#the dream home problem

[linkslastbraincell]

IDK why I have such Strong Opinions about the Hateno House Debate BUT for what it's worth;

my problem with the switch of Link's house becoming Zelda's house is that there's no in-game text I've seen referring to them living together, unless you interpret her saying Link never leaves her side that way, which would work for me, BUT the only thing that's really Link's is at the bottom of Zelda's secret well-lab that I'm pretty sure she mentions is also hidden from Link. I saw someone reference the Champion's Ballad picture in the house, too, but those were also Zelda's friends so of course she'd have it up. So I wish that chest was in the bedroom or main room so it felt more like Link actually lived there-- tbh my presumption was that before totk Link literally slept outside like a watch dog, cause it seems like the kind of thing a feral golden retriever like him would do. Like,they have a twin size bed? You cannot tell me neither of them flail in their sleep. If they both slept in that bed they'd wake up tangled in the sheets each sporting a black eye. And I think it's kinda sad if Zelda just like. Never pushed him to customize his own space. Idk I just want them to actually get to be people between games. ANYWAY all that is to say it doesn't matter because I'm assuming either the devs don't view Link as a character, he's just a guy that gets dropped into the world as an avatar for the player, and/or they want you to make up your own mind. So like whatever live ur zelink dreams! BUT the whole reason I'm writing this is BECAUSE I HATE. THE DREAM HOUSE!! LOL. So I'm like if they lived together, what's even the point of the dream house? I'm guessing the idea was either a) well if you want your own customizable space here it is, or b) if you prefer to think of them as friends, here! You can give Link his own house! But because it's such a big game the dream homes.... are terrible. They're ugly. They're depressing. I'm sticking my poor traumatized blorbo in a bunch of shipping containers and hoping he doesn't worsen his depression with vitamin D deprivation. And the decor is.... awful. Like don't get me wrong, I like the little pre-furnished rooms. But if you're gonna give me a house and a yard that big to customize you gotta give me like. Minecraft or animal crossing levels of customization because the landscaping is depressing as hell. I wanna be able to add windows and pots and tables and gardens I design myself, not buy a room pre-furnished. So, as a non-game dev who didn't break their back making this game and is instead enjoying back-seat designing from the comfort and ignorance of my home pc, what do I suggest? I wish!!! they let us!!!! Add on to the Hateno house!!! Wanna give Link his own space? Add a bed room for him. Add a storage room for his weapon displays. Upgrade the paddock. Add a shrine statue if you're too lazy to go into town proper! I really loved the landscaping of the old spot so the new one feels pretty sad to me (though don't get me wrong, the pond below the cliff he lives on is so cute, I love that spot). I wish we could at least add flowers and a proper pond to the main yard lol. Anyway I hope they get the chance to add more to the dream home if they wind up doing DLC despite their announcement to the contrary, but I understand the game is already a LOT of ideas and they aren't going to touch up all of them.

[eternalstrigoii]

You know you don't gotta pretend, baby, now and then

Remmick x F! Reader x Joan x Bert Fluff-adjacent? Vampire-kissing bisexuality with no real plot.

You rolled up to the street fair on your bicycle. You weren't supposed to go. It was late, and you'd had work; you'd passed through when the sun was still high in the sky and the vendors were freshly assembled. You knew it would be back tomorrow. That you should go tomorrow, instead, but you hadn't. The sun was a gilt orange streak in a watercolor sky. Globe lights cast a welcome warmth over the throngs of party-goers, and you were just gonna stop real quick. Just for dinner. Nobody wanted to cook on a Friday, least of all after work. But they were playing good music in the big, white tent. It had been a long time since you let music get to you. Music made people honest, and, shit, you weren't ready to be honest with yourself again. You wandered a little up and down the repurposed road. Didn't look at anything beyond the edible offerings -- not yet. Didn't have the money; didn't have the time. There was only supposed to be an hour left when you'd left work, so you foot-tapped to the band while a woman about your mother's age made you a burger over hot coals that you devoured a little too quickly. They were playing songs you knew. Songs you sang in the bath this morning. Your friend's house had just gone onto market almost nine months to the day after she died. (She wasn't the nice old woman she pretended to be, and you resented that when she was alive. But she used to ask you to go dancing. Don't you ever have fun?

No, you'd said, and you'd tried to sound like you hadn't meant it.)

Music made people honest, and, tonight, you were being honest with yourself.

It took you a minute to get closer to the stage. To work your way from parking your bike at the sidelines to lingering on the fringes. A girl you knew from school all those years ago was dancing with her parents. She was engaged, now; led a damn successful life in your eyes. A beautiful, dark-skinned woman in a floral dress kept smiling over, inviting you to join the group of dancers in front of the stage.

You didn't even notice them, at first.

Card tables dotted the occupied street, docked with folding chairs. They weren't out of place at one, but there was still something about them that drew your eyes. Maybe it was her, her knowing smile a familiar twist upon scarlet lips. Maybe it was the man whose knee she sat upon; he looked at her like the sun rose and set because of her, like the thunder of the music was all her doing. Maybe it was him. The one alone. The way he looked at you, as if he had never laid eyes upon so divine a splendor.

You smiled to yourself as you looked away. The bright, brassy horns had you swaying. If you'd had a place to lock your bike, maybe you would’ve gone closer. You had to keep an eye on the small things left in your basket, didn't you?

They didn’t say a word to one another. She just stood, taking her man’s hand in one of hers, and led him through the narrow pathway between tables to where everyone gathered to dance to a song you’d never heard.

You’d decided that you liked it before they ever reached you. Their friend hadn’t gotten up, yet; he watched them make a bee-line for you, her hand outstretched to take one of yours. She had two, after all. One to hold on to her man, and one to welcome you.

Oh, hell, you had your money on you. You could be brave for a couple minutes.

