#TJs Fics

[tj-dragonblade]

[Ficlet] One Man's Dream

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: pre-Dreamling Rated: T Word Count: 1050 Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, barely canon-divergent, season 2 spoilers, end of ep 6 specifically, writing what so many of us wanted to see, Dream of the Endless needs a hug, Dream of the Endless gets a hug

Notes: I finished S2E6 and saw this piece by @dragonnan and stayed up until 5am scribbling this down to process some feels.

Title and backing music: Yanni - One Man's Dream

Summary: Hob is, once again, having an oddly lucid dream

On AO3

Hob is dreaming.

Not sure why he knows this—not like he's ever got the hang of lucid dreaming for all that he's faffed about with it a bit—but he does. He's wearing the t-shirt and boxers he went to sleep in; he's wandering the halls of some great palace or cathedral, empty and echoing and unlit but for the storm-dark windows high above. Thunder rumbles outside, thick and low and bloody ominous, and Hob shivers.

No, he's not wandering, actually; he's searching.

Searching for what? Or whom?

He doesn't know. But something is tugging him onward, inexorably.

Calling out feels a bit like sacrilege and the sound of his footsteps like an intrusion; Hob hurries along as quickly and quietly as he can, turning through doorways and down corridors as instinct dictates, searching, searching. He's needed, he's been called, he has to find—

A sound reaches him, beneath the distant rolling thunder, carried on shadows that stretch despairingly toward him.

Someone, somewhere near, is sobbing.

Hob feels his heart seize; the shadows beckon him onward, full of urgency and pleading and immeasurable sorrow and it does not ever occur to Hob to be frightened. Only concerned. Worried. Whoever is crying, he needs to find them.

Now.

He hurries.

He rounds a corner into yet another shadowed hallway and draws up short.

It's his Stranger.

His Stranger, his friend, is hunched over a basin set on a pedestal some distance down the corridor, clad only in a thin tank top and jeans, scrubbing furiously at his hands and sobbing brokenly.

Hob is directly in front of him with less than a thought, catches his hands gently. "My friend—what's wrong?"

His friend looks up, the blue of his gaze dim and shattered, tears streaming down his face. "Hob—" His voice breaks, a sob following; he looks haggard, exhausted, worn to the absolute bone and Hob's heart aches.

"I'm here," he says, softly, so softly. His friend's hands are wet and spotless, the water in the basin tinged that distinct shade of red that Hob has been well-acquainted with in several lifetimes and he swallows, his concern rising.

His friend's hands are shaking, where Hob holds them still. "Hob—I—I—" He gasps, tears spilling over his gaunt cheeks, trembling, face crumpling on another sob.

"Shh, I've got you, love," Hob murmurs, stroking his thumbs over the backs of both pale hands. "No need to talk, if it's too much." He doesn't know what this is about, doesn't need to, curiosity be damned. His friend is hurting, deeply, and if that Chateau Lafite is anything to go by this is probably a bit more real than most of his dreams. He's grateful in the back of his mind that Audrey hadn't stayed over tonight; no need to worry that she'll wake him from this if he's talking in his sleep. He doesn't know how this works, if his friend has walked into his dream like before, if his friend has somehow summoned him to his own dream but he knows, deep down where it matters, that something terrible and tragic has happened.

And his friend is here in this shadowed hall, weeping, alone, visibly crushed by the weight of his own grief.

The hands Hob's holding are now stained with blood.

The water is clear.

Hob is very sure, in the manner of dreams, that his friend has been scrubbing and re-scrubbing endlessly to no avail.

That will not do. Oh no.

"Let me," he says, so very softly; he lets go one hand, scoops water from the basin and gently pours it over the hand he still holds, wipes the blood from ivory skin and dips his fingers to rinse it away.

His friend hiccups a sob, clearly trying to hold it back.

Hob bathes his friend's stained hands tenderly, silently, until each is clean; they will stay clean this time, because this is his dream, he's decided, and he says so.

"There," he breathes, barely more than a whisper, still holding his friend's wet hand between his own as he looks up to meet his gaze.

His friend's eyes are black now, solid black with stars in their depths, red-rimmed and glimmering with tears and full of unspeakable sorrow. He draws a breath as if to speak, but all that comes out is another sob and Hob feels his heart cracking in two.

"C'mere," he murmurs, drawing the other to him and his friend comes haltingly, uncertainly, sobs still shaking his slender frame. Hob pulls him close, wraps both arms around him and abruptly his friend sags into his hold, grasps his shirt with both wet hands and clings, buries his face against Hob's shoulder and cries.

It's the sort of crying Hob has known intimately more times than he cares to remember, great wracking sobs of aching grief that hurt and hollow one to the core and seem that they will never stop, and Hob does not know what has brought his friend to this but it does not matter.

"I'm here, love, I'm here," he murmurs, rubbing soft soothing circles across bare shaking shoulders and his friend cries all the harder, clings to him desperately.

Hob wraps him as close as he can, here in the shadows of this cold lonely hall, rocks his friend gently in place and holds him together while grief tears him apart. "I'm here," he repeats, again and again, certain deep in his core that he can offer no greater comfort than this. His friend must know, whatever his sorrow, whatever his grief, that he doesn't have to carry the weight of it alone, not when Hob is merely a dream away and glad to share the burden.

He is only one man, one insignificant human compared to whatever his friend might be, but even so he can do this, can be there when his friend needs someone to cry on.

He tucks his friend beneath his chin, holds him close in the warmth of his arms amidst the stark and unforgiving emptiness of this place; his friend cries, and clings, and all is certainly not right with the world but at least Hob can give him one moment of solace, here in this dream, for as long as he needs.

= Started: 7/6/25 Drafted: 7/6/25 Posted: 7/6/25

[tj-dragonblade]

Twist my arm to self-promote, sure! And @designtheendless I hope you know I love you for drawing this on the first place. ❤️

The series is here on AO3:

And if AO3 is down, you can find them on Tumblr:

Anticipation - Rated T, ~700 words Appreciation - Rated E, ~4300 words Adoration - Rated E, wordcount over 9000

Hob of Waterdeep, Faerûn’s greatest wizard

@rooftopwreck I see you, and I hear you. I hope you enjoy ✨

[bugslaststraw]

So I’m writing a fic where

[guardian-angle22]

911: Lone Star | Carlos & Marjan Parallels ↳ "Sometimes she hates how similar they are. How well he understands her, despite coming from completely different cultures. Carlos knows her true fears and motivations because they’re the same as his. She can’t bullshit him like she can with pretty much everyone else." - Something Inside You Is Feeling Like I Do by @lemonlyman-dotcom

[salemoleander]

lost in the dark (Hunger AU) webweave

Created as a tribute to the absolutely incredible fic @definitelynotshouting is writing, up to the current plot beat!

