#like a ‘you made it.’ hug you know?

[sockdooe]

I think they’d be good friends :)

[danggerine]

going insane thinking about the harrow and palamedes friendship. harrow, who has never met another necromancer her age forming a bizarro 3D chess rivalry while pal worries about her safety at every possible turn. harrow, who is up to her eyebrows in paranoia and secrecy, trusting the sixth house with gideon unconscious and hurt, letting them into the ninth house quarters unsupervised. if “i cannot conceive of a universe without you in it” is goth for i love you, “death first to vultures and scavengers” has got to be goth for i love you (platonic). pal’s first reaction when harrow comes into his bubble in the river is to scoop her up in a hug, and at this point she doesn’t remember anything about him because cutting out all her memories of gideon is impossible without cutting out memories of the sixth, but she still makes him a skelehand to inhabit anyway. when harrow’s memories are finally whole, she tells dulcinea she couldn’t face pal knowing that his pen pal girlfriend died on her account, but the next time she “faces” him, palamades’s soul is in someone else’s body and harrow’s body is full of nona’s soul. he spends six months protecting and caring for harrow’s body (and nona obv), believing in the possibility of bringing her back to it the same way cam believed in him. “god, do you know i miss harrow terribly.” and by the time harrow comes back to her body at the very end of ntn, pal is gone forever, fully pauled. the last time harrow and palamades see each other as their complete selves is in canaan house, alive and unlyctored. two of the smartest and loneliest people in the solar system meet each other in the worst of circumstances and spend the rest of the story dancing around each other as fragments of themselves, trying to care about each other in the interim but never fully meeting like they did the first time. a friendship made almost entirely of missing the other person. “do you know i miss harrow terribly.” god. i need to lie down

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Laios's three Boy Best Friends. And yes, they hate him.

[ljsarts]

"If I was so dead, where was my funeral?! Where’s my headstone?"

I'm haunted by both these quotes and the idea of what would have happened had Timothy Goose found Ylfa after she'd well ...

Quote is by Kristin Chang

now available as a print

[casualavocados]

#he doesn't want to fight with you ai di, he wants to Kiss🙄💘🥺

Nat Chen as CHEN YI KISEKI: DEAR TO ME (2023)

[n0bluev]

Another, zzz

[vanityangel]

[mamaclownhunter]

You have to understand this fic series added YEARS to my life @jezebel_rising (it is spicy M)

I been consuming drunk fics recently and I think I reached my personal new joy and headcanon that SQQ is an angry punchy but overly affectionate to his people drunk. Tsundere to the max.

There are like 2 fics that blessed me with punchy violent drunk SQQ and two that gave me him being a goober with SQH.

Give me both with zero filters. I want violent SQQ and his “bro we shouldn’t/bro bro we GOTTA” SQH toggles on enabler and responsible drunk for me.

But also learned and adopted that SQH is the type of drunk that will rebuild a car blasted. He makes the wildest contraptions and goes through strange tinker builder plans black out drunk. He is competent and efficient and wakes up hungry over wondering when the fuck he learned quantum physics. Like he is a “I got this”

I want them to be the others enablers. I want SQH to be ride or die if cucumber bro starts a bar fight he is there at his side sighing drunk and lazy but kicking ass. (Thank you Jezebel)

I want SQH to stare at a wall and go “I wanna invent a Xianxia version of a plane” and SQQ to go “that is fucking dumb let’s do it” (thaaank you Jezebel)

I want them to be each other’s friend. I want them to kinda sit there hung over… and kinda just weirdly happy they have a friend that gets them in this life. That they have a friend who is the bane of their existence but can have fun drunk shenanigans neither really got to have in their first life.

Mobei and Binghe not knowing what to do with them. They both are clingy drunks but one is spitting curses and aggressively snuggling like a cat high on catnip- and the other is singing praises and compliments while trying to bury himself in his husband’s robes.

But THIS FIC SERIES really had me rolling bc like- 2 twenty first century guys who are use to shorts and tee shirts forgetting after the third drink that- it is not 100% proper. They are aware enough to be these future boys behind closed doors- but to them hitting each other with paint in shorts is just guys being guys. To their royal husbands and everyone else in this ancient world????

Also SQQ in gym shorts and a tee shirt is my new favorite thing. This is the cutest I have drawn SQH- I had fun

[hyakunana]

"Anyone can find happiness. That's the world we're striving for!"