You shifted away from the poorly managed park tree you’d been standing under in order to take her hand – and, almost automatically, offer your own to her man.

He caught it as tenderly as he held hers. Brought your knuckles to his lips. You liked the way it felt – the kiss for a greeting and the still-rough callouses that told you he was good with his hands. Some evil little part of you wanted to file that away for later, like it was something you should come back to. Like there was gonna be an after.

Maybe there was. They sure were pretty enough.

You stepped off the curb and practically into her arms. She was just a little taller than you, and the way her eyes caught the light reminded you of the way fireflies danced at midsummer. That close, you had to blink to try to corral your thoughts – pretty didn’t cut it. Not face to face.

“Come dance with us, sugar.” Her thumb traced your knuckles on the opposite hand. “We’ll let’cha go when you’re ready.”

You let them both guide you into the throng, maybe intentionally avoiding the part of you that knew you weren’t ever gonna be ready to leave.

You knew the next song. So did they. Steps morphed into swaying, and then into dancing, as easily as the music carried you. Her man used your interlaced hands for an excuse to loop his arm over your head, to guide your body in between theirs. You gave yourself over to how it felt to be against another person, your head tipping back against his chest as you ran your thumb over her gold wedding band.

His teeth looked sharp when he smiled down at you. Oh, if your feet weren’t occupied, it would’ve curled your toes.

Remmick got up while you were dancing, finally leaving the fringes for the refuge of the party. He liked the way your voice lilted when you sang back to them. It fit into their harmony. He stood nearby just a little longer, perpetually waiting. Perpetually hopeful that, despite the lack of liquor in your system and knowing that you had not meant to stay, that you would. That you might linger, still, after the band was done.

The song ended. The band took a minute to absorb cheers – including the rowdy white boy whoo! from over your head that made your laughter sound like bells against it. You had to let go of one another to clap for them.

You looked back toward the card tables when you did. But you didn’t see him.

Remmick avoided acknowledging the pleasure he derived from your momentary disappointment. He wasn’t ready to break the seal, to let himself have that temporary freedom you, and they, were already reveling in.

Not when another song started and Joan’s sweet-cream laughter bubbled into the still-warm night. They sounded different when he wasn’t holding them back. Everyone did.

It was easy to dance like you were the only two people in the room when she had a hand on your waist. When dancing with her became dancing with him, and you had to laugh at your newfound ability to avoid stepping on his toes by staying light and bouncy on your own. You twirled back around to her, your arm draped around her shoulders. Her skirt fanned out around both of your legs as you roped her into the spin.

You weren’t thinking. Granted, you’d made a point of it thus far, but you really weren’t thinking when you were that close, and she was that beautiful, and her red lips were parted in the most ecstatic smile you’d ever seen.

You kissed her. If you didn’t do it then, you never would. You kissed her in front of her husband, in front of who knew how many strangers in however many degrees of sobriety, and you couldn’t even blame anything but yourself. You kissed her, and she sighed against your lips like she’d been waiting for you to do it all night, and the whole world let out its breath. Because she kissed you back. Because her hand stayed at your waist to keep you close to her while she did, and her fingers pressed ever so tenderly into the baby hair at the back of your neck, and the part of you that should’ve been asking questions and voicing doubts had gone completely silent.

She kissed you the way love builds, letting you have the lead until she was ready to take it from you. Until you remembered, with a quiet hitch of your breath and the sudden jerk of your head upward at the hands that settled on your waist – one over hers, their wedding bands overlapping – that you weren’t, in fact, alone.

“Don’t quit on accoun’a me,” he drawled, so low and inviting that what was left of your good sense dropped right out of reach. He moved in when your wide eyes and parted lips uttered no objections, and you found yourself straightening to meet him. Kissing him was deeper, somehow; his teeth were as sharp as they looked, and you couldn’t help but run your tongue along them as he drew your back against his chest. If she kissed you like how it felt to fall in love, then he kissed you the way it felt to be wanted – so hot it was heavy, so slow that the taste of him, whiskey smooth, lingered in your mouth afterward. Her fingers trailed sweetly down the front of your throat while you kissed him, and your insides came alight the way a spark starts a wildfire. Her stroking thumb became a kiss along your pulse. Another, a little lower. Again just above your collarbone.

He withdrew slowly. A string of saliva connected your mouth to his. It might’ve been the hottest thing you’d ever experienced.

“You wanna see them out, baby?” he asked. Maybe you, maybe her, maybe both of you. “Or you wanna head out before they’re done?”

You didn’t have the words to answer. You didn’t have the words for much of anything. Your eyes dropped from him to her, and that darling, doe-eyed look made her smile as she brushed her lipstick and his spit into your lower lip with her thumb.

Your insides quivered.

“Couple more songs won’t hurt.” She sounded satisfied with the way your breath trembled against her skin. She withdrew her red-stained thumb and, almost like your eyes weren’t locked on her, popped it into her mouth to taste you both.

You could’ve swooned. Might’ve, a little. His hands never strayed from your waist, though his low, warm laughter sounded an awful lot like agreement.

“I’m Joan, by the way. This’s Bert. Remmick’s around here somewhere.” She reminded you of their third so casually that you couldn’t restrain the urge to look for him again – at the packed card tables, first. Then along the tree-lined fringes. You could feel the guitar in your chest, all of a sudden, and the thrum of it felt like celestial relief when you finally met his eyes.

He smiled. Raised a hand to wave like they weren’t both just kissing you for anyone in the world to see.

And you, you dumbass, you waved back.

At least they didn’t laugh. Even if they smiled at one another like you couldn’t see them in your periphery.

He moved more easily through the crowd than you’d imagined. He was a lot better built than you realized, up close. The warm light made his eyes shine. They were beautiful. He was beautiful, and you might’ve been the luckiest person in the world for bein’ the one he looked at like he did.