// Sources under readmore //

What is a webweave? Previous art: Third Life | Void Falling | Attempt 33 | Martyn | Limited Life | Nightingale Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | singing songs to the secrets behind my eye | A Hundred Things We Had Not Dreamed Of | solving counting sheep

Pt. 1: Flutter / Valerie Hammond ◆ Sanssouci Palace + The Black Ice Cream Song edit / @mountainqoats ◆ Excerpt from The Average Fourth Grader is a Better Poet Than You (And Me Too) / Hannah Gamble via @blackberryjambaby ◆ of course i bite textpost / @valtsv ◆ Lie Down / Ellen Jenkins ◆ 27 / Daniil Kharms trans. Matvei Yankelevich ◆ Embrace my Soul / Sergio Borga ◆ Color Changing Magic Potion / DirksenCraft ◆ Fragile Bird / @cocoabats ◆ Holding Onto Black Metal / Debra Baxter ◆ Excerpt from III. The Child / Quinn Newell via @voicedwords ◆ Crawler Pot / Rose Schmits ◆ Metamorph / Gunnel Watkins ◆ Untitled eye / Henrik Aa Uldalen ◆ tumblr guide for chad twitter users (real) / @arahir ◆ the best way to solve problems tweet / @wolfpupy

Pt. 2: Reoccurring Nightmare comic / @deep-dark-fears ◆ Knotted Serpentine / Hannah Russell ◆ Garden + Blues in Dallas edit / @mountainqoats ◆ The Watching Moth / Cady Shaye Poorman ◆ NOCTURNAL Series 11 of 20 / Santiago Caruso ◆ Watching Moth / Cady Shaye Poorman ◆ Afterglow / Pei Wang ◆ Sun in an Empty Room + The Young Thousands edit / @mountainqoats ◆ Study for "Mathematics," "The Sciences" / Kenyon Cox ◆ Hard to Swallow / Debra Baxter ◆ Molly Brodak / Molly Brodak via @kafk-a ◆ 02112022, S.T. / @ryebreadgf ◆ Woman with Red Hood / Alice Pike Barney ◆ Come On, Motherfucker, You Survived! / @selfhealingmoments ◆ Excerpt from The Blind Assassin / Margaret Atwood via @flowerytale ◆ Heirloom II / Cindy Rizza

Pt. 3: Excerpt from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock / T.S. Eliot ◆ i love you. i can't tell you / @/tturing (OP altered, original contents linked) ◆ Hope is the Thing - Sunset Flight / Erica Wagner ◆ Poppies + Nova Scotia edit / @mountainqoats ◆ Untitled (open/end) / Debra Baxter ◆ Excerpt from Alive at the End of the World / Saeed Jones via @geryone ◆ Weeping (Lamentacia) / Dezider Toth via @amare-habeo ◆ NOCTURNAL Series 7 of 20 / Santiago Caruso ◆ Fridge Funerary Epitaph / @catilinas ◆ Untitled (Trail of eyes) / @julialepetit ◆ Stained Glass Hellebore, California Poppy, + Poppy / Jessica Saunders ◆ 世界の声が聞こえるとき (When the voice of the world is heard) / Tomohiro Inaba ◆ Still from Don't make me do this again gif / @cibastion ◆ Excerpt from So I Locked Myself Inside a Star for Twenty Years / Jeremy Radin ◆ Excerpt from Invisible Monsters / Chuck Palahniuk via @quotespile ◆ Potion Bottles / Edited from Panel 1 Source

[tj-dragonblade]

Vi you are a treasure, thank you! I'm so in love with this, it's perfect. Look at him. Look at him just lying there, prime pillow princess behavior waiting for his man to show up and ravish him. All the little details, the feathers and the sparkles and the arch of his neck, I'm just. Aaaaaaah, this is wonderful! Thank you, a hundred times over. ❤️❤️❤️

Dream in the Murder-Widow Robe

A gift for the ever lovely @tj-dragonblade as a part of the Dreamling Nation's Winter Gift Exchange, based on one of TJ's fluffbruary fills <3

I was overjoyed to be reminded this fic of yours and being able to create something based on it is an honour! You're a wonderful soul, always offering kind words and helpful advice. Truly an inspiring person, and also an inspiring writer. Your writing always leaves me in awe with how you bring out emotions in the characters. I'm glad we've had the opportunity to meet! I hope you enjoy this iteration of the murder-widow robe, TJ! Even if the 'murder' only results in a little death.

Everyone do remember to check out all of TJ's incredible writing and the works in the DN Winter Gift Exhange. Happy New Year!

[toasttt11]

sharing

prompt- sharing a plate of food

Luke had found love with a girl around the same age as him, who works with Devils media team. From the day he met her when he got to Jersey, it was easy to tell he was very whipped and they started dating a little while after his rookie season started.

Luke hadn’t been able to make it to a lot of hangouts with his friends and old teammates from Michigan meaning he has not introduced his girlfriend to any of them yet besides Dylan, Ethan and Mark.

Luke pulled into a parking spot in front of the restaurant they were meeting everyone at, he looked over at his girlfriend, his first real serious girlfriend.

“You ready?” Luke asked gently seeing her looking a little nervous.

She nodded still looking nervous making Luke reach over and gently grab her hang squeezing it reassuringly, “They will love you.” Luke softly reassured having no doubt the rest of the boys would love her, she’s easy to love.

She nodded looking less nervous and Luke and her got out of the car.

Luke’s hand naturally rested on her lower back as they walked into the restaurant and was guided to where the boys already were.

Her eyes widen slight seeing so many of his old teammates and all of them getting really loud seeing Luke and all getting up hugging him.

She stepped back letting Luke greet all of his friends.

Mark and Ethan went straight to her having got close with Luke’s girlfriend and thought of her as a good friend.

Mark pulled her into a gentle hug until Ethan was impatient and pushed Mark away to pull her into a hug rocking her like crazy making her laugh.

Luke’s head snapped up hearing his favorite sound and smiled seeing her with Ethan and Mark.

Luke walked back to his girlfriend resting his hand back on her back as he introduced her to everyone.

After he introduced his lovey girlfriend they all sat back down and the boys all began telling her many embarrassing stories about Luke, not that Luke really minded because they all made her laugh and smile.

Eventually food came out and she and Luke usual get to two different things that share between them as she doesn’t eat a lot but likes being able to eat a little bit of two things and then Luke also gets more food so it works perfectly for them.

“What the fuck.” Nick’s jaw dropped as he looked at the couple.

“What?” Luke furrowed his brows looking at Nick oddly as he munched on a French fry happily.

“You shared your food!” Nick loudly exclaimed looking extremely shocked.