[remcocoa]

jonas "hug and be hugged" vingegaard after 2024 tour of poland stage 7

+ bonus thibau nys helmet pat:

[alienglowgarden]

There is no needle and thread that will mend you, so

Don't you break, I will not let you

[bugisbonkerz]

babeys .

playing 2gether…….... 🥰🥰❤️

[nostalgicfun]

Obscure Games from My Childhood: Bookworm Adventures (1 & 2)

[yurki-posts]

Comfort sillies :>

[kaiserouo]

[cuubism]

Zero [complex math verse]

cw for disordered eating eating disorder storylines can be very triggering so please mind this content warning as it applies heavily to the entire fic

---

Hob is almost to his data structures section—running a bit late, as per usual—when he gets a call from Death. He picks up as he’s rushing up the stairs to the Comp Sci building.

“Hey, Hob,” she says before Hob can even tell her that he only has like thirty seconds to talk, actually. She sounds fatigued. “Can you go pick up Dream from the Maths building?”

Hob pins the phone between his shoulder and ear as he tugs open the door. “‘Pick him up’? Is he okay?”

“He asked me to come get him, but I can’t leave this patient right now.” Hob can imagine her leaning against the wall, hand pressed to her forehead. Why didn’t Dream call him?, Hob wonders. He’s usually much more available than Death, at this hour. “I asked if he wanted an ambulance, and he said no, but if you can’t go get him then—”

“Wait, wait.” Hob stops in the middle of the hall, stomach swooping. Someone walking behind him swears as they have to swerve to avoid hitting him, but he ignores it. “An ambulance? I thought you said he was okay.”

But... she hadn’t said that exactly, had she?

“He will be,” Death says, which doesn’t fill Hob with much confidence. But he turns around and heads back for the door, heartbeat picking up with each step.

“I’m going now, I’m not far.” The undergrads are just going to have to cope with not having discussion section today. He doubts they’ll be too unhappy about it.

“Thanks,” says Death, with relief. “Text me when you find him? And you should bring some food, if you have it.”

Oh.

Fuck.

Hob had been afraid something like this would happen. But he can’t exactly force Dream to pick up better habits. Horses and water, and all that.

“Yeah, yeah, I will, thanks,” he says, and walks faster.

Hob is going to be upset with him.

The thought circles Dream’s mind as he sits crumpled on the bench outside the classroom he’d been working in, head on his knees, hands clasped behind his neck. Nothing feels real. Everything is spinning and swaying. He might pass out. He might throw up. He hates throwing up. Hob is going to be upset with him.

It’s exactly what he was trying to avoid by calling his sister instead. Death will be upset with him, too, but she’s chastised him before. Dream is used to it. The same words coming from Hob will be a different matter.

He should have known that she would be busy, and would call Hob. Even if she could come to get him she would likely call Hob after. He should have known. He sits with his head pressed to his knees and waits for the inevitable.

Either Hob was very close by, or more time slips past Dream’s notice than he realizes, but it feels like only a few minutes before he hears Hob’s footsteps coming quickly down the hall. He doesn’t know what it means that he can recognize Hob’s footsteps. Or that Hob had known which classroom to go to. The one Dream always prefers to work in.

“Dream?” Hob crouches in front of him, trying to meet his eyes, but Dream can’t lift his head from his knees. It’s the only thing keeping the world from tipping over on him. Hob lays a hand on his arm. “Hey, love. What’s going on?”

“‘m dizzy,” Dream murmurs, voice small. He hadn’t realized how much his shoulders were shaking until Hob touched him. He thinks that’s distress more than physical shakiness. But Hob’s presence soothes him more than he’d expected. Even if Hob chews him out, he doesn’t want Hob to leave. He wants Hob to hold him. He just wants Hob to hold him.

“Okay.” Hob’s voice is quiet and calm. He brushes Dream’s hair behind his ear, though it’s not long enough for that to do much. “Sit up for me for a sec? I’ll help you.”

Dream is helpless but to follow Hob’s voice. He starts to sit up. His vision is still spinning. Hob wraps an arm around his middle and bodily lifts him up until he’s leaning back against the wall, then sits beside him on the bench, their thighs touching.

He meets Hob’s gaze. Hob is close enough that he doesn’t appear to waver as much as everything in the background. He looks beautiful, he’s a savior, an angel.

Dream’s brain is not working very normally right now. Not that it ever is.

Hob looks more concerned than angry with him. But Dream doesn’t have much time to study his expression before he’s turning to dig in his bag and pull out his water bottle. He uncaps it and hands it to Dream.

“Drink that. At least half of it. Slow.”

