#it was bad writing and bad directing

[sugarcoatednightshade]

thinking about how Humans Are Space Orcs stories always talk about how indestructible humans are, our endurance, our ability to withstand common poisons, etc. and thats all well and good, its really fun to read, but it gets repetitive after a while because we aren't all like that.

And that got me thinking about why this trope is so common in the first place, and the conclusion I came to is actually kind of obvious if you think about it. Not everyone is allowed to go into space. This is true now, with the number of physical restrictions placed on astronauts (including height limits), but I imagine it's just as strict in some imaginary future where humans are first coming into contact with alien species. Because in that case there will definitely be military personnel alongside any possible diplomatic parties.

And I imagine that all interactions aliens have ever had up until this point have been with trained personnel. Even basic military troops conform to this standard, to some degree. So aliens meet us and they're shocked and horrified to discover that we have no obvious weaknesses, we're all either crazy smart or crazy strong (still always a little crazy, academia and war will do that to you), and not only that but we like, literally all the same height so there's no way to tell any of us apart.

And Humans Are Death Worlders stories spread throughout the galaxy. Years or decades or centuries of interspecies suspicion and hostilities preventing any alien from setting foot/claw/limb/appendage/etc. on Earth until slowly more beings are allowed to come through. And not just diplomats who keep to government buildings, but tourists. Exchange students. Temporary visitors granted permission to go wherever they please, so they go out in search of 'real terran culture' and what do they find?

Humans with innate heart defects that prevent them from drinking caffeine. Humans with chronic pain and chronic fatigue who lack the boundless endurance humans are supposedly famous for. Humans too tall or too short or too fat to be allowed into space. Humans who are so scared of the world they need to take pills just to function. Humans with IBS who can't stand spicy foods, capsaicin really is poison to them. Lactose intolerance and celiac disease, my god all the autoimmune disorders out there, humans who struggle to function because their own bodies fight them. Humans who bruise easily and take too long to heal. Humans who sustained one too many concussions and now struggle to talk and read and write. Humans who've had strokes. Humans who were born unable to talk or hear or speak, and humans who through some accident lost that ability later.

Aliens visit Earth, and do you know what they find? Humanity, in all its wholeness.

[tender-emotional-music]

Redditors being like “The Duffers did Mleven so dirty in s3/4… how would you fix it?” …. “I would have El compliment Mike on literally anything,” “I would have them listen to each other,” “I would have them communicate so they end up on the same page after they fight,” “I would have them actually look interested in each other,” “I would have them team up for the season.”

Besties, you’re literally just describing byler.

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

i... wrote a smol fic (っ´▽`*)っ

also!!!!! If you haven't seen it - shoutout to first ever published fic in Ninja Showdown/My Immortal Soul tags - Lustrous Red by @missadmyre !!!

[hnbka]

me commenting "delusional tbh" on milkvan edits after byler becomes canon

[starry-bi-sky]

Danyal Al Ghul's missed potential - this kid is not gonna behave like his canon self if he's with the league of assassins until his late formative years, and my reasoning why

(feel free to take this all with a grain of salt this is just my thoughts on it, this is all mostly amusing to me and isn't trying to be negative towards anyone else)

similar to how i was talking about how danny growing up in crime alley would affect him, demon twin aus with danyal al ghul make me laugh a lot (affectionate) because... whose teaching danny to unlearn all the ecofascism he picked up from the league of assassins? whose teaching him to be kind? to be gentle? Not the LoA thats for certain.

(you could plausibly say Jazz but she's only 2 years older than Danny and do you really expect a fellow child to properly explain why X is wrong to another child and have it be 100% effective? i don't doubt it'd help to an extent, but not in the same way an adult explaining it would)

plus a ton of other things, like whose teaching him to value human life? not the LoA. Whose teaching him how to adjust to living with American society after he ends up with the Fentons when he's 8-9-10? Who teaches him that killing is wrong, whose enforcing that?

(not the Fentons if you're going the neglectful parent route, and Jazz can try but i really don't think Danny is going to listen to her, a stranger who isn't even part of his grandfather's league)

How do you teach a child to value human life when the greatest development window for that opportunity has closed and he's already formed his own opinions?

You're not gonna get a Danny whose exactly like his canon attitude if he's staying with the league during his formative years (0-8 years old). you're not. You could get someone LIKE it, potentially, or someone who has traces of it or is similar -- like danny's wit and jokes and sarcasm, and on some level his kindness. but you're not gonna have a carbon copy. Development doesn't work that way. "nature" can only do so much in the face of nurture.

If anything, it doesn't even have to be a major change -- in the league he cans till be kind, but it's probably going to manifest in a different way than what is considered normal. Tough love, for one. But there's gonna be something that affects him negatively. Why make him 'always good/kind' when you can make him a brat who develops into a kinder (if spikier than in canon) person?

TLDR: Danyal Al Ghul would not be like how he is in canon if he's with the league until his late formative years -- not without any lasting pr permanent impacts from the league at least. Missed potential to make him an absolute nightmare like damian was -- especially in his early years when he first arrived to the Fenton house.

(this doesn't apply to danyal al ghul aus where he's either given to the fentons as a baby/is reincarnated/etc. this is mostly aimed for danyal al ghul aus where he fakes his death at like, 7-10 and somehow ends up, personality-wise like his completely canon self by 14 without any differences.)

(and even then if he's five or four, or even three, he would still be traumatized and influenced by the league. he'll just have more time to adjust. the sooner he leaves the league the more likely he is to be like his canon self, but not like an exact copy)

(more under the cut)

Anyways what I'm saying is that there is prime missed Danyal al Ghul potential to make him an absolute NIGHTMARE to the Fentons however way he ends up with them, just like Damian was with the Waynes! Cuz why does Damian get all the fun? Danny got the same training and endoctrine as him! He is also an ex-assassin! Why is Danny the only one who is 'well adjusted and non-violent' hm? Hmm?

Why can't he also be mean, and stabby, and a total stuck-up in some way or another? Have fun with his characterization, its prime opportunity to play play-doh and clay with him! If he starts out as X how does he get the personality traits of Y, and thus become XY?

Like take this with a grain of salt if you will, but make him arrogant. Make him an asshole! Make him a bad person at first! Because he will be! He's the blood son of the batman and you mean to tell me that damian is the only one arrogant about it at first? Make him stabby and mean even at 14 when he's begun to chill out! Have fun with it! If he's with the Fentons at any point past the age of four or five then he's gonna be a nightmare to handle because he still remembers the league and his time there.

(and while it gives him more time to chill the hell out, his time at the league is still gonna leave an impact on him.)

also what im saying as well is have him and sam potentially get along like a house on FIRE. Again, Danny grew up under the views of an ecofascist cult and nobody to challenge those views to him until he got to amity park at whatever age in late formative years he was at. He could be about as intense or even MORE intense about environmental awareness/rights than Sam is!

(also him being supremely unimpressed with Sam's wealth. he gave up a palace in the mountains for this town. because that's funny to me - like let his past have more influence on him! it'll be fun!)

you could have a danny who doesn't kill but doesn't fully understand the value of human life because jazz is like two years older than him and isn't that good at explaining why people's lives are important. he won't kill but he's not morally opposed to it. there's very little chance he actually gets bullied at school because he nearly killed Dash the first time he tried anything.

Danny could have scars, physical ones, because its implied in multiple canon that training starts at toddling (my best bet is 3 at minimum and ~maybe~ 2 but only on the later side of 2. Good fucking luck getting any infant under 2 to do anything you ask, ESPECIALLY assassin training. They're gonna stick the weapon in their mouth sooner than they're gonna do katas. This is coming from a daycare teacher.)

there's more examples of how danny being at the league during his formative years would affect him, but those are just some of them. he could have a sword! An appreciation for weaponry and nature. Maybe he still speaks all shakespearan and formal, does he still make bodily threats to people? If Damian is still threatening people at 14 why can't danny?