“Can I cut in?” he called over the song. He extended his hand to you, not that there was much in the way of room to do so.

 “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course you can!” You gave him your hand.

Maybe some part of you expected to dance with him the way you danced with them, but, no – his eyes softened when he touched you. He drew you close like you were old lovers in a polished dance hall, his free hand coming to settle at your lower back. Yours rose instinctively to rest on his thick bicep. (You had to stop yourself from flexing your fingers around it – dear lord, had Aphrodite ever made a man, it would’ve been this one.)

“I hope you don’t mind,” his accent seemed to shift with his steps – a little southern here, a little foreign there – “I know you were havin’ fun.”

“I’m havin’ fun now,” you admitted. “I don’t usually do things like this.”

“Dance with strangers?” he asked, like he hadn’t seen you kiss both halves of a married couple. His married couple friends, no doubt.

“Any of it.”

No, the kind of dancing you did had no rhythm or time with the music. Being in his arms was being in another world. He danced with you like there was no one else on the street.

“This might sound sad, but this is the most fun I’ve had in a very long time.” You always understood why people did things they shouldn’t do, but never quite like this. The rush of it was supposed to feel good, it wasn’t supposed to feel clean. Honest.

He gave you a close little twirl, like he couldn’t dare let you get far. He might’ve been thinking of what to say to you so it didn’t sound like he was put off by that. Maybe he was. Maybe he was put off by all of it and that was why it took him so long to join the three of you.

You draped an arm over his broad shoulders. Brought his finely muscled chest closer to yours. There was a flicker of surprise in his face that he had a hard time keeping hidden.

“I’m not like this usually. I think a lot. About everything. Maybe too much.” You usually articulated yourself better, too. “I just wanted to let go for one night, you know? Not even a night, an hour. I just got off work, and life’s been hitting below the belt, and I’m just…”

He knew. That was the kind of person who gravitated to him, in the end. The ones he gravitated toward. People called it a radar, nowadays, didn’t they? Birds of a feather and everything associated.

“Doubt you wanna hear me preach about the ails of society on a night like this,” he teased.

You laughed, but gods did it feel nice to hear someone else say it. To know, just for one night, that you weren’t alone.

“Not tonight,” you admitted. “But maybe some other.”

Remmick looked at you like he didn’t understand, at first. You weren’t quite sure how to interpret that. You were worried, all of a sudden, that the look on his face was not one of surprise that you were asking him to see you again, but that you would ask him to see you again. And maybe it was the borderline self-destructive urge to do something with your life before you completely lost control of it rearing its ugly head, maybe it was the candied taste of Joan’s lipstick on your mouth reminding you of your ability to do brave and brazen things even when you felt insignificant, but you leaned in one more time, and you hoped to whatever god might hear you that he didn’t think that being kissed meant less because you’d already kissed someone else.

He didn’t.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. The one that had been at your lower back while you danced stayed there. The other came up to cup your face. He started kissing you back, then, as the wonderful callouses on his fingers brushed over your skin.

Turns out you liked kissing him. You liked the way his touch shifted from tenderly exploratory to settling at your jaw with his fingers splayed around your earlobe. You liked the pressure of his mouth and how it steadily increased; the way his lips parted against yours just enough for your teeth to catch on his lower lip. You sure liked the sound he made when they did.

Some part of you noticed the off things. You could feel your heart drumming on your ribcage, but not his, not even with him this close to you. Come to think of it, you hadn’t felt it from Joan or Bert, either. Maybe you just weren’t paying close enough attention. Maybe there was nothin’ off about the consistency of his spit when he slipped you tongue – it was viscous, like plasma. Like a big dog’s post-drink drool. And it tasted raw.

Didn’t stop you from letting him draw as close as your covered bodies would allow. He tipped your head back a little, his fingers knotting in the fabric of your shirt like he wanted something he didn’t have the words to ask for.

Your hands ran down his arms, praising and appreciating at the same time. You would’ve kept going if he didn’t pull back just a bit to let you breathe – to let the sweet night air whisper for you to gather your senses.

“Alright, everyone, there’s two songs left. Let’s give it up for the band,” the lead singer called, and you could hear them cheering, still close to you.

“I’m not ready for this to be over,” you told him. You weren’t ready to hop back on your bike and ride home. Pretend that you hadn’t eaten until your mother went back to bed and you could sit around without making yourself something else. You didn’t want this magic to fade.

“Doesn’t have to,” he replied. Each section of the band took their turns getting cheers – the horns, the drums, the guitar.

“You wanna come home with me tonight?” You shouldn’t offer, but you shouldn’t have done a lotta things. That was the problem with breaking seals, you could never get them back on again.

He searched your face like he was looking for something in those words. Some insincerity, maybe. The idea that it wasn’t him you were inviting home. Or that you weren’t inviting him home at all – that, somehow, in the flicker of a second, you’d changed your mind.

“I’d like you all to come back with me, if you’d like. If you don’t have somewhere else to be.”

Joan leaned back so you could see her all wrapped up in her husband’s arms. “We’d love to.” The look she gave Remmick was a little pointed, a little more on the loving side of chastising than you should’ve been familiar with.

“Let’s let ‘em play us out.” You shouldn’t be making that decision for everyone, but, “You owe me a couple more dances.”

He had that look on his face again, like you were the most divine of splendors. Like there was something about you that he simply couldn’t put into words. Maybe into song, if he was lucky. Maybe one day.

Half the town knew you got home safe, that night. Between you and Joan climbing on your bicycle together to try to outrun your boys to the clamor of your voices as the four of you walked along singing. At least you were in harmony. At least, at last, you were finally having fun.