He goes back to digging in his bag as Dream sips the water carefully. Hob is very steady, underneath the concern. No panic. Good in a crisis, Hob. That’s interesting.

Hob watches him drink the water, then hands him a package of cheese crackers he’d pulled out of his bag. Despite himself, Dream laughs, weakly, as he takes it. “Do you always have food with you?”

“You’re not the only one who forgets to eat lunch, I just accommodate for it.”

‘Forgetting’ is… not exactly it, Dream thinks as he picks open the package and takes a cracker, eating it slowly. He still feels more nauseous than hungry, but he knows Hob won’t let it be until he eats it.

No, he has witnessed Hob skip a meal when in the throes of some engaging problem, but he always makes up for it later. Or by carrying around snacks, apparently. Whereas with Dream… it is not exactly forgetting.

He eats the crackers one by one, mechanically. Barely tasting them. Fortunately, the food cuts the edge of nausea in his stomach instead of exacerbating it, and he no longer thinks he’s in imminent danger of throwing up. Or passing out. That would certainly upset Hob.

“There you go, love,” Hob soothes him. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Hob could have gone into the medical field instead if he wanted to, Dream thinks, somewhat deliriously, swallowing his final cheese cracker. His bedside manner is very good.

Or perhaps this is just because it’s Dream.

The thought makes him want to cry, but he doesn’t. He just stays still as the world starts spinning a little less, and Hob takes the water bottle and empty snack package back and shoves them in his bag, then tugs on Dream’s arm.

“Alright, why don’t you lie down.”

“This is a public hallway,” Dream complains, albeit weakly.

Hob sighs in exasperation. “We’ve slept on classroom tables before. Besides, this is a university, everybody’s seen weirder shit in public than this. Lie down.”

Dream acquiesces, and Hob guides him to lie down on the bench, his head on Hob’s lap. It’s pleasant, like that, and the world spins less and less. Hob pets his hair, and Dream closes his eyes.

“Are you going to make me go to A&E?” he murmurs, after a few moments of quiet.

“Depends how you feel in twenty minutes or so.” He sighs, and there’s a shake to it. “But I think you’ll be okay, love. Just give it a moment.”

Dream will be okay, until Hob decides he’s recovered enough to chastise him for his behavior. For now, he just lies there quietly and enjoys the settling feeling of Hob’s hands in his hair.

Hob doesn’t ask him what he did to himself, or why. Perhaps he’s judged Dream too tired or incapacitated to talk about it right now. He just keeps steadying Dream, quietly, his hands ever-moving.

When several minutes have passed, Hob asks, “How are you feeling, darling? Do you want to go home?”

Darling. Hob calls him such sweet things when Dream is nothing but difficult to him. “I would like to go home. Please.”

Hob helps him sit up, bracing an arm around his shoulders. But the room, thankfully, has stopped spinning. He gets Dream to his feet, and Dream doesn’t sway. Hob picks up both his bag and Dream’s from the floor and slips them over his shoulder. He wraps an arm around Dream’s waist. And silently, relieved to be standing again, Dream follows Hob home.

~~

Dream’s flat is closer to campus, so Hob takes him there, gets him settled on the couch and makes tea and pushes a box of biscuits into Dream’s hands, and all this before even telling Dream off for his behavior. Dream is not a child, he knows perfectly well how much sustenance a body needs to sustain it, he knows that it is unwise to go without eating, so why doesn’t Hob tell him so? Chastise him for his foolishness?

Dream sits curled up on the couch. Turning the box of biscuits over and over in his hands, unopened. Finally, Hob sits beside him with his own tea.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

Dream can’t manage to get himself to open the biscuits. He sets the box in his lap, but picks up his tea as a compromise that will hopefully ease Hob’s worries. It does not work, based on Hob’s expression as he watches him do it. Dream sips his tea anyway. Hob’s put a lot of honey into it. Correctly deducing that Dream hasn’t had enough sugar or anything else today.

Instead of responding, he tears up.

Hob puts both of their mugs back on the coffee table and pulls him into his arms.

Dream presses his face into Hob’s shoulder. Tucks his hands in against the warmth of Hob’s body, pressed between his back and the couch. Crawls halfway into his lap. Hob wraps his arms around him and holds him close. Dream feels like his soul is pattering around and only staying contained by the boundaries created by Hob’s body. He doesn’t know what that feeling is.