[moonkhao]

#me @ gmmtv at almost any given moment

[erebusbored]

Guys I want her so bad it's not funny

[takami-takami]

My headcanon about Hawks is that the same duality that exists in his personality exists in bed.

Like we all know Keigo is a good person, a good boy. We know he feels strongly, we know he's empathetic and kind and observant. But we also know he's willing to do things most people would be unwilling to do, that his actions are painted shades of moral grey.

We know he's sweet and a bit of a tease, he's passionate and optimistic. But he's also incredibly, terrifyingly serious at his core.

He's indulgent and gluttonous with his little allowances like food and sweets, yet selfless and self sacrificing to a fault. He claims to not have self control when it comes to what he wants, yet continuously denies himself the slowness and domestic life he admits to craving.

So. He loves his partner dearly, holds you like glass and treats your feelings with an innocent reverence twice as so. He wants it slow, wants it sweet, wants to cement every ounce of love he has in it.

But those wants aren't going to stop him from devouring you.

It won't stop the carnal desires from welling up, won't make his instincts to take and toy and play with you go away.

Yeah, you're his darling partner for life, his cherished love.

But you're still his chewtoy.

[kenobihater]

of all the star wars movies, which of them do y'all 1) enjoy the most 2) consider the best quality and 3) think you've rewatched the most. add your answers in the reblogs or replies, i'm genuinely curious how much of an overlap there is within everyone's three answers. mine don't overlap at all! they're revenge of the sith, empire strikes back, and the force awakens :^)

[hcdragonwrites]

Too Close ( A @jttw-monkeybusiness Fanfic)

So this started as one thing and then It grew its own will and became another. I hope you enjoy!

TW: Blood and Gore- Violence as well. If these make you squeamish or can trigger you please read my other works instead!

It was supposed to just be a meal- a simple outing to the market square to buy up some noodles at a shop stand Pigsy had seen on the way through. It was supposed to be simple, easy day.

The market stall exploded in a shower of wood and porcelain as the monstrous thing rose from the stand. Sophie rolled, dodging the flying debris as best she could. A sliver of wood cut across her cheek but she felt nothing. Her mind only had one thing in it.

Oh shit that’s a massive snake.

But it wasn’t a snake. The head that toward from the market as the rest of the villagers fled, resembled a snake. It’s slitted eyes blinked and forked tongue tasted the air. Heat rippled outward from its body. The grasses dried in the damn soil. The earth that had moments ago been anointed with summer rain, cracked and snapped brittle in the sudden heat. Sophie felt her lips dry and her face chap in the change of temperature.

A grunt from nearby. Sophie turned to see Sandy rise from a cast off wall, a huddle Tripitaka in his arms. The snake head swayed, tongue tasting. It snapped its focus to Sandy and coiled its head back. A maw of pink and long silver teeth flew forward. The disciple threw up the discarded wall just in time for the things great teeth to be buried into wood instead of Flesh. Trip was no fool and at Sandy’s nod, escaped beneath his arm.

Sophie could hear Pigsy howling curses nearby from somewhere. The dust was still settling, the dried earth kicked upward as more of the things body was revealed. Fuck it had wings. Four black leathery wings grew from its back at disjointed angles. They beat unevenly. Their wind threw dirt and rocks into the air. The feel of it stung Sophie’s cheek. The Monk reached her then- hand outstretched. She caught it and he hauled her up off the dirt.

Run. Her heart seemed to thrash in her chest. Sophie saw more of the beast being revealed from the ruins of the market. An impossibly long coiled body- legs- more clawed legs. Six of them?- juxtaposed throughout its flesh at odd angles. She felt like she was moving too slow. Moving as if her blood was full of ice.

Those eyes blinked and the pupil widened. Sandy held the things face in his hands, the wooden wall king destroyed. The River demon strained as the thing bore down on him, all saliva and flashing fangs.

It could swallow him whole. Sophie felt a cold shiver run down her back as Trip and her fled. There was nothing either of them could do. They were mortals. This thing was beyond their ken. Beyond their ability. And it could swallow us whole.

Of course fleeing targets attract more attention then prey standing still. The great demonic beast of droughts shook off the irritable ant holding its fangs and dipped its head. The scent had been with the little thing before it but … it had moved. It smelled delectable. The tongue whipped out again, seeking. There- among the fleeing mortals this monster had disdainfully had been serving for the past years in hopes of devouring in return- was the taste. It was a man- a man hand in hand with a women. Two for the price of one. There was an irritable pain at its side but the Drought Bringer simply flicked one of its long claws and flapped its wings higher.

Into the air it rose- away from the sting of the weapons. The town with its simple huts and mud wall fell away. The demon rose up and angled itself. Heat radiated off, burring away the cloud cover and killing trees and greens all around it.

The monk would not get too far.

It coiled.

And struck out.

Sophie and Tripitaka were almost beyond the wall and into the rice fields. The heat had dried those up, killing crops and scattering the water into vapour. Villagers- merchants and Mothers, field workers and Fathers- all streamed to the exits.

They were almost out.

Sophie felt a prickle of fear, a new wave of apprehension swell in her mind. For what- for why- she didn’t know. What made Sophie turn her head then, to look back, she would never know. But she was glad for whatever spirit, god, or instinct made her look back.

A maw full of silvered fangs, of needle tips curved back and outward. An avalanche of heat and horror. She reacted and threw herself sideways. Tripataka, still holding her hand, was dragged with her.

The serpent struck the earth, sending an earthquake outward. Buildings shivered and collapsed. Children screamed and mothers called out. Sophie pulled the monk up beside her, trying to get him to rise. They didn’t have much time. She had bought them but a moment, but a second. They had to move had to get the fuck out of there.

“Trip get up-“ Sophie begged. The monk was trying- it looked like he had twisted something in his leg at the sudden fall. Up up up up up up get up please.

A angry hiss as the earth cracked more. The demon raised its head. It’s mouth was full of stone and dirt. And a few dangling limbs. The creature dropped these and angled it’s head again. It’s body coiled, it’s clawed and displaced legs curling.

Their second was up.

Sophie couldn’t look away- she wanted to- but it was the same feeling a rabbit, over exhausted and run down, experiences when cornered by a fox. The sense of frozen dread. She could no more look away then the rabbit could overcome its fear.

Of course the human mind is a strange thing for the only thing that Sophie could think on was, We didn’t even get to eat the damn noodles we paid for.

Something flashed, a glitter a bit above the serpents head. Like the flash of a moth wing in moonlight.

Wha—

A pillar of black and gold materialized where the flash had been. Such a small insignificant staff.

Sophie knew that staff.

The staff elongated over the monsters head. It slammed straight into the back of the snakes skull. The sound of iron against bone rang in the sky like a thunderclap. The demon cried in confusion and pain- an unholy scream that sent the air to shaking. The staff drove the things face down into the soil, just feet away from Sophie and Tripataka. Bones snapped, the sound of scale cracking beneath the iron rod as it drove down, down, down, down. The earth cracked with the impact.

The pressure was too great. The hide split as the earth could not give anymore and blood came in a spray of red.

The demon, the great Drought Bringer, rolled a bloodshot eye upward. A iron rod ? Was that what fell it ? Something so insignificant. A shadow loomed from the sunlight. Feet pressed on the demons head.

The demon knew this creature - this mild looking and bored Monkey- and felt the contents of its stomach turn to water. Those eyes slashed downward, making the serpent flinch.

The burning heat in this demons gaze—

Sun Wukong knelt on the dying beasts skull the iron staff of Ruyi Jingu Bang resting across one shoulder. Those yellow eyes went from flaming to disinterested as the demonic monkey looked at the mortals.

