furrowed and looking at Hob as if he has handed him some nonsensical puzzle. He brings one elegant hand up to run through Hob's hair, sliding until he can rest his icy fingers on the back of Hob's neck.

"I enjoyed bringing you pleasure."

"I believe you," Hob nodded, "and I'm glad. So maybe you can understand how I would enjoy bringing you pleasure?" His voice tilts teasingly, raising his eyebrows pointedly, and he is rewarded with a quirk of Dream’s lips.

He leans down to kiss the corner of that tentative smile, "We don't have to. But I would be honored to be the one allowed to bring you pleasure for once."

A shuddering breath escapes Dream, Hob feels it as he nuzzles against his cheek. They’re both still tangled up together, Hob letting just a bit of his weight press Dream down into the worn couch cushions. He knows what he wants, but in truth, Hob would be over the moon even if Dream asks that they spend their night doing nothing more than this.

"....Okay."

Hob tries very hard to reign in his enthusiasm, but he still probably sits up just a little too fast, grinning in excitement, “Okay? You sure?”

Dream nods, cheeks coloring again and avoiding Hob’s eager gaze, “Yes. I… Yes.”

There is still an air of uncertainty to him. A nervousness that makes him seem almost young, and Hob just wants to take care of him. To give him every good thing this world has to offer.

“Come on,” he gives him one last peck on the lips before tugging him up to stand, “you’re not having your first time on my shitty, thrift store couch.”

“‘First time’?” Dream snorted. His haughty tone was betrayed by the vice grip he had on Hob’s hand, “I am no virgin, Hob Gadling.”

“Virginity is a construct,” Hob winked, leading them into his bedroom, keeping the lights dim, “I just mean that this is your first time experiencing this particular sex act, and so I want to make it as perfect as my human self possibly can.”

A big part of that, he doesn’t say out loud, means making Dream comfortable, which he has come to learn is not something that comes easily to him. And he doesn’t blame him- he’s got the entirety of humanity’s unconscious held within him, and he was very recently very terribly hurt. He understood why Dream struggled to relax, he did. But still. He wanted to be a safe place for him, a harbor where he could rest and be taken care of.

It’s with this in mind that he kisses Dream’s knuckles before guiding him to lay on the bed, pushing aside the crumpled sheets that he hadn’t made in the morning and moving his pillows to cushion Dream's head and neck. It feels like arranging a mannequin, every inch of Dream’s body coiled and tense, keeping himself perfectly still wherever Hob places him.

Even when Hob crawls on top of him, holding his weight carefully on his forearms and slotting one knee between Dream’s thighs, Dream remains unmoving, looking up at Hob with a deliberately neutral gaze.

Not exactly ideal. But they’ve got time.

“This position does not seem conducive to your goal.”

Dream’s tone is almost condescending, but it doesn’t hide the way his entire body feels like he’s bracing for something.

“My ‘goal’? You mean my most honored task of focusing on you and making you feel good?” Hob grins teasingly, stroking Dream’s clenched jaw and leaning down to capture his lips before he can argue.

The kiss starts soft and slow. Dream seems to like kissing, doesn’t seem to overthink it too much, and all he wants right now is to bleed some of the tension from his frame. To get him out of his own head. It takes a few minutes of just petting Dream’s face and sucking gently on his lower lip before Dream finally hesitantly raises his hands from the mattress, resting them shyly on Hob’s waist.

It’s a stark contrast to the Dream of earlier, confident and bold, and Hob wants nothing more than to reward his participation, to encourage him to reach for what he wants. Bracing himself more steadily, he presses the knee between Dream’s legs against his crotch, deepening the kiss when Dream gasps into his mouth. He can feel the hard press of him as Dream unconsciously grinds down against his thigh, just for a moment, before he catches himself and stills again.

Hob breaks away to begin mouthing down the pale length of his throat, nipping at his skin as he murmurs, “Come on, now.” He pushes his leg more firmly against him, sliding his hands around Dream’s lower back to rock him against his thigh, “Let go for me, Love.”

