#but that's not why I find all of this unsatisfactory

[priceofreedom]

How do you feel so far about Rebirth right now?

i have... opinions. i can't speak about the game as a whole cause i'm not able to play it, but plot-wise and character-wise i can't say i'm very happy so far 😅

[sttoru]

⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. boothill spending a nice, sunny day on the ranch with his family !

tags. pre-cyborg!boothill x wife!female reader. fluff, one tiny hint of angst. sfw. daughter is adopted. based on boothill’s lore. reader gets called ‘mama/momma’. i shed a tear writing this

“aye, yer getting good, kiddo.” boothill grins as he humors his daughter. he’s sitting on a patch of grass underneath an old tree, with his little girl sitting on his lap. his stetson hat lays low on his head, a piece of straw grass between his teeth.

days like these are the reason why he cherishes life. peaceful days where his wife and kid are the only ones surrounding him. home is where he belongs; with his daughter playing the tiny guitar he made her from scratch.

well—more like she’s beating it up.

“dada! dada!” she squeals as she harshly pats the strings, creating an unsatisfactory sound that would make anyone in the vicinity cringe. though, to boothill the sound is a sign of life. of his beloved child being carefree and happy.

the cowboy runs his fingers through the girl’s locks, admiring the little bundle of joy that’s been bestowed upon him. ever since he took her in, life’s been nothing but joyful. “adorable, ain’t ya?” boothill mumbles to no one in particular.

a warm breeze lifts his bangs ever so slightly, revealing those unique eyes of his. they’re filled with nothing but admiration for his daughter. perhaps also a hint of bittersweet warmth.

she’s growing up so fast.

“honey, dinner’s ready!” your voice makes both boothill and the child look up. boothill’s signature smirk only widens the moment you come out of the main house, wiping your hands off with your apron. you look stunning underneath the orange-ish sky. you’re also a reminder of how good boothill has it.

boothill nods and squeezes his daughter’s cheeks, gaining a small giggle at the touch. the calluses on his hands are a contrast to her smooth skin. the chubbiness in her cheeks is absolutely adorable to the white and black-haired man.

“oh, ya hear that? y’r momma made us some food,” boothill pokes the girl’s sides, which makes her laugh again. his favorite sound. she abandons her guitar and stands up, her legs still somewhat wobbly. she had only recently learnt how to walk on her own after all.

“mama!” the kid repeats, reaching her tiny hands out to your figure in the distance. you smile at the sight and crouch down, spreading your arms as you encourage her to walk towards you.

you nod and let out a small chuckle, “hi, baby! c’mon— come to mama!”

your daughter gasps and tries to find her balance before she sets another step. boothill watches her with a fond smile, his hands ready to catch her if she were to fall. though, there doesn’t seem to be any need for those precautions.

she waddles over to you in no time. her little gasps and pants as she tries to run melt the cowboy’s heart. he gets up and walks behind the tiny girl, a sudden mischievous grin on his face.

“heh,” boothill chuckles before acting like he’s going to run after her and catch her if she doesn’t run away from him, “better run before i catch ya!”

the child takes the light-hearted threat seriously and squeals at the sight of her father figure ‘running’ after her. her legs take her towards you as fast as they can, working overtime to reach the other side of the ranch, “waaaaaah!”

you laugh at the sight of your husband chasing after the little girl. he’s good with children—to your utter surprise. before boothill came home with the abandoned baby, you didn’t know if he’d have the skills to care for children. he is blunt, straightforward and rough in some ways.

however, your worries were soon to be proven wrong. it’s like boothill’s destined to be a girl dad. that’s how well he can get along with your adoptive daughter. it was difficult for him at first, but with some trial and error, he’s turned into a great father figure.

“got’cha!” boothill exclaims as he scoops the small child up in his arms the second she got close to you. he tickles her sides and she squirms—giggling like she’s never done before.

“nooooo!” she tries to protest between laughs, but it seems to be an impossible task. her little legs kick wildly in boothill’s embrace, but he doesn’t let up. he puts her over his shoulder and wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you close to him.

“the food smells good, babe,” boothill whispers and kisses the top of your head. the smell of your delicious cooking makes his mouth water. he pinches your cheek and flashes you that charming grin of his not a second later, “bet it tastes fuckin’ amazing too.”

“language, honey,” you roll your eyes playfully and slap boothill’s bicep as a reminder. he simply shrugs and laughs menacingly.

you walk back with him into the house, one hand of his resting on your waist, whilst the other secures your (still squealing) daughter on his shoulder.

the sun setting gives the sky beautiful colors. orange, purple, yellow and a bit of red. it adds to the beauty of this moment—a family of three living happily ever after on their ranch—with nothing or no one to ruin their lives.

or so they thought.

[eternally-racing]

can i have this dance? | lando norris

pairing: lando x wife!reader (and their teenage daughter!)

genre: fluff

wc: 2k

summary: When your daughter goes on her very first date, it's time for you and Lando to accept that your little girl is growing up - especially when a familiar face shows up at your door.

this can be read as a standalone fic or part of the racer girl series!

---

“I’m going to need to have a stern talking with him when he gets here, you know.” Lando stands in the doorway of your daughter’s bedroom as he watches her double check her makeup in the mirror for what feels like the 20th time. 

All Lando can think about is how fast his little girl Piper is growing up as she looks so grown up getting ready for her first date.

 “It’s not even a real date, he just asked me out to prom” is what Piper said as she tried to break the news to you both gently. She knew that you wouldn’t be a problem, that you enjoyed hearing about all the dating drama that had been going on in her class. In fact, she had come to you first for advice on how to tell Lando about it, but you would never admit that to him. The two of you girls had a bit of a master plan to break it to him - it started with cooking Lando’s favorite meal for him, watching your favorite movie with him together as a family, and then finally breaking the news gently over dinner.  

Lando chokes on his food slightly when the topic comes up, trying to chalk it up to the spice you’ve put in the pasta even though you and your daughter can see right through the lie. He simply nods at the dinner table and doesn’t say another word on the topic - instead choosing to shift to discussing some upcoming vacation plans. 

While his blatant lack of reaction was a pleasant surprise to Piper, you knew there was something else under the surface. 

“That’s what I was waiting for” quickly spills out of your mouth once you see Lando start pacing around your bedroom when you’re getting ready for bed.

“Can you believe this? She’s dating now?” Lando exclaims with his hands in the air. The British man is pacing back and forth as he keeps muttering under his breath in disbelief. 

You, on the other hand, are the complete opposite. You’re starfished out on your bed, Kindle in hand as you look like the epitome of being relaxed. It was actually a stark change for you to be the one that’s so calm and collected, and it was usually Lando who had the job of trying to comfort you. 

 “It’s prom - it’s normal that she has a prom date! Hell, you were my prom date.” you exclaim.

“True, but I’m me - and she won’t even tell me who this guy is. What if he’s one of those kids that just been repeating high school over and over again so he’s actually just in his 20s and super creepy.”

“First off, no, he’s a regular high schooler, I promise you that. I actually think you’d like the kid.” 

Lando looks at you with an air of suspicions as his eyes narrow and he stops in his tracks. “Wait, how do you know who it is?” 

The guilty look permeates on your face as Lando keeps pressing you for answers. He’s made it from being across the room to now being chest to chest with you in seconds, prodding you in the side for answers. He’s relentless as usual, as you give into his charms all too easily. 

“Okay, okay. I don’t know anything for sure so I don’t want to give you false information which is why I didn’t say anything. But me and some of the PTA moms were talking and we have our theories.”  

It’s no surprise Lando finds your answer unsatisfactory as he begs for you to tell him more. 

“Nope! My lips are sealed” you say with the gesture. “Prom is literally in just a couple of weeks, Lan. You’ll find out soon enough.” 

- - - – - - - -

Those weeks fly by and before you know it the special day is here. Lando has been on the quieter side all day, but your house stays as noisy as always as Piper’s excitement fills the place. 

The knock on the door is gentle but you can still hear it from upstairs in Piper’s bedroom. You’re helping your daughter with the finishing touches on her hair and are about to walk away to answer when you hear that Lando has beaten you to the chase. Piper’s eyes widen along with yours when you both start to regret your decision to not camp out by the door to soften the blow. 

There’s an audible gasp from your husband as you hear him open the door. 

“Samuel Sainz?” Lando stands in disbelief in the doorway as the words fall out of his mouth.

The younger boy is a spitting image of his father. He’s clutching what looks like a bouquet of handpicked flowers in his shaking hands as he looks up at your husband. He was only a couple months older than your own daughter, having grown up just a few doors down from your family when you all used to live in Monaco. There weren't that many schools to choose from when they were younger, so naturally you had come to see Samuel and his parents quite often throughout the year. It was of course only helped by the fact that both of their dads were best friends. 

“It is good to see you, Mr. Norris. I’m just here to pick up Y/N, if that’s okay?”

 It’s an adorable sight really - even from the top step of the stairs you can tell how nervous the boy is by the way that he uncomfortably shifts his weight between both legs. You wince knowing that him phrasing it as a question is giving Lando the opportunity to launch into his “protective dad” talk, which you had heard more than a couple of times from him in the shower over the last week.

“Why don’t we grab a seat and chat before Piper comes down, Samuel?” Lando sounds extra official as he guides the younger boy to your couch. 

As you watch from the top of the stairs, you can see Lando put on his intense stare as he leans forward to intimidate the younger boy. 

“So, what are your intentions with my little girl, Samuel?” 

Samuel has an equally fiery glint in his eye as he says something along the lines of “my dad warned me this was going to happen”, before launching into his eloquent answer about how he wants to take Piper to prom and make sure she has a great night and that he’ll make sure that she’s safe and home on time. 

It’s not enough for Lando, you’re not sure anyone ever will be, as he continues to dissect every single word that comes out of the younger boy’s mouth.  You can’t bear to watch the scene in front of you any longer as you cut to say that Piper is almost done getting ready so Samuel could wait by the base of the stairs for her.  The younger boy gives you a look that you know means “thank you” as he bolts off the couch at the first opportunity to do so. 

Lando’s poker face facade falls once he sees his daughter at the top of the stairs. That’s his little girl all grown up - and for a moment he forgets about all his worries for the evening. He catches your gaze at the top of the stairs and can instantly spot the similar look of pride on your face. 

“Dad, don’t get too emotional on me now.” Piper jokes as she gives her dad a hug once she makes her way down to the main floor.. 

Now that she’s getting older, special moments like this are more and more treasured by both of them.  

Lando knows that it’s just for the rest of the evening, but Lando feels his heart starting to squeeze in his chest as he watches Samuel and Piper talk to each other. You’re right by his side as you rub comforting circles onto his back. 

“Not a minute later than curfew, young man, remember that.” Lando sticks to his stern demeanor as you roll your eyes. He really is the grumpy to your sunshine in this moment as you drape an arm around his shoulders.

“What he means to say is have fun, you two.” you smile as you take one last picture of the two of them before sending them on their way. 

Piper mouths a “thank you” to you as your grip on Lando’s wrist stops him from following the two kids out to the car. 

—-

Less than 15 minutes later, luckily once the shock has started to wear off of Lando, there’s another knock on the door. 

“Well if it isn’t the devil himself.” Lando mutters as he comes face to face with his old teammate and his wife. 

“Before you give me that look, just know that I only found out about this today. Turns out our wives are the true masterminds scheming in the background with our kids now.” Carlos mutters.

You and Rebecca are trying to hide your smiles as you lazily hide behind the excuse that you both needed something to talk to each other about while the men were away at their 6am tee times. 

Carlos holds up a larger than life bottle of wine from his collection for the four of you to share. 

“Figured you could use some of this tonight too, yknow, to cope with the fact that our kids are probably at second base with each other by now.” 

“They’re having sex?!” Lando looks like he’s actually going to pass out as he grabs your hand in fear. You and Rebecca will laugh over this on your own time later, but for now you comfortingly rub Lando on the back while Carlos also tries to calm Lando down from his spiral by pouring a heavy helping of wine into a glass for him. 

The night from then on actually stays pretty uneventful. There’s a couple of rounds of board games played while you order some takeout for you all from your favorite Italian place. 

“I think I see some gray hairs in there, mate, you’re getting old.” Carlos tugs at Lando’s curls to try and find one to pull out. For a minute the two of them argue like little kids, almost finding themselves in a full cat fight while you lean back and watch it all happen. 

“It’s a Friday night and we’re playing Catan and drinking fancy wine while we wait for our kids to get back from a school dance, Carlos - safe to say we’re not in the days of closing down the club and buying everyone free tequila shots.”  Lando muses 

“AND some of these hairs are brand new thanks to your son, mate, don’t forget that.”  Lando rolls his eyes as he quips back at the Spanish man.

The Sainz make sure to leave before their son can come back, as you all had come to the conclusion to stay out of your kid’s romance as much as possible. With the promise to hang out again under less surprising circumstances, Carlos and Rebecca give you both one last hug before they’re out the door. 

In less than the time it takes for you to finish clearing away your takeout boxes, you hear Samuel’s car pull up in the driveway one minute before curfew. You know that of course, because Lando is waiting by the front door with a timer on his phone. 

There’s a ghost of Piper’s lipstick on Samuel’s cheek when he walks her back to the front door,  but you opt to say nothing to Lando.   

He’s instead focused on how happy his daughter looks - he can feel the giddy feeling radiating off of Piper as she has a little pep in her step going up the stairs. 

“Oh my god she’s in love.” Lando says in awe as he stares at the now empty staircase. 

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself, Lan. It was just prom.” you chuckle as you go back to clearing away empty dishes from your dining table. 

“No, I’m sure.” 

“That sure?”. Lando’s certainty makes you feel extra puzzled as you pause at the dining table. 

“Seriously, I’m sure Y/N.”

You walk towards him and interlace your fingers with his as you rest your head into his chest. 

“What makes you so sure Lando?” 

Lando gives you a sweet smile before kissing you on the forehead. 

“Because that’s exactly how I looked when I came home from my first date with you.” 

------

author's note: it has been far too long since i've posted something, so i hope you all liked this piece! Until next time! - Em 🩷

[barleyo]

Heiress.

Father! Sukuna X Daughter! Reader (smut)

A/N: i got this idea in the middle of the night and i had to write it. the thought of it gave me so many damn ideas, a lot of which i couldn't include in this particular work!! obviously i don't condone what is written. obviously ^_^

Tags: incest (father-daughter), misogyny/sexism, heian era sukuna, p in v, creampie, breeding

Wordcount: 1.7k

!!! DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT/DARK CONTENT !!!

