#dreams writing challenge

[saintzweig]

art is smooth and hairless. his wife, tashi, likes how neat he looks with his skin waxed so for the past year, she's been setting up an appointment and sending him to your little shop every now and then. you've been in charge of his appointments, you do your job well and the couple has never had any issues in terms of comfort and privacy.

the thing is, art is sensitive. especially when you get around his inner thighs and crotch area. the proximity, the heat of the wax, your gentle hands makes it hard for him to keep it down. you tell him not to worry about it, that it's normal. he tries to keep his moans in as you pull the wax away, pressing your hand to the area. the pain and the pleasure building inside him, tempting a release until he can't hold it in anymore.

he apologizes, you give him a smile as you take a paper towel to clean him off. "it's okay, really." you take care of him so well.

neither of you mentioned it after the appointment and the next ones, art was embarrassed and you didn't want to make it into a big deal. but as time went on, there became a silent agreement between the two of you and art would find his sweet release during your appointments. after a while, art doesn't even try to hide it anymore, he'd find himself squirming and whimpering as he laid bare infront of you.

[martybaker]

Long time no fic, my muse was taking a vacation but I rediscovered this fic concept that I wrote in a fugue state and then completely forgot about, so here’s a snippet.

Setup:

Dream and Hob are college roommates and they keep getting disturbed by their neighbor having loud sex nextdoors.

Solution - they have to be even louder.

——

They are both in their room, with Dream reading a book in bed and Hob at his desk working at some assignment or other when the noises start once again.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Hob buries his face in his hands.

Dream lets his book fall on his chest and he rubs at his temples. “Not again,” he hisses.

“This is like the ninth time this week! Don’t they have anything else in their lives going on? School? Friends? Isn’t there more to life than sex?” Hob moans, covering his ears against the sound of rhythmic thumping of a bed frame against a wall and loud moans.

“I knocked at the door again yesterday. The jerk told me to ‘lighten up, ‘live a little’ and ‘get some’,” Dream mutters, teeth clenching.

“Asshole,” Hob agrees, leaving the assignment behind with no hopes of being able to focus, and flops down onto his own bed.

“Why do they have to be so loud?” Dream growls covering his face with a pillow in a futile attempt to block the sound. He does own noise-cancelling headphones, but he left them behind in his family home and he isn’t ready to make that trip just yet.

Hob is even more out of luck, he can’t use noise cancelling headphones, the complete lack of sounds makes him anxious. He actually prefers having Dream in the room when he’s studying, even if they don’t talk, to being here alone. He often studies in coffee shops just for the ambience of the people chatting.

But it’s the principle of the thing. They’re both fed up with being exiled from their own room just because the jerk next doors has a sex appetite of a bonobo monkey.

Suddenly, Hob sits up, eyes sparkling. “They are indeed, very loud, which means - we have to be louder.”

Dream rises an eyebrow, intrigued, and sits up as well. He watches Hob get on his own bed on all fours, pushing against the bed frame, trying to make it rock against the table behind it.

It doesn’t move much.

“Fuck,” Hob says, then takes the two steps to get to Dream’s bed. Dream makes room for him, leaning against the wall to give Hob enough space to lean against the bed frame and test its noise making abilities.

The bed creaks rhythmically as it rocks against the table behind it. “Yours is better,” Hob announces. He stops to give Dream a questioning look. Dream smirks and nods at him. “Go ahead.”

[cuubism]

Hob will always be grateful that he and Dream got together before Dream's retirement, for so many reasons. One of them is this: that he knows what Dream of the Endless looks like when he laughs, when he's flustered, when he's flushed with pleasure, or warm from a hot shower. Because he knows these things he can fully appreciate the contrast in how Dream--just Dream, himself, not Of The Anything--looks in those moments.

Dream of the Endless had been a work of fine art that never cracked. Hob doesn't think he saw him blush once, ever. His skin was always pale and even, even when Hob made him smile, or cry out in pleasure, or warmed him by the fire. He was how he was.