“I told you the market was a bad idea.”

The blond haired women who had avoided the great Drought Bringers strike, shot up on her legs from the rubble.

“ARE you SERIOUS?!”

“I am. I told you all it was a bad idea.”

“You couldn’t have said that there was a demonic flying snake?!?”

“Do you think the bastard pig would have listened to me if I had ?” Wukong huffed. He swung a foot languidly off the side of the serpents skull. Wukong tapped the golden circlet on his brow. “I would have gotten another headache by this dumb band.”

“WUKONG A WHOLE TOWN WAS DESTROYED!”

“Bah.” He waved his hand at that. “It was gonna be destroyed. This beast wouldn’t have waited any longer to eat again.”

The foot pressed into the gore in the back of the demons spine and a half gasp, half cough, of pain exhaled from between broken jaws. The serpent didn’t remove its eye from the Demon king above it.

It had heard stories. Legends of five hundred years ago when it had been but a hatchling, of a monkey of stone waging war against Heaven. Of almost succeeding in bending that great power into a kowtow.

“WUKONG WE ALMOST GOT SWALLOWED WHOLE BY A FUCKING BIG ASS SNAKE.” Sophie retorted.

“Naw. I had it all under control.” Wukong tapped the edge of his staff now onto the creatures head.

“Though it is taking awhile to die…”

The serpent felt the monkey lean forward. The burning gaze was back now that the simian wasn’t staring at the women.

“Tougher than I thought you were.” His voice had become softer. “Survive a blow - even to just bleed out like a bloody hog- is no easy feat with my staff.”

The pressure from his clawed feet pricked the broken scales long the serpents skin. Those claws were drawing blood. The monkey leaned down to whisper almost sweetly.

“You never were going to get your fangs into them you disgusting worm. Wanna know why? Because I’m Sun Wukong. I am the Great Sage. And your Tale-” the weight of the monkey felt oppressive, his claws digging harder into the tender broken scales. “-your insignificant little blip in history is at an end.”

The monkey foot was the last thing the serpent, the Feiwei, saw before the staff was driven down again into its eye. The blindness as the pupil exploded under the contact and the sharp pain as the staff drove through the eye socket and into the recesses of the skull were the serpents last feelings.

Demonic minds were not like mortals. They did not flit between two threads of disconjointed emotions. The Feiwei knew it’s end and bitterly died.

The demon gave a final strangled gasp as it twitched once, twice and then was no more. The remaining demons eye rolled in its head. Crimson blood wept from the exposed eye socket and the broken skull. It mixed with the dirt to make a black patch in the soil. At the serpents death the air stopped its dry repression and eased in its intense heat.

Wukong stepped off lightly from the dead serpents head. His feet crossed through the bloody wake and up to Sophie who still stood, a bit dumbfounded, over Tripataka.

That was brutal. Sophie thought.

Then her body remembered itself and her stomach seized at the scent of demon blood. Bile burned up the back of her throat.

Please please please don’t throw up. That was the last thing she needed. Sophie pulled Tripataka up.

The monk hissed and winced as his weight tried to take his foot. And crumpled.

“Is it broken?” Sophie worried. She didn’t see any tears in the skin- any blood. Blood.

Again she fought a wave of nausea. The back of the demons neck had been cut wide open- almost as if obliterated- by a single strike. The trauma of the loss of so much bodily mass to a central location, the skull, had been enough to kill it but it had lived on. Just long enough for Wukong to stab it in the eye.

“Not … not broken. Just sprained.” Trip smiled, sweat building on his brow. “Sophie .. thank —“

Tripatakas words died on his throat as he disciple came into full view. And he blanched.

“Stupid beast.” Wukong picked his claws, flicking some of the blood free from their tips. The stone monkey was absolutely painted in crimson, having delivered the blow and standing behind the beast as it fell. Dark ichor dripped from the side of his face, matting the fur in places that the blood was thickest in.

“See Master ?” Wukong grinned- not helping the two mortals as they both struggled with their aversions: Tripataka for violence and Sophie for blood.

“I almost died ….” Trip muttered, the shock coming over him then.

“There there Trip.” Sophie soothed - but she sounded wooden as she also felt her stomach heave. Gods and spirits the blood stank.

“Why does everything bad happen to me?”

“It’s ok Trip.”

“Why is it always devouring they try and accomplish?! Buddha it’s breath stank of rot.”

“Most human eating demons don’t have pretty breath.”

Wukong, oblivious or willfully blind to the mortal dilemmas unfolding before him, swaggered closer.

“Well! That’s another monstrosity down. Solved with violence.” Wukong barred his teeth. His mood was improved from when they had first arrived and none had taken his warning seriously. Not even Sophie. That was an insult. She was lulled in by Pigsy who kept regaling all with the tales of this unique little village.

Utter drivel. Wukong had seen real food wonders- Hell he came from the most fruitful mountain in the world! What could some boiled water and limp noodles compare to the tastes of flower fruit mountain?

Wukong turned, leaning against his staff as he rested it against the ground. “Sophie did ya see that ?”

“Yes.” Her voice was tight as she watched the blood drip off Wukong.

“You didn’t throw up?” He inquired with a flash of teeth.

“… no I didn’t.” Her stomach kept trying to make her mouth open up but Sophie was stronger then that.

“HA! Soft women don’t lie! You look just as pale as when that thing was diving at you!” Wukong laughed, his tail twitching in humor. “How would either of you get by without me?”

“Wukong maybe nows not the time—“ Sophie tried but was brushed over as Wukong puffed his chest up and grinned all the wider.

“I, the great Sun Wukong have saved my master again. Did I not do a great job dispatching the beast for you master ?” It was half mock, half fishing for compliments. He did just slay a demonic multi limbed serpent out of the sky.

“Wukong…”

“Not even praise ?!” Well that was dreadfully disappointing. He expected some sort of good job from the monk.

Sophie wanted to roll her eyes. Can’t he read the room?

“Wukong you did a fantastic job!” Sophie would try and smooth things over. While also not suffering from her flipping stomach. “Amazing. It’s just the — the blood— it stinks. Worse then normal. —“

“I know you are thankful because you have decent sense but I want to hear it from him!”

At this moment Tripataka stood straight suddenly. He calmly limped to one of the bushes. And promptly vomited.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wukong huffed, irritable even in the hot springs warmth. He had a bucket in one hand and a washboard in the other, and had scrubbed the blood free of his clothes. Pants, shirt, tiger skin- it all had to be washed. Of course Wukong had pilfered some soap awhile back from the Market square the Pilgrims had passed through. He had set to work, scrubbing and pulling and worrying over the clothing until it was clean. He knew he had to clean it. He took pride in his looks and decorum. Wukong would have gone to the spring naturally on his own in time.

Wukong twitched the edge of his tail annoyed.

He was aware he was a bit unkempt after saving Sophie and Tripataka from the Feiwei. He had just batted the thing out of the air into the earth. There was bound to be blood and gore after a swing like that. Sophie had given him a brief berating of getting himself cleaned up- and when he had asked and demanded for what was rightly his - praise, thanks, AT LEAST A YOUR WELCOME- Sophie had promised him that she would lavish him in praise if he would just get clean.

Fine. If his Master wouldn’t spoil him in praise and was currently giving his attention to Sandy then the Monkey would wheedle it out of Reader.

Wukong sunk lower into the water, thinking. He hadn’t let the group go into the town without him. Though he had threatened and grumbled and said “fuck that” Wukong had set a double to follow from above, watching. Of course the Pig would follow his nose to the demons lair. Of course he would assure the others that there was no way this could be a demon.

Wukong swore the Pig was out to get them killed half the time.

