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as long as this body shall endure

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Hob loves eating pussy.

(He knows he shouldn’t be thinking about this at school, but it’s free period and the Year Elevens are more than capable of supervising themselves, so sue him, he’s bored.)

It was necessary for the first two hundred-odd years, so it was a good thing he loved it, or he mightn’t have had sex at all. Hob’s always been lucky when it comes to passing as male; the Gadlings are a tall breed and the women, small-breasted. When the plague left almost everyone who’d known him as a girl dead, he’d donned his brother’s tunic, joined the army, and never looked back.

But the women? They would’ve known the second he whipped off his breeches. And there were always women, bored wives and daughters happy to entertain a handsome young soldier passing through town.

So, Hob got good at eating pussy.

Really good.

So good, he could fuck half the barmaids and wenches in town and leave the next morning without a single one asking why he hadn’t taken his own pleasure.

(He looks around the room to preserve the illusion that he’s doing his job. A couple of students meet his eye and glance guiltily back down at their homework.)

Here’s the thing: Hob’s always known he likes women. He’s known as long as he’s known he’s not a woman, himself.

But men?

Men were dangerous. Men couldn’t be trusted.

Men could report him or kill him, or worse. Not that Hob doesn’t think women can be violent—Hob lived for eighty years in the gutters of London among cutpurses and throat-slitters, many of them women—but he knows the kind of violence men are capable of, and it is not something he cares to have enacted upon his body.

In his body.

(Theoretically, Hob can still get pregnant. The very thought makes him shudder at his desk.)

Look—it’s not that Hob didn’t know he liked men. How else could he have slogged through battle after battle if not for his brothers-in-arms beside him? Six hundred years and his dreams are still haunted by fields muddied with blood, but he would wade through them all over again even knowing, as he does now, that the ones he went back for were already dead.

He’s had countless male business partners and drinking buddies over the years, most of them liked, some of them loved. So, yes: he knew he liked men.

But liking men? That took him until the 1600s to figure out. It was James I’s fault—as was Hob being drowned for witchcraft, but that’s a different story—with all that talk of the Duke of Buckingham in his bed. Hearing that the king took male lovers got Hob thinking maybe he’d like a male lover himself.

Eleanor had laughed when he told her—laughed because he was the last person to know this about himself, she said, the way he looked at the men she’d fucked was a dead giveaway. Theirs had been an unconventional match from the start—the day they met, his fake penis and testicles fell out of his codpiece and she’d helped him shove them back in—but, in all their years of marriage, she never failed to surprise him with the depth and breadth of her love. She was the first person Hob ever allowed to undress him in full, the first to touch and kiss and wring pleasure from his flesh. A part of Hob died when she did, but Hob knows she would be pleased to see him continue living.

It wasn’t till after his meeting with Dream in 1789 that Hob really explored his liking of men. When he finally did—guess what?

Hob loves sucking cock.

He loves the feel of it in his mouth, heavy and full, yet so delicate. The girth of it in his hand is a welcome anchor in the storm. The years of the British Empire were tumultuous for Hob, swept along by the twin currents of technology and war, and through it all cock was a lifeline he clung to with both hands. Big, small, thick, thin—it didn’t matter. Hob has savoured many a prick in the alleys behind molly-houses, each as unique as the man attached to it, and through it all the fierce wild joy of knowing he could still bring pleasure into an increasingly dark world bore him up above the waves and onto the shores of modern day.

And if the men he picked up all had dark hair and pale skin—well, Hob’s never been one to baulk from hard truths.

(He gazes cursorily round the room again. The group in the back working on a science project are getting a tad rowdy, but a glance from him dials them back down to whispers. The only other student not intent on their work is Ellen. She stares out the window, most likely fantasising about Brendon Urie. Hob leaves her be. The last time he interrupted one of her daydreams, he’d heard way too much about just what she wants to do to that emo twink.)

Speaking of emo twinks—


Hob may have simple aspirations in life, but he is not a simple man. Certainly not a man in the habit of deluding himself.


Is a twink.

More a goth twink than an emo one, to be fair, but a twink nonetheless.