This Dream, human Dream, his Dream, blushes so easily, and it's a delight. Even human, his complexion is very pale, so the slightest redness is stark on his skin. When Hob surprises him with a kiss he blushes high on his cheeks. When they're gasping for breath after sex--gasping for breath, another thing Dream of the Endless had never done--Dream's face will be flushed red and damp with sweat. He's embarrassed about it, which only makes the blush worse, but Hob finds it incredibly charming.

Or like now: when he's coming out of the shower. Hob has to stifle a laugh. The poor once-dream king's whole chest, neck, and face are splotchy and red from the heat. He does like his showers boiling hot, and he pays for it in this. It's rather un-sexy--Hob's sure Dream would prefer to swan out of the bathroom dripping in a more picturesque and alluring way. But Hob thinks it's all very cute.

Dream scowls at him as he laughs. "You are making fun. Cease that this instant."

"Sorry, Your Highness, it's just that you look like a calico cat that's gone through a forest fire."

Dream throws a towel at him before he's even had a chance to dry his hair with it. When Hob catches it, his scowl only deepens.

Hob steps into his space and starts drying his hair for him. "S'tough when you can't dictate every little bit of your appearance, isn't it?" He's not without sympathy. He knows that even now, for Dream, relinquishing the tiniest bit of control feels like losing a battle.

Dream pokes at one of the red patches on his skin, which is gradually fading. His fingertip leaves a white indent. "I do not know why the blood insists on continually traveling towards the surface. It has other business."

"Perhaps it's just greedy for warmth." He tousles Dream's hair, which earns him another pout. "Like the body it's trying to run, hm?"

"Body," Dream echoes, with distaste. He does not always like having one, Hob knows. Nor especially one that can show his emotions so clearly, and without his agreement.

"It looks good on you," Hob tells him, caressing his cheek. "Warmth. You know."

Warmth, and life. It's worth more than anything to see dream having these moments of life. An overly-hot shower. A blushing smile.

Hob kisses his cheek, and, predictably, he blushes.

"...Perhaps," Dream finally allows. The redness from the shower is fading, but the shade on his cheeks lingers. He's so unbearably lovely.

Hob kisses the corner of his mouth. Murmurs there, "Should we see just how much I can make you blush?"

"This fixation is discomfiting," Dream complains. But he follows agreeably when Hob takes his hands and draws him into the bedroom. He always follows in the end, even if he complains the whole while. Hob thinks that, deep down, Dream wants this life, even if it's sometimes all splotchy. It's just hard to feel like he can have it. It's new and still rubbed raw, and these little changes are as confronting as they are, secretly, comforting.

But Hob loves him in this life, and loves showing him how much he loves him. Especially when he can get that blush to rise all along Dream's chest and throat and cheeks and the tips of his ears. Because another thing that's wonderful about Dream's human body?

It takes kisses so beautifully.

[akakumoeteru]

Was it just a dream...?

[triglycercule]

mtt therapy moment except dust keeps taking breaks to talk to phantom papyrus and horror just wants this to hurry up so it can get to his turn because he couldn't give two shits about dust and killer's trauma and killer physically cannot discuss his issues and just starts zoning out while crying for some reason during it

and i'm the therapist listening to all of this writing down notes fervently because ITS CANON MATERIAL CANON I NEED TO GET THE CANON MATERIAL

[sandman-connect4]

In Need of a November Challenge?

We're starting up a new creative challenge for The Sandman fandom! Writing? Art? Edits? You make it, it counts!

This challenge can be played solo or in pairs! The official prompt list will be revealed a week before November 1st.

Successfully get four in a row, and you win!

See Rules here

See How To Play guide here.

See the Prompts here.

(Sign-Up here today!)

[that-dreaming-dragon]

Media Representation and (a rant on) Draconity

I think it's natural to want to find something within the media that represent and reflects yourself. As a dragon, the option might seem like quite a few within various sources of media, but the realities are that I and my various alterhuman identities are not the typical or commonly seen dragons.