Well the rest was predictable. As soon as that wiggling worm had taken one sniff of the monk, he had grown all greedy and hungry and hadn’t been able to keep its human disguise.

Wukong had the whole situation under control though- it had just - taken him a moment to wake up from his dozing. The snake had gotten a bit close. Maybe the invisible double had shoved the two mortals just a bit too hard. That twisted ankle of the Monks would take some time to heal. Luckily the village headman had given the group his home- a little but set back into a bit of shaded pine and with its own hot spring - to rest und for as long as needed. And while Wukong had endured the grating reprimand of Pigsy at being late, the monkey had felt a bit smug. His deeds had scored them nice lodgings.

Wukong wouldn’t care about where they slept. The Monkey King could simply find a nice patch anywhere and curl up. The boon I’m his cap though was the absolute excited light sweep into Sophie’s eyes at the mention of beds and pillows and a roof over their head.

Wukong pulled himself out of the water, the steam rising off of his body in the twilight air. It had been enough time since him washing his clothes to his longs soak that, in the summer sun, had dried enough. Maybe not the shirt but his trousers had. The rest would have to wait till morning. Wukong had a Reader to annoy now.

Sophie was in heaven. After the hellish day of demonic snakes and almost getting devoured, Sophie was comfortable and cozy and all too happy to rush to the futon that had been dragged into the center of her little room.

A bed. Clean clothes. A full belly. The horror of the day was an echo but it was still there. If she closed her eyes she could still hear it- still smell the hot breath blasting across their faces.

A knock on her door had her start from the memory.

Who’s that ?

It wouldn’t be Pigsy. The man had passed out hours ago after the steamed buns and broth the village headman had left for them. Maybe it was Sandy? That didn’t seem likely since he was currently nursing Tripitakas twisted ankle. It would be better after the swelling went down.

Did Wukong really take me up on my offer of praise?

“READER OPEN THE DOOR.”

Yep. There was only one stone monkey that sounded that annoyed yet still knocked with the politeness. Sophie stepped to the door and opened it.

And stared just a little.

She had been expecting to see a fully clothed Sun Wukong leaning against her door. What she hadn’t been expecting was a half dressed Wukong with his arms crossed over his chest. And emphasizing that he most certainly did not have a shirt on.

“Where’s your shirt?” Brilliant Sophie. Blurt the first thing that comes to mind. Wukong pushed off the doorframe and past her into the room, giving her a clear view of his pecs, his shoulders, his back.

Pull it together girl and get your mind out of the gutter.

“I had to clean it since you and the monk threw a sick fest at a little bit of blood.” The monkey sat down, crossing his legs beneath him. At least he knows how to make himself comfortable.

“Right…” Sophie watched as Wukong began to slide his fingers through the wet fur along his back, beside his face and over his arms. Grumbling as his nails seemed to catch and pull in the longer bits of his fur. Wukong flexed his arms to reach a spot. The ripple of muscle along his back was unexpected.

Sophie felt her face flame up. I’m glad he’s so wrapped into himself because if he saw what I looked like right now—

“Well I’m clean now but my fur is all snarled.” He snapped. The monkey was currently struggling with a knot of fire at the base of his neck.

“I have a brush you can borrow.” Anything to get my head out of that space and back in line with normal thinking. She crossed the mats and grabbed her bag. Sophie plucked her brush free from its place, walking back to Wukong. She was a bit startled he was watching her, his eyes half closed in thought.

“You know what… this wouldn’t have happened if you had just followed my warning women.”

“What?”

“A mess is what you and Pigsy and Trip caused.” Wukong leaned his head back and let the water still clinging to his fur, drip downward. “All because you didn’t listen to the warning I gave.”

What was she supposed to do? Sophie had been hungry, had been just as trusting of Pigsys judgment of what was mortal and what was maligned hungry demonic pretending to be mortal. She tried to pass the brush to Wukong, hoping that if she gave him what he wanted he would leave off his snippy comments.

The monkey raised an eyebrow at the brush.

“You can take it ya know- it’s as good as any comb you have.” Sophie lifted the brush and ran it through her hair in demonstration. Hers was a simple hairbrush with short bristles and a worn handle from use.

“Back on the mountain many female members of my kingdom would kowtow and beg for a chance I’m about to give you.” Wukong said.

Chance ?

The monkey king closed her hands over the handle. He turned, setting his hands on his knees as his back faced her now. “Not everyone gets the chance I am giving you- so be grateful.”

“You want me to… brush you?”

“Brush my fur.” It was more command then question.

“Alright.”

Sophie began at the tops of his shoulders. The short bristled brush caught in the hair and slide free, leaving it untangled. Wukongs fur was thick enough to be like her own hair and the brush carefully and methodically by Sophie’s hand, worked through the thickest patches of fur. At places she would have to switch to a comb, one Wukong slid soundlessly from his pocket and passed back to her. This was strangely nice… if not a bit intimate. The constant motion of the brush, of the task, was helping her still jittery mind calm and work through the events that had led up to them being here in a house. With her grooming Wukong.

“When did you know about the demon?” It came tumbling from her mouth before she could stop it.

“As soon as we came upon the village.” Wukong answered. He had his eyes closed, tail swaying against the wooden floor. “The townspeople stank of demon. Seems that beast has been feeding them up to try and cultivate some souls.”

“Sounds like how some insects raise other bugs” Like how ants raise aphids.

“Or like how mortals raise cattle.” Wukong commented.

“Mmm” Sophie felt her mind run through the memories again. The serpent lashing out- and her ability to drag Trip out of the way of that strike. Of the great snake lifting it’s head from the broken earth. Of it lunging a second time. We both could have been dead so fast. No one would have known. Wukong had been left behind, Pigsy had been thrown off somewhere. Only Sandy knew what may have happened to them. Sophie’s brushing slowed.

A snap of fingers made her blink out of the memories.

“Speak.”

“Speak?”

“Don’t parrot me.” Wukong opened his eye just a fraction to shoot her a glare. “ Something on your mind, you stupid women. Spit it out.”

“I thought… I thought we were dead..”

“You would have been if I hadn’t come!” Wukong reached back and took her hand in his. The Monkey king moved the brush up to his head where the fur was in a most disheveled state. Sophie started to gently untangle it, careful of how hard or how fast she worked. He may be able to burst from fires and come away without any lacerations but he may not take kindly to a mortal carelessly tugging at his fur. The wet strands moved slowly through the bristles as he talked. “Makes you want to take heed of a Kings words hmm?”

For all his boasting and puffing up, for all his prideful japes and comments… he almost had been too late. If she hadn’t yanked Trip. If they hadn’t run … “You almost weren’t there though…”

“Sophie.”

“Yea?”

He was turned about, facing her dead on before she could blink. Wukongs yellow eyes looked over her then. Little scrapes here and their. No major cuts. Except for the still red and puffy slice along her cheek. Wukong reached forward and ran a thumb over the slice. I should have sent more then one invisible douple.

“You wouldn’t have been eaten.” He would lessen her worry, and reaffirm his abilities. Had she forgotten? He was Sun Wukong- no demon could stop him. “I wouldn’t have let it happen. I would have torn the bastard apart before it got even a flick of spit on you. You or the monk.”

And next time I’ll make sure I leave them with two invisible doubles instead of one.

Sophie had frozen when he brushed his hand across her face. He was being kind, sensing her turmoil over it all. She was about to say something in kind, something to match that kindness.

“It’s my duty to protect the weak mortals on this quest. It would reflect badly on me as King of Flower Fruit Mountain if I let those under my care get devoured by some slimy worm.” Of course he couldn’t resist the opportunity to flaunt his importance.

“That almost sounds like reassurance.” Sophie sighed. She raised the brush up again in silent question.

“It is reassurance.” He affirmed. Wukong nodded once at the brush, spinning back around. “No harm comes to those that are in my care.”