© eternalstrigoii 2025, no part of this shall be fed into AI devices or reproduced without author's permission. Thank you! dividers by me, saradika-graphics and kaitsawamura edit: Because so many people have asked / II

[littlefoxgirlhere]

and I feel so dirty for trusting him so much, god how could I have been so stupid.

[theaceace]

Hob is woken, not by the shrill cacophony of his alarm or the sunlight hitting his face where they'd forgotten to pull the curtains last night, or even the warmth of Morpheus' hands and mouth, but by the sudden dip in the mattress as another person flops onto the bed with them.

Several lifetimes' worth of instincts see him jolting awake in an instant, heart racing and sweat already beading on his back and brow. Hob may not be able to die, but he's been ambushed in his sleep more than enough times to be getting on with, ta very much, and he's not keen to do it again. Suddenly he's twenty-five, and exhausted after days of marching on Troyes, feet sore and heart sorer, waiting on a battle that never came. He's twenty-eight, and the knife that flashes in the darkness misses his throat only because Herry has ears like a bat and enough blind-foolish loyalty to leap on their attacker's back. He's seventy-three, and lying barely-conscious among the dead that need burying or burning, and he knows that he needs to rouse himself even with the arrow still in his chest, or he'll be burnt or buried with them. He's two-hundred and sixty-four, and they've come to the home he'd made for his family, to drag him from the bed he had shared with his wife some thirty years before, and haul him away as a witch.

He's gripped now by the same fear, and it has him up and moving, one hand fumbling at the bedside table for anything with enough heft to dent a skull before he realises that none of his attackers have ever smelt like peaches.

Beside him, Morpheus shifts just enough to free his face from the clutches of his pillow.

“That key was given to you for use in emergencies, my sibling,” he says, voice thick with sleep and the cotton pillowcase.

Desire stretches luxuriously between them and smiles, fox-sharp, at Morpheus. They roll their head to look at him – beneath the perfume and sweat and wet pavement smell of them, Hob catches a sour waft of alcohol.

“Oh but my dear brother, this is an emergency,” they say, and – look, Hob has been drunk enough to recognise the exquisitely deliberate care at the edges of their words. He huffs a little, pushes himself up so that he can slap a hand on the bedside lamp and blink furiously against the sudden light. It takes a few seconds for his vision to clear, and he rubs his hands over his face in a vain effort to convince himself that this is some new nightmare that Daniel is testing out, before he gives in to the inevitable and turns to examine their guest.

"And what could possibly be so pressing at –" Morpheus snatches Desire's wrist up to stare blearily at their watch "– two thirty-seven in the morning? That could not be expressed in a phone call or wait until a reasonable hour?"

"Do you know, brother mine, how many partners I found to dance with? Whose desire for me, once so integral as to be a given, I had to simply guess at? To read in the curve of a smile or the enticing lull of a question? I didn't know them, not a one, and can you guess, sweet Dream, how many of them took me to their beds?"

And Hob has heard quite enough of that. He stretches and tosses back the sheets, while Morpheus shoots him a filthy glower that softens immediately into a plea for respite with his sole visible eye. Desire either doesn't notice this silent communication, or doesn't care.

“None!” They crow gleefully, clasping their hands, and Morpheus scowls as he's jostled in place.

It's not that Hob wants to leave him to fend for himself against his sibling, only that he doesn’t fancy being in the firing line when Morpheus inevitably snaps and thumps Desire with a pillow.

Doing an admirable job of ignoring Morpheus' wounded expression, Hob groans and lurches himself in the vague direction of the kitchen. Might as well put the kettle on for this.

"Jasmine or apple tea, love?" He calls. No sense having any caffeine now. If they're lucky, Desire will wear themself out quickly and they'll be able to go back to sleep before the alarm goes off.

"Apple, if you would," Morpheus replies.

"Ooh, I'll have jasmine if you're making."

"Didn't ask you!" Hob shouts back, already adding a spoon of sugar to the third mug he'd fetched down for them. 

“Oh, so forceful! You know, if you ever get tired of my stick-in-the-mud brother here…” Desire trails off meaningfully, and Hob snorts, smiling a little to himself. They know full well it's not going to happen, however much or little they remember about his desires, and even if he were – impossibly – to change his mind about Morpheus, they'd get bored of him soon enough. 

He sets all three mugs on a tray, and grabs a pack of chocolate digestives while he's at it. Morpheus would never admit to being fond of them, but he doesn't need to. Hob's watched him absent-mindedly devour most of a packet while he pecks one-handed at the keyboard. Besides, Desire could probably do with something to line their stomach. 

“Is being human always this delightfully contradictory? So baffling and solid and… damp?” Desire asks, lifting their head just enough to peer at Hob as he re-enters the room. It's a moot question, of course. They've been human long enough now to know that the answer is, largely, yes. 

“Often. But do you know, my sibling, the very best part of being human?” Desire turns lazily to look at Morpheus, smiling wide. Their lipstick today is dark purple, and smudged at the corners of their mouth. 

“Mm, do tell. You know how much I crave your… wisdom,” they say, rolling the words indulgently over their tongue. Hob sighs and nudges Morpheus’ book to one side so he can set the tray down on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

“It is that it is no longer against the Old Laws for me to do this,” Morpheus says, planting one foot against their side and shoving hard enough that they topple off the bed with an outraged squawk and undignified thump. There's a blessed moment of stillness, the same kind of breathless anticipation that Hob remembers from the battlefield, before the charge and the mud and the pain. Then they pop back up over the side of the bed with a cry and launch themself at Morpheus. He'd be more worried if he couldn’t hear the laughter in their voice, nor see how their outstretched hands target Morpheus’ ribs and armpits, rather than his eyes.

Hob's sisters have been dead for centuries now, but he remembers this well enough.  Maybe if the Endless had ever been anything like children, they might have gotten all of the murderous posturing out of the way before they grew up enough for it to be a problem, he muses. Still. Better late than never.