Dream’s fingers curl into his shirt, and Hob sucks at the spot on his throat where he can feel his breath catch. Running his fingers just under the hem of his shirt, Hob can feel that some of the tension has left him, and he kneads at the skin of his waist and hips, pressing his fingers into the coiled muscles until they release under his ministrations. He feels more than hears a deep whine in Dream’s chest when he slides a hand up to twist at his nipples.

“That’s it,” he grins against his skin as he moves to bite at Dream’s earlobe, relishing in the way it makes his whine pitch higher.

He is so focused on leaving a mark on the inhuman skin behind Dream's ear that he almost misses the hand sneaking down to palm at his crotch, where he’s managed to get half hard without his noticing. That said, he is alerted to the touch by his own gasping breath, and he’s quick to wrap a hand around Dream's pale, cold wrist and pin it into the mattress before he gets too distracted.

"Ah, ah, ah," he scolds, leaning back to raise an eyebrow, "it's your turn, remember?"

The being below him pouts, furrowing his brows in frustration, "But. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing."

Dream shifted below him, a tinge of genuine distress coloring his expression, "That hardly seems fair."

"Hmf. Funny…” Hob drawled, snagging Dream’s other wrist and pinning his hands on either side of his head, pressing them into the mattress as he leaned down to whisper against his ear, “you didn't have a problem with me sitting back and doing nothing while you sucked my brain out through my prick."

He can feel Dream shiver below him, and when he responds his voice is a little weaker, "You speak. Very familiarly with me."

Hob laughs, "I am very familiar with you." Dream huffs, but doesn’t say anything else. Possibly because of the way his chest hitches when Hob returns to his task of marking up his neck and massaging his arse through his jeans.

"Relax,” Hob whispers, “Just relax."

This time it is less of a shiver and more of a full body shudder, a long moan escaping Dream as his back arches just slightly, searching for more friction. Hob begins a slow descent down his body, grazing his teeth across his collar bones and pressing a wet kiss to the hollow of his throat. He kisses down his chest, pushing up his shirt just enough to kiss at his stomach. Hob wants nothing more than for them to press together with nothing between them, just skin on skin. But he remembers the way Dream’s voice had wavered when he described his captivity in Fawney Rig, and tonight does not feel like the night to push at that boundary.

Comfortable. He wants Dream comfortable.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t also want to rile him up a bit.

Biting at the skin just above the waistband of his jeans, Hob situated himself between Dream’s legs, his chin brushing against the bulge there, “I’ve been drooling for you since 1395.”

Dream tries to bite off his groan, but Hob can still feel the way his thighs tremble on either side of his body, and when he glances up he sees Dream’s hands clutching at the bedsheets, head thrown back and panting.

Hob grinned deviously, maneuvering Dream until his legs are resting over his shoulders. "The second I saw you, heard your voice… God your voice just drips with sex, I wanted to get on my knees then and there. Wanted to rinse out the taste of shitty ale with the taste of you."

“Hob-”

He got the impression that Dream was trying to sound affronted, but ultimately he slapped a hand over his own mouth when the word came out thin and needy. Hob tutted, and reached to pull the offending hand down, placing it on the back of his own head.

“Let me hear you, baby.”

Even grinding his teeth together couldn’t silence his whine as Hob finally got Dream’s jeans open. After so long getting him worked up, Dream couldn’t help but exhale a shuddering breath as his prick was finally released from the restrictive denim.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Hob swallowed thickly. Dream’s fingers spasmed in his hair, not quite gripping. “You can tug a little, it’s okay,” he sucked a mark on the space where his thigh creased, feeling Dream’s hips stutter as his cock brushed the scruff on Hob’s cheek, “I like it, promise.”

He moaned as Dream got his hair in a proper grip, not painful, but there. Satisfied with the purple mark blooming on his pelvis, Hob finally turned his attention to the long, flushed cock in front of him.

A soft whimper escaped Dream as Hob’s breath ghosted over the sensitive flesh, voice soft and desperate and lost as he offered one last time, "You don't-.... You don't have to-..."

"I want ."

And with that, Hob couldn’t hold back anymore, sinking down in one smooth movement, a firm grip on Dream’s hips keeping him pressed into the bed even as he cried out and clenched both hands loosely in Hob’s hair. Hob himself couldn’t help but moan loudly around Dream’s prick, feeling his own arousal spike at finally getting to taste the strange, salty sweetness of him.