“Well. Then if it only takes brushing your fur for that… I would be happy to do it every night.”

Wukongs tail gave a little flick. They spent the rest of the night talking, trading quips and jokes. As the of cicadas from beyond the doors blended with the soft swish of the brush, a feeling of contentment and camaraderie fell between the two. And something … more grew.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Imagine if Jin Zixuan DID yeet his brother from another mother (🥲) down the stairs.

Meng Yao: I'm your brother. Happy birthday! 🥰

Jin Zixuan: There can only be one. YEET

I am truly sad he didn't; think of the 'No Doubles' memes that we could have had...

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

And remember kids, the next time someone tells you, "George R. R. Martin wouldn't make Jon Snow the typical fantasy hero because that's cliche".....

Oh yes he would!

One viewer wants to know what character would you play (on the show)? GRRM: If I could magically clap my hands and become a different person, it would be cool to play Jon Snow who's much more of the classic hero. Everybody wants to be the classic hero! ABC Interview, 2014

GRRM: And the character I’d want to be? Well who wouldn’t want to be Jon Snow — the brooding, Byronic, romantic hero whom all the girls love. Meduza Interview, 2017

In fact he already has ☺️

[ramblesbiab]

i desperately need to be the leader of a human uprising against a world which has been largely overtaken by robots and there's one specific robot girl who's a prominent leader in the robot forces. She hates me, I hate her, and years go by as we keep fighting each other. I think we're getting closer, we have to be. We can't let those things win.

Then, finally, it comes. Our largest scale attack. We charge, all at once, on the largest base of operations for the robots, running on adrenaline and hope, desperate, desperate hope, for the future of humanity.

And they obliterate us. They obliterate me, leaving me bloody and barely alive, lying on the battlefield knowing we'd failed. Then, a figure stands over me, and as I blackout, I can feel myself being picked up.

When I wake up, something feels wrong. I'm in pain, sure, but not nearly enough for the abuse I just took, and I assume I must be dead. Then I see her. The robot girl leader, at a work table across the room. Humming a softly digital tune to herself, until I make the surface I'm on creak and she startles.

She explains that I was in critical condition. That I was going to die if I didn't have parts of me replaced, so she did it. I can't think about the disgust of being part machine now from the sheer surprise that she - helped me? My worst enemy saved my fucking life?!

Like she's reading my thoughts, she snaps at me to shut up before I can ever say anything. It's unclear what happens next. If I can leave, if the other robots know I'm here. If her goal is to torture me, so dying wasn't an option, or if there's some other strange reason she wants me alive.

I spend a few unbearably contentious nights in the workshop I woke up in, sleeping on the same table my operation took place. Feeling the machines moving inside me so unnaturally every time I close my eyes. She keeps not saying anything, only giving me glances from the side, not saying I can go but not telling me to stay, either.

One day, I move closer to her worktable. Watching the way her robotic fingers move with such grace. It's mesmerizing.

She finally speaks up to tell me it's rude to stare. But I keep watching, and she does nothing to prevent it. I swear there's a soft smirk on those grey lips of hers.

It's odd to me, how I know what she's working on. About all the devices she's always tinkering with, from all the observing I did while planning the uprising. I know so much about a robot woman I've yet to have a conversation with, at least one that wasn't yelled over the sounds of gunfire and explosions.

I can't bear the silence, nor the occasional sarcastic remarks. So I crack. "What are we?" I ask after another few days. She freezes perfectly in place, or so I think, until I notice the shake to her hand, such an oddly human response to the question. More human then most of the monsters who were willing to join my uprising.

"I'm still figuring that out," she whispers. She goes back to work. After a few minutes, she starts to hum, like I'm not here. Or - like it's okay that I'm here. I let a smile creep onto my face.

We're getting somewhere.

( if it's not obvious this is very inspired by portal 2 and also this portal 2 fanfic: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8896805/27/Of-Robots-and-Women )

[tcfactory]

Please consider: Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu role-swap

[LiuJiu, 2300 words]

After the fire, Shen Jiu doesn't sit around, he's aiming straight for Cang Qiong. Wu Yanzi tempts him, but if he is to ever find out what happened to Qi-ge then he can't play around with rogue cultivators, so he ditches the man before Wu Yanzi could take him as a disciple.

He arrives to the sect at a year when they are not doing the disciple selection - the women at the Warm Red Pavilion say it's because the Sect Leader is busy monitoring his cursed head disciple and if the Sect Leader doesn't take part then the rest of the sect has to wait too - but he's tipped off that Bai Zhan is always open to those who are determined enough to climb the mountain and demand admittance.

So that's exactly what he does. The Peak Lord sets him against one of his junior disciples and tells him there are no rules, if he can beat them he's in. It's a test he's not supposed to win, to see his determination and his reaction to failure, as a malnourished slave boy should be no match to someone in good health who has two years of training under his belt. But Shen Jiu doesn't know this, he has come too far to give up now and unlike the scrappy, but well-fed farmer's son he's set up against, he fights dirty.

He sets the basis of his future nickname - The Rabid Wolf of Bai Zhan - that day when he claws the boy's eye out and forces him to yield. His rise among the disciples is almost as meteoric as Yue Qi's and people are on the lookout for when the upstart slave boy will plummet back to the earth, but he never does. When the year is up and the sect is abuzz that Lingxi caves are finally opening again because they are letting the cursed disciple out, he's there in the front row among the curious onlookers and throws himself in his Qi-ge's arms as soon as the other boy steps foot into the light again.

Shen Qingqiu grows up tall and willowy and unpredictable, an unconventional physical cultivator that bends with the wind, but never breaks. With Yue Qingyuan's support as an unshakeable mountain behind his back, he is untouchable. He never bothers to hide what he is, not his scars or his sharp edges or the slave brand burned into the meat of his shoulder, often bared to the world by his choice of outfit; he stands as testament that even the lowest wretches can claw their way up to stand among giants.

Liu Mingqu yields to his rich family and allows himself to be enrolled into Qing Jing. He is not as suited for spiritual cultivation and he has no head for arts, but he is still a prodigy and a really hard working one at that. He learns all there is to learn for a scholar and doesn't rest until he perfects them all - music, calligraphy, painting, poetry - and even if he's ever uninspired about pursuing them, the Peerless Beauty of Qing Jing is a competent teacher who stands head and shoulders over his peers. He masters his temper and his manners and takes to hiding his face behind a fan or sometimes a veil like his sister to discourage people from staring at him.

Their roles may be different, but their nature remains the same. Shen Jiu has always been more clever than he was strong and nothing changed about that now that he's essentially a spiritual cultivator playing at star athlete. He plants a bamboo forest on his mountain - for meditation and ambush practice, he says, but everyone knows he just needed a bubble of calm for himself in the endless war zone of Bai Zhan - and mercilessly beats any disciple who dares to damage the forest. In the serene calm of his little house he hoards books and maps and all the culture he can get his calloused hands on, always thirsty to know more, an endless pit his Qi-ge happily pours obscure knowledge into. He uses the standing feud between Bai Zhan and Qing Jing to spy on them, learn their cultivation methods by sight and listen to the senior disciples do ad hoc concerts, so he can practice music in the brothel or under a silencing array just behind his house.

It's during one of these trips when he discovers Liu Qingge behind the Qing Jing Peak Lord's manor, restlessly shuffling through the steps of a formal dance. Liu Qingge yearns to move, he yearns for the exertion of his wild youth, but there are only so many acceptable options for a scholar and as a cultivator he can't channel his restlessness into hunting or horse riding. That leaves dancing, but Liu Qingge is not a creative person. He sticks to the dances he half-remembers learning as a rich young master and maybe asks his sister for some more, but that's where his resourcefulness runs out on this venture.