Which is why he cannot, will not, interrupt Ellen’s fantasies ever again. Because the girl has a remarkable gift for imagery, and the images she put in Hob’s head last time, of her and Brendon Urie in a naked, sweaty embrace—


Thing is, they have the same parts to work with, he and Ellen, and Dream does bear a passing resemblance to Brendon Urie. Not that Hob finds the thought of his (technically of age but still a child!) student having sex with a (significantly older than her!) pop star sexy in any way—


He’s just digging his own grave, isn’t he.

Point is , Ellen and Brendon had morphed into Hob and Dream in Hob’s head, and it was a bloody miracle he’d managed to finish teaching his classes without rubbing one out in the loo that day.

Which brings him here. To being bored supervising a free period, today.

To being bored and horny, because it’s been over a week since he last saw Dream and maybe Hob is a simple man after all when it comes to sex.

Hob loves being trans for many reasons, chief among them his ability to think about fucking without his genitals making an unwanted appearance. He employs this ability now with aplomb.

Dream on the desk, Dream on the windowsill, Dream up against the wall—

The thing is, Hob never really knows what he’s going to get with Dream. Dream is a man and also a woman, and also both, and also neither, and sometimes moves from one gender to another and into a third or fourth. Dream is always a man with Hob—because that’s the Dream Hob fell in love with, that man is Hob’s Dream—but sometimes he shows up with a penis and sometimes a vagina, sometimes both, sometimes neither. He’d asked, once, if Hob had a preference, to which Hob’s answer was “Dealer’s choice, so long as it’s human.”

And you know what?

Hob fucking loves it.

He loves eating pussy and he loves sucking dick, and he loves bringing Dream pleasure in as many ways as there are nerves to feel it. He loves it when Dream shoves him to his knees with a sneer painted across kiss-reddened lips, loves it when Dream rocks against him for hours, imperious and incorrigible, trading banter with a grin—

He loves being the one Dream comes to with whatever parts need or want worshipping, knowing Hob will rise to the call with every ounce of stamina, every breath left in his unending body.

He loves that Dream feels safe to choose with him. Hob never got that choice, but this body’s a good one, one that has seen him through nigh on seven hundred years. There are all kinds of surgeries now and God knows Hob’s been on testosterone since the 1930s, but honestly?  Hob loves his body, cunt and all.  He loves the dick testosterone gave him and sees no reason to change it. Maybe he’ll feel differently in a century or two—maybe by then surgery will have advanced to the point where Hob could get two dicks in different colours if he so wanted—but, right now, all that matters is that Hob feels good in his skin and even better when Dream’s is pressed up against his.

Speaking of which.

It’s been over a week since he last saw Dream and now all Hob can think of is Dream under him, letting Hob ruck his T-shirt up and his jeans down, pressing kisses to the head of his cock—

Dream grinding down with a lazy smirk, ignoring Hob’s teasing complaints of hand cramp as he opens himself up on two of Hob’s fingers, then three—

Dream pressing against Hob like he wants to climb into his body, rutting together through their clothes with no finesse or patience—


That isn’t what Hob wants. Not today.

Today, Hob wants Dream on his knees.

He can picture it so clearly, pale hands pressing his thighs apart as Dream kneels at his feet. Petulant eyes—Dream’s pride will not allow Hob to seize control without a token protest—looking up into Hob’s own as he ducks his head to lick in perfect circles around Hob’s dick.

Hob has always loved bringing his bedfellows pleasure, but oh, how long he has waited for someone who knows and pleasures him as well as Dream. For Dream has seen the dark behind his eyes with every sleep, knows each pulse of his desire—

And his every daydream.


He glances up, sensing more than seeing—

Although seeing isn’t much better, as evidenced by Hob jumping half out of his seat. For there, at the back of the classroom, stands Dream.

(Ellen turns, brow furrowed, and looks in the direction of Hob’s gaze. Finding nothing there, she raises her eyebrows in question. Hob smiles at her with as much reassurance as he can muster.)

Perhaps he imagined it. Perhaps he simply wants to see Dream so badly that he fancied him standing there.

(He looks over his shoulder at the clock above the whiteboard. Fifteen minutes left. An eternity.)