He takes a sip of his own tea and grabs a biscuit. Lord knows he won't get a look in once Morpheus has finished trying to jam his elbow into Desire's stomach and realises they're there.

“It was never against the Old Laws for you to be a bastard, which is lucky because you always were one!” Desire gasps, writhing away from Morpheus’ pointy limbs. Hob's been at the receiving end of those elbows before, and even when Morpheus is being gentle, they're decently sharp. He wonders idly if either of them'll tire of this before their tea goes cold, and decides not to intervene either way. Serve them both right if they have to drink cold tea.

“You tried to kill me!”

“Don't tell me you're still hung up on that?”

“I am, because you tried to kill me!”

“Well it's not like it worked!”

Not really the point, Hob reckons, but then again he's had plenty of mates that have tried to kill him. 

“More by good fortune than good judgment,” Morpheus hisses.

“Oh, so you admit to your poor judgment?”

Hob snorts, and the wounded look Morpheus swings towards him would fell a lesser man. Hob takes another biscuit.

“Ha!” Desire takes advantage of his momentary distraction to lock their arms around his shoulders and blow a loud raspberry against his cheek. Hob doesn’t think he's entirely successful in hiding his smile. Morpheus doesn't even try to hide his look of disgust. 

Well, he had to learn the downsides of being an older brother at some point, Hob supposes. 

Judging that the worst of the scrapping is over, he perches on the edge of the bed and pats Morpheus’ flank idly. Desire, loose-limbed with alcohol and triumph, flops over him to reach for their tea. Morpheus magnanimously doesn't jab his fingers into their exposed side.

“Thank you, Robert darling,” Desire says, eyes half-lidded as they drink. It comes out far less coquettish than Hob imagines they intended; too genuinely content. Morpheus sighs, and frowns, and doesn't quite do a good enough job of hiding his own ease as he sits up and leans against Hob. 

“I suppose you intend to stay the night?” Morpheus asks. There's nothing of the dignified dreamlord about him now, with his hair flattened on one side and just a little lank, and pillow creases on his cheek. He peers at Desire, half of his weight still supported by Hob, who takes another slurp of tea and polishes off the last of his biscuit. It's still unbelievable, sometimes, that he may see his dour and distant old stranger like this. Something tangible, something grounded, something he can hold. Unbelievable, too, after the way they had almost parted, after the way Morpheus had almost –

Well. Doesn't bear thinking about, really.

“Mm, yes, if you'll have me.” Do they have to work to make everything they say sound like a double entendre,  Hob wonders, or does it come naturally? He's not entirely sure they even notice they're doing it. 

“You're always welcome,” Hob says. “Guest room's all made up, and there's a spare toothbrush under the sink you can have.”

“How very kind. Dream, dear, isn't your man kind?”

“Unreasonably so.”

“Ta, love,” Hob says, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Desire rolls their eyes theatrically, as though that might mask how their expression softens. “Now drink your tea, I'd like to get a few more hours’ sleep before I need to get up.”

Morpheus grumbles but straightens up, plucking his mug from the nightstand and cradling it in one hand while he reaches for a biscuit with the other. 

“Should we expect any of our other siblings to join us tonight?” He asks, managing somehow not to spray crumbs everywhere as he does so, which is a bit unfair. Hob has centuries more experience talking through mouthfuls of crumbly biscuits, and he still can't do as good a job of it. “I take it you did not venture out alone this night.”

“No I didn't, but don't worry,” Desire says, tilting their head back as they drain their mug, a neat ring of purple left behind on the ceramic. “My sweet twin is unlikely to make an appearance. I certainly hope, at least – she went home with that little exorcist friend of yours. If she comes here, then something’s gone dreadfully wrong.”

They grin, cat with the cream pleased at the expression on Morpheus’ face, and flick their hand in something like a wave. “Well, goodnight brother! Robert.”

They flounce away towards the spare room, and Hob presses his smile into the curve of Morpheus’ shoulder.

“I hate them,” Morpheus grumbles. Hob kisses the bony jut of skin where his t-shirt has slipped, once, twice.

“No you don't,” he says. Morpheus sighs, sets his mug down, and returns to hold Hob's face still for a proper kiss. Not that Hob would try to get out of it. 

“No,” he agrees softly, pulling Hob down with him for a cuddle onto pillows that still smell a little of peaches. “No. I do not.”

[whumpster-fire]

The (N+1) Little Pigs

Where N is a comically large number.

From: Fairy Tales To Tell Other People's Children To Get Out Of Being Asked to Babysit In the Future: An Anthology

Once Upon A Time, there were (N+1) little pigs, who lived in a house with their mother. One day, their mother kicked them out to seek their fortunes in the world, because they were unemployed losers who turned their rooms into pigsties.

The First Little Pig saw a farmer selling bales of straw. "Aha!" he thought, "That looks like the perfect material to build a house for the minimum amount of effort!" He told his brothers this. They all looked at him like he was an idiot.

"A straw house is easy to build, but it's also easy to tear down!" said the Third Little Pig. "What if a wolf comes?" He started to show his brother studies about the maximum wind loads of straw houses, but the First Little Pig wasn't listening.

"Wolves are a hoax," said the First Little Pig. He bought the straw anyway, and built a rather ramshackle house.

The Second Little Pig laughed at the first little pig's foolishness, but when he saw a woodcutter selling sticks, he thought: "I want a big house, but I don't want to waste too much time building it. These will be perfect."

The Third Little Pig saw a bricklayer selling bricks, and thought: "These will make the strongest house possible. I'd like to see a wolf break into this!"

Soon, the Big Bad Wolf came along. He saw the houses the pigs had built, and he came up with a plan. He knocked on the door of the First Little Pig's straw house.