Shen Qingqiu watches him go through the steps of the same dozen dances, swap to a few rounds of sword forms - perfectly executed and ethereal, an immortal beauty that earthbound Shen Qingqiu will never be able to replicate - and then swap back to the dances, increasingly frustrated and restless.

"If Peak Lord Qingge wants to learn some better dances, this shidi can introduce you to someone." Liu Qingge startles and almost turns him into a pincushion with a barrage of bamboo leaves.

"What do you want?!" They are secure in their respective positions, but they still don't like each other.

"Peace, shixiong. I'm just looking out for the sect. How would it reflect on me if I let my fellow Peak Lord work himself into a qi deviation and didn't step in?" Shen Qingqiu shrugs and smiles with an easy, predatory grace that makes Liu Qingge wish he had fangs to match the Wolf of Bai Zhan, but there's no malice in the offer. "Come now, shixiong. There's nobody else here. We don't need to do this stupid game of social posturing. Tell you what, as a sign of my goodwill I'm going to teach you a meditation technique to calm your qi after exercise, free of charge."

Almost everything with Shen Qingqiu is a transaction, so Liu Qingge knows better than to pass up the chance to get something from his shidi for free - and the meditation does help settle his roiling qi.

"What do you want in return, then?" It's almost terrifying how intensely Shen Qingqiu's eyes light up.

"That trick with the leaves - teach me how to do it."

Liu Qingge doesn't bother to point out that it's a spiritual technique. It's an unspoken secret that they would be better suited to each other's cultivation styles than that of their own peaks. Shen Qingqiu has a storm of razor sharp leaves dancing in the air before Liu Qingge is even done explaining.

He almost regrets agreeing when Shen Qingqiu takes him down to the brothel, but the women his shidi introduces him to are truly masters of dance - they were stars of an imperial dance troupe before their owner was executed for offending the Emperor and they were sold to the brothel. They take him to the back and teach him dances he could never have imagined, dances that make his heart soar and his blood rush hot in his veins, while Shen Qingqiu lightly dozes among the women in the main reception area, his very presence frightening all but the most unruly patrons into behaving.

Liu Qingge is an honest man and he knows, deep down, that he got much more out of this exchange than his shidi. He’s on the lookout to see how he could repay him, but Shen Qingqiu seems to want for nothing. What he can’t get on his own Yue Qingyuan gifts to him, doting relentlessly on his sharp-edged little brother. So when he hears that Shen Qingqiu is to set out to assist in a night hunt against a particularly dangerous demonic beast that made its way over the to the far shore of the sea, he hops to the opportunity to compile a scroll of all the unspoken rules and etiquette of the island, as well as a short history on the ninja clan that asked for their aid. It’s all information that Shen Qingqiu has no way of learning otherwise, but should ease his time on the hunt.

When he can’t find Shen Qingqiu at the bamboo house he goes looking for him and that’s when he finds the silencing array, that’s when he sees his shidi sitting with his guqin in a clearing, composing music. Liu Qingge’s mouth goes dry, his heart skips a beat - his shidi is like a vision from the heavens and for the first time since he started this scholarly lifestyle, Liu Qingge wants to paint. He wants to etch this scene in his heart and condense it into a poem.

He slinks away before his shidi can notice him and leaves the scroll in the bamboo house. In the three years Shen Qingqiu is gone, hunting that elusive monster that decimates one village after another, he becomes a man possessed - or more accurately, a tender hearted young maiden yearning for her first love. He paints picture after picture, sometimes of a wolf stalking among the bamboo, sometimes of Qingqiu with his guqin as the scene lives in his memory. Rarely he paints his shidi stretched out on a couch in the brothel, languid with feigned sleep and one eye opened a crack as he vigilantly watches over his sisters - he gifts one of those to the brothel, much to the ladies’ delight. He starts writing poetry, yearning, horrible poetry his sister mocks relentlessly, but slowly he finds his words and his latest attempts are almost good. He is the first to hound Zhangmen-shixiong for news on Shen shidi and learns every word of every letter by heart, no matter how short or impersonal the progress reports are.

Liu Qingge knows that his martial siblings are not blind to his obsession - he has caught Shang shidi muttering “bro, really?!” under his breath more than once. He’s not familiar with the expression, but he can understand the sentiment. Yue Qingyuan watches him with patient exasperation, but he knows that the man doesn’t disapprove from the mild comment about how Shen Jiu will need a new ceremonial robe for his return celebration because his old one is ten years out of fashion.

Embroidery is, technically, within the skill set of the Qing Jing Peak Lord. He hounds An Ding until someone supplies him with Shen Qingqiu’s measurements and the finest materials he can bully Shang shidi into acquiring - “That’s the same stuff demon royalty wears, try not to waste it, my contact had to go through the royal seamstress of the northern kingdom to get it in that color.” - and sets to work. Bai Zhan’s color is steel blue, but that never fit his shidi, so he picks greens instead to match his striking green eyes. He creates a design that accentuates the deceptive slimness of Qingqiu, then embroiders the robes with bamboo patterns and a wolf on the hunt and when they are done he crafts a matching fan - Shen shidi hides from nothing and nobody, but Liu Qingge thinks he might enjoy being a little mysterious.

He is daydreaming about his shidi during the next Peak Lord meeting when the Sect Leader breaks the news: the beast has finally been slain and Shen Qingqiu will be on the next ship back home. Liu Qingge stays barely long enough to not be impolite at the end of the meeting before he rushes off to finish the last touches on the robes. He wants to leave it all set out for his shidi in the bamboo house.

In his haste he misses the look Shang Qinghua and Yue Qingyuan exchange behind his back.

“So, about those arrangements we made…”

“Yes, please. Let’s get Xiao Jiu home before Liu-shidi pines himself into a qi deviation.”

“Yeah, he’s down bad isn’t he?”

“Are you certain your prince doesn’t mind? If you are in any danger, shidi…”

“No! It’s fine, I’m fine, he already agreed to it! In fact, my Xuebao likes your brother so much I’m almost a little jealous.”

“Really now?”

“Zhangmen-shixiong, please stop looking like you are plotting murder. It’s not like that. As the Mobei prince, he really doesn’t have a lot of friends. Of course he misses A-Jiu.”

“If you say so, shidi.”

Liu Qingge is all jitters when he walks down the path to the bamboo house. He can’t understand why because Shen Qingiu won’t be back for months, but he still feels like a maiden on her way to ask out her love on the first date.

He almost drops the package with the robes when he opens the door and finds Shen Qingqiu standing there in the sunlit room. His shidi is too solid, too real to be an apparition, his clothes worn from travel, his heavy pack still unpacked by the table. He stands with a letter in one hand - Qingge recognizes his sister’s wobbly, childish handwriting - and with Qingge’s notebook in which he wrote all his stumbling, horrible poetry in the other and Liu Qingge wishes nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“Are those my new robes?” Shen Qingqiu asks, as if they have only met this morning, as if that was a reasonable thing to ask when Qingge’s heart is about to explode from nerves. He can only mutely nod at his shidi. “You know shixiong, I can see that you have put enormous effort into courting me. I would have loved it if it happened when I was here to experience it.”

Shen Qingqiu sets the notebook and the letter down and stalks up to Liu Qingge, his eyes sharp with an emotion he can’t interpret, but it makes Liu Qingge want to bare his throat to his teeth and be devoured.

“So, Liu-shixiong. Are you going to help me try on my new robes?”