Sukuna may have been a very, very proud man, but he was no fool. He knew that eventually both his name and power would need to be passed down. An heir, he would need. A suitable, strong, merciless heir to take his place. The strategist he was, he decided to start sooner rather than later. 

He had the finest women taken from the surrounding villages. Vetted for imperfections, all of them. Those who were not up to his scathing standards were promptly discarded. Those who passed his tests, which were few, were used as his concubines. 

Women from far and wide were gathered. He would call them into his private quarters, one after the other, every so often. It was a race, of sorts, to see who took first. One woman was lucky and fell pregnant quickly. The baby, however, was not so lucky and was never born. Another had successfully given birth, but the child had physical imperfections. Not suitable.

Damned women, he had often thought, with their cursed, weak bodies. What good were they to him? Residing on his land, getting fat off of his food, coaxing weak, unsatisfactory orgasms from him. Yet none could do him the justice— the service— he deserved of providing a successor?

Yet again, another whore of his fell pregnant. His hopes were never quite high, but he was less than optimistic this time around. For good reason, it seemed, for you were the product that came from your mother. 

A female. 

Bless the poor servant who delivered the baby. They were met with a cold, scornful face when Sukuna heard the news. 

A female.

He scoffed, watching your mother hold you in her arms. The room reeked of tinny blood and afterbirth. 

What good was a female? What would that leave him with? An heiress? The thought was laughable, though hardly humorous. A daughter. Pathetic. Leeching. A daughter could not carry forth her father's legacy. A daughter had no place in a strong lineage.

A daughter had no right to bear his name. 

He felt betrayed that his seed could produce anything but a powerful, fierce warrior. Left with a delicate, shivering babe of the inferior sex, he fell into deep thought. 

A female. What good could you be, indeed? You were born healthy. No defects or deformities. Your heart was in your chest. You had only two eyes and one nose, thankfully not some other ungodly combination. 

"What shall we do with her?" a servant asked, kneeling beside your mother. 

"Leave the child. Dispose of the woman. No use in keeping two of them around, is there?"

Weak as a woman may be, Sukuna would be damned if something usable didn't earn its keep. He would find something worthwhile about you.

You had cursed yourself many times for not being the son your father always wanted. It was glaringly obvious, he scolded you often for your gender. 

"What am I to do with you, girl? Weakness is not something you got from me. Your whore mother must have—"

A constant degrading voice in your ear. Ever present was your father. You could never resent him for it. He was right, after all. His harshness did not take away from his truth. You were female. You were weak. Delicate. Gentle.

And in a stroke of good luck, beautiful. 

There were times where you held value to your father. You rationalized that those times were why he kept you around. 

You spoke well of him. You were a treat for an already conceited man's ego. You were subservient. No task asked of you was denied. Most importantly, you grew into your body well. 

Sukuna hadn't much interest in you, wether positive or negative, until you had matured a bit. The birthday when you had received your first suggestion of curves was when you first remember him paying you any mind. He had asked you what you had wished for on your day. You said that you had everything you wanted. Your answer pleased him.

When you grew taller, he had less room to look down on you. The year you had grown a woman's face, his eyes started to linger onto your lips when you spoke. 

When you hit full maturity, your year of eighteen, you felt a rush of what was as close to approval as you would ever get from your father. 

"Your weakness dishonors me," had slowly changed into "your figure will fetch a decent husband." Slowly. 

"The lord sends for you," Uraume said blankly, standing ramrod straight at your door. 

Odd. Your father had never once sent for you. Even in his best of moods, he had no desire to see you more than necessary. In the home, you were akin to a piece of furniture. Not expected to move and used as pleased. Nobody sought out a sofa, it was a permanent fixture. Not thought of for longer than a few regarding seconds. 

You passed Uraume with a stiff nod and padded down the cold, wooden floors below your feet. Your father, as usual, was in his quarters, silently looming. 

"Father." A simple greeting. He was not one for niceties, you knew that well. 

Sukuna shot his eyes over to you. Not bothering to turn his head, he let his eyes trail you. He examined you like a microbe under a scope. 

He finally spoke. "Woman."

He had taken to calling you that recently. You weren't quite yet a woman, yet not a girl either. You were teetering two lines precariously, and he decided to push you over to one side. Not one for indecisiveness, either.

"Yes, father?"

"You are no heir of mine," he said. "You are not fit to succeed me. Ever. The family name should sooner die with me than travel to the incapable hand of a female."

You braced yourself for another deep-cutting spiel of how you would never take over in his place. Of how a woman's job was to submit. Of how your very birth was a disappointment. 

"However, I do find a certain value in you. You will prove yourself to me, indeed."

"How?"

Sukuna rose to his full height, straightening his back as he glided towards you. He yanked at the outer sash of his robe. 

"What other womb more better suited to give me the perfect heir," he started, silk sliding down his arms as he discarded the kimono that had draped his form, "than that I sired myself?"

"I have planned this out for a long time," Sukuna said, pushing your legs to your chest. "I have no doubt that this will be fruitful."

You had hoped the same. If you could not be what your father wanted, would giving him the solution not be the next best thing? Truly, you were relieved that he had found purpose for you. Perhaps this would save you from marriage to an unbecoming man of lesser means and power than your father. Perhaps this was a saving call being made. 

You had listened to many attempts made by your father to bring about a son. The concubines were tired, certainly, of the nonstop, pointless breeding. The walls were only so thick, and your father was never quiet.

They weren't getting any younger— the women. Their youth had faded, right along with their chances of children. Young women were hard to come by nowadays. 

Just another downside of the sex, your father would likely say, they've got a clear expiration date.

"Quiet now. The pain will fade." 

The stretch of his cock would be uncomfortable enough, naturally, but the first time brought about a special type of stretch. A virgin cunt being broken in. An old wive's tale said that a young girl was the most fertile during her first go-about. Something about the blood from a punctured hymen carrying seed upwards. 

To you, it felt as though the blood slicked you up more. Maybe the old wives knew a thing or two. Red smeared over your inner thighs, but the way it coated your walls helped you hold the weight of Sukuna's cock. An equal trade off, for the most part. 

"I was right to keep you," he continued, slotting himself into you with measured strokes. "I knew that eventually I'd find use for you. Look at you."

Look at yourself, you did. Your surroundings, your bloodied legs. Where you and Sukuna met, somewhere in the middle. Connected by thin, gooey ropes of slick and crimson. 

It didn't feel nearly as clinical as you knew it did for the other women. The thought stirred a bit of pride in your chest. Father tried with you. Other women seemed to be pump and dump. And rough. Though "gentle" was not a word you would use to describe what was happening, it surely was not anywhere close to "rough." There was a touch of passion. What felt like love. Father had even kissed you once, twice. His lips were chapped and he bit yours, but not hard enough for blood to peek through.��

You tried for another, with great success. You leaned your head forward, eyes glazed with tears, and pressed your lips against his. From pleasure and pain, you surmised. A fair mixture, since Sukuna seemed to hit spots you couldn't place your finger one, and since the pinch of your hole accommodating his size was still stinging. 

"I have raised such a greedy thing," he mused, huffing a breath through his nose as he complied and gave you another kiss, this time with tongue, as you had silently demanded with your own weak tongue trying to force his mouth open. 

"Oh, gods," you groaned in a hushed tone. 

You felt a coil snap in your body, and suddenly the heat of a thousand suns crashed through you, starting at your melted brain, and leaking down to your cunt. Whatever essence that managed to slip from the suction you had around Sukuna's length soon mixed with his own cum. 

Milkiness dripped down, a visual confirmation of a successful mating attempt. Sukuna's head tilted back triumphantly. Now it would take, he knew it, and the results would be as he hoped.

"I do not know why I hadn't thought of this sooner," he said, keeping you plugged with his cockhead. "My seed belongs in only the purest of wombs. Yours."

[milksnake-tea]

❀ ˎˊ- prompt: how they are in a vampire au ❀ ˎˊ- characters: blade, dan heng, dan feng, march 7th, himeko, jingliu, jing yuan, kafka, luocha, sampo, caelus, stelle, yaoshi ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: lots of mentions of blood and wounds, the typical vampire stuff, talks about scents, usage of the word "feeding", intended lowercase, mentions of alcohol in kafka's part, caelus/stelle may be ooc :| ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: NEVER REALLY ANNOUNCED IT BUT YAHOO HERE U GO !!! THE WINNER OF THE POLL WAS VAMPIRES, SO LETS GO ITS BITING TIME HEHE <3 different format bc damn thats a lot of characters i dont have banners for... also first time writing them women so scratches head sorry if it's ooc teehee i tried

vampire!blade, whose bloodlust runs deeper than most. his desires drive him to the brink of insanity at the slightest whiff of blood, the former human despising the animalistic tendencies that now governed his existence. with his enemies, he is content to lick their blood from his face, finding no remorse in the blood of the dead. but when he dares to drink from you, he is gentle - cautious. always his eyes are watching your own, especially before he sinks his teeth into the crook of your neck. for blade is prone to losing himself in the taste of you, and he fears he may go too far.

vampire!dan heng, who despises his species more than any hunter out there. he longs for the normality and companionship of humanity, and often hides his vampiric traits in public as to masquerade as a human. the only time he'll satiate his desire for blood is when he's on death's door; and even then he'll only settle for blood bags at the dead of night, away from any of the eyes of his fellow trailblazers. when the time comes and you offer your blood to him, dan heng is reluctant, hesitant. never in his life has he fed on another, and you can feel his inexperience in how he cautiously sinks his fangs into your skin - opting to kiss your wrist rather than your neck, just in case he lost control.

vampire!dan feng, who will outright refuse blood that he deems to be unsatisfactory to his palate. even if his dietary needs are considered monstrous by other species, that doesn't mean that he himself needs to be barbaric. dan feng treats blood as he would wine - like a delicacy, only to be partaken on occasion. but all of that is thrown out the window once he tastes you for the first time. when dan feng drinks your blood, he does it with the tenderness of a lover. always, he keeps you against a comfortable surface such as a bed or a sofa as his lips latch onto your neck, taking his time as he savors you like a fine dish.

vampire!march 7th, who never really questioned why she needed to drink blood to survive, and always deemed it as normal. although, she doesn't really consider it cute, claiming that it "ruins her cute-girl aesthetic". as such, she won't talk about it unless you start the conversation first, preferring to disguise her blood intake in the juice boxes she keeps around. even when she does drink from you, it's in small sips, a mere nip before she's off to doing something more fun. don't take it personally, march just isn't fond of drinking from another person. she appreciates you offering, though!

vampire!himeko, whose taste is questionable, even for a vampire. for a second, you thought that her horrendous taste in coffee came from her background, but no, it's just himeko being himeko. unlike her other companions, himeko isn't ashamed of her needs. if she needs blood, she beckons you from across the parlor car, taking your arm in her hand as she gently bites your wrist. there's something playful in the way she drinks - she's gentle, yet doesn't treat you as though you're made of glass, a soft giggle leaving her lips as she licks the wound on your wrist.

vampire!jingliu, who makes sure you understand just what you're getting into when you offer your blood. it's hard enough to keep both her mara and her bloodlust at bay around you, and even harder to control herself when you're so willing to help her. time and time again she warns you, saying that she may not be able to control herself once she gets a taste. but if you're strong and brave enough to feed her despite the dangers, then brace yourself, for jingliu won't stop until she's fully satiated.

vampire!jing yuan, who loves to nip at your fingers playfully, flashing his fangs whenever he can. honestly, jing yuan's the type of person to forget he's a vampire until the time comes and he needs to feed - and even then, it's more of an inconvenience to him than anything else. but that won't stop him from messing with you, after all, he loves the disgruntled face you make whenever he pretends to snap at you. however, when jing yuan does drink from you, he prefers to take it from the back, hugging you from behind as he languidly drinks from your shoulder - making sure the process is as painless as possible.

vampire!kafka, who teases you when you first find out of her species. are you afraid of her now? how cute, but really, there's no need to be afraid. she wouldn't hurt you, not intentionally, at least. kafka can't help but laugh as you playfully hit her for her words. can you blame her, though, when your reactions are just that endearing? kafka isn't one to take blood directly from the source, instead, she prefers to drink it in a wine glass, mixed with some sort of alcohol to really amp up the effects. having both wine and blood in one drink can be quite intoxicating to a vampire, but kafka wouldn't be kafka if she were afraid of the after effects.

vampire!luocha, who becomes addicted to your blood the second he tastes it. over his lifetime, luocha has tasted the blood of many, each with their own flavors - ranging from savory to sweet to downright disgusting. but with you, the drinking of blood is less so a matter of feeding, but rather an intimate act between lovers. he is tender as his lips latch onto your neck, his arms wrapped around you and hands massaging you to ease you through the process. and through it all, his eyes forever hold your gaze as he tastes heaven once again.

vampire!caelus, whose inexperience often makes him dangerous. caelus doesn't know how to deal with his urges, nor does he understand why a hunger builds up within him whenever he sees an exposed patch of your skin. he's a sweet guy, no doubt about it, it's just that he doesn't know how to stop. it's up to you to guide him and tell him when to stop, for caelus is young, and doesn't understand the durability of the human body compared to a vampire. but he's willing to learn, even if it means driving off his own needs in favor of yours. the last thing he wants to do is to hurt you, after all.

vampire!stelle, who nuzzles up to you whenever she feels the slightest thirst for blood. like caelus, stelle has no idea what she's feeling nor how to deal with it. when she starts getting hungry, she becomes clingy - she starts hanging around you more, often staring at you and leaving you to wonder just what it is she wants. it's only when she starts tugging at your sleeve that you realize that she's hungry. when stelle drinks, it's... well, it's not as unhinged as caelus, but she still lacks the control as he does, and you have to tap her head to snap her out of it. but when she's done drinking, you can't help but coo at her adorable face, like a kitten full of soup.

vampire!yaoshi, who prefers to give their blood rather than drink it. they would hate to put anyone in danger, after all. but alas, their instincts won't disappear, even after their ascension to aeonhood. ironic, isn't it? the giver and sustainer of eternal life is also the same one who drains that life. when they feed from you, they prefer to have you in their arms as they do, your back pressed against their chest as they drink. they whisper sweet nothings each time they rise from your skin, their tongue licking at your wound to soothe you. but it never hurts when it's with yaoshi - perhaps it's the dew from yaoshi's trees that numbs you, or the poison in their tail. if anything, you feel as though you are in a hazy dream, not yet asleep, yet not quite awake either.

