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It’s late, the last guests left the New Inn a couple of minutes ago, and Hob’s about to lock up when the door clicks open again.
“Ah, Jax. Need more advice on how to handle your council?”
And how London came to have a Gangrel prince will always be a mystery to Hob but who is he to judge.
“Actually, no. There’s something threatening the Masquerade.”
It’s almost dawning when Hob finally climbs the stairs to his flat, stifling the last of many yawns. He’s not sure if or how he was of any help but Jax certainly seemed to think so. They’ve known each other for, what? An odd ninety years now, the wicked spike of initial attraction transformed into a steady friendship without benefits long ago.
Hob chuckles to himself while he undresses, remembering their first spontaneous and very bloody tumble taking a massive turn when Jax realized, wide-eyed, a bit freaked out and lot turned on, that Hob wouldn’t die from blood loss like he should. They explored and exploited that peculiar gift all over the place in London and Paris for weeks after, right until the threat of war drove them into different directions. When they reconnected some fifteen years later in a reshaped world the spark had somehow died down, but it’s still a fond memory.
Hob falls asleep to phantom fangs grazing the skin of his neck.
The setting of his dream is vaguely familiar. He’s in that cobblestone alley in Paris, firmly pressed against a brick wall – but that’s not Jax, holding him in place. It’s Dream and Hob smiles. He hasn’t seen him for almost two weeks and this bodes well, doesn’t it? It’s only when he leans in for a kiss that he catches up on the fact that his friend looks, well, maybe furious? His eyes are a bottomless black, not a star in sight, his posture’s rigid, his grip on Hob’s hips firm enough to leave bruises.
“Um, hello, Dream?” It’s as much a question as a greeting somehow.
“You consort with vampires.” It sounds eerily like ‘You dare’.
“Look, love,” Hob begins.
“And then you daydream about them and carry it even in here.”
Dream’s nostrils flare, and really, Hob’s getting so much better at reading him but this one is as easy as it gets. His lover’s pissed. Massively.
“Look, love,” he tries again. “This was a long time ago. You weren’t around,” he flinches as he says it. Of all the stupid, insensitive things - “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“You dream of it now. Long time or not.”
“It was, um, hot? Really, it’s only a fun thing to remember.” And that’s probably not the right way to defuse this, is it? “Can’t we just forget about it?”
Maybe he can help the process along, Hob thinks, leaning back in, whispering, “I missed you,” his breath ghosting over the other’s lips.
However, Dream pulls back, left hand still rough against Hob’s hip, right hand coming up, encircling Hob’s left wrist, making him wonder where the hell this is going – and then all thoughts vanish from his mind in a swirl of sharp, delicious pain. It’s the best kind, it’s his hand brought close to his lover’s mouth, it’s pointed teeth sinking into the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist. Holy shit.
Dream looks up from underneath his lashes, slightly bent over Hob’s wrist, a king bowing to a peasant. Their eyes remain locked for what feels like an eternal moment, a single heartbeat stretched thin. Hob relents, lets out the breath he’s holding, and it turns into a gasp the very moment Dream starts to suck. It’s glorious, unrivaled, and it sends a furious pang of arousal through Hob, whatever blood he can spare pooling in his groin.
He gets lost in sensation, heartbeat pounding in his ears, world reduced to teeth, pain, bliss, Dream.
When his lover lets go, withdraws, takes a measured step back, Hob feels bereft. It’s too soon, not nearly enough, never enough. He lets out an embarrassing whine before he can stop himself. Damn.
“Memories of any and all vampires successfully erased,” he croaks out.
There’s a mesmerizing shower of stars in Dream’s eyes and the ghost of a smile on his lips, a distracting drop of blood lingering in one corner. Hob’s blood.
And no, Hob can’t let it go, let it end, not like this, not yet. He’s already moving forward, into Dream’s arms, sagging against him, into a cautious embrace.
“Please,” Hob begs.
He cocks his head, bares his neck. There’s a slender finger tracing the veins there, brushing alongside his jaw, while starry eyes searchingly meet his.
“Yes,” Hob confirms.
The shower of stars intensifies. Dream licks his lips and Hob can see the fangs protruding, crystal-white over red. It’s a sight to behold. He bends his head a bit more, intention clear, invitation open, and waits for an agonizing second before needle-sharp tips pierce his neck.
And Hob submits.