"Good Morning," he said to the First Little Pig. "Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior -"

"Go away, I'm playing Minecraft!" shouted the First Little Pig, and slammed the door in the Big Bad Wolf's face. So the Big Bad Wolf thought of a better plan.

"Hi, I'm installing Rooftop Solar, do you have a moment to talk about -"

"Go away."

So the Big Bad Wolf thought of a better plan.

"We've been trying to reach you concerning your car's extended warranty -"

"Die in a fire, Big Bad Bitch."

So the Big Bad Wolf thought of a better plan. He knocked on the door one more time.

"Little Pig, Little Pig, let me come in!"

"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!"

The Big Bad Wolf peered in the window, and decided the hair on the pig's chinny chin chin wasn't much of a threat. It was kind of unimpressive actually. A neckbeard, even.

"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in!"

Then the Big Bad Wolf huffed, and puffed, and blew the straw house to pieces, and that was the end of the First Little Pig.

He moved on to the Second Little Pig's house, and repeated the process, only without the several ineffective scams. He went straight to the threats and demands, which is an admirable quality in a villain.

"Little Pig, Little Pig, let me come in!"

"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!"

"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in!"

Then the Big Bad Wolf huffed, and puffed, and blew the stick house to splinters, and that was the end of the Second Little Pig.

The Third Little Pig watched his brothers' demise from his brick house, and made a smug FaceBook post about inferior construction methods. When he heard a knock on his door, he said without even waiting for the wolf to speak: "Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!"

"Uhh, this is your neighbor Bob. I just wanted to check in and see if you're okay, I saw on NextDoor there were two houses blown in by a wolf, and my neighbor Dale said both the victims were pigs, so it seems like there's a pattern."

"Oh. Sorry," said the pig. "Don't worry about me, I've got the strongest house in the whole town!" and he patted the brick walls.

Bob the Neighbor left, and the Big Bad Wolf came along.

"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!"

"Aww, come on, man, you didn't even give me a chance to knock!"

"This story's getting too long."

"Fair. Ahem… I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in!"

The Third Little Pig waited smugly in his armchair, waiting for the wolf to tire himself out. But what he didn't realize was that his attic windows had blown in. The Third Little Pig had built his house with a gable style roof for aesthetic reasons, and he had neglected to install hurricane ties as required by building codes in many areas prone to high wind disasters. With wind blowing inside the attic and over the roof, it acted just like a wing! The whole roof lifted off the house and blew away, and without the structural support, even the sturdy brick walls collapsed, crushing the Third Little Pig armchair and all.

The Fourth Little Pig built his house out of stone, with structurally adequate roof design. The wolf huffed and puffed with all his might, but the house just wouldn't budge!

So the Big Bad Wolf waited for the Fourth Little Pig to leave the house. After a few days, this little piggy went to market, when this little piggy should have stayed home. But this little piggy had to buy roast beef, because this little piggy had none. This little piggy saw a familiar shape in the parking lot, and cried WEEE WEEE WEEE WEEE, half of the way home. Not all the way home, because he only got halfway there before the Big Bad Wolf caught him and ate him.

The Fifth Little Pig purchased a 7500 sq ft McMansion in a gated community. But the house soon began to fall apart due to its subpar construction, and the Little Pig lost all his money in the subprime mortage crisis. The bank foreclosed on him, and threw him out in the streets, where the Big Bad Wolf had an easy meal.

The Sixth Little Pig built a sturdy wooden house: not a flimsy stick one, but solid timber framing. The wolf huffed and he puffed, but he could not blow the house in. Instead, he poured gasoline all over the exterior walls of the house and lit a match. The house caught fire, and turned the Sixth Little Pig into fried bacon.

The Seventh Little Pig built another stone house, and a very nice one it was. In fact, it was a castle. But he'd built it on a swamp, so his castle sank into the swamp. So he built another castle. That one sank into the swamp. So he built a third one. That one burned down, fell over, then sank into the swamp, but the fourth one stayed up! And that's what the Seventh Little Pig's son inherited: the strongest castle in all of Pigland. However, when Wolfram the Conqueror invaded in 1066 AD, the Seventh Little Pig's castle proved incapable of withstanding the ferocious assault of the Warwolf Trebuchet. The Seventh Little Pig tried to surrender before the monstrous siege engine was even completed, but the Big Bad Wolf just laughed, and said there was no way he was going to all that effort to build such a large trebuchet and not use it. Soon the castle lay in ruins, and the Noble House of the Seventh Little Pig was broken.

The Eighth Little Pig built his house out of reinforced concrete. "I'd like to see you huff and puff this house down!" he boasted. "And I've got enough supplies in here to last for two years!"

But the Big Bad Wolf knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy, and the guy who a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy knew a guy who knew was an armadillo who worked in the demolitions industry. The armadillo set up several very large explosive charges all around the fourth pig's house.

"Little Pig, Little Pig, let me come in!" said the Big Bad Wolf.

"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!"

The armadillo laughed, and said: "Then Fire In the Hole! I'll blow your house in!"

With an almighty BANG! that stone house went away, And what happened to the pig isn't pleasant to say. The locals claim porkchops and cutlets rained down On Roofs, streets and sidewalks for three blocks around And windows were broken all over the town.

A-hem! Enough rhyming, back to the story.

The Ninth Little Pig didn't build a house at all. He just wasn't into it, man. Building houses meant being part of the system! He crashed on other people's couches and smoked weed all day. One day there was a knock at the door.

"Hey, man! Wanna buy some weed?" asked the Big Bad Wolf, who was wearing a clever disguise: he had a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a t-shirt that said "420." The Ninth Little Pig stared at him through bloodshot eyes. He scratched the hairs on his chinny chin chin. "Sure, man. Totally radical." He let the wolf in. The wolf was planning to eat him, but the smell of weed was so overpowering that he immediately became high, and they talked about metaphysical philosophy for three hours. Sadly for the Ninth Little Pig, after that the wolf got the munchies and ate him. Due to the sheer quantity of The Devil's Lettuce the pig had partaken in, the Big Bad Wolf was tripping balls for several weeks.