As myself, I'm orange, furred, white feathered wings, yellow horns, and the vibrant red belly. Those are not things you find common in animals, even amongst birds, that's some colors that don't exactly flow together. People drawn inspiration from around their world to create, people are also creature of comfort and habit--with the idea of dragon being "fire breathing, bat winged, scaly lizard" or "scale with mane, elemental control and sometimes deity, serpentine wyrm", and then variations based off of that, perhaps scaled beast with feathery wings, or great furred wyrm with webbed wings and fire breathing. Seriously what is with the fire breathing? Have I mention that I'm a shapeshifting sort of dragon? While that is often tied to the eastern sort of draconic beings, my exact combination of dragons are far and few in between. Even the dutch angel dragon within the furry community has certain limitation and character traits that don't align with me. If I hadn't got turned off by the idea of looking anywhere or being misidentify as a horse, I might have find myself drawn to the dutch angel dragon as a sort of maybe paratype, or just friendly dragons that I share similar traits with. But alas.

Every single piece of media or fictional source that has a representation I can find brings me joy. Games centered on collecting dragons like Flight Rising or Dragon Cave does a great job of acknowledging that diversity. I get especially grumpy when dragon maker only has webbed wings and scaly body. At one point I really did not want to put the 3D dragon maker by Dragonita on my Alterhuman Shifts and Self Discovery Tools guide (ohh, guess I finally got a name). You can call me petty however you want, but I was not very happy of something that denies my existence. I'm a strong advocate for draconic diversity, because I am not alone in being "unusual" sort of dragons. Nobody should feel like this, unseen. Dealing with the constant "he or she" as someone nonbinary is more than enough, thank you very much. I feel like as alterhuman, hell, even just within the confine of draconic community or even smaller the dragonkind community, there should be a sort of basic understanding that "dragon" is a abstract term. Like "what is human", "what is dragon" should be a default and nobody gets to decide who is or isn't dragon. To touch back onto what I wrote on Day 1 of this challenge, alterhumanity is a experience, it is a feeling, it is vague and abstract, it is something you know within your essence, or one day you will awaken to it. A dragon is all of that. I did end up finally putting the 3d builder on my guide. I will still prefer Lukas Sotrmskull's Dragon builder though.

Before I let my thought get away from me, lets talk about my other alterhuman identities.

The other side of the spectrum, when you have a almost exact match in sources that are well known, you end up keep getting mistaken as it. My kardiatype looks very alike to Haku from Spirited Away. It gets frustrating when I bring up my kardiatype, and people immediately go "oh, Haku!" It's the same problem with people seeing my self protrait and call that a horse or a goat. Seriously, is like people don't recognize a basic dragon head shape if it isn't scaled and spiked. Horses are neat, goat is fine, and Haku is a very cool dragon. But my kardiatype was not Haku. I'd argue that he was just your generic Japanese storm dragon that may or may not be local deity. Wild thought huh. I like that I get to see glimpse of that dragon through Haku, but I would really rather not deal with yet another case of misidentification in the form of "close enough". My human english name got enough of that treatment.

Amongst my other draconic identities, I have a vague-flicker of Flammie from the mana series. The vaguetype feeling has components of paratype within, precisely due to myself being the sort of dragon I am. Belly plate aside, Flammie looks very close to me. And with my discovery of how suggestive my wing count may be (currently in shifts of at least 4), Flammie is definitely a big contender for media representation of myself.

When it comes to intensionally created identity, me and Akumu, my headmate/mirror self, collectively linked a vaguetype of Aurelion Sol. Now, Aurelion Sol has nothing alike to me, maybe the color is more align with Akumu's, but generally, the eastern noodle form is my least favorite to partake in. It feels like a responsibility, and things are just heavier in a way when I'm in that form. It doesn't have to make much sense. Perhaps I will delve into this one day. One can argue we formed the link due to our kardiatype. But really, it happened because that's the one dragon we were really drawn to (and attempted to main) while playing League, and well, there were two others who were shyvana and smolder respectively, and we wanted to complete the draconic of LoL set for shits and giggles. There not much need to find a representation, because we are the exact representation from the source. But wait, we identify with the concept stage where people dub "unbound form" of Sol. Whelp, guess we gotta look elsewhere again.

It feels like I'm trying to start a topic and well, rant on draconity got me all over the place.

Sometimes it really is a exercise in patience. The more unique you are, the harder it is to find representation. Wouldn't change myself for the world though, I love my uniqueness, and I appreciate how crazily varied dragons can be. Or any other sort of creatures or identities or experiences. Life is wonderful like that.