“He did what?” Rutger asked in shock and looked over at the two seeing them sharing the two plates.

“Since when do you actually share food?” Tj teased Luke, remembering the many times Luke would get so mad when someone try to touch his food and would look like he was considering stabbing them with his fork.

“Ha Ha.” Luke dryly spoke rolling his eyes at his friends.

“He always shares his food?” She looked confused as shrugged not seeing the big deal, Luke has always shared with her.

“That’s because Lukey boy only shares with you.” Ethan told her smirking at the couple, he remembered being just as shocked when he noticed the first time that Luke easily shared with her.

“Oh.” She softly mumbled looking at Luke who was blushing slightly and had a bashful smile.

She gently kissed his cheek and returned eating.

Josh smirked mischievously as he reached over to Luke’s plate going to grab a french fry when Luke smacked his hand away glaring at him, “Ow!” Josh pouted holding his hand dramatically.

“I only share with her.” Luke grumbled glaring at Josh once more before turning back to his girlfriend and softening immediately seeing her happily munching on their french fries.

[eddiesxangel]

Yes or no?

[sapphic-summer-riordanverse]

Prompts

Week One 19/5/25: Summer Camp / Library / Scars / Free Choice

Week Two 26/5/25: Misunderstanding / Hurt/Comfort / Meeting The Family / Free Choice

Week Three 2/6/25: Pining / Music / Living Together / Free Choice

Week Four 9/6/25: Kiss / Sleep / First Meeting / Free Choice

Week Five 16/6/25: Quest / Healing / Nature / Free Choice

Week Six 23/6/25: Injury / Stars / The Labyrinth / Free Choice

Week Seven 30/6/25: Betrayal / Fortune / Getting Back Together / Free Choice

Week Eight 7/7/25: Tattoo / Prophecy / Domesticity / Free Choice

Week Nine 14/7/25: Undead / Sports / Laundry / Free Choice

Week Ten 21/7/25: Secret Relationship / Hometowns / Potential / Free Choice

Week Eleven 28/7/25: Dreams / Sunlight / Travel / Free Choice

Week Twelve 4/8/25: Alternate Universe / Awkward Encounters / Aeaea/Circe’s Island / Free Choice

Week Thirteen 11/8/25: Based On A Song / Kids / Hunting / Free Choice

Week Fourteen 18/8/25: Goodbye, For Now / Warmth / Doubt / Free Choice

[thatswhatiam98]

So, recap of what is actually canon in the Andi Mack universe for their future selves for all your fics needs:

-Andi has a child when she's very young (probably with Jonah)

-eventually she ends up with Amber

-Tyrus go to college, Cyrus precisely to film school, and then they get married and they have an extremely organized wedding, to the point where TJ almost doesn't get in cause he's dressed a bit messily

-TJ becomes a firefighter çwç

-and not future, but he's actually Amber's sibling 🫢

-Bowie decides to fake it till you make it and ends up becoming a professor at the same college as Tyrus even though he never graduated (lmao this sounds like Community)

-he and Bex probably have one or two more kids 🥰

-Amber realizes she's a lesbian (or something)

-and she goes to fashion school at a community college

-not for future selves, but Bex canon bi (she didn't say much else on the future of her character I think, but maybe she'll keep the shop going?)

-JONAH WILL DROP FRISBEE LMAO And will start putting the same effort in basket or something

And this is it, feel free to add more if I missed something, fell asleep at some point due to fever lmao Hope this can be helpful 🥰🥰

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Undo My Grave Mistake

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 6383 Tags: emotional hurt/comfort, Dream's low self-esteem, 1889 emotional residue, Hob's insecurities, getting together, dream encounter, dream sex, Dream is forever about the Story, they'll communicate later, top Dream, bottom Hob, brief oral, anal fingering, anal sex, sap, cuddling

Notes: Putting this out during @teejaystumbles pre-S2 centennial reblog spree for 1889 since that meeting is addressed in this. It's half overdue conversation and half dream sex; if you prefer to skip that bit, leave off when they move to the bedroom and pick up again several paragraphs from the end, at 'It is over, then'

Title pulled from a semi-relevant song:

I wish I could undo My grave mistake And say the words unsaid Obsession grows like flames Time only makes it worse [...] Will you open the door to me once more Always yours

- Beast in Black, 'Ghost in the Rain'

Summary: Dream steps into Hob's nightmare and discovers that Hob's fears are not what he had imagined they would be

On AO3

Hob is having a nightmare.

Dream does not, historically, peer into the dreams of his friend, has never paid them more heed than any other dreamer; but since he has at long last made up their missed meeting, and then met him again, and again, to the establishment of a recurring pattern, he finds himself…attuned, to Hob's presence in his realm, in a way that he was not. Before.

He centers his attention on this nightmare, to feel out the shape of what frightens Hob so, what about him frightens Hob so. For it is about him, that much is plain to tell; there are few dreamers to whom he is known such that he could be dreamed about, and it tickles at his awareness when they do.

It is but the smallest effort to find Hob and step into his Dream, a mere gesture to dismiss the diligent nightmare, his faithful subject, who was directing the dreamscape. It is no effort at all to slip himself into his own shade within the dream, to face the reality that Hob fears him, some part of him, no matter his own feelings on such a revelation.

It is not unexpected, after all; he is a creature to be feared, respected, admired perhaps, but not befriended, not sought after for his companionship. It was inevitable that Hob should see this, particularly now that Dream has given him a name, the briefest explanation of function, greater frequency of meetings in which he can observe and discover Dream's faults.

(He does not delude himself. He had not expected it to happen so swiftly; Hob is kind, and forgiving, and welcoming in ways that make Dream yearn—but no. Hob was always going to see.)

(He was always going to lose Hob's regard.)

He is in the New Inn, standing at their table, turning away as Hob rises to follow.

"Dream, wait, please don't go—" There is fear in Hob's voice, reedy terror and trembling desperation.

Dream does not stop. Dream continues to storm angrily from the pub, as expected of him, as sewn into the fabric of this nightmare. Hob grows ever more distraught as he gives chase, calls behind him.

"I'm sorry, forgive me, I beg you don't go don't leave me—Dream, please!"

The last is very much a sob.

Enough.

He stops, turns, outside the Inn now, grey clouds scudding overhead.

Hob blinks at him from a tear-stained face.

Dream plucks at the threads of the scene around them, searching for the words or actions that had transpired before his arrival, but there is nothing. "And for what should I forgive you, Hob Gadling," he intones, improvising while he feels out the shape of this nightmare.

The question takes Hob off guard and his brow furrows, his lovely wet eyes blinking several times. "I…I. I did something wrong? I offended you, I made. I made you leave."