[mingtinys]

lost for words

pairing : lee jihoon x gn!reader

fluff , drabble , ultimate simp jihoon

warnings : none

word count : 0.6 k

requested ? no

a/n : this is what i imagine it would sound like if woozi wrote his own "shall i compare thee to a summers day"

Jihoon is nothing short of talented. A maestro amongst artists and a musical prodigy to his peers.

He can pluck strings until they sing and make his fingertips fly across piano keys in a way that makes them melt together into a symphony. He can breathe life into a school child's recorder that could charm a brewing storm and he can fit together words like a jigsaw to reveal a lyrical masterpiece worthy of the Louvre. Trust, Jihoon has no qualms over his musical competence.

But how is it that he struggles to find any combination of words suitable to the occasion? Why now does his brain falter when it thinks of ways to encompass just how much he loves you? Not a dictionary in the world would be adequate enough to measure that of which he feels.

Because what he feels for you could not possibly be contained to ink on paper, you're much too special for something as archaic as that. Everything about you is so breathtaking. An enigma he's simply been blessed to experience in this lifetime. Jihoon could carve your likeness into crystal under the moonlight and it wouldn't be nearly as mesmerizing as the real thing.

Jihoon believes you outshine even the brightest stars against a jet-black sky. He'd choose the ones in your eyes to stare at for hours over the Milky Way in a heartbeat. Your voice sings a sweeter melody than Apollo's harp on a warm summer day. One he wishes he could capture and play on a loop for all of eternity. If all of history's greatest composers put their minds to one piece, still, they could not conduct a symphony worthy of your essence.

And, oh, how you call his name has him hearing bells. You light a fire inside him like flint dragged across steel— like a bow across strings. Your hand fits into his palm like the bout of a violin and he can't get enough of the harmony you bring to his life. Just your presence alone grounds him in ways he never knew possible.

When he kisses your lips, Jihoon can taste a song so decedent it leaves him full for days. Soft and delicate touches that crescendo into passion personified pluck at the strings of his heart in the late hours. The feeling of his arms around your waist as you sleep provides an indomitable security. Your even breaths fan against his collarbone like a lullaby, easing him to sleep. Then, when he wakes, you're still there, greeting him like a songbird.

You are his muse, his life, and everything more.

Jihoon understands now why so many of history's greatest ballads are written for lovers. Because the human language is a fickle thing. Always changing, never quite perfect, unsatisfactory in the eyes of man. Music lives on for centuries beyond their composers. It is, by all definitions of the word, immortal. There will always be someone to enjoy its tune and pass it down for years to come.

A song is but a time capsule of the memories that brought it to life. And Jihoon is not a man selfish enough to deny future generations of your beauty. He would write a song a day if it meant cementing your memory in history.

If only he could find the words.

"Are you ready?" Seungcheol's deep voice pierces through the thin silence.

"Not at all." Jihoon inhales as deeply as he can in his suit that feels one away thread from being too tight, then exhales slowly. The parchment with his vows crinkles and folds at the bend between his fingers.

The words in his palm are no soliloquy, but his heart bled them with every ounce of love he could muster through shaky hands. And the gold band on his finger is a gentle reminder he has a lifetime to spend writing ballads in your honor. There are only two words he needs to worry about right now.

I do.

[revelboo]

Your Soundwave and Starscream make my brain more happy than my antidepressants * - *

I like writing both of them and coming up with alternate takes for them

The idea for the first part popped into my head before bed and was still there in the morning, so I wrote it. But I keep thinking, what if Soundwave knew Shockwave before empurata, back when he was Senator Shockwave? Before they stripped the good parts away and left only the drive to preserve and protect Cybertron, before all the reasons he cared, every emotion but anger had been cut away along with his memories of why it was important to him. What if they were friends and that’s why Soundwave is so patient with his weird, unsettling behavior and anger issues?

Clumsy Heart Pt 2

IDW Shockwave x Reader, Soundwave x Reader

• “I can dispose of this one and find another if they’re unsatisfactory,” he offers when Soundwave is silent, visor dim as he just stares at the human. Displeased with you. Reaching for you, Soundwave’s hand catches his wrist when the human tenses as if considering jumping even though they must realize they won’t survive the fall. Head turning back to Soundwave in question, he waits. “I can find another.”

• “No. Leave it.” You’re only a human, nothing he should care about, but that dispassionate offer to dispose of you doesn’t sit right with him. Knows it’s the lingering grief, but the fear in your eyes, in your mind pulls at him. Makes his spark ache. Releasing Shockwave, he lays the back of his hand on the surface. “Come.” Those wide eyes go from him to Shockwave and back. You’d just heard Shockwave mention disposing you, of course you’re scared of both of them now. And yet, you twist your little hands together and approach him. Stopping just shy of his servos. Looking up at him with wet eyes.

• Dispose, like you’re a bit of trash to throw away. Because the universe isn’t done screwing with you. Apparently catching your ex was just the warm up to this horror. Trying to study them both without angering them, you can feel your heart pounding inside your chest hard enough you wander if you might have a stroke and not actually have to worry about what the giant, robotic monsters want with you. Because that might be the kinder way to go if all the horror movies you’ve watched are any indication. Dissection? Maybe you’re food? A plaything to torment until they break you?

• That anxiety and fear is nearly crippling as Soundwave crooks a servo. Needs you to calm down, because right now he can’t think. Little face grim like you think you’re marching to your own death, you climb into his hand and sit down, shoulders tense. And it’s worse. So much worse when you lay your little palms against him, your wild emotions crashing through his defenses, flooding into him. Shuddering with your fear, head bowing, he’s aware of the ragged, tonal sound of pain he makes. That he’s drowning in you, unable to stop it. “Stop.” Pleading because he can’t shut you out, your terror needling his spark, slicing into him.

• That word sounds like a plea. Like he’s in pain. Something’s wrong. Soundwave trembling faintly as his head dips toward the human. Doesn’t understand what’s happening, but it seems plausible that it’s because of you. Reaching, he uses his cannon to rake you out of Soundwave’s palm, hearing your yelp as you land on your back and slide on the surface of the desk, immediately curling into a ball. And again Soundwave stops him from removing you, grabbing his arm. “Why?” He asks. You’re clearly somehow a threat, so why restrain him? Why not let him permanently remove you?

• Arms covering your head, you draw your legs up against yourself and wait for the next blow. Wonder if you can make it to the edge of the surface you’re trapped on before you’re caught. If you can jump and land so you don’t break something. Needing to believe there’s a way out of this. That you can survive them.

• Venting raggedly as he watches you peek at him, he wonders that himself. You hadn’t been trying to hurt him, your fear just too visceral. A living thing, all jagged edges that can cut him. A hand still on Shockwave’s arm, he reaches out a single servo. Rumbles softly at you, making that low, tonal hum he uses on his cassettes to soothe. Spark aching as you shiver, curling tighter into a ball. Because you’re not a cassette, you don’t understand he isn’t going to hurt you. Ghosting that servo over you, he keeps humming to you. Coaxing you even as it hurts him, his grief and loss tangling with your fear in a confusion of misery. Unable to stop crooning at you through the agony.

Previous

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[baeddel]

tirade on pirating software. 1.7k words.

i recently read a post by someone who is anti-piracy (better: against making copies of software). they said that if you can't afford something you should wait for a sale or find a free alternative. and then they said that the only time that they find piracy (better: finding a copy online) acceptable is for games that are so old that you cannot buy them from a licensed vendor, but only from resellers, because in that case the developer doesn't get the money anyway.

i feel like i could make a sort of loophole argument in this framework, which is that i can watch ebay until the game is listed by a reseller, and then pirate it, because i'm no longer making a choice between paying the developer or not paying, but paying a reseller and not paying, and i've decided not paying a reseller is morally permissable.

but i think it can go a little further. they specified developer. i should pay the developer. even though i don't buy directly from the developer, but a licensed vendor. but the vendor's surcharge is not worth bringing up.

this is because we don't believe in following the law, exactly, and thus you should follow all copyright laws for that reason. it's because of, usually, one of two reasons: developers deserve to be compensated, or that we have a moral obligation to support the developer.

on the first view, the "just deserts argument", it's not clear to me that the moral obligation to not pirate is watertight in this case (when i said "pirate" before, i made a silly gesture, meant to indicate that i'll say that for brevity, but am not acquiescing). a developer deserves to be compensated for their work; but what do they deserve exactly?

does every developer deserve to become as rich from their game as Notch, and every time they don't there's been an injustice? you probably don't think that.

do they deserve some particular amount that we would say is 'fair'?—it isn't unjust if they do better (although you might think so, and complain about how much of the spotlight they take up compared to others just as deserving), but we only require that much success of them. this might be dependent on the kind of game that it is, for example, a better game deserves more success. if that's the case, then we've exonerated at least some pirates; so long as the developer is as successful on the market as they deserve to be, we've done nothing wrong.

you might say that it's wrong to pirate games that haven't yet reached the threshold of just success, because you place them in jeoprady of never achieving the success they deserve. further, you might say that this threshold is epistemologically unknowable to human beings (see: click), and therefore in practice you can never justify piracy, because you never know if a game has reached the threshold of justice. pirates, therefore, gamble with justice, and only Minos will pay their winnings.

i think this would be a good argument, except that i don't understand why i, as someone who wants to download a copy of the game, am the one who bears the moral responsibility. if the success of this developer is a matter of justice, then surely we all bear that responsibility, even people who don't play videogames. therefore we should all purchase and promote every game, and so forth.

this isn't what any anti-piracy advocate believes, even if they seem to take a deserts line. instead they restrict our obligations to participating in ordinary market mechanisms. the game is being sold as a commodity; therefore people should buy that commodity from a point of sale apporved by the producer, and so forth. it's taken for granted that the anarchy of the market is the right way to guarantee justice, and other possibilities are never explored. ultimately, the deserts argument naturalizes capitalist relations. once you remove these blinders, the mechanism for delivering justice it actually proposes seems obviously unreliable and unsatisfactory (in fact, i believe this criticism applies to all deserts arguments).

here i will quickly add my complaint against the second argument, that we should support the developer. the argument runs: if you like a developer, you should support their work by purchasing their products. i am a lot more sympathetic to this argument and so i won't spend much of the post attacking it. it's enough to say that it suffers from the same problem we just mentioned: why is participating in ordinary market mechanisms the best way to support the developer? capitalism is likewise naturalized by this case when it is advanced as a moral argument against piracy. therefore we can run the same argument: if we have a moral obligation to support game developers, then it's not clear to me why only potential players have that obligation, and so forth (but this time the criticism doesn't apply to all similar arguments, just this one).

however, it often isn't advanced that way, and as a pragmatic argument i tend to agree with it. in fact sometimes they actually have a case for participating in normal market mechanisms: DMC fans want you to buy DMC games because then Capcom will look at their sales figures and decide it's worth making another game. you could argue that they still have capitalist blinkers on because they only advocate you buy one copy, the one you'll play, which is how the game is sold. maybe they should be asking you to buy a hundred copies or whatever. but we don't want them to do that, LOL. and the feeling is usually that there are limits of what you can ask out of someone; when one DMC youtuber was spending quadruple digits on a DMC-themed gacha, his viewers expressed concern and encouraged him to stop. so cheers to DMC players.

in fact, there might be ethical reasons to only ask someone to purchase a copy of something in the normal way: when i try to get you to buy one of Xraftstar / Charity / Porpentine's games, i am doing it because i personally want my friend to succeed, and i want to see their art recognized. this is a kind of moral motivation, but it's the morality of rendering personal obligations; you are not likewise obligated. however, i of course feel there are limits on what i can ask of you, and so, unlike when i make donation posts for my friends who are struggling, i'm only comfortable encouraging you to purchase a copy of something i think will actually render a use-value to you (even if you could still obtain it in other ways and get the same use-value).

but anyway, why specify the developer in the first place? the work put in by the publisher, the developers and maintainers of the platform its sold on, the bandwidth of the payment processor, and so forth, all get left out of the question, even though they are all more or less necessary parts of the normal market mechanisms we're encouraging you to participate in.

i think it's obvious that the anti-piracy advocate of this kind doesn't actually want to advocate for participation in the market economy, like Bush during the recession. they want to be just by the developer because they see the developer as a fellow individual like themselves; they actually want to cut through the market alienation and simply do right by another person. therefore all of the other capitalists who make money off the sale—publisher, platform, payment processor—are just more big companies, perhaps even leeches we'd be better off without.

it's funny, because historically this view was used to support piracy when it came to music. you used to see a lot of charts like this:

how much of a CD goes to the label, manufacturers and distributors, to show how little really goes to an artist, to shut down people who said you should buy the CD to support them. there's a sort of naive anarchism underlying this: i want to help the individual who made the music i love, who needs manufacturers and distributors anyway?

in this kind of simple moral reasoning, resellers really get shafted. they're seen as scalpers, taking money without producing any value. no one says: 'make sure to support resellers!' thus we never ask who the individual behind all of the market alienation the resller is. whoever they are they don't deserve the money. then, when you are poor and struggling, and cannot afford to buy things for yourself, what do people tell you to do? sell your games, CDs...

but i don't want to be too sarcastic here, because there is nothing funny about this impulse to reach through market alienation and connect morally with another individual. it is the essence of emancipation. but hear my argument: purchasing commodities from them is an unsatisfactory way to realize it. it's true that you can certainly help someone by buying what they sell; many of us rely on this to a greater or lesser extent, and, pragmatically, i hope we'll all buy Nadia Nova's next game and put food in her belly. but systematically, not in this or that case, but as a general moral principle, the commodity form, the exchange of cash for things or copies of things—this is the very thing that reproduces these conditions of alienation in the first place. and these relations—their predictability as a feature of the market, or even their scarcity as a part of a volatile and impermanent system—is what habitually places the developer in a condition of alienation from their labour, coaxing them to give up their so-called intellectual "property", then forbidding them from using the games they made; or by seducing them into placing their music on a platform, then offering them increasingly small margins and less control; or to post their content (qua sex workers) on a paywall platform, which then imposes complex payout structures to keep them from claiming their earnings. and so forth. the desire to reach through all of the noise and support the individual is inevitably captured, redirected, and fed upon in as many ways as it can be, until the whole thing crashes down and the cycle starts again.

therefore, should you purchase or pirate the next game you want to play? Remember Ptahhotep: "The noble who sitteth before food divideth it as his soul moveth him; he giveth unto him that he would favour."

[markscherz]

tumblrs being transphobic, with the ceo himself starting an actual harassment campaign against a transfem & also banning transfems who post abt it.