[teejaystumbles]

Last line game

Tagged by @tj-dragonblade and @chaosheadspace ! Thank you!

I can share the last bit I wrote for the new witch!Hob instalment I'm working on 😊 it's mature so I'll put it under the cut 😉

(I wanted this to be short...who was I kidding... I'm still not done with the smut I didn't even plan to write 🫠)

“Hob. I am. Not done. Tasting you.”

Dream’s words come stilted, awkward, like his mind is still clouded and he needs to focus to articulate himself. Hob marvels at the unfolding of events and lifts up the hand that helped Dream jerk off to have a taste himself.

“You mean like this?”

When he lifts his cum-streaked fingers to his mouth Dream’s eyes suddenly grow entirely black again, his mouth dropping open in astonishment. Hob, trying to find his footing again, smirks and wiggles his eyebrows cheekily before sucking Dream’s cum from his fingers.

It tastes like nothing, which is better than regular cum, he supposes. Hob is no fan of cum-eating, to be honest. The consistency is not something he really enjoys, but seeing the effect it has on a lover is usually rewarding, and to be able to take a part of Dream into himself - he might finally understand where Dream is coming from with the whole devouring kink he has because the thought makes Hob’s neglected cock twitch in his pants.

Tagging @moorishflower @valiantstarlights and @delta-pavonis , no pressure of course 💜

[ervotica]

tw; puke, deepthroating, rimming

patrick forcing your head down on his cock so hard you puke round him – eyes streaming, lashes sticky, nose dripping, digging your nails into the meaty flesh of his thighs, nose buried in the matted hair at his pelvis. he moans, rutting up into your mouth until you retch and gag and heave and your throat ejects round him, cock forcing its way past your gag reflex repeatedly. of course, he doesn't let up until he's spilling hot and sticky down your spasming throat, fingers buried in your hair as he shakes your skull up and down, up and down his thick length. sitting in a puddle of shared bodily fluids, dragging you down by the hair to clean him up, tonguing at his ass until he's clean of cum and spit and puke <333

[cuubism]

PLEAAE write dreamling pregnancy crackfic you MUST and PLEASE include Sad Crying I Forgor cat dream

Behold, lovely anons, some nonsense.

---

“Um, Dream,” says Hob, staring at the tiny plastic stick sitting on his bathroom countertop, “what is that.”

Dream comes to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder. “It is a pregnancy test.”

“Yeah, why?” Hob picks it up, squinting down at it. “And why is it negative?”

He realizes a second later that the first question out of his mouth should, in fact, have been why the fuck do you have a pregnancy test? Unless it’s not Dream’s and someone just broke into his flat and left it there, which might actually be less weird.

“Presumably because I am not human,” says Dream.

Hob puts the test down. Turns around, takes Dream by the shoulders, and steers him out of the bathroom. Once they’re back in the living room, he means to say a number of things, but all that comes out of his mouth is, “What.”

“The test does not work because I am not human,” Dream repeats. He’s definitely being deliberately obtuse now, if he wasn’t before.

A million questions swirl in Hob’s mind, and a rising swell of panic. He mentally shakes himself. Forces himself to get it together. He’s not a seventeen-year-old kid who got a girl pregnant. He can handle his shit.

He holds Dream still by the arms. Tilts his head until Dream meets his eyes. “Dream, do you have something that you want to tell me? In words, maybe?”

Unless he doesn’t know. But he’s like, a concept, how could he not know?

Wait, is this why Hob was having random dreams about babies last week? He is going to kill this man.

Well, he’s going to give him a hug first. Then he’s going to kill him.

Dream looks into his eyes. Oh God, he’s serious now. So this wasn’t all just for kicks, not that Dream really does things for kicks, anyway. “Hob, I am—”

Hob hauls him into an embrace before he can finish the sentence. Perhaps he should let Dream say it. But he can’t not hug him.

Dream relaxes into his hold. Hob hadn’t realized how tense he was until he did. Oh, poor thing. Just because they’re not young people floundering about on the precipice of adulthood doesn’t mean it’s not stressful. Especially that in between moment, when he knows, and Hob doesn’t.