It is hazy, non-specific in the manner of dreams, but that in itself is very telling. Dream has changed the prescribed course of the dream and Hob's mind is unsure what to do with the shift. Hob is so very different, here, in the grip of his nightmare; he is physically smaller, shorter than Dream, his usual confidence nowhere in evidence. He is anxious, terrified, wide-eyed and uncertain and trembling, and while Dream had stepped in with the resigned expectation that he would find Hob cowering from the full horror of understanding what Dream is, the true shape of Hob's fear shines startling and unexpected before him as he reaches for it.

Hob does not fear Dream.

Hob fears losing Dream, fears giving offense when he means only kindness, fears driving Dream into a fury and out of his life.

"I am yet here," Dream says, adrift in the shifting sands of realization within him. "You have given no offense, Hob." He is certain it is the truth, regardless of whatever Hob's subconscious may insist; the crux of the nightmare is Dream leaving and the specifics of why matter little.

Hob glances skyward, drawing a deep breath to steady himself; Dream is transfixed by the watery shine of his beautiful eyes, the firm press of his lips as he attempts to gather his composure.

"Did before, didn't I?" he says, bitter and self recriminating, another tear sliding down his cheek, and Dream is struck low by how deeply he aches to wipe it away. "Drove you off in 1889, said more than I should've—" He breaks off, choking back a sob, and Dream. Cannot simply stand here, witness to Hob's grief and distress, and do nothing.

"Peace, Hob," he says, low, soothing, past the curl of his own guilt.

The fault is his, after all.

Hob shakes his head, breathes deeply, striving for control. "I try," he says, a hint of lucidity creeping into his voice, "I really do. You came back; you called me Friend. You gave me a name and a, a glimpse at who you are and you've come back again, and again, and you're here now. So why am I still so afraid I'm going to fuck this up? Why am I so terrified I'll make you leave again?"

The guilt curls deeper, drawing Dream's thoughts in with it. Hob is justified in holding such fears; if Dream is to name him Friend, he would do well to assuage them.

"You have carried this fear more than a century. It will not be dispelled in the span of mere months." Indeed, that is the point of this nightmare; but again. It is within Dream's power to offer at least an attempt at reassurance.

It does not come easily, as it encompasses admission of fault, but. He must try.

"Hob." He waits until Hob's wet eyes are fixed on him. "I am…difficult, and my temper. Is volatile. It is very possible, perhaps even probable, that I will. Take offense where it is not meant, someday again, but know this." He can feel the truth of it settling into the core of his being before the words are spoken. "I will always return. To you. However long it may take my temper to cool. I will not forsake our bond so lightly."

"Our bond, is it?" Hob flashes a watery, lopsided grin.

"Would you not name it so? Is friendship not a bond?"

"Yes. Of course. My dear friend." There is something in Hob's smile now that is both pleased and sad, a bittersweet note that sings of take what is given and do not seek for more and Dream. Can feel the thread of it plucked throughout the dreamscape, resonating with the notes of do not push and do not invite rejection that sound within himself.

Is it possible, then—

Does Hob feel toward him. Any semblance, of what he feels for Hob?

"I appreciate the promise," Hob is saying, his smile bright, sincere, his eyes still damp. "But if I'm dreaming, is it gonna do me any good awake?"

"I am the lord of dreams, Hob. If you do not remember when you wake, I assure you, your subconscious will still be eased." He pauses, then adds, "And I will. Make, the opportunity, to give you such assurance in the waking world as well."

Hob blinks, pleased, but clearly also surprised. "That would be a kindness."

It is the least Dream can do, when this fear has grown and taken root because of him. Had he not fled their meeting in 1889, had he not then been. Absent, in 1989, Hob would not have reason to worry so. Had he been. Honest, with his feelings, that last time—

But no. He had instead taken offense to Hob's boldness in assuming any attachment, used anger to mask the hurt of Hob naming it 'friendship' where Dream had dared, in the deepest most hidden places within himself, to wish it something more.

The fault is not Hob's, but he has borne the fallout for decades regardless.

And if Hob's feelings indeed are a match for Dream's, then it has all been. Entirely. Needless. And Dream will not let it continue.

"Do you wish to know, Hob. How I would have ended our final meeting at the White Horse, were I not such a coward?"

"I. Yes? You're no coward," Hob answers, gamely flowing with the dream-worthy non-sequitur.

"But in this, I am," Dream asserts, and abruptly he is storming away from the White Horse as he had in 1889, rain pouring down on him mercilessly, Hob yelling after him.

"—it'll be because we're friends! No other reason!"

Oh, how those words had cut him, back then, excavated the secrets kept buried in his heart and sliced them to the core, left them bleeding and vulnerable in the rain.

He whirls, stalks to Hob, who is blinking his confusion because this is not how it happened—

It is not, but it should have been, for oh, how Dream had wanted—

He seizes Hob by his lapels, there in the middle of the street, and kisses him fiercely in the pouring rain.

Hob squeaks, a shocked and muffled sound, and Dream has an instant to fear that he has acted wrongly—and then Hob melts against him, opens to him eagerly, grasps and holds to him with fervor, and Dream is lost in the tide of want that swells to consume him.

It is a thrilling, satisfying moment spent indulging this long-held fantasy before he is able to draw back. His grip has gentled, his hands curled softly in Hob's lapels now, and Hob is cupping him behind the elbows, holding him close in a way that does not encircle or entrap him. Careful. Considerate. Unnecessary, but appreciated.

Hob's eyes flutter open, dark and adoring, wonder in their depths. "Dream…my Stranger, my Friend…" He is gazing up into Dream's eyes from a breath away, blinking away the pouring rain that runs over his face, mats his lovely hair flat. "What is this?"

He looks less as though he is truly concerned with the answer and more as though he longs to be kissed again; conveniently, Dream wishes to kiss him again, and so he does.

'This' is an uncertain certainty, an inadvisable course that he has resisted out of necessity, propriety, for so much of their acquaintance; he does not care to resist any longer, should Hob be amenable.

The eager curl of Hob's tongue beckoning Dream into his mouth speaks volumes of his amenability.

Still, Dream thinks, even as he follows that invitation, he should ask, should speak of his own feelings and make clear his intentions in words, where there is no mistaking the why of what he has done. He should seek Hob's intent as well, confirm his interest, leave no doubt between them on either side.

But Hob is dreaming. Hob has already expressed concern over how much he may remember; better, perhaps, to save such conversation for the waking world, where they both can be certain of Hob's full awareness. Hob would appreciate this consideration, he is very sure.

If he feels marginally relieved, not to have to bring the words to bear right now, well.