The Tenth Little Pig decided to move to a faraway land where there were no wolves and build his house there. On his journey he came to a bridge, where a troll was waitin for passerby.

"Ha ha!" said the troll. "You must pay the troll toll! I will eat you, delicious pig!"

"Wait!" cried the Tenth Little Pig. "My big brother is coming, and he has a house made of sticks! Wouldn't you rather eat him instead?"

"What." Said the Troll, and there was a long, awkward silence. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I think this is the wrong fairy tale," said the pig.

"I agree," said the troll, and ate him, so the Big Bad Wolf lost this round.

Later, the Big Bad Wolf came to a train track, where he saw a speeding trolley heading towards a switch. On the track ahead were five little pigs tied to the train tracks, on the other track was a single little pig. By pulling a lever, the wolf could make the trolley switch to the other track, saving the five little pigs but dooming the single pig. The Big Bad Wolf didn't pull the lever and allowed the five little pigs to be run over, because he was a Big Bad Wolf and killing more pigs was a desirable result for him. The Mad Philosophy Professor who had tied the pigs to the tracks and sabotaged the trolley's brakes lost his funding due to the lack of conclusive results, which just goes to show the importance of sound experiment design.

The Seventeenth Little Pig holed up in his house and refused to leave. The wolf waited and waited, but as he was waiting, he saw a little girl in a red hood wandering through the woods with a picnic basket. The Big Bad Wolf decided to try to eat her instead, but that is a story for another time. The Seventeenth Little Pig seemed safe, but little did he know that a deadly swine flu pandemic was spreading throughout the community.

The Eighteenth Little Pig built a very grand and sturdy house of brick and stone, but it had large windows that were easy to break into. One night, a pack of four Big Bad Wolves broke into his house. "What the Devil?" cried the Eighteenth Little Pig as he grabbed his powdered wig and Kentucky Rifle. He huffed, and he puffed, and he blew a golfball sized hole through the first wolf, shooting him dead on the spot. He drew his pistol on the second wolf, but it missed him entirely because it was smoothbore and nailed the neighbor's dog. He had to resort to the cannon at the top of the stairs loaded with grapeshot. The grapeshot shredded two wolves in the blast, and the sound and extra shrapnel set off car alarms. The Eighteenth Little Pig fixed bayonets and charged the last terrified wolf, who bled out waiting for the police to arrive because triangular bayonet wounds are impossible to stitch up. "Ah," said the Eighteenth Little Pig, "Just as the Founding Sounder intended."

The Nineteenth Little Pig went to college to become a Marine Biologist. This had many benefits, including living on a research vessel far away from any Big Bad Wolves. Sharks, on the other hand, were a different matter.

The Twentieth Little Pig didn't build a house: he hid in a cave, where he survived on a diet of 10,000 spiders per day and never left. He survived the Big Bad Wolf, but he is an outlier and should not have been counted.

The End

[coquelicoq]

dreams that you don't remember are so annoying. i spent the last two days completely convinced that daylight saving starts at two am tomorrow morning, wrote down "change clocks" in my planner and shit, and i was just about to do it when suddenly it occurred to me - hey don't we usually not change clocks in june? isn't it usually in march and november? what the fuck am i doing? and the only explanation is that i recently had a dream that it was going to be daylight saving and woke up and forgot the dream but the idea remained in my consciousness somehow. like what am i even supposed to do with a brain like this. which of my thoughts are for normal reasons and which are just totally made up???

[spaciebabie]

wish there was a mod like minecraft comes alive but more sims-y where i basically help manage a village and make sure the inhabitants are happy + have all their needs filled

[alinelie]

sheet for kian

victor's sheet

[valeriianz]

I've had this Dreaming The Proposal AU sitting in my drafts for a while. Then @voukkake comes out with this art and I figured it was time to brush off the dust and share what I'd written lol. This is seriously all I'm going to write so if anyone is interested I'm begging you to pick this up. I'm dying to read Dream awkwardly interacting with Hob's family (also @valiantstarlights suggestion that Betty White is Destiny?? ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT). Anyway...

------------------

Dream is about to be deported because his visa application has been denied. He is in the middle of a meeting with his lawyers when Hob, his secretary, pops in the room to inform Dream of a very important phone call and Dream comes up with the insane plan to marry Hob to keep his immigration status.

He gestures for Hob to come over and Hob, clueless, wanders into the room and stands next to Dream, who takes him by the arm and tugs him just a little bit further to stand awkwardly close.

Dream announces their engagement and Hob stands there, shell shocked and feels his mouth moving against his will. That yeah, they are getting married. They are in love, sure. It isn’t until they leave the office, following Dream back to his, that Hob’s brain seems to come back online.

“What just happened in there?”

Dream grouses, head down, already back to his work as if nothing happened. Like he didn’t just use Hob as a pawn in his scheme to get around his denied visa application.

“They were going to make Morningstar editor-in-chief.” Is all Dream says, disdain dripping from every word. He still hasn’t looked up.

Hob stands there, still as a statue. His head is swimming with words, with emotions. Anger, disbelief, betrayal… and a small tiny flicker of undeniable interest that he hastily stomps out.

He manages to put the pieces together rather quickly though, while Dream continues sifting through paperwork.

“This is illegal,” Hob manages to croak out, brows furrowing. 

“Oh, please. The government looks for terrorists, not book publishers.” Dream’s head is still down in his paperwork.

Hob blinks, taking a step up to Dream’s desk. “I'm not marrying you.”

“Sure you are.” Dream sets aside a stack of papers and finally gives Hob his attention. “Because if you don't, your dreams of ‘touching millions of lives with the written word’ are dead.” 