“I have known for a few weeks now,” Dream says, face pressed to Hob’s shoulder. “Are you upset?”

“No, of course not.” Upset? He’s having their child and Hob’s upset? He supposes they didn’t exactly plan it, but, when has he ever planned anything when it comes to Dream?

He pulls back at last, kisses Dream’s temple, and steers him over to sit down on the couch. He sits beside him, their knees touching. Takes Dream’s hand and squeezes it. “If you already knew, then why did you bother to use the test?”

“I was curious if it would work,” says Dream.

Somehow, Hob doesn’t think that’s the whole truth. “Please tell me you weren’t just going to leave it somewhere and let me guess?”

“I would have crafted some more dreams as well,” Dream says. Blasted idiot. Why is Hob in love with him? Oh yeah, because he’s even more of an idiot.

“Wasn’t picking up on it,” Hob says. “I didn’t think this was possible, to be honest. We’ve just been recklessly having unprotected sex for how long? And you never thought to mention this was a possibility?”

“I forgot,” Dream says morosely, the most pitiable frown on his face. “It is not as straightforward as it is for humans. But yes, it is possible. Evidently. I suppose I have been caught up in the… joy of our moments together. I have not had a lover in a long time.”

“Oh, love.” Hob holds him close, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “It’s alright. It’s my fault, really. I should have asked. Wrap it before you tap it, Hob.”

Dream wrinkles his nose at the phrasing. Hob kisses him on the tip of his nose.

“Maybe I was thinking about it a little bit,” Hob admits. The thought has definitely… crossed his mind, before. And it’s easy to get drawn in, when Dream is in his bed, when he looks so gorgeous, when Hob makes love to him and fills him and—

Oh, this is his fault. This is absolutely his fault. He’d thought it was a safe fantasy to indulge in, impossible in reality. Meanwhile he was fucking one of the few beings made of both fantasy and reality at once. Hob’s really the king idiot.

“A little bit?” echoes Dream, raising an eyebrow.

Hob cringes. “A lot a bit?”

Unexpectedly, Dream smiles. “You are happy, then.”

Hob goes still, staring at him. “Did I not say?”

“You expressed that you were not upset,” says Dream. “Which is not the same thing as being happy.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry.” Hob holds him closer, kisses his cheek, his brow, the corner of his lips. “I love you so much. I’m so happy.”

“Truly?”

Hob kisses him on the lips this time, long and deep. Takes Dream’s face in his hands and caresses his cheeks. “Truly. Obviously.”

Dream hums, sounding pleased.

“Are you happy?” Hob asks. Though he suspects Dream would have been rather obvious in his displeasure if he wasn’t, he usually is.

“I believe so,” says Dream carefully. “I… would like to be. Only, I have failed before, when I had a child.” Hob pulls far enough away to look at him. Dream’s expression has twisted now. “I do not wish to repeat that.”

“You won’t.” Dream looks unconvinced, so Hob repeats it. “You won’t. You’ve learned from that. So have I.” Hob certainly made many of his own mistakes with Robyn. But he still wants to try again.

“There are many terrible endings to this story,” Dream says. Of course, Hob’s just looking at the beginning of the thing, and Dream’s looking at the whole arc, especially the end.

“And good ones,” Hob says. “I promise. I’ll do everything I can to make it good.”

“I do believe that,” says Dream, finally offering him a small smile. “You have been able to make many things good for me when I thought it impossible.”

That might just be the greatest success of Hob’s life. To make Dream see that things can be good.

“It will be good,” he vows. “You’ll see, darling.” And Dream smiles again.

Hob lays his hand over Dream’s lower belly. He doesn’t know if this pregnancy even has a physical component at all—Dream himself barely has a physical component sometimes—but it’s instinct to hold him there.

Hob can already feel himself wanting to coddle him. He’s going to have to stop himself from doing that, he highly doubts Dream will appreciate it. He has to remind himself that what happened with Eleanor won’t happen again this time, that modern medicine is so much better, and that Dream isn’t even human in the first place. For all he knows, the baby will just be born out of the clouds.

“Hob,” says Dream. “You are drifting.”

Hob shakes himself. “Sorry, love.”

“What were you thinking of?” Dream presses, brow pinching. “I felt the nature of the daydreams turn… darker.”