The dream shifts about them, as dreams are wont to do, directed by Hob's subconscious. They no longer stand kissing in the middle of the street; now Dream is pressing Hob back against the wall of a narrow alleyway, still more or less 1889 London, still beneath the pouring rain. His arms are tight about Hob's waist and Hob's are wrapped behind his neck, one hand threading up into his hair as they kiss. It is an ardent touch, full of care, longing, devotion and Dream. Will deny himself no longer.

He moves, reaches to grasp the backs of Hob's thighs and lifts, still pinning him to the wall, still kissing him fiercely.

The sound Hob makes is delectable, a warm bouquet of surprise and approval over arousal and excitement; his hands shift to touch Dream's face, cradling it while Dream devours his mouth. Dream holds him up by the grip on his thighs, by the press of his own body into the spread of Hob's legs, where Hob's thoughts on the situation are very much in evidence.

And Dream wants.

"I would have you," he manages, the words brushed against Hob's parted lips, and Hob whimpers, plainly audible beneath the rushing of the rain.

"Please. Please do—"

Dream surges back into him, kissing with abandon as Hob's hands tangle into his hair, rain pouring over both of them, cold runnels across his cheeks and down his neck a sharp contrast to the warmth of Hob's touch and the heat of Hob's mouth.

The dream shifts again; they are now in a sumptuous room, spacious but cozy and richly-appointed, with an enormous canopied bed dressed in black and darkest blue to one side. Dream understands that this is 'his bedroom', as Hob would envision it, and he feels a flash of deep pleasure at the overstuffed bookshelves that dominate the wall opposite. He has shared enough for Hob to know the importance of stories to himself and his function, and Hob imagines an appropriately-robust library spilling into the private space he sees for Dream; it is pleasing, a worthy nod to his station, and Dream appreciates it.

But he has. Better uses, in this moment, for such a sturdy bookcase.

With barely a thought he is across the room; he slams Hob's back against the loaded shelves, still gripping tightly about his thighs, and kisses the startled noise he makes straight out of his mouth. They are still soaked from the rain, thin tendrils of Hob's hair dripping on Dream's damp face, clothes clinging wetly against skin but the discomfort is trivial. Insignificant. Hob is kissing him back with such fervor, such hunger, he feels all but ravenous in return, starved for the intimacy and connection that Hob offers him so freely.

The dream ripples, slightly, and their clothing is gone, the remnants of the rain with it. He cannot say if it was Hob's doing or his own, and it matters not at all. He presses closer, mouths kisses down the bared length of Hob's throat as Hob's head tips back, grips Hob's thighs all the tighter; they are thickly covered in fine hairs, pleasing beneath his fingers, a beautiful surprise. Hob's chest is likewise adorned, a dark and inviting pelt, and Dream is not inclined to resist the temptation of rubbing his cheek against it.

"Dream," Hob murmurs, breathless above him, voice soft and full of wonder and yet urgent all the same, and Dream leans up to kiss him again immediately. Hob's hands are warm on his shoulders, legs warm around his hips, all of Hob's skin gloriously warm everywhere that they touch; he is hot, where the hard length of him nestles against Dream's stomach, and Dream hitches him marginally higher against the bookshelf just for the pleasure of the wanton sound that he makes.

"This is all—so much—so fast," Hob babbles, while Dream kisses hungrily along the column of his throat again.

"Would you have me stop," he murmurs to the stubbled underside of Hob's jaw, the soft vulnerability just beneath his ear. He wants, desperately, to seek out every such place on Hob's body, to kiss each in turn, to make known his ardor in a million tender touches before and during and after making love to him. Hob should know, how dear Dream holds him, and Dream longs to show him.

He will stop, if Hob asks it.

He hopes Hob will not ask.

"No, no, please don't," Hob sighs, legs tightening around Dream's hips. "Bit overwhelming but I want this, I want you, so much—" He hitches a shaky breath as Dream closes careful teeth on his earlobe and tugs gently. "I've always wanted you, like this, never thought I'd be allowed but it's always been you, Dream—"

Dream lifts his head, looks Hob in the face, the want and adoration simmering warm in the dark of Hob's eyes, and silently names himself a fool for choosing not to look for it before.

"My Hob," he breathes, heartfelt and aching, and surges back to Hob's mouth in a desperate kiss.

It is no effort at all to lift Hob away from the bookcase, to turn, to carry him to the bed. He places one knee on the mattress and leans down, lays Hob carefully among the silken pillows and hovers over him, looking his fill for just a moment. Hob is beautiful, dark hair splayed over the blue silk with its silver edging, the threads of silver at his temples carrying the motif full circle. His eyes are wide and dark, full of wonder and adoration, his mouth wet and kiss-swollen and just open enough to be inviting.

Hob dreams himself the wide-eyed ingenue, the hapless mortal drawn into a world he could not hope to comprehend, pliant and in awe.

Dream is. Amenable, to the role that this suggests for him. He will lead this encounter, guide Hob, overwhelm him with all that Dream has kept within, have him and take him as he so clearly wishes to be taken, here. For Dream is greedy, and disinclined to hold back from claiming what is offered, that which he has silently yearned for throughout so much of their acquaintance and the entirety of their friendship.

"My Hob," he breathes, again, and dips his head to reclaim Hob's waiting mouth.

Hob's hands touch reverently, carefully, as though suddenly uncertain he's allowed. Dream thrills to the story of it, lowers his body over Hob's and kisses him artfully, ardent and overpowering. Hob opens to him, makes a high plaintive sound in his throat that lances Dream to his core with want and heat and he answers in kind, a rumbling groan from deep in his chest. He touches Hob's face, combs an errant lock of hair back from his temple to behind his ear, strokes his cheek as he breaks the kiss for the barest second.

"Touch me," he murmurs, soft against Hob's mouth, and kisses him again.

Hob whimpers, meets his ardor with overwhelmed eagerness and wraps his arms around Dream, clutches at his back, squirming closer. His legs fall further open, welcoming, inviting, and Dream will not be so uncouth as to refuse such an offering. He rolls his hips, grinding smoothly against Hob, hard prick to hard prick and the sound Hob makes is sweet on his questing tongue.

He would devour this man, if it were permissible; would allow Hob to devour him in turn, would have them each as part and parcel of the other, one being intertwined. He would fashion himself a ribcage that Hob's heart might beat within him, would be the very breath to fill Hob's lungs, the blood pumping hot through his veins—

Dream corrals his thoughts, funnels them away to the deeper corners of himself; it would not do to let them shape Hob's dream away from the romantic fantasy it had become, never mind that it had begun as a nightmare. He will keep to the ardor and sweetness that Hob expects, this first time.