Hob’s jaw drops. That was a line, corny as it was, that he’d used in the panel interview for this job. Three years ago.

----------------------

“Were you not in that room? I could get fined, I’ll go to jail over this. If you want me on this deal, you will promote me to editor.”

Without even glancing up from his phone, Dream scoffs.

“Absolutely not.”

“Well then I guess you’re screwed. Buh-bye.” Hob turns with a flourish and has to bite back a grin at how Dream splutters behind him and grabs him by the arm.

“Fine– fine! Editor.” His face seems to go through the five stages of grief. He drops his hold on Hob.

“And You’ll publish my manuscript.” Hob throws in. In for a penny.

Dream’s brows narrow and he shakes as if he’s physically controlling the urge to stamp his foot.

“Sure. I’ll publish your hack manuscript.”

“Good.” Hob slips his hands in his pants pockets, staring at Dream, deciding on one last nail in the coffin.

“Now do it properly.”

Dream cocks an eyebrow. “Do what properly?”

“Propose. Like you mean it.”

Dream’s entire body seizes up, but he manages not to let it show, distracting himself by slipping his phone in the pocket of his expensive slacks and clasping his hands in front of him.

“Will you marry me?”

“No.” Hob, the arrogant bastard, is visibly biting back a smirk. “Say it like you mean it.”

Dream takes a long, steadying breath through his nose.

“Hob Gadling. Will you–”

“And get on your knees.”

Dream absolutely refuses to decipher the thrill that shoots through his body at Hob’s command. Instead he keeps his mask of irritation and indifference on as he scans the crowd around them. They are still outside the courthouse, and the concrete sidewalk is going to potentially tear Dream’s Hugo Boss black wool pants.

So he carefully lowers himself, scowling as the smirk on Hob’s face only widens as Dream slowly settles onto the ground.

Once he’s as comfortable as Dream’s going to get, he clears his throat.

“Hob Gadling,” he glares at his subordinate from under his lashes. “Will you fucking marry me?”

Hob curls his lips in mock consideration, looking up past Dream’s head. He rocks back on his heels and nods with a forlorn sigh.

“Okay.” He still hasn’t met Dream’s gaze. “Could've done without the sarcasm but it will do. See you at the airport tomorrow.” 

And turns and walks away, leaving Dream to fend for himself on the ground.

[thequeerlibrarian]

.

[ratcandy]

me: hmmm I think I will take a quick cozy nap ^_^ snkk mimimi

my subconscious: Hey. Wouldnt it be fucked up if you were stranded halfway across the state with no memory of how you got out there or how to get home and in your efforts to get home you realized you were going to the wrong place and ended up in some stranger's house by accident because you can't even remember your own address and had to sneak out and by the time you're out again it's night and dark outside and your phone is dying and it's cold and you don't know what to do? yeah it would be fucked up. Here's a vivid dream about it for you king

me, waking up after, distressed: wwhhhhah ?:(

[loveableabomination]

Being ace but also being people-pleasing enough that I think I'm not ace cuz I like to make my partner happy...is a mind-fuck.

[thefandomexpert]

i think. more people should talk about how calgar is trying sososososo hard not to take the restructuring of ultramar and the primaris thing personally but he still kinda thinks it’s because he’s not good enough

[dumscribospero]

so i wrote and posted this on my main half asleep og art @wolflyndraws here

he's got so many physical after effects with scars and skin damages but also mental: he's wild and completely feral. he lose himself, living outdoors. he hasn't had any contact with living, breathing being in a long, long time. even animals avoid him, leaving as soon as they see him. seeing him would scare anyone shitless, especially at first when the scars hasn't yet started to heal and the cuts on his face are gruesome and bloody. his body is one massive wound, it never stops hurting, driving him to madness. after a while, he slowly start to get better. his body starts to heal. his mind is still fissured but he gets more and more time as his old self. not totally back to himself, far from it, but he get more cognisant of what's happening around him and what he's doing. there's a point where he has to go back to a village to trade stuff. he doesn't trust anything not to hurt him and dislike the idea of letting anyone get close to him. needs must though, and after weighting up the pros and the cons, he goes to one nearby. he's not careful the first time around and the few people that saw his face expressed shock and disgust. they could not look at him without horror in their eyes and repugnance etched on their face. he honestly didn't think about what he would look like to others. he's been alone for so long at that point, and he avoid every reflective surface he has genuinely no idea what the torture left behind. but even without knowing, seeing other people reaction he can guess. ashamed, he runs away. but he can't stay hidden away forever, he still needs to trade. so he goes back, to another village. further away. clocked under a heavy, deep hooded, capelet. he's got no skin showing at all. and this time, interactions are easier. his voice is gruff, his vocal cords damaged. he hasn't spoken for a long time and the first few words he needs to utter are rough. he doesn't stay for long. he can't. so he makes the trips more often than he'd like too, just so he can spend as little time in here as he can at once. longer interactions makes him hyper aware and he nearly slip from the precarious balance that's his mental health. words goes around that one weird adventurer comes by, sometimes. taciturn and withdrawn, and in need of lots of personal space. and it attracts curiosity. everyone is eager to know who he is, where he's from and what he looks like. but Dream can't answer neither of those questions without people turning on him.

[ianthedreams]

We were talking about religion today with my mom and I almost told her that I'm a pagan but I decided to just say "I don't really know what I am"

Being an atheist for her is better than being a pagan.

Living in hiding is so exhausting, every morning I have to pray she doesn't hear me watering the plants with my water offering, I have to hide my altar and my books, I can't do this anymore.

But I know that if she finds out she's going to belittle me and the gods at best, and at worse she will start being cold and distant. And this makes me so sad.

[roylustang]

The race specific stress dreams have started