Dream on his knees at Hob’s feet, his every ounce of being concentrated on bringing Hob pleasure, on sucking Hob’s dick—

And Hob, tangling his fingers in Dream’s hair, would anchor him there, a lifeline in the rising storm.

Here’s the thing: Hob is not, nor has he ever been, a bottom. He knows it’s what’s expected of transmascs these days, but the thought of being a passive receptacle, to be taken and used—it feels too close to the truth of womanhood.

(Not that every bottom is passive, nor that there’s anything wrong with being a bottom, nor that all women are passive receptacles—the point is, cis gay men expect Hob to bottom for them, and Hob would rather starve through another century than let them anywhere near his holes.)

But Dream?

Dream has always seen Hob for what he is.

Dream just has trouble, sometimes, seeing himself.

The truth of Dream is that beneath the crushing weight of power and responsibility lies a man who just wants to be taken so thoroughly in hand that all he can do is let go. The other truth of Dream is that no one can be allowed to take him in hand, for the last time someone tried, the waking world had suffered for over a hundred years.

The other, other truth of Dream—and this is a truth only Hob, and perhaps Death and Desire, know—is that, at the end of the day, when he is beat down and weary, drifting far from himself in both the Dreaming and waking world, it is Hob he comes to. It is Hob he gives himself over to, to be loved with a fierce tenderness that lights the way back into his own body.

It is Hob who gets to open him up with gentle fingers, Hob who gets to feather kisses across his brow, Hob who gets to fuck him into the mattress, Hob who gets to hold him as he shakes apart in Hob’s arms—

The truth of Hob is that he may worship Dream’s body with his own, but, every so often, it is Dream who offers his body up to Hob in return. The hand in Dream’s hair is as much an anchor for him as it is for Hob.

Dream’s tongue licking cool fire through Hob’s folds, a finger pressing inside to rub at the spot that sends pleasure spiking through Hob’s gut—

He can see it, how he would reach out his hand just so—

Hob’s fingers twist into hair as dark and soft as the night wind.

Because Dream is under his desk.

Dream is under his desk.

Dream is under his desk on his knees, and JesusChristwhatthefuckareyoudoinginmyclassroom?!

(He can feel Ellen’s eyes on him again. He lets go of Dream’s hair as if scalded, determinedly not looking at her or Dream as he shuffles papers around on his desk in a way he hopes screams Everything is fine, nothing to see here! )

When he looks back down, Dream is still there. Hob pokes experimentally at his shoulder, and yup. Still there.

What the fuck are you doing here? Hob imagines the words floating from his mind to Dream’s in blocky comic book speech bubbles, hoping that, if he makes it sort of a daydream, Dream will get the message.

Dream raises his eyebrows. This is not at all helpful as an indicator of whether or not he heard.

You can’t be here, I’ve told you, Hob tries, there are children and you look like a weird adult who broke into school—

Dream’s hands gently push apart Hob’s knees, and Hob’s brain short-circuits as they slide smoothly up his thighs.

The bastard.

Glancing swiftly around the classroom to make sure nobody has noticed, Hob shifts in his seat and glares down into Dream’s laughing eyes. Dream rests his chin on the edge of Hob’s chair, hands kneading closer and closer to where Hob wants him, and thank God, thank the ever-loving fuck Hob had the foresight to wear black pants this morning.

(There’s a cardigan slung over his chair in the staffroom that he can tie around his waist if need be. He’s lent it to many a grateful student whose period leaked through their uniform.)

Dream has the good sense not to push any further—not that Hob would have let him, because, despite all evidence to the contrary, he is capable of remaining professional at his job—seeming content to kneel there and let Hob run his fingers through his hair. His eyes drift shut as Hob combs and smooths, moving soft black tufts around and utterly failing to change the way his hair falls.

(Dream has cultivated, as the kids say, a Lewk, and neither Hob’s hands nor the laws of gravity are permitted to alter it.)

Dream on his knees at Hob’s feet, letting Hob play with his hair, letting Hob tug him sharply to where he wants Dream to be—

Dream’s eyes snap open between Hob’s knees. Hob has no doubt this time that he heard.