[dukeofthomas]

"Angry robin" "violent robin" "misbehaving robin" shut up and accept my alternative; spunky Robin. Determined and head strong, can out-stubborn the Batman, has a strong moral-backbone and does what he thinks is right regardless of what anybody else says, Robin. Jason who was sassy and quippy and made crude jokes with a smile on his face. Jason who hid in Bruce's cape and whispered gossip to him. Jason who, if Bruce refused him something, could keep bothering endlessly until Bruce caved. And also dramatic Jason. If Bruce tells him no, it becomes a whole theatrical show; a monologue, a narration, embellishments, and falling onto the floor in his grief upon the fact his cruel father has denied him once again.

(Jason who has suffered through abuse and homelessness and poverty and starvation, who is the Fight out of Fight or Flight, who's built up defenses and walls and when pushed and triggered responds with the thing that's always protected him; anger. He's sweet and kind and funny, and when he sees a pimp hitting a prostitute he gets furious and responds with violence.)

[five-and-dimes]

Body and Soul

(Apparently my specific genre of writing is “shapeshifter having a panic attack”.)

TW for body horror (I think. It’s nothing gory, just losing-control-of-shapeshifting shenanigans so tagging to be safe.)

Dream doesn’t believe in miracles the way humans do. But, he thinks, there must be some sort of magic responsible for the way he is currently being kissed passionately by Hob Gadling.

When he had arrived in the New Inn some weeks ago, he could barely bring himself to hope for forgiveness. Yet what he had been given was that and more. Hob had smiled, happy to pick up where they left off, no anger, no resentment, just joy and companionship and Dream thinks his legs might have given out in relief if he had not sat as quickly as he had.

Of course, Dream was under no illusion that he did not owe Hob a great debt. The immortal was one of many he had wronged, and he desperately wanted to make it right. He spent much of that first meeting making offerings. His name, his being, his regret, answers and explanations and anything Hob could ask for.

Whatever Hob wants, he thinks to himself, he may have.

So amazed was he by the friendship so easily offered, that he felt almost blindsided by the progression he now found himself in. He had buried his love for Hob a long time ago, so certain that there was no greater injustice than to be loved by Dream. But here he was, being kissed and too weak to do anything but kiss back because the idea of Hob loving him had always been an impossibility.

Hob had a few drinks before they made their way back to his apartment, the taste of wine still on his lips, but his hands are steady as they grip Dream’s hips, and his voice is sure as he whispers between kisses, “Sweetheart” and “My Dream” and “Love, love, love”.

Dream sighs against his mouth, ghosting his fingers across the soft fabric of the sweater covering Hob’s chest. “Hob…” There is so much he wants to say, but the words catch in his throat and all that escapes is his name, and he hopes Hob can hear the devotion woven through it.

His knees hit the back of Hob’s bed, and then they are tumbling together, Hob laughing into his neck as he lays himself gently on top of Dream, pressing him back into the mattress. And it’s fine, truly. Dream has always craved closeness, always desired to be held even if he never sought it out for feeling he didn’t deserve it. So to have Hob choose to pull him close makes his heart light up, a warm glow in his chest as he kisses him again, happy to stay in this exact spot as long as Hob will allow him.

And then Hob is leaning back, tugging his shirt off and the warmth dims, just slightly. He feels like a fool for not realizing what was happening. Of course Hob would want a more intimate closeness from him, simply laying together would not be fair to him. And Dream doesn’t mind, exactly. He is no stranger to sex, and can appreciate Hob’s strong chest now revealed to him, even reaches a hand out to pet through the hairs there, would not mind mapping out the fine muscled planes of him.

But when Hob leans down to take Dream’s shirt off, he can’t help but shiver at the ghost of a memory, fabric sliding off his skin, leaving him exposed on the ground within a seal, eyes, so many eyes watching him, too weak to lift a hand, to hide or fight or flee-

It feels like too much.

More clothes are removed, pants slid down until they are both in their underwear. Skin is pressed against skin, and part of Dream feels good and part of Dream wants to run away, wants to go back in time just a few minutes, to when he was clothed and held and didn’t realize that it was only a prelude.

Taking a deep breath, Dream closes his eyes, skimming his hands down Hob’s back. He loves Hob. Loves him so much, too much, he is certain, for he is always too much, and maybe he doesn’t want this, but he does want Hob.

He thinks of his kindness, his compassion, his laughter and joy and passion. Dream would not dare to deny him anything, would not risk losing such a source of good in his life. He does not think he could survive if he was too much and not enough at the same time, would let Hob do whatever he liked if only he would forgive Dream for all he has done and all that he is. Yes, he can do whatever he wants with Dream, whatever he wants.

Anything he wants.

There is a sharp gasp above him.

“Dream?” Hob’s voice is thick with concern, and Dream opens his eyes, following Hob’s gaze down to his own body and is mortified by what he finds.

His skin is still a shining, pale white, but it is no longer skin. Fine, cold porcelain takes the place of flesh, his joints split and hinged, with wisps of gossamer thread tied around them. Hob is carefully laying above a life-sized marionette doll.

“I…” Dream feels breathless, wonders if he even has lungs in this unintentional manifestation, “I apologize, I…” Frantically, he forces flesh across his body, pulls a cover of his usual form around him like a shroud. He can still feel the clicking of hinges, and knows intrinsically that there is a puppet in place of a skeleton beneath his skin.

“Hey, are you alright?” Hob’s brow is furrowed, running a hand gently up Dream’s arm, and Dream nods quickly.

“Yes, I apologize, I simply… became overwhelmed for a moment. I did not intend to change forms.”

Hob smiles soothingly, “We can slow down? If you want?”

What Dream wants is for Hob to be satisfied. Everything else is irrelevant.

“No, you may continue.”

Reaching up, he cups the back of Hob’s neck, gently threading his fingers through the fine hairs there, tugging him down for a kiss. It’s more hesitant than before, but Hob sighs into his mouth, and runs his hands down Dream’s sides until they can rest on the sharp edges of his hips, and so perhaps Dream has not ruined the evening, perhaps he can still make Hob happy.

He focuses more on his own hands than Hob’s, savors the silky strands of his hair and the stubble against his cheek, only distantly feels how Hob’s hands slide down his thighs. Absently, he hopes that his body is to Hob’s liking. He doesn’t often think about how he looks compared to human standards of attractiveness, or how pleasurable it would be to another, and he wishes now that he had thought of this sooner. He should have asked, offered to reshape himself for Hob, because he would, gladly, be anything he wanted-

“Holy shit!”

Hob’s hands are gone, his weight shifting as he surges back onto his knees, looking down at Dream with wide, almost horrified eyes. Dream’s eyes snap down and he gazes in equal horror, though perhaps for a different reason.

Dream’s thighs have become misshapen. Two handprints press into the outsides of his legs, deep and twisting and unmoving, and Dream realizes as he stares down at himself that his body is currently made of soft, malleable clay.

“No…” Dream’s voice is less than a whisper, his mouth simply shaping the word more than speaking it, “No, this is wrong…”

“It- it’s okay,” Hob’s own voice is soft and gentle, hands held out as if soothing a frightened animal, “I was just surprised, is all. Maybe we should-”

“I can fix this.”

“Woah, hey, you don’t need to-”

Dream clenches his eyes shut, trying to make his body right, something Hob would want, something Hob would be willing to keep. He feels like crying, but he pushes it away, pushes any thought of tears or rain or saltwater far, far away.

“Dream, stop!”

Snapping his eyes open again, he sees that the clay has begun to dry rapidly, crackling across his body like a barren desert. When he moves to pull his limbs close to his body, chunks of dry earth break away onto the bedspread, and they both see the porcelain hinges that were hiding underneath. Dream is shaking, and there are two cracks running down his face from each of his eyes.

Oh God, Dream thinks. I’m breaking.

He curls up tighter, trying to hide the way his body is crumbling around him, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll-” This shouldn’t be this hard, why can’t he make his body right? He’s too fragile, he’s breaking, and he looks down and sees his reflection in his skin.

His glass skin.