His hand is spread behind Hob's neck and he takes it in a gentle grip, tilting Hob's head back, softly breaking their kiss with a lingering pull of Hob's bottom lip between his teeth. He moves without pause to Hob's chin, kissing over the beloved prickly dimpled curve of it and down into the stubbled softness of Hob's throat, pleased with the way that Hob pants beneath his touch, the helpless little sounds Hob does not even try to hold back. He shifts his body down along Hob's, kissing his way over clavicles and furred sternum and belly, delighted with the way Hob's hands pet delicately at his hair and fall aside as he reaches the apex of Hob's beautiful thighs.

Hob's prick stands ready, flush with color, and it jerks at the touch of Dream's tongue. Hob gasps, makes a desperate little mewling sound as Dream tastes him again, a slow lick from base to tip, lingering over the wetness seeping there.

"Dream—!"

Oh, his name in that breathless tone from Hob's throat will be his undoing; Dream groans wordlessly in return, takes Hob fully into his mouth, strokes his hands along the insides of Hob's lovely thighs, pressing them further open as he suckles.

The sound Hob makes then is ripe with overwhelm and anticipation; the dream shifts, shimmering with Hob's want, and Dream allows himself to be shifted with it. He is kneeling between Hob's legs now and Hob is on his stomach, is canting his hips up toward Dream, and there is a bottle of 'intimate lubricant' in the sheets beside them.

I would have you, Dream had said, under the rain.

Please do, Hob had answered, eager and willing, and here he is presenting himself for the fulfillment of what they both desire.

The strength of Dream's wanting threatens to consume him.

He runs his fingertips delicately over Hob's flank. "Up," he murmurs, applying the slightest pressure, and Hob scrabbles to get his knees under him, lifting his arse higher. His shoulders remain on the bed and his hands grasp the sheets near his face; his eyes are slitted open, angled back toward Dream, as if he cannot bear the thought of losing sight of Dream even for a moment.

Dream bends to kiss one shapely hairy cheek, then trickles lubricant over Hob's hole and runs one fingertip around it, barely touching. Hob whines, arches his back; Dream strokes across him properly, a light touch, spreading the slickness about with gentle precision. He does not press inside, not yet; it is pleasing to touch Hob in this fashion, to hear the stutter of his breath and the rushing of his pulse, to taste the way his wanting permeates the very air of his dreamscape.

It is only a moment before Hob is trembling, panting, keyed up in his readiness. "Dream—please, I need—you're teasing—"

He is, he discovers. The sounds Hob is making are delectable, tempting him into drawing out each step of the process, but he would not prolong it to the point of torture and his own patience is thin besides. He stills his fingertips, directly over the slick but still tightly furled entrance to Hob's body, and applies just enough pressure to make Hob gasp.

"Would you have me inside you, my Hob?"

"Yes. Please—" It is fervent and heartfelt, conveying quite plainly that Hob could not possibly want anything more in this moment; he flexes his hips, as if he could deepen Dream's touch by strength of will alone.

There is more lubrication now on Dream's fingers because he wills it so—does not wish to spare an instant to reopen the bottle—and he presses one inside; he watches the black of his nail sink into Hob's body and savors the way that Hob keens as he is breached. He pushes in deep, all the way in, delighted with the warmth of Hob tight around him; he is both careful and thorough, stroking and stretching, using two fingers as Hob begins to open to him. Hob's voice lilts and trembles with his pleasure, fanning the licking flames of Dream's own anticipation, the inevitable thoughts of his prick sinking into Hob. He is quite smitten with the way that Hob dreams himself, an eager offering for Dream to partake of, and he is more than willing to oblige.

He should like very much to take Hob's prick within himself, as well, to lay Hob on his back and ride him to completion, to take Hob's seed inside that it might become a part of him in truth. But this dream is Hob's, is shaped by the words they have shared and the wants they have expressed and the quieted fears of the nightmare that had brought them to this point; another time, perhaps, he will act on such thoughts. Now, here, he will fulfill the story Hob's dream has set around them.

His fingers flex deep inside of Hob, and Hob gives the prettiest little cry of wanton delight.

He could shift more details of the dream if he wished, could make Hob ready to take him with little more than a thought, but he does not. Hob's mind had moved them to this act, and Dream is pleased to prepare Hob in the way that he is used to. There is. Great pleasure, after all, in opening him with care, in working him to mindless trembling readiness on the slender length of Dream's own fingers. The way he groans and pants when Dream strokes him firmly within, the way his hands grasp at the sheets and the greedy clenching of his body if Dream makes to withdraw—these things stroke Dream's ego, feed the fire of his own arousal.

"Please, please," Hob is begging, his body tense and damp with sweat, face pressed sideways against Dream's sheets. His prick hangs rigid and dripping; there are fine tremors running the length of his beautiful thighs with every measured stroke of Dreams fingertips within him and Dream is. Certain, that he is nearly at his peak.

He wishes to be inside Hob when it happens, to feel the first time he trembles through it, shakes apart, from the work of Dream's hands and Dream's body alone.

He withdraws his fingers swiftly, dips to lave his tongue over the slick openness of Hob's body and Hob's whimper of protest chokes into a gasping cry. He is pushing into Dream's touch, clearly eager for more, and Dream will return to this quite gladly, will indulge him at another time; at present, he can no longer bear to not be within his Hob and so his tongue traces a warm wet path up the length of Hob's spine, body flowing smoothly behind until he is draped over the slope of Hob's back and his own prick is sinking unerringly into Hob's waiting hole.

The sound Hob makes is exquisite and he is pushing up, closer, even as the weight of Dream atop him bears him all the way down to the bed. He squirms, knees splayed wide and thighs trembling, hands clenched in the sheets and face turned into them, panting, little whines of pleasure curling off the end of each breath as Dream seats himself fully. Dream noses into the hair at the nape of his neck, damp and fragrant with sweat, gives himself a long instant to savor the pulsing heat of Hob's body around his cock, then pushes up and braces himself, draws out, sinks in again with a sigh.

Hob cries out, tosses his head, gasping, so clearly on the edge; Dream fucks into him smoothly, steady and unhurried, dips down to brush his lips whisper-soft against the stubble-rough corner of Hob's jaw. "My Hob," he murmurs, to the tender skin beneath Hob's ear. "How I have. Longed, to have you this way—"

Hob shudders, breath catching; Dream noses up the back of Hob's ear, follows with the tip of his tongue while driving tenderly into him and Hob goes rigid beneath him, chokes on a strangled cry. His body seizes, clenching tight around Dream in rhythmic pulses as he spends himself into the sheets; Dream closes his eyes, feels with every trembling fiber of his being as Hob's pleasure peaks, then subsides. Hob wilts beneath him, limp, sated, and Dream shifts with him, kisses softly between his shoulder blades again and again.