Hob strokes his hair, murmurs against the shell of his ear, shh darling, it’s okay. Dream is a pathetic cowering creature soothed by Hob’s touch. That feeling. It’s fear. He’s scared. Scared of himself. That he can lose such control while grasping so tightly for it.

“Thank you,” he finally manages, something he should have said earlier, but means more than he can say, “for coming.”

“You could have called me, you know.” It’s not accusatory, but a little hurt. “It’s okay if you’d rather have Death, just—”

“It is not that. I—” He pulls back to see Hob’s face. Hob wipes the tears from his cheeks. “Death has told me her feelings on the matter before. I was… apprehensive to hear yours.” Death, also, has seen Dream at lower points than this. She can hardly think less of him. The same is not true of Hob.

Hob looks sad to hear this. “My feelings are that I’m concerned. Did you eat anything today?”

“…No.”

“What about yesterday?”

Dream thinks. He must have, surely? “I think so.”

“I can make you stuff, you know,” Hob says. “Whatever you want. I don’t mind.”

This is the last thing Dream wants. For Hob to think this is somehow his fault.

“If you’re forgetting I can just come get you whenever I’m eating,” Hob continues. He’s only growing more distressed at Dream’s silence.

How can Dream tell Hob, who cares so much and wants to help, that he does this on purpose? That he doesn’t forget that he’s hungry, but rather ignores it? Or worse, relishes in it? That he has done so for a long time. That it makes him feel sharper. In control of himself.

That once broken, habits are, it turns out, very hard to pick up again. Even when that habit is eating.

“It is not so simple, I’m afraid,” he says, ducking his head.

“No, I guess it wouldn’t be.” Hob bites his lip, looking away. “Why, then? I want to help you, but I don’t…”

“It makes me feel better,” Dream says. “Until it doesn’t.”

Like today. He pushed too far. But it’s only when he does go too far that the reality of what he’s doing comes back to him. It’s easy to forget, when he is used to it.

Ironically, he knows from experience that it will be easier to eat better in the next few days, now that he’s shocked himself back to reality. It will be easier, until he slips again. He doesn’t know how not to slip.

When he finally looks back up, Hob is already looking at him again. He looks sad. Dream doesn’t want him to be sad.

Hob takes Dream’s jaw in his hand, strokes his thumb over Dream’s lower lip. “You scared me, seeing you like that.”

Dream should probably apologize for his behavior. Instead, all he can do is lean in again to press his forehead against Hob’s. He knows Hob wants to fix it, to offer solutions, but all Dream really wants is his touch. Hob’s touch fixes more for him than anything else.

“I’m gonna stay over,” Hob says, cradling the back of his head. “And we’re going to have dinner.”

It is, in fact, almost dinnertime, Dream realizes. No wonder he felt overcome, after having nothing until now. Hob will insist on him having something, he knows. It still feels… strange. To be having something.

He tucks his face into Hob’s neck. “Very well.”

“Will you eat some of it?” Hob asks, petting his hair again, tugging the short strands between his fingers. Dream thinks it must be soothing to him to do so.

“Yes,” he says. “However. I don’t want you to think that this is your responsibility to fix.” Or that you can. Hob is very very good at taking things apart and fixing problems, but if he digs his hands into this one he is going to get his fingers jammed in the unsteady gears of Dream’s brain. He is only going to get hurt in trying.

“Maybe not,” says Hob, and, like he heard what Dream didn’t say, continues, “but I can feed you one meal so let’s start with that?”

Does Hob understand how much comfort he brings? Can he possibly?

“I love you,” Dream murmurs, almost unintelligible for how close he’s pressed himself to Hob’s body.

Hob kisses his head. “I love you, too, my darling.”

He bundles Dream closer so their limbs are all tangled together. Dream loves that, how he can feel each pressure point where they touch. “Will you tell me more about it? When you feel up to it. The more I get how you feel, the more I can help you.”

As a child, Dream’s favorite number was zero. Some mathematicians would insist zero was not actually a number, but rather the absence of one. That was exactly what Dream liked about it. The nothing defined by the everything around it. Zero was foundational, and yet it was not even properly there at all.

Sometimes Dream felt like zero. The less he ate the more he felt it. It was easier to be nothing than to let the everything in.

“You are insistent upon trying to help me,” Dream says.

“Yup.”

“Because,” Dream realizes, with a hard swallow, “you love me.”

“Exactly. You get it.”

Dream twists their fingers together and squeezes. If Dream is zero, Hob is like infinity, so boundless that he can’t help but let it engulf him.

Perhaps one day Dream will be able to explain it all to him in better words than that.