Dream’s voice cracks as Hob pulls back to swirl his tongue around the head, “Hob, Hob, Hob-!” and he can feel his legs trembling violently around his shoulders. Gripping his arse firmly, Hob sank down again, pulling Dream closer until he feels him bump against the back of his throat, and then he swallows.

The sound Dream makes can only be described as a wail, and his hand scramble for purchase around Hob’s shoulders, desperately seeking an anchor as Hob hollows his cheeks and picks up the pace. Hob finds himself rutting against the mattress, his cock throbbing and aching for stimulation.

“Hob,” his name comes out on a sob, “I- ahhhhh, Hob I will not last, I’m, I’m-”

In all honesty he’s lasted longer than Hob expected, so now he simply hums encouragingly around him as he lowers himself one last time to take Dream as deep as he can go. He can feel the way Dream’s muscles tense, his knees locking around Hob’s head as he comes with a long, drawn out cry, and when he finally reaches a hand between his own legs, it only takes a few frantic rubs before Hob is coming in his underwear right along with him. Hob swallows around Dream’s orgasm, milking him dry until his whimpers border on pain from overstimulation.

Pulling off of him, Hob takes a few deep, gasping breaths, feeling full and floaty and satisfied. Looking up, he falls even more in love as he watches Dream’s body melt into the mattress. He is still panting, and his shirt sticks to his chest from sweat. There are little purple and red marks on his neck and hip, his softening cock shiny with Hob’s spit, and he looks boneless and soft in the dim lighting.

Tucking him gently back into his underwear, Hob ignores the sticky discomfort in his pants in favor of crawling up the bed to cover Dream with his body. Hovering over him, he sees Dream has his eyes closed as he catches his breath, and fresh tear tracks are running down his face. Frowning, Hob brings his hands up to wipe at the tears with his thumbs.

"Hey…Are you alright?" He whispers.

Dream nods without hesitation, and Hob lets out a sigh of relief. After a few more deep breaths, Dream opens his eyes, gazing up at Hob and looking almost embarrassed.

"I… I have done this for others. I know the experience from dreams. I… understood what it would feel like. But it was still… a lot."

Hob doesn't think right now is the best time to explain touch-starvation to Dream, so he simply hums sympathetically, kissing the corners of his eyes gently, "That makes sense. Knowing something and feeling something are very different experiences."

“Indeed,” Dream huffed.

After a moment of hesitation, Hob quietly asks, “...Good, though?”

Dream’s laugh is a soft thing, but his smile is genuine as he blinks up at Hob fondly, “Yes. Very.” He pauses before adding, “...Thank you.”

Chuckling, Hob couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss him, “Nothing to thank me for, Love.” For a long moment they stay pressed together from lips to thighs, relaxed and loose and sated. When they pull apart, Dream smirks

“I taste good on you.”

Hob lets out a barking laugh, his cheeks coloring as he ducks his head against Dream’s neck, “Oh, someone learns quick I see.”

Dream smirked, petting his hair, and his every touch seemed to radiate affection. Unfortunately, they eventually have to disentangle so that Hob can clean himself up, a revelation that has Dream staring at him, wide eyed and confused.

“You…? But I didn’t…?”

He cuts him off with a kiss, “Don’t overthink it.” It’s an impossible request, but Dream at least seems content enough post orgasm to let it go for now. Before Hob leaves the bed, he takes a moment to catch Dream's eye, whispering a quick plea, “Stay?”

Dream gazes at him in wonder, looking at Hob as though he has performed some great feat of magic, “Yes. Please.”

It is hard to break away long enough to change, but eventually Hob reluctantly manages it, fixing himself up in record time, and when he returns to bed Dream has swapped his jeans for dream-soft joggers. Hob straightens the sheets, and Dream curls into his side, resting his head over Hob's heartbeat. He is still soft, still relaxed, still here.

All things considered, Hob thinks it might be his favorite part of the night.

#the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing #nsft #I can't believe this was the fandom that finally got me to try writing smut #and I STILL had to add some h/c #what am I doing with my life #(answer: my best)

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