Oh shit, I had not heard about that.

I would like to say I don’t understand why this shit keeps happening, but I actually do understand it way too well. It just makes me so sad and angry. Especially on a site where people find and make their communities.

So much of this is about ego, and the people with power wielding that power to protect themselves and failing to protect others with it. A mere hint of negative sentiment towards them is harassment that is dealt with immediately and harshly, but a dozen complaints about discrimination or threats or bullying take ages to process and frequently come to unsatisfactory moderation decisions.

Whatever the sentiments of the people running this hellsite, you are always welcome in my corner of the internet, wherever you find it. You are all wonderful, and we all deserve to feel that part of this space belongs to us and those to whom we can connect.

Transphobia has no place on tumblr, period. Or anywhere else in society for that matter. It is that which should be being rooted out.

[osakanone]

Crew attire cosplay?

Lately I've been thinking a lot about "what would separate mecha crew equipment from that of a tank crew, or a fighter crew": A lot of military surplus stuff is already really close to what we're going for, and I realized "Motorcycle boots look a lot more like mech pilot stuff than military boots do", which got me thinking what other odd equivalences exist.

The one which really surprised me was how famous mecha live action SF Gunhed used a wetsuit as a stand-in for "generic scifi bodysuit", and that it worked weirdly well, actually?

"Why not latex?"

Latex rips too easily in contact with straps and hard elements, overheats far, far too easily despite having the looks. Thin neoprene works. really well.

So I kept exploring.

One thing I did seriously debate is other than rappelling equipment, would a pilot need something like a rigid knee-brace for hard landings to protect the ACL when they disembark from the robot which is common with high impact parachute equipment.

Some varieties also include counter-weighted springs which make it harder for you to close your knee, but make lifting heavy things on your back and climb much much easier during the ascent phase.

That led me towards Deck Crew helmets, which meet the hood requirement, and of all things, chin wraps which are really unobstructive and you can eat and drink while wearing one pretty comfortably (I say this as someone currently stuck wearing one)

So what we're looking at here is the HGU-24 and HGU-25, often worn by deck crews because it gets along just fine with the famous MCU-2/P AKA "Millenium" mask famous with drone communities as they're designed to be worn together.

Its literally the exact same mask with a minor paint adjustment.

"What's the difference between a drone and a pilot?" "One wears AXENT and latex, the other wears HGU-25 and neoprene." "Anything else?" "Drones have less sex and do as they're told"

Its got the bash-plates you want for an ejector-seat, but it also has the padded foam you want for an impact element, and if it latches properly and the jaw mechanism is well made enough, you could probably include a hans mechanism attached to the jacket which locks into a socket in the pilot's seat to stop a pilot from breaking their neck in a collision.

What do you guys think?

Any suggestions? What I'm really curious about is what you think pilots would remove, customize or alter for practical or decorative purposes.

This is basically the result of roughly a year of casual research into pilot attire, outfits and looks.

The helm and the hood seem to be where the most manual cosplay stitching and 3D printing work is likely going to be required, with the wrap and helmhood.

Addendum:

I've not gone into waste management systems (UCL/FCL human-factors engineering stuff with internal and external recovery systems), since I'm looking at this mainly as an attainable costume or ensemble.

Edit:

I am learning some of you use aquatic mecha and find this unsatisfactory.

And you won't shut up about how the coolant mass flow rate lets you do really wild shit with your weapons my "land-loving" platform even can't dream of

While I am jealous by your sheer tonnage and the output of your reactors, I've got you covered.

Behold: Immersion suits.

They also make surprisingly good sleeping bags, even if you're on water.

They're literally designed to keep you alive if you're forced to abandon an oil platform, and are known to include a radio and even rations and a water filter.

[communistkenobi]

something I’ve been thinking about is like, the internet is this magical system of technologies, never before seen in human history, and one of its capabilities is to answer virtually any question you ask of it. Which is not even remotely a novel observation obviously lol. But I’m thinking about this in the context of a point that Adorno & Horkheimer made (in The Culture Industry I think?) about the radio: that to expedience the radio, to live in a social context where there is this vast incomprehensible system of technological infrastructure that you do not understand or control, and which allows you, a mere peasant, to listen to news broadcasts, music, and advertisements, is effectively like listening to the voice of god. Like the average person’s relationship to modern telecommunications is so mystifying, incomprehensible, and abstract that we experience technologies like the radio as an all-powerful, indestructible authority, and this (obviously) shapes our relationship to the information that is shared through it. People make jokes on here about how transmission towers are angels, but like tbh that is essentially how we experience them - vast, incomprehensible, highly dangerous objects whose impact on our lives are at once all-consuming and unknowable. We do not just turn on the radio and listen to the news, we tune into what the voice of god has to say today - right now he’s selling toilet cleanser!

and all that to say, I always find something a bit incomplete about discussions about wilful ignorance online - that we live in an age of mass information and yet people still seem as ignorant as feudal peasants, or whatever. Nobody googles things, nobody tries to branch out and experience new kinds of art, nobody educates themselves on important topics they don’t understand. and like this frustration is very real and well taken, I feel it frequently, but what I’m grappling with is whether this is the correct framing - that maybe “why don’t people just google things” is the wrong question to ask, because I tend to find the explanations offered unsatisfactory. Like specifically I’m thinking of discussions on here that are about like, “anti-intellectualism”, kids these days are so ignorant even though they grew up with the internet, reading comprehension is piss poor, and so on. Recently I’ve seen a lot of weirdly moral-panicky posts about children not knowing how to type on computers because back in my day we were forced to learn how to touch-type by age 8 even though we couldn’t look up any tutorials on YouTube to help us, etc etc. And like I just do not buy that people are individually choosing to be ignorant, that people are “getting dumber,” and that this state of getting dumber is inversely related to the amount of information we have access to (which makes “getting dumber” even more dumb). An unstated assumption that goes into a lot of these “anti-intellectualism” discussions is that “information” is this universal object that has a standardised enlightening effect on the people who interact with it - that the only reason to have an ignorant, sheltered, or ill-formed opinion on something is because you have individually chosen not to Look At Information that will cure you of your ignorance. And so going back to the god radio thing, having regular access to the google search bar is not just having access to an encyclopaedia or dictionary - it is like having a direct line of communication to god, this authority that can answer any question you ask of it. But it’s not just one answer, it’s many answers, more answers than you could ever possibly read through. Google reports the number of hits it returns for whatever you type in - you will regularly get millions of answers to your question. And these answers are embedded with advertisements, just as radio news broadcasts are. Like if god is selling you toilet cleanser while telling you the number for a suicide hotline or news about what’s happening in the world, how do you psychologically deal with that, how is your relationship to capital-I Information shaped by this relationship?

The corollary to “we live in an age of mass information” is “we live in an age of mass misinformation,” but they both show up as answers on google (again, not a novel observation). but in the face of that how do you not simply stop asking questions? & of course this decision to stop asking questions is given form and substance by social circumstance, it reinforces systemic privileges and violences, and so this decision is not one free from consequence, and in many cases it is not an innocent decision. a white person deciding not to read the news because it’s too hard to figure out what is happening/too frightening/etc has the consequence of reinforcing the white supremacist outlook that is foundational to the social context of white people because they’re not reading anything that challenges that outlook. ignorance has many social contexts and many of them are violent. etc. like the consequence of “why does nobody google anything” is just a continuation of the status quo, just with this supposedly glaring and easy fix to it (simply google it). but that just leads us back to a discourse of individual choice, of people individually choosing not to “google shit.” it is a deeply individual fix to a systematic social problem. and so maybe the question is not, why doesn’t anyone google shit, but rather, why is the primary delivery system of knowledge a god that sells you toilet cleanser 

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Hogwarts AU [pt. 6]

Hi!

I don’t really know how to write letters because I'm usually just talking to people in person. But Jazz said we can't visit, because we are not invited. I think it doesn't make sense because Sam never invites me, and her parents never do, but it's okay when I come.

Did you like the broom? It's Jack's, he's my Dad. Jazz says it's not very nice to give people used things as gifts, but I didn't have anything else to give you that I think you'd like.

I thought I can send you one of the posh potions I did, but Vlad said I can't, so I sent a broom. Sam won't tell me what she sent you, can you tell me? I really want to know.

Can you invite me so I can visit? We can fly together, and I can show you the twist I learned yesterday. It's not hard, but it makes it so you can fly upside down and it's really awesome, Jazz was screaming when I showed her!

● `Hį • <- sorry for this, Dani found my letter and she is not very good when she writes yet.

I don't know what else to write. Happy Birthday again! Mom wrote the card that we sent you before, so I didn't write it myself that time.

Send me a letter back,

Danny ☆

(p.S. do you like that star ☆ ? I think I want to draw stars on all my letters now, Jazz taught me how to make them pretty)

Hi,

You didn't answer my letter, so I'm sending another one. Jazz says maybe you don't want to answer, but I think she is wrong. Maybe the last letter got lost? If it was, then just know that I wrote you a letter before, and I want to be friends and I hope you liked the broom.

If you don't want to be friends, it's okay, you don't have to. Jazz says I can't make people be my friends. But if you do, can you send me a letter back, please?

I asked if you need to know the address, but Father says Polaris (he is the owl) will know where to take it if you give it to him. If you didn't like the broom, I can send you something else. Just tell me what you like.

Danny ☆

Timothy,

I hope this letter finds you in good health.

I apologize if my previous attempts to reach you have been unsafia unsatisfactory.

Please inform me if exchanging correspondence with me is something you would be interested in.

Kind regards,

Daniel.

—☆—☆—☆—

Pics for  v i b e s

—☆—☆—☆—

Notes on random irrelevant (and a little relevant) things:

There's about a month or so between the first and the second letter Danny sent, and about two and a half between the second and the third. He had Vlad's help with the last one, and he used Masters family wax stamp on it instead of whatever he's found and liked himself. He never received an answer and has not sent another one.

Polaris is one of the two owls that Fenton family has. He is a very nice barn owl, and he is the one considered the family owl, carrying most of their correspondence. Yes, Danny named him. The other owl is Jenkins, Jazz's tawny owl that she takes to Hogwarts.

Vlad has his own snowy owl named Sol. He did not name her after the Sun, even though he doesn't correct people when they assume. Instead, her name comes from 'Соль' [Soĺ] - 'Salt' in Russian due to her feathers being not completely white but kind of looking like sprinkled with salt. It turned out to be a very accurate name since Sol has a rather salty attitude.

The reason why Tim never answered any of Danny's letters is because he never received them. They were addressed to Drake manor, but the house elves there are not permitted to handle mail. Instead, Janet and Jack sort through it every time they visit their estate. It's kind of like a spam filter for them - everyone who really needs to reach them would address the letters to their names personally, and everything addressed simply 'to Drake manor' is probably not that urgent or important.

As to why they haven't been around for long enough that Danny's letters got entirely lost, I'll get to that in the next part. Prepare for a time skip!

[<- part 5 | part 7 ->]

[five-and-dimes]

Run Away (But We're Running in Circles)

After a million years I finally finished this one!

Dream doesn't believe he is truly loved- Hob and Death simply love everyone, it has nothing to do with him. Cue those closest to him doing whatever they can to prove that he is, in fact, very very loved

AO3

The past two months have been a whirlwind for Hob Gadling in the best way possible.

So many things he once thought impossible (or at the very least highly unlikely) had come to fruition. His stranger had returned to him, his stranger apologized, his stranger called him his friend. Those three things alone had made Hob's heart feel like a star, burning and bright and alive. 

And then the ethereal man had sat across from him, a gentle smile on his face, weary but sincere, before he smoothed his expression into something unreadable.

"I believe introductions are in order," Hob almost squealed like a fan girl as the man hesitantly held out his hand, "Dream of the Endless, King of Dreams and Nightmares. I have other names as well should you find this one unsatisfactory."

It's so ridiculous Hob would laugh if not for the dead serious note in his stranger- his friend's- voice. The idea that Hob would find anything about this being 'unsatisfactory', that he would declare his name not good enough and ask for another. Absolutely ludicrous. 

Also a little sad, but he pushes past that.

He clasps his hand, face about to split from smiling so wide, "Dream," it feels so good to say, "a name that suits you perfectly," he adds because it's true. Then he smirks, "I'm Hob Gadling. I'd offer you another name but you've never complained about this one."

A breath escapes the other man, as much of a laugh as Hob has ever heard from him and this is the best day in Hob's very long life.

"Tell me of your life, Hob Gadling, for it has been too long since last we met."

Yes, it has, and for a moment Hob's joy dims. Then why did you leave me? Where have you been? Why now? What changed? Why now? The questions bubble uncomfortably in his throat. 

He swallows them back.

Eventually he will allow himself to ask for answers- demand them even, perhaps, he thinks he deserves it- but not today. Today he wants to bask in the warmth of reunion. In the gentle glow of his friend’s shy smile. 

So all he says is an earnest, “Yes. I have missed you dearly, my friend.”

When their meeting comes to an end, the sky outside dark and the employees of the inn not so subtly putting chairs up around them, Dream asks if Hob would be amenable to meeting more frequently, wringing his hands in front of him and not meeting Hob’s eyes, as though expecting to be denied.

Ridiculous creature. 

And so they continue meeting, and Hob… has mixed feelings. He is glad to know more of his friend, to finally be given the answers he has been gnashing his teeth for. But sometimes when Dream speaks it feels more like bloodletting than sharing- like he is offering himself on an altar, inviting Hob to drive a dagger through his heart, like he needs to make a sacrifice to this thing called friendship. 

He feels it most when he learns why Dream missed their meeting.

Hob feels the blood leave his face as Dream speaks of being torn from his realm, bound by magic, stripped and degraded and imprisoned and hurt-

“Dream,” Hob interrupts, his voice choked, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Across the table, Dream doesn’t look at him, “You are my friend.”

“Yes,” Hob agrees immediately, “And I will still be your friend if you don’t want to talk about this.” He tries to catch Dream’s eye, “Being your friend doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

“Being a bad friend means I owe you everything,” Dream counters, and Hob wants to cry.

Hob does cry, “Fuck, Dream…” He almost missed the prideful and aloof king of centuries past. As much as he enjoys the easy smiles and the taste of a name on his lips, he would give it all away if it meant saving Dream from this pain.

Dream flinches but does not pull away when Hob reaches out to take his hands, “I’m not keeping a scoreboard with our friendship. You don’t have to pay me back if you make a mistake. And you especially don’t have to hurt yourself for me. We’re friends. So I don’t want you to hurt.”