Hob makes a soft sound, a short note of longing and pleading, squirming under Dream, and then the dream ripples, shifts. Dream again allows himself to be shifted with it and finds himself seated cross-legged on the bed with Hob speared in his lap, wrapped around him, kissing him. He welcomes it, opening to Hob's desperate ardor, letting it stoke his own. He slides both hands to Hob's backside, grasps each cheek firmly and flexes up into him, licking the little gasp Hob makes directly from his mouth.

"My Hob," he breathes, flexing into him again, gripping to spread him decadently open; Hob squirms into it, grinding down, panting into the space between their lips. He shifts, contorting easily within the dream to get his knees beneath him without losing the connection of Dream's cock inside him. He leans forward and gingerly pushes Dream back, cautiously bold; Dream moves as urged, reclining slightly into the pillows behind him. Hob's eyes are dark with want and brightly eager, holding Dream's gaze with something that is very nearly worship.

"Hard to believe this is real," he breathes, hands warm on Dream's shoulders, knees splayed to either side of Dream's hips. "That you should want me the way I want you, Dream—" He leans in for a kiss and Dream meets him with ardor, lifting him marginally at the same time and pulling him flush down into his lap again. Hob whimpers into his mouth and Dream lifts him again, encouraging. Hob takes the cue, rises on his knees and sinks back down, moans decadently to fill himself with Dream's cock, again, and again. He breaks the kiss, tosses his head, clutches at Dream as he squirms low and writhes, panting with it.

Dream watches him, watches his face, speaks his own helpless awe and rapture into the space between them. "Hob, my Hob—" He ducks his head, brushes his cheek against the rich sweep of Hob's chest hair with a groan. "You bring me. Low, with wanting, my beautiful Hob, you will be my undoing—"

"Dream—oh, fuck, Dream—!" Hob's hands on his shoulders grasp tight, trembling, and he moves faster, and faster still, rising and falling and clinging and perfect.

In no time at all he has found his rhythm, gasping out the loveliest sounds as he quickly loses himself to the pleasure of it and Dream gives himself over in turn, lets the plunging grip of Hob's body draw him ever closer to the precipice. He wraps an arm about Hob's waist, holding him close while Hob rides feverishly up and down in his lap, head thrown back, his cries sharp and breathless. Dream's other hand cradles the nape of Hob's neck and Dream's mouth whispers over the arch of Hob's throat, silent declarations of possession and adoration for which he does not care to find the words.

Hob moves faster, faster, breath coming shorter and shorter—and then at last yet in no time at all he is wailing, grinding hard into Dream's lap, and his spend blooms warm between them, runs down Dream's stomach in lazy rivulets. Dream twitches within him, keyed up and fraught with his own need for release, and then Hob slumps against him, spent but yet unsatisfied.

"Dream," he whines, shifting his hips restlessly, tucking his face down into the crook of Dream's neck, arms around him. "Dream, love, please—"

Dream nuzzles into Hob's hair, enchanted by the scent of him, the warmth of his skin, the weight of him in Dream's arms. He is vibrant and alive and oh, how Dream has wanted for moments just like this, for ages. He kisses softly along the arch of Hob's neck, into the hollow beneath his ear, takes the lobe gently in his teeth and lets it slip free. "What would you have of me, my Hob?" he murmurs, alight with the intensity of his own want, holding it in check—he wishes to be a generous lover, after all, wishes for Hob to know him as such.

Hob gives a trembling sigh, a gusty exhale that sweeps across Dream's clavicle. "Anything. Everything. Dream—" He shifts, brushes warm lips across Dream's shoulder; the dream shimmers around them but remains unchanged, Hob's will to direct it quieted.

Dream plucks at the threads of it and finds only that Hob wishes fervently that Dream might fuck him now, ardent and relentless, claim him so thoroughly that none could ever doubt to whom Hob belongs—

The possessive greed that surges in him then is somewhat unseemly, perhaps, but Dream does not care. Hob wishes to be his. Dream will not let that want go unfulfilled.

He moves, fluid and urgent, tumbles Hob onto his back with Hob's legs wrapped up about him and lets go his restraint.

Hob is pliant and open beneath him, welcoming, eager, and Dream drives into him with fervor. The way that Hob arches and clings and cries out only spurs him on, fans the flames of his ardor, and he bends to Hob, kisses him fiercely, feasts on the sweet sounds of pleasure Hob is offering into his mouth. He is wanted, he is sought after, he is desired, Hob desires him, and Dream is lost to the elation of it all. He fucks, and fucks, bent close over Hob's yearning body, clasps one of Hob's hands to the sheets beside his head, kisses Hob with all of the wanting and adoration that he had not dared to speak in 1889.

He hardly dares to speak it now, not in so many words, but it pours out of him all the same, plain to be read in every touch and every kiss that Hob allows him, every ardent helpless sound that escapes his own throat, that he smothers against the warmth of Hob's skin.

Hob comes again, he is aware, though he is very much lost in the rise of his own pleasure when it happens. The intimacy of Hob spilling between them spurs him on with primal satisfaction; Hob is marking Dream his, after a fashion, and Dream can hold back no longer from marking him in kind. He moves with utter abandon, hips rolling in thunderous waves, his pleasure cresting higher and higher until at last it breaks and he falls, trembling, into the ocean of Hob's regard, the eddying tides of Hob's want, the harboring shores of Hob's arms twining about him and the sweet welcoming press of Hob's lips to his temple.

It is over, then, and Dream is left pleasantly boneless and sated, entwined with Hob still, breathless and undone. He does not need to breathe but Hob's subconscious expects it, and Hob's dream provides it, and how else should he convey the magnitude and intensity of what they have just shared?

"My Hob," he pants, between kisses to Hob's face, his lips, the dimple of his chin, anywhere Dream can reach.

"Yours," Hob breathes, unfettered joy radiant in his smile, which Dream simply must kiss again.

"Would that I had named you thus when last we met at the White Horse," he murmurs, awash still in tender warmth at the feel of Hob in his arms, the reality of it. He sprawls on his side, pulls Hob closer. "Decades, I might have known the pleasure of your touch, of holding you thus, had I been forthcoming with the wishes of my heart."

He does not think he would speak so plainly to Hob in the waking world, nor even in the Dreaming proper if Hob were fully lucid. But here, in the warm and hazy cocoon of Hob's dreamscape, where Hob wishes to hear such things, there is safety in the imperfection of Hob's memory and it is not so difficult to. Confess.

"No matter," Hob says, snuggling into him, warm and content and overflowing with gentle happiness. "We've all the time in the world to make it up, haven't we, love."

Love. To be named such by Hob—it is an honor Dream is uncertain he deserves; greedy as he is, he will accept it all the same.