Hob grimaces. “It’s really nothing. Just me in my head, you know.”

Dream keeps looking at him expectantly.

Hob sighs. “It’s just, it didn’t go so well last time, with Eleanor, you know? And I know this is different, you’re different, so just be patient with me if start being a mother hen, yeah?”

“Hob…” Dream takes his hand, interlacing their fingers. “I’m sorry, I had not considered. Do you not want…?”

“No! I do want this. I just worry, is all.” He kisses Dream’s cheek. “It’s because I love you. Couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to you.”

“I must do what I can to make it good, then,” Dream says, and Hob smiles at the turnabout of his words. “You need not worry. There is no danger to me. And the baby is not human, besides.”

"It's not?" Hob supposes it's not that much of a surprise. "What is it, then?"

“I am not quite sure. I expect it will become evident soon.” He rests his hand over Hob’s, which is still on his stomach, and he looks fond now. “Perhaps once I can see its dreams.”

“You can see its dreams?”

Dream casts him an amused look. “I am made up of those dreams. And all others. Why should our baby be different?”

Our baby. It’s so affecting to hear him say it like that.

“Our baby,” Hob repeats, just for the sound of it.

“Yes,” says Dream. He sounds properly happy now, which is so lovely to hear. “Ours.”

“Well, now I’m glad we forgot to talk about magical birth control,” Hob says. “Irresponsible sex for the win! Now I get to meet our magical baby.”

“I have never known you to be a man particularly driven by responsible decision-making,” Dream says solemnly.

Hob gapes at him. “Hey!” It’s true, though. It’s all true. “I’ll be the most responsible parent you ever saw. I’ll only let them have the iPad for twenty-three hours a day instead of twenty-four.”

“I can create fantastic spectacles to which the likes of ‘Cocomelon’ cannot hope to compare,” Dream says indignantly, as if this was really an open question in Hob’s mind.

“You can be in charge of screen time, then,” Hob tells him, and Dream’s scowl shifts into a smile.

“When do I need to be ready for this?” Hob asks. “Is it like a nine months thing, or…?”

“Unclear,” says Dream. Fantastic. Typical. For all Hob knows, Dream will show up with a whole baby in his arms tomorrow. Either that or it’ll be a hundred years from now. “I suspect there will be an element of surprise.”

Of course. Dream’s sense of time passing is pretty bad at the best of times, why would the baby be any different?

“I’ll have to get to the shops, then, seeing as I don’t currently own an iPad,” Hob says.

Dream hands him one that definitely was not in existence a moment ago.

“Did you get that—”

“From a dream, yes.”

Hob stares at it in wonder for a moment, wondering if it even has normal apps, or strange ones only dreamt of, then sets it on the coffee table. “Well, Christmas shopping with you will be a cinch.”

Dream is quiet for a moment. “I would not wish to burden you with these things,” he finally says. “To upend your life when you are already well-occupied.”

“Nope, none of that.” Hob takes Dream’s hands and pulls them close. “First of all, I’m very old and can afford to buy a lot of iPads, so don’t worry about it. But more than that, I love you.” He taps Dream’s belly, though he still doesn’t know exactly how or where this not-human baby is meant to grow. “And you. So don’t think like that. I know I can’t expect a nine-to-five, normal daily schedule from you. I’ve never expected that from you.” As of now, Dream just visits whenever he can, often at odd hours. Hob doesn’t expect he’ll be able to change that much, even now. He is still Dream above all else.

Dream doesn’t deny it, either. He looks down at their joined hands. “Would that it were otherwise.”

Hob rubs his thumb back and forth over his knuckles. “It’s okay. I needed some new excitement in my life anyway. Besides—” he gestures to the dream-iPad—DreamPad? Dream will hate that name, so Hob will definitely have to use it—“even if we can’t always have you, we’ll have your stories, hm?”

Dream smiles, then, a fragile smile. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Course it is.” Hob kisses his cheek. “We’ll figure it out, love. Don’t worry.”

“That is one skill you certainly do possess,” says Dream—in contrast, Hob supposes, to his lack of rational decision-making. “‘Figuring it out.’”