He stares into twin stars, in freefall within Dream’s fathomless eyes—

The bell goes. In the blink it takes for Hob to startle at the sound, all that is left of Dream is a wisp of sand under Hob’s desk.

The kids are out the door before he can dismiss them, as eager as he is to be done with school. Ellen shoots him one last concerned look as she goes. Sweet, really, that girl—much as Hob wishes she had literally any sort of brain-to-mouth filter.

Dream will be waiting for him in the flat. The thought has him pressing his thighs together in anticipation.

Hob can’t be faffed with returning to the staffroom for his cardigan, choosing instead to angle his messenger bag as much as possible to hide any potential seepage. He hops the fence in the back—look, you don’t live to the age of 667 without learning a few tricks—and hurries home in as dignified and unruffled a manner as he can manage with both a raging hard-on and enough slick to wax the floors of Buckingham Palace.

Dream is on him the moment he turns the knob, hauling him to the sofa with barely a pause for Hob to kick the door shut.

“What—did—I say—about—you—being—at school,” Hob manages to get out between kisses and having his trousers ripped down his legs.

Dream gives him a look as he wrests Hob out of his shoes. “It was you who summoned me there.”

“I was—don’t forget the socks—merely daydreaming.”

One of the socks hits him in the face. “Is that all I am to you? Merely a daydream?”

He is teasing, not an ounce of insecurity in the words, but Hob cups his cheek and smooths a thumb under his eye all the same. “Never.”

Dream tilts his head to bite at Hob’s palm.

Words are foregone thereafter in favour of licking his way into Dream’s mouth. Dream is not exactly cold—he is, if anything, the absence of temperature—but he feels cool to Hob when Hob’s blood is up and roaring beneath his skin. Hob has to pause for breath, but Dream needs no such allowance, pushing his advantage to trail kisses along Hob’s jaw and down his neck.

When Dream grows impatient, folding gracefully to his knees at Hob’s feet, Hob is reminded of just how thankful he is for immortality, because there are some sights not meant for mortal eyes and the sight of Dream on his knees should have struck Hob down where he sits.

Dream mouths at his thighs, hands parting Hob’s knees. Hob lets Dream pull him to the edge of the cushions, a hand in Dream’s hair tugging him to where Hob wants him to be.

Here’s the thing: worship connects you to something greater than yourself, and, in that sense, sex can be considered one of the oldest forms of worship.

So when Hob gives himself in worship to the literal personification of humanity’s collective dreams?

Cool fire licks through wet folds and into the brazier of Hob’s dick, each notch of his spine lit in rapid succession, a line of torches leading to the sacred chamber where Hob’s voice sleeps—

Over fifty thousand years of humans who worshipped Dream before him speak now in an endless litany rising from the depths of his throat. The man between his legs is Morpheus, is Oneiros, is Kai’ckul, and Hob praises him in tongues long fallen to dust, every breath sweet incense at the altar of Dream.

Dream’s hands are roaming, exploring the temple Hob has made of his body and finding it pleasing, finding it worthy of Dream’s name. A finger presses inside him and rubs. He closes his eyes against the lightning sparking behind them with every touch.

His voice grows hoarse, but still he sings praise to the man who is Inguma, is Mamu—

Is Hob’s.

Thunder, rolling in long, low waves of pleasure, breaks against the lips wrapped around his cock. Dream’s finger inside him does not cease, stoking the flames ever higher, an eternal bonfire to the one whose many names are all that of Hob’s love.

Later, when Hob has recovered enough to carry Dream to the bedroom, when he has opened him up with gentle fingers and fucked him into the mattress, all the while feathering kisses across his brow—

When Dream has shaken apart in his arms, Hob having taken him in hand so thoroughly that all he can do is let go—

When they are lying together afterward, Hob’s skin pressed up against his, loved with such fierce tenderness that he is as present in his body as a dream can ever be—

When Hob, for the first time in over six hundred years, allows Dream to press inside where no man’s prick has ever been, he will learn something that he has always known.

The truth of love is this: it doesn’t matter what parts you have so much as it matters that you have someone you feel safe choosing with.

And Hob will always choose joy with Dream, as long as this body shall endure.