When Dream looks up at him, he looks so confused. Head tilted and brow furrowed as he tries to make sense of the idea that someone does not want him to pay for his sins in blood. 

“I do. Want to tell you these things,” Dream explains haltingly, head ducking again as he continues softer, “But perhaps. No more today.”

“Of course, love.”

Dream observes him again, eyes searching his face as though looking at a pile of puzzle pieces. Hob doesn’t know what he finds, or what picture he makes with the pieces, but for now he nods, shoulders slumping as the subject changes.

It gets easier. Or, it seems to at least. Dream tells him about Jessamy’s death quickly and her life extensively. He talks about his realm, his function, his subjects. And, eventually, he talks about his family. Some he only gives the names of, and nothing else. Some he gives brief histories of, or descriptions. And one in particular Hob learns much about.

He learns the most on the day he is given the joy of experiencing Dream having just come from an afternoon spent with his elder sister.

“I do not know why she is so insistent on spending time with me these days,” Dream grumbles, and Hob has to hide a smile behind his drink, because despite being the entities of Dream and Death (which had been quite the shock to learn), right now he is sitting across from a little brother exasperated with his big sister. “We are so different. I find it hard to believe she enjoys my gloom compared to her exuberance. Perhaps she merely delights in tormenting me,” he laments.

Hob laughs, "I think it's cute," he grins, "she clearly loves you."

Dream hums, not unhappily, and moves in a way that is too elegant to be called a shrug, "In a sense."

The tone doesn't match the words, and Hob scrunches his face in confusion, "What do you mean?"

Tilting his head slightly, Dream answers casually, "Simply that she loves me in a way similar to how you do."

And that has Hob's eyebrows shooting up to his forehead because he really, really hopes Death doesn't love her brother the way Hob does. "I'm not following."

Dream hums again, a quiet moment as he chooses his words, "Death has a love for all of humanity," he states, "and all that existence has to offer. Put simply, she loves everyone. It is in her nature. You, too, have a wealth of affection for all that you meet and all that you experience. So it is not a matter of loving me , but rather, simply loving in such a way that happens to include me by default."

There is a stretch of silence as Hob turns those words over in his mind. He struggles to fully grasp them at first, the sentiment conflicting with the way Dream presented it as irrefutable fact, something obvious and common knowledge, something Hob couldn't possibly deny.

But, shaking his head frantically to clear his thoughts, Hob was absolutely going to deny it.

"No!" Dream started at the vehemence in Hob's voice, "That's not true at all!" His voice was firm, and almost angry, which in hindsight didn't help the situation.

"...Oh," Dream's voice was soft, and carefully neutral, "I understand," he conceded. His body was like marble, and Hob could see the way he was consciously trying to mask his sorrow and Hob wanted to punch himself in the face.

"Wait, no, not like that! I didn't mean it like that!" 

He hated this. Hated all of it. Hated that his friend believed he wasn't loved on purpose. Hated how quickly he accepted the idea of not being loved at all.

Reaching across the table, Hob clasped his hands around Dream's, sure but gentle. Dream blinked in surprise, staring down at the point of contact, and Hob waited patiently until their eyes met again to start speaking.

"I love you," and this was the true irrefutable fact, the true obvious and common knowledge, the truth that Dream could not deny. "You, specifically. You on purpose. I love you because you're you, and I love you apart from everyone else. And your sister does too, I know it. You are very loved, my friend, and it is not an accident."

Their eyes search each other's. Dream finds conviction, finds honesty, finds something he is afraid to identify as love. Hob finds old aches, finds disbelief, finds something close to fear. Dream looks lost.

“You really did miss me. When I was gone.” Dream whispers with awe, and it hits Hob like a punch to the gut that Dream hadn’t believed him before, had obviously assumed that Hob was just being polite or reciting a social script without really meaning it. 

“Yes,” he says, soft and firm, “I really did.”

A soft sound of sand shifts at their feet beneath the table and Hob knows that Dream desperately wants to run away. Instead, he closes his eyes and grips Hob's hands tighter. Hob is so very proud of him.

"I fear I have dominated the conversation this evening," his voice is raspy, forced out between clenched teeth, "tell me of your week, Hob Gadling."

It is a plea desperately masquerading as a demand. There is only so much Dream can take at once, and Hob understands, and Hob loves him, and so he smiles and returns Dream's grip.

"You will not believe what one of my students submitted as their thesis for the end of the semester-"

~~~~

Hob doesn’t actually know if summoning Death is a thing he can do. Dream had, finally, after 600 years, explained the parameters of Hob’s immortality. It was actually pretty much what Hob had assumed given the question posed to him at each of their meetings; He would live as long as he wanted to, and when he no longer wanted to, Death would guide him to the Sunless Lands. 

Well, Hob very much did not want to go to the Sunless Lands, but he did want to speak to Death. 

“I refuse to look up any sort of magic bullshit for this,” Hob starts, feeling supremely silly for talking to himself in his empty flat. But he didn’t exactly have any other ideas. “So I’m going to assume in your weird Endless-ness that you can somehow hear me. I’m not looking to die today, or ever really, but I’d appreciate it if I could talk to you, Death of the Endless.” He pauses, and then adds on, “It’s about your brother.”

Apparently those are the magic words, as a voice almost immediately speaks up from behind him.

“Oh lord, what has he done now?”

Hob nearly jumps out of his skin, twisting around in his seat on the couch to see a beautiful woman leaning against his kitchen counter. While her style of all black matches her brother’s, that is where the resemblance ends. Bright eyes and glowing dark skin, a warm smile on her face. He hadn’t fully grasped how unhealthy his friend tended to look until this moment.

Shaking off the initial shock, Hob smiles back, “So you’re the famous Death, eh? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only bad things I’m sure,” she teases.

“From humans, perhaps, but not from your brother.”

She smiles fondly, and Hob can tell immediately that she cares for Dream. He wonders what Dream sees when he looks at her.

“You said you wanted to talk about him?” Death asks, “Not that it’s not nice to finally meet you, but I can’t be pulled away from work for too long.”

Hob shudders instinctually at the mention of her ‘work’, but he shakes it off as he begins to explain, “Right. So, normally I wouldn’t tell you this behind Dream’s back, but I don’t think he’ll ever tell you himself and I think you should know so that you can… help, I guess.” Death frowns, and her face darkens as Hob quickly recounts the conversation he had with Dream, and his assumptions on the nature of her and Hob’s love for him. 

By the end, she looks heartbroken, but when she speaks her voice is dripping with annoyance.

“My little brother truly is an idiot-”

“Don’t,” Hob cuts in. It’s probably not his brightest idea to interrupt death herself, but he knows in his gut that he can’t let her gain momentum on this, “I didn’t tell you so you could scold him, I told you so you could love him.”

“I already love him!” she snaps.

“Love him louder then!” Hob snaps back fearlessly, throwing his arms up. “Don’t be mad at him for hurting! For whatever reason, he doesn’t recognize that we love him, but the reason doesn’t matter , not right now at least. We need to stop the bleeding before we worry about what made the wound.”

There is a long pause, the two simply staring at each other. Death looks a bit shocked, eyes wide and jaw tense. Hob stares back determinedly. He may not have known Dream as long as his sister, but he is positive down to his bones that Dream won’t see the “love” part in “tough love”. He’ll probably just see the admonishment. 

He wonders if that miscommunication hasn’t been a wedge between the two siblings for a long time.

Finally, Death seems to deflate, her shoulders slumping even as she quirks a smile, “My brother would appreciate the metaphor.”

Hob chuckled, “Heh, I’ve noticed. It’s helped, honestly, figuring out whatever metaphor works best for him at any given moment, y’know?”

“Yeah. I do.” Death sighs, and for a moment she looks so old . So ancient. And when she meets Hob’s gaze he thinks she looks uncertain. “I do love him. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Hob answers softly. “But I’m not the one you need to convince.”

~~~~

Hob speaks every love language, but if he’s honest, cooking will always be one of his favorites. 

He thinks of being a young peasant and his parents pushing food from their own plates onto his and his siblings’ so that they would never feel the sharp pang of hunger, and of the few kind souls during the 1600s who offered food to him, the fellow homeless who nonetheless would split their meager findings with him. Sharing food has simply always evoked the warmth of love for him. 

It was part of why the rejection had stung so badly in 1589. A table full of food meant to be shared, and he had been left sitting there alone. A table full of love with nowhere to go.

Now, though, he is more determined than ever. Now he knows Dream, in a way he hadn’t for so long, and he is desperate in his desire to make sure Dream feels the love he is offering. 

And so he offers him food.

“Come on, just a bite!” Hob nudges the plate closer to Dream. They are sitting across from each other at the kitchen island in Hob’s flat. He had spent the better part of the day preparing the most decadent mac and cheese he could- creamy and buttery, layers of cheese and pasta folded together with autumn vegetables and a coating of perfectly toasted breadcrumbs on top. Each ingredient was added with Dream in mind, with the desire to warm him from the inside out, to give him something indulgent that might put some meat on his bones.

He’s so thin. Not fragile, exactly, Hob is certain that this mystical being is stronger than he looks, and yet… There is something to be said about how one envisions themselves in dreams. Regardless of his physical capabilities, Hob can’t help but ponder over Dream’s manifestation, and how frail and hurt it looks.

“It’s a pretty standard ritual of friendship to share a meal together,” he says pointedly, smiling when Dream huffs at him. It feels maybe a little underhanded, as he knows Dream is trying very hard to be a good friend, but he doesn’t feel too badly when he sees the soft smile on Dream’s face. For all that he had vehemently rejected their friendship at first (or perhaps because of that initial rejection) he seemed just as moved to be called friend by Hob as Hob was to be called friend by him. 

“I suppose I am bound by ritual then.” There is a strange note in his voice that Hob can’t quite place, but he is still smiling, so he wonders if that is just what Dream sounds like when he tries to make a joke.

Either way, he finally reaches forward to pick up his fork, taking a delicate bite of the gooey mess Hob had served him.

“Well?” Hob asks, barely hidden eagerness in his voice.

Dream swallows, his posture becoming impossibly straighter as he looks at Hob fondly, “You are a fine cook, my friend.”

Hob can’t suppress a grin, leaning back casually in contrast to his friend’s sharp and stiff bearing, “I’m glad. It’s a useful skill when you have companions in need of spoiling.” To his delight, a soft, almost imperceptible blush blooms across Dream’s cheeks. If Hob wasn’t so practiced in observing him he might have missed it. He’s glad he didn’t. 