The room ripples softly and now Dream lies reclined in this bed that Hob has imagined his, sated, quiet, Hob curled against and over him. Hob's head lays on his chest, Hob's arm around his ribs, Hob's breath the even peaceful rhythm of sleep. Ordinarily a dreamer who sleeps in their dream fades from his realm, but Dream is selfish, and holds just enough of Hob's dream intact to keep him here longer.

He is aware that he will have to speak with Hob in the waking world, to confirm the truths of his dreaming mind, to make known that what has transpired in this dream is not mere fantasy and that Hob might have it in his waking life as well, should he wish it.

Dream shies from the notion of laying himself so bare, still. Despite what has been shared here, despite his certainty that Hob will welcome his revelations, there is vulnerability in offering himself up for the possibility of rejection and Dream. Does not relish the prospect.

He owes it to Hob, however. He knows this. And he will not shirk it, not when the taste of Hob's nightmare yet sits so fresh upon his tongue.

Hob fears to lose him.

Because Hob values Dream's presence in his long long life.

Because Hob holds him dear.

It is a comfort, and a wonder, and he is glad to simply sit with such undeserved knowledge while Hob slumbers across his chest and the moments stretch like spidersilk, just as beautiful, just as delicate.

"Dream?" Hob stirs against him at last, naked and warm and content, lifting his head to blink muzzily up at Dream. His smile is soft and sleepy and sweet, and Dream's chest aches as if there truly were a human heart within it. He touches Hob's face, caresses it, draws him up and bends to press his lips to Hob's forehead.

He has been selfish long enough.

"This dream is over," he murmurs, and lets Hob slip through his fingers as Hob's consciousness slides toward waking and the room dissolves around them.

With the barest thought he is clad in his robes once more and back in his palace, striding the halls with purpose. He will visit Hob today, in the waking world. He will have the necessary conversations. And, if fortune will but smile upon him a little longer, if Hob remains willing when he is awake, then. Perhaps a new chapter in their story will unfold.

= Started: 2/25/24 Drafted: 6/23/25 Posted: 6/28/25

EDIT: Now with art by the fantastic @teejaystumbles ! ❤️

[regaliasonata]

Joaquin probably sets up Sam’s dating profile with the “Date my sad best friend or else I will” type captions. But then has to delete and block a bunch of Bucky Lookalikes from his list to make sure Sam doesn’t spiral…

[toxotesjc]

#those fics are in my head again... #mackleno >> please yes

ask and you shall receive (part of a warmup thing I wrote). but for real feel free to send asks about wips or whatever

There's a sick, slick slide of shame in Mack's gut, a fissure in the facade he's built so far into his being it might as well be anchored in his soul, a crack in the very core of what and who he is.

Mack is: a good son, a good man, a good friend. Good for more-than-a-friend, even, for the right man. For Will.

"Good boy," Leno says, when Mack comes back with the beers. He's sprawled on the couch, lazy and insouciant, looking like the version of himself that's still lounging across Will's home screen more than a year after Will's precious line skated off the ice for the last time.

"Shut the fuck up," Mack says. "You didn't talk to Will like that."

Leno shuts the fuck up, nice and easy. He's funny like that, Mack is learning: rails against the slightest demand one moment, rolls over passive and pliant the next. Mack stares.

The monster in his thoughts, the Ryan Leonard Will talks about, whose Instagram Will still scrolls through, who his parents still ask about when Mack comes over for dinner-- that's not this man. This man isn't six and a half feet tall with hands Will would look small underneath. His face doesn't wear a confident sneer. Mack feels abruptly ridiculous for having been so haunted by him. He sets the beers on the side table and climbs onto the sofa, one knee on either side of Leno's hips. Leno doesn't move to dislodge him. He just stares, big dark eyes with a peculiar haunted grief, a strange madness, behind. Not deer eyes, sheep eyes.

"You're nothing to worry about," Mack tells him.

Leno doesn't say anything.

"You're not me," Mack says. "Soon I won't think about you either."

Leno doesn't move. Mack prods his lower lip-- full, soft-- with his index finger, and slowly, his lips part.

[peskellence]

[cover art by the extraordinarily talented @faxaway. please please please support the original post!]

Reed900 Slow Burn (18+) | AO3 Link

Summary: In the aftermath of Detroit's android revolution, Nines grapples with the complexities of his newfound deviancy. As he seeks to establish his place in a newly transformed society, his resolve is put to the ultimate test when he is paired with Detective Gavin Reed—a notoriously volatile human with a well-established hatred for androids—to investigate a series of murders.

While initial impressions of his partner seem to suggest his reputation is well-deserved, the more time Nines spends with him, the more he is forced to challenge his judgments. As they form an unexpected bond, the RK900 is also pushed to examine truths about himself he would much rather seek to forget. (A Retelling of ‘More Than Our Parts’ from the POV of Nines.)

Other Tag(s): Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Status: In Progress (14/?)

Chapter List:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

MEMORY LOG 0.4

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

MEMORY LOG 0.3

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

[valeriianz]

A Sweet Romance Beginning In a Queue

a moodboard for one of my favorite Dream x Hob fics by @tj-dragonblade :) this fic is so soft and cozy and easy... i find myself rereading it a lot. so i wanted to make something for it ♥ click the title for the ao3 link!

[takemealivelh]

takemealivelh’s masterlist

LUKE

1.what are you doing after this? - 2.is that for me? - 3.she’s friend-zoning you so hard - 4.what are you doing here? - 5.upstairs - 6.what are you saying? - 7.can we talk? 8.we’re not done here yet, okay? 9.what do we do then?

Bruised Knuckles *tw: racism

Don’t hog the blanket

Vinyl Magic

Who would you be today?

1. i bet you look cute *mild smut

sweetheart *smut

are you dating more people? 

midnight city pt 1 *smut

you wanna get high? *smut

you want me to fuck you in your car? *smut

don’t do that

send me more pictures *smut

you win some, you lose some *smut

tidal wave *smut

easier to blame

you want a napkin with that? (part one) *smut - you wanna wait till tonight? (part two) *mild sexual content

stay out of trouble *smut

heart is gonna flatline *smut

spread them open *smut

- Concepts -

fuck me at a quarter to three + choker

MICHAEL

I Can Tell You A Secret

Raspberry Chocolate Milkshake

One Night Stand Pt. 1One Night Stand Pt. 2 One Night Stand Pt. 3 *smut

ASHTON

You’re in Trouble *smut

I think I adore you

You are a gem

I told you not to fall in love with me

Battle of the Bands Pt. 1 Battle of the Bands Pt. 2 *smut

Señorita

that doesn't mean i don't want you *smut

CALUM

Cat’s got your tongue?

Hummingbird

I really need to see you smile right now

- Concepts -

let’s fucking dance