Without thinking, Dream shrieks and throws himself from the bed, landing harshly on the floor, spiderwebs of cracks bursting from his knees before curling up against the wall. Hob follows almost immediately, kneeling in front of him.

“Sweetheart, love, it’s alright, just take a deep breath, okay?”

“No, wait, I, I can fix this, I-”

Hob’s eyes widen, frozen as he watches Dream’s body shudder as if in slow motion. Glass darkens and morphs into rough, black stone, and then that begins to crack as well, deep fissures splitting across his face and ribs. Grass begins to grow from between the crevices, only to wither and die just as fast.

On the side of his neck, a mouth full of broken, yellowed teeth opens and starts screaming, only for thick, white threads to sprout and stitch it shut. An identical mouth appears on the other side of his neck and just screams louder.

A pair of arms emerge sluggishly from Dream’s back before twisting around to cruelly grasp his original arms, holding himself down and digging his nails in until his wrists begin to bleed sand. When he curls forward, face forced almost to the floor as he’s pinned by his own hands, Hob catches a glimpse of his back, a row of rusted wind-up keys along the knobs of his spine.

He’s crying, and his eyes are clear glass orbs, and his eyelids are spiked iron struts.

“I’m sorry,” Dream sobs, voice staticky and distorted, “I can fix this, I promise, please don’t-... I didn’t mean to, I can fix this-”

It’s very possible that this is a terrible idea. It’s very possible that Hob is as crazy as he’s always suspected. But Hob looks at the roiling mass of shapes and forms, the ancient being crying and screaming and fighting his own body, and all he wants to do is hold him.

So he does.

He moves slowly, hoping that Dream will tell him, with words or with his body, if he makes it worse, before gently draping himself across the shuddering figure. He can feel the ripples under his hands, feels clay and plastic and tree bark and he pets all of them with equal softness.

“There’s nothing to fix,” He tucks Dream’s head beneath his chin, and carefully works to uncurl the claws from his wrists, lacing his fingers with them and wishing he could grow more arms himself if only so he could hold Dream better. “There’s nothing to fix,” he repeats, “Nothing is broken. Just breathe with me for a minute, okay? I’ve got you, Dream. I’ve got you my Love.”

With Dream’s arms freed, Hob is able to settle both of them more comfortably, shifting to sit with his back against the bed with Dream nestled in his lap. He keeps his face tucked against his neck, two hands laced with Hob’s and two hands tentatively wrapping around Hob’s middle, fingers fluttering as though afraid to touch.

It takes a long, long moment, but eventually Hob feels Dream’s fragile chest expand with a shaky breath.

“There you are,” Hob sighs, squeezing him a little tighter, “There you are, just relax.” There is another deep, shuddering breath, and then another, and another, and slowly Dream begins to still in his arms. The mouth on his neck quiets, and slowly smooths over. Hands tug away from Hob’s and retreat back into Dream’s body, bones shifting and crackling, little ripples shimmering across him as a patchwork of texture turns back into soft, pale skin.

Hob can still feel tears dripping against his neck, but he has no intention of letting go anytime soon, especially now that Dream is hugging back more firmly, pressing himself against Hob’s body. Running his hands down Dream’s back, he feels a shiver run through him, and is suddenly aware of the fact that they are both nearly naked. He had nearly forgotten how this all started. Keeping one arm tight around Dream’s body, he fumbles behind himself until he’s able to snag the comforter off the bed, tucking it around them and feeling the last of the tension bleed from Dream’s frame.

The silence stretches, and Hob lets it, lets Dream take however much time he needs, content to simply hold him. But eventually, Dream shifts against him, as though he cannot decide whether to pull away or burrow closer.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice is raspy and soft, and Hob thinks about the screaming mouth in his neck. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he insists, placing a gentle kiss to the crown of his head.

This time, Dream pulls away, frowning, “I did not mean to ruin your evening,” he won't meet his eyes, the guilt in his voice slides between Hob’s ribs like a dagger, “I would ask for the chance to try again. To fulfill your desires.”

At those words, Hob takes a moment to really look at Dream, to take in the body settled in his lap and wrapped loosely in his blanket. There are many things about Dream that Hob has a hard time understanding, things he knows without understanding how he knows. And in this moment, he knows that despite his stillness, despite the lack of tension, Dream is consciously focusing on keeping his body human-shaped.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Hob can’t keep the sorrow out of his voice, and he brings a hand up to cup Dream’s cheek, brushing a thumb against the drying tear tracks.

“But… you wanted-”

“What I want,” he interrupts gently, “is for you to be comfortable, and happy, and safe.”

Dream furrows his brows in confusion and Hob feels his heart break. “Come here,” lacing their fingers together, Hob tugs them both to their feet, taking a moment to wrap the comforter more securely around Dream’s shoulders. “Will you sit with me for a minute?”

He receives a shy nod, and maneuvers them both back onto the bed, but this time they sit against the headboard, and Dream remains cocooned while Hob pulls the thin bedsheet across his own legs before pulling Dream against his chest, petting his hair and waiting for him to relax that last, undefinable part of himself.

Eventually, he whispers against Dream’s hair, “Can you tell me what happened, Love?”

There is a long pause before Dream responds, gathering his words and choosing them carefully, speaking slowly and deliberately, “I am very grateful for… you. For your friendship, and your willingness to be with me despite my past actions.”

Hob hums, Dream’s answer not what he had been expecting, seemingly not an answer at all. So he rests his chin against the crown of Dream’s head and waits for him to continue. Because he knows there’s more.

There is.

“I do not want you to regret it.”

“What?” Hob frowned, pulling back just enough to look down at the being in his arms in confusion, “Why on earth would I regret it?”

Dream won’t meet his eyes, “I have not treated you well in the past. You would be within your right to make me leave, so I must give you a reason to let me stay. It wouldn’t be fair to expect you to want me here if I am more trouble than I’m worth. If I take more than give.”

It feels to Hob like the wind has been knocked out of him, not a sigh, but a great whoosh of air escaping him, and Dream makes a small noise of surprise as Hob tugs him back against his chest, holding him tighter as though afraid he might slip through his fingers.

“Dream,” He pours as much of his devotion as he can into that name and it still overflows, “Love, that is not how this works.”

“But-”

“My love isn’t something you earn. It’s not something you-... you pay me back for. It’s a gift. You have it because I want you to have it. Unconditionally.”

Dream pulls away again, looking at Hob in something close to disbelief. “But you wanted more tonight.”

Hob shook his head, “I don’t want to do anything like that if you’re afraid.”

Immediately Dream’s eyes dart away, “I’m not… afraid.”

It’s such a blatant lie that Hob can do nothing but stroke his cheek, “We don’t have to do anything. There’s no requirement. You being here is enough to make me the happiest man on Earth. If we do, we can figure it out together.” He pauses for a moment in consideration, “That’s what I want. I want us to be in this together.”

He can practically hear the gears turning in Dream’s head as he turns those words over in his mind. Finally, he brings a hand up to cover Hob’s hand on his cheek. “I… want that as well.”

Hob can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face, “Well there we go then.” He leans down to kiss Dream’s shy smile chastely. “Will you stay tonight?” he asks, “I have a whole drawer of soft sweatshirts and I think one of them might even be black. And…” he hesitates, looking over Dream’s face for any sign of discomfort, “I’d love to hold you a little longer.”

He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t understand how he knows, because all Dream does is close his eyes, but Hob can feel that last, Endless part of him, the part that was holding his body together with both hands, uncurl and relax, settling into his form with an unseen, ancient breath.

“Yes, please.”

They both bundle up in soft fabrics and tangle together under the covers, and Dream whispers words against Hob’s neck, and Hob kisses his affection against Dream’s forehead, and for tonight, it is enough.

It is more than enough.