The evening is a quiet one, sharing stories between bites, and Hob is happy. He wills the food to fill his friend. He sends a prayer that Dream’s body might become soft with his love.

~~~~

“Come on, I want to show you something!”

Dream is becoming more accustomed to his elder sister’s spontaneous visits. After her chastisement, the day she pushed him to reunite with Hob, he had expected to not see her again until it was obligated of her. For all her joy and bright smiles, he could not imagine she would actually enjoy his company. Perhaps because of her joy and smiles.

He did not expect her to willingly subject herself to him.

And yet, she had come to him. She had called to him through their galleries, inviting him into the humble space she called her home when she was not ushering souls to her realm, and inquired about his meeting with Hob Gadling. She had smiled, and squeezed his hand, and told him she was glad he had someone to call friend. He assumed she must be glad that there was someone else to deal with him, and this meeting was merely to ensure that there was someone else out there holding his leash. 

Then she called him again. 

And again.

It kept happening, and while a part of him felt guilty and selfish, he could not deny that he enjoyed his sister’s company. And so he allowed himself to set aside his quest to understand why she was doing it. His elder siblings have ever been a mystery to him, and whatever her reasoning, even if it was simply to keep him in line, he decided to allow himself this small joy in his sister’s presence.

Today, linking their arms together, Death practically skips as she pulls Dream from his realm. Despite himself, he can’t help but smile fondly at her enthusiasm, allowing her to guide him to the waking and into a large building. He can feel the shroud of Endlessness around them, and knows that they are walking unseen. It piques his curiosity. Death normally insisted on walking among mortals specifically to interact with them, even if only a little. The fact that she now hides them is unusual.

Glancing around, Dream finds that they are in a natural history museum, surrounded by various educational exhibits. There are murals of ancient, long gone animals and cases with their bones, plaques with information and names, interactive screens and displays. Eventually, they enter a room dedicated to plants and flora of the distant past. Death walks purposefully towards the back, glancing at Dream with an excited smile as she points to one of the displays.

“Look.”

On the pedestal in front of them is a small, square piece of amber, and within the amber there is a flower. It is small, five petals floating in the resin that Dream remembers holding in the palm of his hand so very long ago. Not as old as Dream, but older than humans, old enough that no creature on this plane dreams of it. 

Dream used to keep them on the windowsill of his bedchambers.

“They were your favorite.” 

Death’s voice breaks him from his revelry, and he realizes that he has been standing as still and frozen as the flower for several minutes.

Her words were not a question, but Dream nods anyway, “Yes.” The word cracks just slightly, and it takes effort, but he turns his gaze away from the flower to look at his sister, his brow furrowing in confusion, “You… remembered?”

“Of course,” Death speaks softly, as though to not break the fragile air around them, but still smiles warmly, “You gave me some, once, and I understood why you loved them. They were lovely.”

Nodding again, Dream swallows thickly, turning back to the fossil before continuing, “They faded from the Dreaming when the last creature to remember them passed to the Sunless Lands. They exist now only in the deepest pages of the Library.”

“And here,” Death corrects, tilting her head towards the exhibit, “They exist here, now, too. Humans found them. They’ll remember them,” she puts a hand on Dream’s shoulder, squeezing lightly and grinning a little wider, “Maybe someone will dream of them again!”

But not as they were , Dream thinks to himself. Any dreams of this small, fragile flower will not be the same as the ones Dream kept growing in his window, the ones he tucked behind his elder sister’s ear, the ones he held close to his chest when he was overwhelmed. They will never be the same again.

Reaching out, he lets his fingers brush against the fossil, the golden color hiding the true hues of the precious petals within, and it feels cool and cold like glass and suddenly Dream thinks he sees a hint of his reflection in the amber. Unneeded breath catches in his chest, and he wonders if this is how he would have been remembered if he had not escaped from Fawney Rig. Lost and forgotten and buried only to be dug up like this . Frozen and painted over with someone else’s color. 

Assuming he was remembered at all. 

His vision blurs, and his fingers tremble as he traces over the shape of the trapped flora, nothing but cold cold cold where once there had been soft and fragrant petals. 

“Dream?” 

Death moves to stand in front of him, pulling him away from the fossil and blocking his view. He blinks, and realizes that he is crying, but the tears are thick, and slow, and his vision has taken on a yellow hue. Raising a hand to his face, he catches a tear on his fingertips and stares down at it.

He is crying amber.

“Hey, it’s alright, little brother, you’re okay-” Death looks caught between panic and heartbreak, eyes wide and bracing her hands on Dream’s shoulders. It only makes him cry harder. Amber runs down his cheeks, dripping sluggishly from his chin into his cupped hands, sticking to his eyelashes, and he feels half-fossilized already. 

Gentle hands run through his hair, guide him to kneel on the floor, and he feels the shift from Waking to Dreaming, his sister taking him home. He thinks it might not be so bad, to be petrified and buried here in the Dreaming. He thinks he might be worth more as an excavated relic than he ever was as a living being.

But. There is still a hand stroking his hair, another wiping the thick tears from his face, heedless of the mess. There is a voice beside his ear shushing him, “Oh, little brother, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He inhales, choking on the resin in his throat, closing his eyes as he lets the cool air of the Dreaming reach his lungs and slow his tears.

The resin is drying on his cheeks, and it is a struggle to open his eyes again, shards of amber encasing his eyelashes. He glances down at the pool cupped in his hands, and then sees the resin smeared over his sister’s fingers and nearly starts crying again.

“I. I apologize-”

Shushing him, Death reaches out to take his hands, tipping his palms until the amber pours out, dripping onto the stone floor of the throne room until she can curl their fingers together. Dream’s breath hitches, and he tries to pull away. He envisions the resin on their hands hardening, encasing their fingers together in amber, and how cruel it would be to subject his beloved sister to being stuck with him .

Death holds on tighter.

“It’s alright,” she leans forward, pressing their foreheads together, “take a second, Dream. Everything is alright.”

It’s really not. But reluctantly, Dream takes her advice. He breathes deeply, tries to loosen the hold his anguish has on him, dilutes it with the comfort his sister so readily offers until the resin begins to thin. Slowly, with each breath the amber turns to salt water. He still feels stiff. He still feels trapped. He thinks he simply moved the amber into his blood. Death is still holding him.

He inhales shakily, “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Death responds, soft and casual. They are still kneeling on the floor, and she leans back just a bit, still holding his hands but giving him a little more space, “I didn’t mean to upset you-”

“It was no fault of yours,” Dream interrupts, “I. Appreciate the gesture.” Looking up, he adds on, “I did not expect you to remember such an insignificant detail about me.”

“It’s not insignificant. It’s you. And you’re not insignificant.”

Those words are what finally make him pull away. His movements remind her of a mannequin, stiff and jerky, popping joints back into place after falling apart until he is once more solid and immovable. He folds his hands in his lap, and he does not look at her.

“I am aware of the importance of my function. I have not forgotten your words to me.” 

Death consciously holds back a sigh of frustration. Settling back onto her heels, she takes a moment to look at her brother. She thinks of all the harm that happened in his absence, all the dreamers whose hands she took while her brother sat silent in a cage. She thinks of her words to him when they met again in the Waking after his escape. She thinks of Hob telling her that her brother didn’t feel loved, and how she had immediately put the blame on Dream. After all, how could he possibly think she does not love him for him ?

She thinks she’s starting to understand.

“I worry about you, Dream,” she whispers, reaching out to smooth back his wild hair, “I worry that one day…”

One day, Death will have to take the hands of all of her siblings. She knows that.

But she hopes that day is far away.

Dream looks up at her, head tilted like one of his ravens, “But I would still. Be there. Like the flower in the amber.”

“But not the same.” Death closes her eyes, the words soft with heartbroken realization, “Not you .”

Reaching up, Dream gently removes her hand from his hair, “Would that be so bad?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t hesitate, opening her eyes to look at him fiercely and gripping his hand. Dream sighed, but did not try to pull away. He still looks stiff and tense, and he swallows thickly, like there is still resin in his throat.

Death cannot help but laugh wetly. This day had not gone the way she had hoped.  “Next time I want to make a point I’ll just get you something in your favorite color.”

“You do not know-”

“Green.” 

Dream’s head snaps up, eyes wide in shock, and when Death smiles back, it is smug, but also fond, and sad, and- he thinks, maybe- loving, “I’ve walked through your gardens, Dream. I’ve sat in Fiddler’s Green. I’ve seen the landscapes you’ve created. And I noticed. Because I love you.”

When Dream looks at her, she can’t help but think that he does not believe her, not fully. But there is something in his eyes, a desperate longing. Like he wants to believe her. Like he wants it to be true.

Don’t go , Death doesn’t say, Don’t go. Stay. Stay so I can prove it to you. Stay long enough for me to convince you. Just give me some more time.

Desire used to love me, Dream doesn’t say, and then time passed.

“I love you as well, my sister.”

“Yeah,” she smiles, and only barely fights back tears, “I know.”

~~~

Something is not right with Hob’s plan.

It has become a regular occurrence for Dream and Hob to spend an afternoon or evening together several times a week, making it easy for Hob to guide them to a meal. Lunch at the university cafe between Hob’s lectures, dinner at a new restaurant, pots of stew that Hob had let simmer throughout the day, waiting for his friend to share a bowl with him. Each time Dream smiled and accepted his offers, diligently clearing his plates and complimenting Hob on his choices.

And Dream was getting thinner.

He didn’t notice the thinness at first. No, he noticed the layers first. Dream tended to bundle up, to keep himself covered regardless of the weather, and Hob understood. He himself sometimes caught himself pulling his coat around himself a little tighter when he remembered the details of Dream’s imprisonment. So Dream adding extra layers to his ensemble- sweaters and scarves and hoods on his coats- Hob assumed it was just a result of Dream still working through his trauma.

But as time passed, he noticed the way his friend’s already impossibly sharp cheekbones became impossibly sharper. The way the bones in his hands stood out in stark relief each time he reached for his fork. 

Hob didn’t understand it. 

Sitting in his flat now, not expecting company since he saw Dream in all his fragile, delicate beauty the night before, he wracks his brain to try to piece together what might be going on with his friend. He is deep in thought, hands steepled as he leans back on his couch, so he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of loud, frantic tapping on his window.

Glancing at the window, he blinks in surprise at the sight of a large crow or raven that he swears is glaring at him. For a long moment, he simply stares, contemplating whether this warrants a call to animal control or if he should just wait for the bird to leave. He is debating trying to shoo it away himself when it taps on the glass again, somehow even angrier.

“Hey!” An unmistakable American voice projects from the Raven’s beak, “Open up, asshat, I wanna talk to you!”

In the grand scheme of things, this is not the strangest thing to happen to Hob, and yet he still nearly falls off the couch as he flails in surprise.

“Excuse me?” He stands and cautiously approaches the window, “Who, or what, exactly are you?” He demands. Hob may not be the brightest bulb in the shed, but he knows better than to let strange, angry, talking ravens into his home without taking precautions.

The raven huffs, “The name’s Matthew, Hob Gadling ,” he spits his name out pointedly, “And I’m here on behalf of Lord Morpheus, so let me in so I can shake you down properly!” He flutters a bit, letting his talons scratch at the window threateningly.

Perhaps Hob should be even more wary, given that the Raven both knows who he is and is clearly already upset with him for some reason, but the mention of one of Dream’s titles has him throwing the window open.

“Wait, Dream sent you?”

The raven- Matthew, Hob reminds himself, shaking his head in bafflement- glides through the open window to land on Hob’s coffee table, turning back to glare at him again.

“He didn’t send me, I’m here on his behalf ,” he clarifies haughtily. 

Tilting his head, Hob riffles through his memories, trying to recall every name Dream has mentioned in his stories of the goings on of his realm between their meeting. Now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure he remembers Dream mentioning a Matthew a few times, usually with fond exasperation.

“I think Dream’s mentioned you to me… you’re one of his subjects in the Dreaming, right?”

“I’m not just a subject ,” Matthew replies with great offense, “I’m his raven .” He puffs his chest out proudly, in a way that Hob thinks more than proves that he is someone who spends a lot of time with the Dream King.

“Right, he definitely failed to mention that detail,” Hob teases good-naturedly. There doesn’t seem to be any urgency here, so he allows himself to grin widely, “It’s nice to meet you! I haven’t gotten to meet any of Dream’s other friends.”

“Yeah, I noticed, and I find that highly suspicious,” Matthew declares, “What exactly do you have to hide, huh?”

“Uh, it’s not really hiding, I just… don’t know how to contact you?”

“A likely story.”

“I mean if you tell me how to call you I’d love to hang out more-”

“What’s your deal, huh?” Matthew interrupts, “What exactly are your intentions with Lord Morpheus?”

Hob is suddenly struck by the uncomfortable feeling that he is being given the shovel talk. By a bird. About a man he is, unfortunately, not even dating.

“No intentions, really,” he tugs his ear nervously, “I just. Enjoy spending time with him, is all.”

Matthew’s feathers ruffle in agitation, “Humans are conniving pieces of shit who can’t be trusted within a ten mile radius of any sort of power,” he declares, with the authority of someone familiar with being a ‘conniving piece of shit’ himself, “so excuse me if I’m suspicious that Average Joe over here is just ‘hanging out’ with one of the forces of the universe.”

“I don’t think I’m that average-”

“And another thing! Stop guilt tripping him into eating, you ass!”

Hob’s jaw drops at the accusation, “I- wha- he’s skin and bones!”

“Yeah, and you making him sick all the time isn’t exactly helping the situation, pal!”

“Wait, what?”

“Jeez, you’re slow on the uptake,” Matthew huffs in annoyance, “He’s not human, dude. So human food doesn’t work with him. It’s like… you know that scene in Twilight- the books, not the movies- where Edward eats a slice of pizza? And then in an interview Meyer said-”

“Okay, stop, stop stop stop,” Hob cuts off Matthew’s rambling, pinching the bridge of his nose, “But he takes a human form when he’s here though, right?”

“He looks like a human,” Matthew clarifies pointedly, “That doesn’t mean he functions the same as one. Just because you can fit bologna in a CD player doesn’t mean it’s going to work out for ya.”

A slow dawning sense of horror fills Hob, and it must show on his face because Matthew tilts his head to the side curiously, his tone gentling for the first time since his arrival, “You really didn’t know, huh.”

Hob shakes his head miserably, moving to sit heavily onto the couch, “No. Dream has tried to explain the whole ‘Endless’ thing to me, but it’s so complicated. And he never mentioned that he can’t eat, and he just looks so thin and I just wanted to help-”

“Okay, alright, it’s okay!” Matthew flaps his wings a few times desperately, “Please don’t cry. If you cry, I’m gonna cry, and I’m not ready to find out if dream-ravens can cry or not.”

“I can’t believe this whole time I’ve been making it worse.” He thinks again of 1589, of Dream barely glancing at the spread Hob had offered him. He’s always known Dream wasn’t human. He feels like an idiot.

“I feel like an idiot,” he admits out loud.

“I mean, you are,” Matthew replies, ignoring the halfhearted glare Hob gives him, “but you’re not a malicious idiot, which was really what I was more concerned about. In my head you were like, trying to weaken him before making your move or something.”

The very idea makes Hob sick, and he shakes his head vehemently, “Never. He’s my friend . I get that humans hurt him recently, but I don’t care about his power, I just care about him .” 

“Hm. You definitely seem sincere. I suppose maybe I should have just tailed you for a bit before coming in guns blazing. But my job is to protect the boss and he’s been looking a little rough recently, so. Y’know.”

Sniffling, Hob glances up at the raven, watching as he shifts on his feet anxiously. Hob blinks in realization as he speaks, “You really care about him, huh?”

“I mean, yeah, obviously,” Matthew shrugs as much as he is able, his tone becoming more casual, “Honestly it’s kind of hard not to. I mean have you seen the guy? Like, he’s supposed to be this all-powerful force of the universe, but he feels more like a kitten you find hiding from the rain under your car, y’know?”

Hob barks out a laugh, “I don’t think he’d appreciate that comparison, but you’re absolutely not wrong.”

“It’s not like he didn’t care about me first!” Matthew states, almost defensively. He flutters over, settling on the couch cushion next to Hob and he gets the impression that they should be sharing a couple beers right now, gossiping about their mutual friend, “He tries soooo hard to be all cold and aloof, but he knew me for five seconds and tried to keep me from doing my literal job ‘cause he was worried I’d get hurt.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Hob smirks, shaking his head fondly.

“I can’t believe I had to die to finally get a good boss,” Matthew huffs, “Honestly that’s the craziest part of my afterlife. Turned into a raven? I can shrug that off. I enjoy my job and love my boss? THAT’S the part I have trouble believing.” 

Snapping his head over, Hob blinks for a long moment. Matthew’s feathers fluff up at his staring, “What? What did I do?”

