zayakin
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One day, in spring, he comes to the Inn.
Hob looks up and he’s there, and the relief is blinding. He thinks tu m’as manqué, fuck, because you were missing from me feels more true than I missed you ever has. English missing was ruined for him the moment he learned the French way of it. Longing is meant to be a reflexive verb.
It would be a bad faith translation, even for him. He tells himself this is why he doesn’t say it.
He thinks at last, and that’s a doable one. So he smiles, says, “You’re late.”
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Bookmarked by zayakin
02 Jun 2026
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It had started because Hob had a bit of a thing. That was reasonable, he thought. You couldn’t live for six greedy centuries and counting without accumulating a few things. Exhibitionism (fourteenth through seventeenth centuries, naturally); corsets and heels (eighteenth century); goths (late twentieth century). And so on. Perfectly normal.
But this, this was the oldest Thing. His ancient Stonehenge of a Thing. His perfectly-preserved bog body of a Thing. If he was the oldest human, then this was the longest-lived Thing. It was dry-aged, cask-aged, new-aged. It was underpainted with mysterious fluids and had provenance papers that would make the men at Sotheby’s blush and adjust themselves at their desks. It was worn as soft as the Shroud of Turin, and as wrinkled and delicious as a new Judean date from a resurrected 2,000-year-old seed. It was the leitmotif of all his lust and desire. If the British Museum ever did an exhibition on the history of Things, they would steal it and put it on display.
Or, a short and silly story about husbands: one newly human, and one with a very old kink.
Bookmarked by zayakin
26 May 2026
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There are two things that Dream does only once a century. The first is meeting with Robert Gadling, immortal. The second is getting dressed by hand.
In 1889, he adds another.
Bookmarked by zayakin
23 May 2026
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“You just need to practice, then?”
“Um. Yeah, I guess.”
Ilya’s hand has not moved from Shane’s knee, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the skin there, his touch warm even through the layer of his comforter.
“We could practice together,” Ilya says casually, a small purse to his lips. As if Shane’s brain is not screeching to a violent halt, his mouth falling open around a choked noise.
“That’s not—that’s not funny.”
“Is not a joke,” Ilya says firmly, suddenly serious. “If you are so afraid to be bad, I can teach you. Then you can go kiss a pretty girl, and you can impress her. Whatever.” Ilya shrugs, dark blue eyes darting across Shane’s face, a searching look.
Or, Shane has never been kissed before. Ilya offers to teach him how.
Series
- Part 7 of Nettles (Hollanov Fics)
Bookmarked by zayakin
23 May 2026
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Sympathy for the Devil by Moorishflower
Fandoms: The Sandman (Comics), The Sandman (TV 2022)
16 Oct 2023
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"You fucking live like this?" the demon says. Jo feels like she ought to be offended, and gets a sort of desultory "Oi!" out, completely negating the prayer to Saint Michael she'd been reciting, God damnit, she's going to have to start again...
...and then she notices her sofa.
Or rather, she notices what's on her sofa.
After handing over the key to Hell to Dream of the Endless, Lucifer Morningstar fends off an attack by Azazel, an attempt to devour their grace and become the new Lord of Hell. Injured and having lost their memories in the process, and needing a place to lay low and recover, they're brought to the last place in the world that any self-respecting demon would look. Much to Johanna Constantine's dismay.
Bookmarked by zayakin
11 May 2026