Slowly, a grin spreads across Hob’s face, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Want to help me with something?”

~~~

When Dream arrives for a visit two days later, Hob doesn’t even bother saying hello.

“Can I hug you?”

Dream blinks in surprise, tilting his head curiously as Hob stands patiently in front of him. When he finally nods, looking confused but not uncomfortable, Hob wastes no time wrapping his arms around his friend and pressing him close. He can feel the shape of his manifested skeleton through the layers of his coat.

“Dream,” he sighs sadly, one hand guiding Dream’s head against his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Dream moves as if to pull away, but does not struggle when Hob tightens his grip, “You have done nothing to warrant an apology.”

“I’m sorry for pressuring you to eat.” 

Now, Dream jerks back, and Hob lets him go, though he keeps his hands on Dream’s shoulders. He looks surprised now, and somewhat guilty, “What do you-”

“Matthew told me,” Hob explains, “Oh, yeah, I met Matthew by the way. Good guy. Or, raven, or whatever,” Dream scowls, and he quickly continues, “He was worried about you.”

“He need not have interfered,” Dream looks away, body stiff under Hob’s hands, “There was no need for his concern.”

Hob sighs, “Dream. You could have told me you can’t eat food in the Waking.”

There is a pause as Dream considers his words, gaze still steadfastly avoiding Hob’s. “You… enjoy food,” he states, “and cooking. And you. Said it was a ritual among friends.”

“I know,” Hob winces, “I understand how it might have sounded when I said that, but… Dream, we won’t stop being friends just because there are certain things we can’t do together.” Dream doesn’t answer, his body as stiff and cold as a statue.

“Dream,” he ducks his head to try to catch Dream’s eye, “I won’t love you less if you tell me no.”

And that has Dream’s head snapping up, eyes wide with surprise in a way that makes Hob’s heart crack. 

“I mean it,” he insists, “I won’t be mad, or- or offended or anything if there’s certain things you can’t do. I’m sure there’s plenty I can’t do because of my humanity that you wouldn’t hold against me, yeah?”

Dream frowns, confusion on his face, “I would not ask you to take part in anything that went against your nature.”

Hob tilts his head back and sighs, his mouth curling in a fond smile, “You’re so close. You’re right there.”

There is a long pause as Dream seems to turn his words over in his head. “You. Also would not ask me to take part in something that went against my nature? Even if it is something you enjoy?”

“Exactly,” Hob grins, “I don’t enjoy it if it hurts you.”

“Despite how I have treated you in the past?”

Hob’s grin falls so fast it hits like whiplash, “Of course not!” He feels his chest tighten in horror, “Is that what you thought? That I would be okay with hurting you because we got in a fight once?”

Glancing away, Dream’s brow furrows in consideration, “It is not… I did not believe you were doing it on purpose,” he admits, which does lift a little of the weight from Hob’s heart, “I merely…” he looks up at Hob through his eyelashes, “I did not want you to think that I do not take our friendship seriously. I wanted. To prove myself. To prove that I am capable of being worthy of your companionship. I have declined your offer of friendship once already. To deny a ritual of friendship offered to me now would be unforgivable.”

“Only because there would be nothing to forgive,” Hob replies softly. Before Dream can say anything else, Hob pulls him back into his arms. 

“I. Did not mean to upset you,” Dream says tensely.

“You didn’t.” Hob gives him one last firm squeeze before reluctantly releasing him, “Now, my friend,” he says it again in hopes of reassuring Dream, who still looks anxious and lost, “Matthew didn’t say anything about you having ill-effects from our movie nights, yeah?”

Dream hums, and the slightest bit of tension leaves his shoulders, “Indeed. I have been. Enjoying experiencing this new media with you,” his lips twitch towards a smile, “And you promised me an adaptation of Romeo and Juliet tonight.”

Hob groans dramatically, placing a hand on Dream’s back to guide him towards the couch, “The only reason I’m allowing it is because the setting is different enough for me to almost forget it was inspired by that twat Shaxberd.”

“Technically it was inspired by me.”

“Well then sit down and enjoy the fruits of your labor,” Hob laughs, getting West Side Story set up for them to enjoy. The curtains are drawn to cover the glass panes of the windows, there are blankets and pillows strewn across the couch, and there are no snacks or food on the coffee table in front of them. When he looks at him, Hob thinks Dream looks a little… softer. A little more comfortable.

A little more loved.

~~~~~~~

“What’s on the docket today, boss?” 

Matthew lands carefully on the Dream King’s shoulder. He had spent what felt like several hours accompanying Mervyn throughout the castle grounds, pestering him with questions and prodding him for stories as he made minor adjustments to the landscape, and now he felt energetic and ready for a task. Sometimes Matthew felt like he was a better raven than a person. If nothing else he was happier as one. 

Dream hums as he walks down a quiet path outside the castle, “I must check in on the dreams of light to see how my newest creations among them are settling. And ensure they do not require more added to their numbers.”

The ‘dreams of light’ were how Dream had explained a particular sect of dreams to Matthew. They were created for dreamers who felt as though they were in the deepest darkness, those who saw no hope for themselves. They were dreams meant to inspire and revitalize. 

“So they’re like, the light at the end of the tunnel, yeah?” Matthew had responded when Dream had explained.

“Yes,” he had replied with a small smile, “That is not an inaccurate comparison.” Matthew had beamed with pride at understanding a little more of this new realm he called home. 

Meeting the dreams of light had been enlightening- pun absolutely intended- in a lot of ways. Mostly, Matthew learned that Lord Morpheus was deeply uncomfortable with them.

He didn’t think it was a matter of him not liking them or anything. But there was something in the way he had walked and held himself when in their presence. It reminded Matthew of how he had felt the first time he had held one of his friends' new baby; utterly adoring, and absolutely certain he was about to break it.

“I can deal with ‘em, boss.”

Dream turns to glance at the raven shuffling on his shoulder, brow furrowed, “I have already stated that I would do so.”

“Yeah, but I know you don’t want to,” Matthew shrugs his wings nonchalantly, “Unless you have some other important raven errand for me, just let me handle them. I don’t mind.”

With a deepening frown- born of confusion rather than displeasure, Matthew notes- Dream raises his arm, and Matthew instinctually hops from his shoulder to his forearm, allowing them to look each other in the eye. “Wants have no authority within my duty. If a task must be done then I shall do it.”

“Uh huh, yeah, I get that,” Matthew nodded, “but does this particular task have to be done by you ?”

“...I. Suppose not.”

“Great! Then delegate! I mean, I’m offering. Those guys don’t bother me the way they do you, so it’s not an issue, really.”

“I have not expressed that they bother me.”

Matthew sighs, shifting from foot to foot a little nervously, “Listen, don’t file an HR complaint for me saying this, but I love you, and so you are not as subtle as you think you are when it comes to being uncomfortable. To me at least.”

There is a long moment of silence as they stare at each other, Dream blinking in surprise, and Matthew tilting his head back and forth out of some strange raven instinct to view his boss from different angles. 

“...We do not have an HR department in the Dreaming.”

“I can’t tell if that’s you telling me you are upset or aren’t upset.”

To his shock and awe, Dream smiles. A small huff escapes his lips, the closest to a laugh Matthew has ever heard in his time as his raven. “I am not upset,” he states regally. “Since you are so insistent, I will allow you to run this errand on my behalf.” He makes it sound like he is the one doing Matthew a favor, which doesn’t actually surprise Matthew all that much. Honestly, he finds it kind of endearing. 

“Will do, Lord Morpheus!” 

He is still smiling as Matthew flies away. It’s not much.

But it’s a start.

~~~~

Matthew is in the middle of debating whether it would be in poor taste to ask to see Jessamy’s book when Lucienne steps into the library, sighing heavily.

“What’s up, boss lady?” Matthew flies over, landing to perch on the back of the chair next to the one Lucienne had fallen into heavily, “Everything alright?” 

“Everything is fine, Matthew,” Lucienne smiles, and he can see she looks more “fondly exasperated” than “distraught”. “I simply just came from seeing Lord Morpheus. He is still on the shores of creation.”

It has been almost two weeks since Matthew had checked in on the dreams of light, and had made some rounds among some other groups of dreams and nightmares as well. His report for the Dream King had been similar for all of them: they were doing fine, there was no true trouble, but could still benefit from higher numbers due to the massive increase in dreamers over the past hundred years.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Dream had taken that as a great personal failure and had immediately set to work creating rapidly and desperately. Last Matthew had checked on him, his fingers had been bleeding. He hadn’t even known that was a thing that could happen to him.

“Any luck?” Matthew asks.

Lucienne hums, and it’s so similar to how Dream does. It amuses Matthew how alike the two were, and he wonders who influenced the other more. “He is taking a brief break,” she very nearly rolls her eyes, “only to ensure that the quality of his work does not suffer from the quantity.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Sighing, Lucienne shakes her head fondly, “I love Lord Morpheus but he can be quite stubborn sometimes.”

Her words have Matthew perking up. To be honest he’s a little surprised he hadn’t thought of this sooner. “Actually, funny that you say that. Want to join a group project to help the boss out?”

~~~~

Lucienne is still pondering Matthew’s words (and there had been a lot of them) when she stumbles upon her lord in the Library. He is seated quietly at a small table tucked in the back, hands folded in front of him. There are no books on the table, and he seems lost in thought. Part of her wonders if she should leave him alone, but…

“Apparently he doesn’t think anyone like, actually loves him. Which honestly kind of explains why he always looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Shit, I’ve felt on the verge of tears since that Hob guy told me about it. Like, I just assumed he knew, y’know? How can he not know?”

“Good evening, Lord Morpheus,” Lucienne greeted with a smile, pulling him from his thoughts as he glanced up at her. Despite whatever he had been mulling over, he still smiles as he looks at her.

“Lucienne,” he dips his head in greeting, “I hope I am not intruding.” 

It is his realm. It is him . And yet he still considers this space hers. 

“Not in the slightest,” she assures him, “Was there anything I could assist you with? Or were you merely visiting?”

“Visiting,” he confirmed with a nod, “I just returned from the Waking,” he explained, “and I felt the need to. Collect myself, I suppose.”

Humming in consideration, a thought occurs to her, “I cannot help but notice you have been spending quite some time with a particular human in the Waking, my lord,” she teases, “Will we be welcoming a new consort soon?”

Lucienne’s voice is light and fond, a teasing smile on her face, and yet Morpheus’ face still drops. It reminds her of a flower wilting, and his eyes are just a little glassy before he turns his gaze to the floor.

“I apologize,” his words are tense, some mixture of frustration and sorrow.

“Whatever for?” 

His eyes dart to glance at her skeptically, “I am aware, as I am sure you are as well, how troublesome my. Amorous pursuits are,” He straightens his back, steeling himself, “I shall restrain myself. You have my word.”

For a moment, Lucienne simply looks at him. He has changed so much, and yet is still so very much the same. In the past, he might not have apologized as he did now. But she recognizes the guilt and shame all the same.

Finally, she steps forward, sitting in the seat across from him, “You have nothing to apologize for.”

He snorted, shaking his head in disbelief, “Surely you resent the burden that comes with my being in love. You have every right to be cross with me for succumbing to such feelings once again.”

“And yet I am not.” 

Morpheus lifts his head, looking at her more directly, brow furrowed in confusion, and so she continues, “I have never been upset with you. You love deeply, and that is not a bad thing. I have only ever been saddened to see your heart broken.”

“My heartbreak has always been well deserved,” he insists. “ My pain is just. The injustice is the burden I throw on those around me.” He looks down again, fists clenching, “I bring storms with my sorrow, I lose focus on my duty, I become overwhelmed with both the love and the loss.”

Lucienne hummed, “Those things may be true. But they do not make me love you less.”

His head snaps up so fast she thinks she hears a crack. He is wide-eyed in his disbelief, and it makes her want to cry. Morpheus has been prideful, and stern, and reticent with his words. But it was impossible not to know when Morpheus loved you, whether he said it or not. Even when he lashed out and struggled to grant her more responsibility, Lucienne never doubted Dream’s love for her. It pains her to think that he has not felt the same surety with her love for him.

“You are my lord, and you are my friend,” she states, voice even as she recites simple facts, “and I love you. Not because you do not have flaws, but because there is so much about you to love, and your flaws simply cannot deter me.”

Dream continued to stare, blinking slowly, like trying to solve a puzzle in his head. Eventually, he swallowed thickly, turning his gaze down to his own hands as he admitted softly, “You know me so well. Better than most. I was certain that this knowing could only end in your disdain.”

“Perhaps I know you better than you do,” Lucienne responded, a hint of mischief in her voice that Dream could not help but quirk a smile at. 

Tilting his head, he recalled fondly, “Do you remember, so long ago, when the stories of the world were scattered through the Dreaming? Every time a page drifted past us, even if we were giving a tour to an important guest, you would fly after it.”

Lucienne laughed at the memory. She remembers how her feathers fluffed with agitation each time, offended at the chaos of it. Every story, written and unwritten, left to float freely through the dreaming, unbound pages swirling in the wind and catching on branches and pillars. Lucienne could never resist the urge to collect them. “My beak would be so full of pages I could barely see where I was flying.”

“How far you have come,” Dream smiled proudly, glancing at the towering shelves of stories around them, “From your little hoard of collected stories in the corner of the palace. To this.”

“Because you allowed it,” Lucienne pointed out. She had been nervous, when Lord Morpheus first discovered the piles of pages she had brought inside and pushed into the neatest stacks a raven was capable of. It only occurred to her decades later that he must have known from the beginning what she was doing. It was only when she began struggling with the size of her hoard, when she was brought near tears at knocking over one of her precious stacks with a stray wing, that the Dream King ‘found’ it. 

And he gave her shelves, and bindings, and hands. 

He shook his head, “I believe you would have made it happen regardless. A beakful of pages at a time. I merely made it easier.”

“And do you think that makes it count less?” Dream looked at her, head tilted in confusion, and she could not help but shake her head fondly, “Oh, Lord Morpheus, you can try to downplay your love all you like, but those of us who love you back will always see it regardless.”

There is another pause, his brow furrowed as he seems to consider this. Consider the idea that there are those who see him. They see him because they love him, and the seeing only makes them love him more. She wonders how he will take it. She hopes he doesn’t run away.

He doesn’t. Instead, he dips his head and smiles, “I. Am glad. It would pain me. If you did not know my care for you.”

“I know, Lord Morpheus,” Lucienne reached out, laying a hand over his, “I know.”

Squeezing his fingers just once, she leans back, smirking deviously, “Now,” she adjusts her glasses, keeping her tone light and professional, “tell me more about this human who has caught your attention. I must make sure he is good enough for you, of course.”

When Morpheus laughs, he sounds young, and happy, and loved.

~~~

“My friend,” Hob begins cautiously, “is everything alright?”

Dream has always been quiet, but tonight he is distracted . He seems far away and lost in thought, a furrow in his brow that Hob wants to smooth over with his fingers. There is music playing softly in the background, one of their quiet evenings of sharing stories and Hob gently showing Dream little bits of what humanity had created in his absence. He does not seem upset, exactly, but Hob still worries.

“I. Am fine,” Dream responds stiffly, and Hob can’t help but snort.

“For someone who claims the title ‘Prince of Stories’ you are a terrible liar.”

Dream glares at him, but there is no heat behind it. In fact, Hob is almost certain he sees his mouth twitch as though holding back a smile. Softening, he allows himself to scoot a little closer on the couch, until their legs are just barely brushing. “I’m serious, though,” he repeats, “Are you okay?”

Sighing, Dream glances down at his hands in his lap, “I am fine,” he insists, “I simply…” he takes a long moment to consider his words. When he speaks again, it is in a rush, as though he must push the words out before he loses them, “Matthew and Lucienne claim that they love me.”

Hob blinks, “Oh.” He is both pleased to know that Dream is being told, and confused by Dream’s reaction. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Looking up at him, Dream looks… ashamed, “They are my subjects,” he explains, “I have power over them. In such a situation, is it not immoral to ask them to love me?”

“ Did you ask?” Hob presses, already knowing the answer, “Or did they choose to love you on their own?”

Dream does not answer, and he does not look comforted either. “And Death,” he ignores Hob’s question, “she has said… but is it not obligation to love your family?”

“It can feel like it sometimes, sure,” Hob answers carefully, “but in reality, no. Family can be complicated, but at the end of the day, love is never an obligation. It is in fact very possible to not love your family. If she loves you it’s because she loves you.”

At first, he doesn’t understand it. Why Dream seems to grow more anxious and fearful with each word Hob speaks in comfort. Hob is trying to reassure him that he is loved and yet his eyes are wide, jaw tense and hands clenched into tight fists. He looks cornered.

He looks, Hob realizes, like Hob himself had as a starving man in the 1600s. Like a man who had been given the barest scraps to keep him alive and was now bracing to have it stolen away.

“And you?” Dream whispers, “You have claimed to love me…” he searches Hob’s face desperately, his voice choked when he finally brings himself to ask, “... Why ?”

“Because it’s true.” Hob reaches out recklessly, because it’s too important not to. He laces their fingers together and leans forward to keep their eyes locked even when Dream tries to look away, “Because I do love you. You, Dream of the Endless. I love your dedication to your work, I love the way you speak, I love explaining humanisms to you. I love how hard you try, how you don’t give up even when you’re convinced you've failed. I love how much you care.” 

He could go on forever. Reckless, daring, desperate, Hob lifts his other hand to cradle Dream’s cheek, feeling the way he sucks in a breath at the contact, “I love the look in your eyes when you experience kindness,” he strokes a thumb gently against the skin under Dream’s eye, “and I love you so much that I also hate that look in your eye… as if you’ve never experienced kindness. As if you’re not used to it. As if you don’t know what to do with it. I love you so much, and I want you to be loved more . I want everyone to love you.”

Dream does not need to breathe, and yet his chest is nearly heaving with shaking breaths, each of Hob’s words hitting him like a blow. He has to swallow a few times before he can manage to speak again. “I do not want everyone to love me,” he confesses, “I just…” Hob has never heard him sound so uncertain. So small. Dream has to look away before he is able to continue, “I want the love I have to be true . I know I am too much,” his voice drips with shame, “I know I love too hard. But it is because I want so badly to be loved in return the way I love. I do not require quantity. I just… I want… I want the people I love to love me back.”

Timidly, he looks up at Hob once more, and his voice cracks as he asks, “Is that selfish?”

“No,” Hob answered immediately, “That is very, very human.”

“I am not-”

“You are humanity’s dreams,” Hob interrupts, “And I promise you, humanity dreams of being loved in return.” Leaning forward, he pulls Dream gently closer, until their noses are nearly touching and they are sharing breath, “And you are, you know,” he whispers between them like a secret, “You are loved in return.”

“You cannot know how others feel for me,” Dream argues weakly.

“Perhaps,” Hob cannot help but smirk, “I mean, I do, but I know you won’t accept that. So accept this: I know how I feel for you. And I love you. I’ll say it however many times you need. I love you-”

“Stop.” 

Dream’s eyes are clenched shut, and Hob can see the moisture caught on his eyelashes. But he’s not pulling away, and when Hob pulls back, he drifts after him. “I’ll stop talking if you want me to,” Hob offers, “I’ll stop touching you, if it’s too much,” He starts to pull his hands away and the tears finally spill down Dream’s cheeks, “But I won’t stop loving you.”

The words are barely out his mouth when Dream crashes into him. He nearly falls backwards, only just managing to keep them both from toppling over, his hands bracing against Dream to steady them. There is salt on Dream’s lips, and they tremble against Hob’s, and he can taste the words on them as clearly as if Dream had spoken them out loud.

Stay, his kiss begs, Stay, stay, stay.

“I love you, too,” Dream whispers against his lips, his hands curled in Hob’s shirt as though expecting him to pull away.

But Hob only pushes closer, wrapping his arms around Dream’s fragile figure. “I know,” he replies, pressing kisses to his mouth, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, “I know. I know you love me. And I love you back. I promise.”

Holding Dream tight in his arms, Hob knows that he will probably have to convince Dream again tomorrow. He will probably have to convince him again and again and again, and he doesn’t care. He loves him enough to remind him.

[let-us-cultivate-our-garden]

What do you think of season 2 of arcane? i've seen quite... a contrasting reaction from the public when compared to the reaction that s1 got

[cracks knuckles] ok, first some context: I was, and still am, largely unfamiliar with the League of Legends video games, which probably colors my perception of Arcane as a whole. The first season was incredible. 10/10 no notes. It's a masterpiece of animation hands down. One of its many strengths is that it sticks to a self-contained story that does not require lore knowledge or even knowledge of who the characters from the games are. It's a character drama wrapped in a steampunk/sci-fi/fantasy aesthetic. It tells a grounded story that follows its characters as their arcs play out all the way through to the end. I love it and habitually rewatched it while waiting for season 2.

...And then season 2 came and it kinda went. I enjoyed the season. The animation, music, voice acting, all incredible and it's what makes the season a joyride. But that's pretty much what it is. A joyride. That grounded story and character drama was largely dropped for bigger stakes and it feels like the season lost the plot. You were invested in the Zaun/Piltover conflict? Let's have Jayce give a half-assed speech about working together to defeat a common enemy and give Sevika a token seat at the councillors' table. You wanted to see how Jinx and Vi's relationship developed after the bombing? Well, Vi says "my sister is gone." Until Vander/Warwick shows up. But they don't really talk about their relationship or how much they've both changed. They're just cool with each other know.

Did you want to see how Jinx deals with the fallout of killing her father figure and embracing the role of the Mad Bomber? Well, she kinda mopes for a bit. Finds a street urchin that magically cures her of her mental instability. oops, street urchin is dead. Jinx is depressed now. fun. It's not like the marketing lead us to believe that Jinx was going to be an actual antagonist, right?

right?

Now, I know trailers and posters can be misleading but come on. Season 1 ended with her fully becoming Jinx and I feel like she was more Jinx-like there than in season 2.

We got less of the sisters than in the first season despite being the emotional core of the story. Part of that is the escalating conflict and having far too many antagonists. We have Ambessa, Viktor, and the Black Rose and they all take up too much screen time (this last one was a huge ??? for me as a noob to the games. Actually, Mel's whole arc in season 2 was so divorced from season 1 that it feels like they just gave her magic powers just so she could participate in the fight). The other part is that when the sisters are together, they don't really say or do anything meaningful. The dialogue is rather boilerplate and there's no emotional weight to their scenes. It's just there.

That's really my problem with season 2 as a whole, it just feels like it's ticking off boxes to get to the big action sequences, and even some of those felt superfluous (did we really need a fight scene with Smeech? Smeech? Who the fuck is he and why should we care?). The funny thing is that, there are a lot of good ideas here. Jinx feeling conflicted about suddenly being seen as a symbol of the people? Awesome! Caitlyn falling under the sway of Ambessa as she mourns her mother and gasses innocent civilians in her mad pursuit of Jinx? Great! Viktor slowly losing his humanity and becoming the Machine Herald while Jayce struggles to right what they have wronged and get his friend back? Excellent! The problem is that they're all crammed together and don't get room to breathe, so everything is rushed and unsatisfactory.

When your first season ends with four people at a dinner table that explores their character dynamics and your second season's climax looks like a Marvel movie, there's a problem.

(also, side tangent: Silco and Vander's backstory was shoddy and contradictory. Making them BFFs with Vi and Jinx's mom was a bad idea. It cheapens Vander's decision to leave behind a life of violence and adopt two orphans. It introduces a plot hole that Silco wasn't around for the kids' childhood and makes that moment when he tries to kill Powder extra weird. PLUS, we have the ever lovely trope of fridging a woman and making her the catalyst of conflict between two male characters 😒

although this season did make me ship these two, so there's that👍)

(another mini tangent: I'm not fond of making a time traveling Viktor the one who gave baby Jayce the rune stone. That scene was one of my favorites from season 1 and the mage actually being Viktor just makes the world feel smaller and less enigmatic YMMV).

So there you have it. An overall okay season but one that pales in comparison to its predecessor.

[rachelsfav-queer]

I’ve been randomly struck by inspiration. Don’t know how good this will be, but I’ll try my best

Basically, Wednesday is a newly presenting omega, doesn’t realize she’s an omega, and starts building a nest with Enid’s stuff.

(All characters are 18+)

Wednesday mindlessly moved across the room, her brain foggy with the effects of… something. Whatever it was, it caused deep aches throughout her body and it was only her Addams nature that gave her enough endurance to keep herself standing on two very shaky legs.

She didn’t register anything as she ended up on Enid’s brightly colored side of the room, her body moving on its own as she grabbed Enid’s numerous blankets and pillows and laid them on the floor beside Enid’s giant pile of stuffed animals. She stopped and stared at the pile on the floor, still not quite taking anything in, but apparently her brain decided it was unsatisfactory as her body began moving once again to grab more of Enid’s stuff from her closet now, blankets, sheets, even some shirts and hoodies that had Enid’s scent clinging to them particularly strong.

They all went into the ne- pile as Wednesday made quick work of carrying everything to the corner of the room.

Once again, the seer stopped and stared at the pile. Still something missing, the thought came unbidden through her brain, one of the only clear thoughts in her head currently. Suddenly, something clicked in her brain and her body was already moving to fulfill it. She grabbed her own black weighted blanket from her bed, the one gifted to her by Enid, and carried it over, arranging it very carefully and specifically in the middle of the pile, adjusting it until it was just right.

When Wednesday stood back and looked at the pile in its full glory, only one thought passed through her mind, Perfect. Enid would love it.

Strange… Wednesday wasn’t quite sure where that thought came from, but her brain was still too hazy to really think about it at all so instead she just laid down onto the pile and curled up into it, nuzzling her face into the scent of her roommate surrounding her. The hazy feeling in her brain got heavier, but in a more soothing way than before. This felt nearly exactly like the weight of her blanket and before she knew it, a small smile spread across her face and happy purring erupted from deep inside her chest.

So wrapped in the warm fuzziness, the young Addams didn’t notice the dorm room door opening and her roommate entering, calling her name. Hidden away in the corner, it took a few moments for Enid to find her, but when she did, the wolf let out a high squeal that, thankfully, was unheard by the adorable little seer. Enid simply couldn’t believe it! Her roommate, her mate, had made a nest out of her stuff! And now the girl was practically burning her scent into the nest of her stuff.

Enid also didn’t miss the fact that Wednesday had also built the nest on her side of the room, hidden behind her bed and stuffed animals. A bright flashing sign that Wednesday, at the very least subconsciously, felt safe with Enid. She felt protected by her, and that meant literally everything to the blonde.

Enid carefully moved around the room, getting herself into more comfortable clothes and then slowly and very carefully lowered herself to join Wednesday in the nest. Just like she hoped, the raven didn’t startle at her presence and instead leaned into it, into her. “So… I see you figured it out?” Enid asked softly.

Wednesday’s brows furrowed at the question, “Figured what out?”

Enid’s eyes widened for a second but then she giggled, Of course she hasn’t. “Babycakes… you’re an omega,” Enid explained with only a light hint of teasing.

The smaller girl squirmed closer to Enid and whined out, “Not omega.”

Enid simply smirked and pulled her mate into her, cuddling her close and releasing her own calming pheromones to ease any distress in Wednesday before it appears, “Hm, and is that why you made a nest out of all of my, an alpha’s, stuff?”

It was silent for a long moment before Wednesday finally huffed, “Fine.”

“Good girl,” Enid whispered, smiling satisfied, “Hm, it smells like you’re in heat. Thankfully, it’s only your first, so you’ll only feel all foggy, you don’t have to worry about all the extra stuff quite yet. It’ll last a few days though, so I’ll have to contact Miss Weems to get you excused from classes this week. Don’t worry though, I’ll be right here with you, my sweet little omega.”

Wednesday purred happily, barely registering what was being said, simply delighted to hear her alpha’s voice reassuring her. Enid grinned at the reaction and continued releasing her sweet pheromones as the small girl nuzzled into her tighter.

End <3

[deus-sema]

If Sauron and Galadriel's conflict is resolved in the last episode with just one fight, then it won't be surprising as such, to me atleast, because it has been done before. I've seen interesting canon compliant pairings being rushed and screwed because the writers chickened out when it came to exploring them at their full potential.

When it comes to RoP, however, it is a unique case in itself because if the writers were to sideline Saurondriel and act like nothing happened, then - even if it is a sudden and underwhelming resolution in every manner - they, reasonably, cannot be blamed for it because they have a perfect justification in form of canon to fall back on. It can be claimed that they were not obliged to deliver anything on the Sauron/Galadriel front because nothing was ever promised in the first place.

But, then, if that is what they intended to do all along, then they didn't really have to deliberately frame Sauron and Galadriel's scenes as romantic and emphasize on the tension between them in the first season. Halbrand could have been yet another companion Galadriel was friendly with like Elendil, Isildur and Theo and still turned out to be Sauron in Eregion. Why go through all that effort to build a narrative around their dynamic in the first place if it was meant to be dropped abruptly?

There is no logical way for the oliphaunt in the room that is their equation to be satisfactorily resolved in one scene. It'll take atleast one more season for the two of them to place all their cards before each other and face whatever is going on between them before moving on to the next stage in their arcs.

What we do know from interviews and the source material is that a) They have a 'cosmic' connection, b) This connection will be integral to the plot throughout the show. The information we have from the source material is that they were sworn enemies, once upon a time neighbours and Sauron, when not chasing the One Ring, is busy drunk dialing her through different numbers and getting blocked in the Third Age.

From all this, I can see either of the three possibilities occurring in the finale:

1) They duel each other, Galadriel spurns him and her darkness is overcome. Bye bye Sauron. But it will be an unsatisfactory conclusion.

2) They fight and Galadriel succumbs to her temptation. They spend S3 in each other's proximity before she gets away from him.

3) It's something in the middle and while Galadriel doesn't give in to him entirely, he takes her captive and tries to corrupt her next season. In the end, her willpower prevails over her temptation and she finds her way back to the light. S4 will be about the two of them dealing with the consequences of the fallout.

Like, I've said before the first outcome is, in my opinion, most predictable. The other two, however, will not only make more sense according to the narrative that has been built up until now but will genuinely manage to elicit surprise and anticipation for what the future seasons have in store.

All said and done, the writers knew what they were doing when they decided to exercise their artistic license and flesh out this relationship. Since they were already bold enough to undertake such a risk in the first place, they might as well see it through till the end.

Changing plans abruptly isn't going to bring anyone who has already denounced the show back. But the loyal audience and fanbase it has already garnered will stick to it and increase with time so the team better finish what they have started.