“My PhD is in Winging It,” Hob agrees. “Speaking of, though, we are going to have to have an actual talk about how not to have another ‘surprise’.”

“Yes,” Dream agrees ruefully. He seems quite embarrassed about it, actually, and Hob can’t help but hug him again, squeezing him tight, kissing his cheek and temple. Despite the shock and confusion, Hob really is happy, powerfully so. A baby, his and Dream’s baby. He can’t even imagine the possibility of it.

Dream squirms under the attention, but hums, seeming pleased deep down.

“A little baby Dream,” Hob sighs. “They will be a terror.”

Dream raises an eyebrow. “And you think your influence has no effect on that?”

“I was a delightful child,” Hob protests.

“Do not tempt me to draw proof to the contrary from your dream records,” Dream warns.

“You’ll be a terror,” Hob says. “‘No, Da, I definitely didn’t cheat on that exam,’ ‘Mm, that’s not what your dream at 2:34 am indicates.’”

“Precisely,” says Dream. He sounds quite proud of himself, really. Little nightmare.

Hob kisses him again, on the lips this time. Yes, they will definitely be absolute terrors, the both of them.

But it would be boring otherwise.

[magnusbae]

Made in collab with @cuubism, tysm for your brain <3

Challenge: Write this fic with your favorite ship

[thesentientmango]

Philza gets caught out in the middle of a blizzard. He doesn't want to have to deal with the consequences.

This was a treat written as a part of @extremetimedchallengeexchange during the first 48 hours for harris_parris! 

[lauronk]

happy birthday to my friend @stillboldlygoing. this once - and only this once - will i participate in your wish fulfillment of fixing my fic there's nothing surgery can do.

so i give you this tumblr exclusive ficlet, just a dream

word count: ~3.4k tags: ellie pov, joel & ellie, nightmares, 'it was all a dream' trope, blood, minor injury, no beta we die like david

“But no matter what, no matter all the time you have spent hating me, I love you, Ellie. Okay? No matter what, I would always have loved you. And I have never, not for a goddamn second, regretted my choice.”

Ellie’s eyes flutter open, Joel’s words still ringing in her ears. Her eyes are crusted with the remnants of her tears, cheeks still damp, and as she sucks in a shallow breath, Ellie realizes she is still crying.

She might never stop, at this point. She doesn’t see how she can, not with Joel gone, not with what feels like her entire life upended. What the fuck is she supposed to do, with his words and the echo of that gunshot reverberating non-stop in her head? That image of him walking off into the trees is forever seared into her mind.

Another ragged sob slips out of her lips, and Ellie pushes herself upright on her bed, chest heaving –

She freezes, hands gripping the edge of her mattress. Her bed. She didn’t – she fell asleep on the floor after getting back, she fell asleep there and she stayed there. She stayed there, on the cold ground, still in her jeans and flannel and boots, and yet…

And yet she’s in her bed, in her pajamas, boots shucked off messily by the door like she always does. The door’s still locked, and Ellie whips her head around to check her window, to look at the curtains she knows she closed, and yet they’re wide fucking open. Joel’s house is framed behind them, trees swaying ever so slightly and Ellie –

Ellie bolts.

Doesn’t bother with her shoes, just twists the lock and yanks the door open, doesn’t shut it behind her. Runs full tilt across the yard without slowing, even when she steps on a rock or a twig or something that has her swearing and her right foot radiating pain, but she doesn’t stop until she’s up the steps to his porch and outside his door. It’s fucking locked - who locks their goddamn doors in a place as safe as Jackson? - and Ellie jiggles the knob fruitlessly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She gives up trying to turn the handle in favor of banging on the door with her palm, not stopping even when it starts to sting, when the pain is ricocheting up her arm, not caring that she probably can be heard from around the front of the house, that the sun is barely up, that her foot is hurting something awful, just keeps slamming her hand into the door until she hears a noise from behind it and the handle turns and the door swings open and –

Joel is standing there in front of her. Joel, whose expression morphs rapidly from annoyance to surprise to trepidation to worry. Joel, with his graying hair and increasingly wrinkled face, faded shirt and bare feet, and Ellie can’t help the noise that slips from her and has his eyes going wide.

“Ellie, what –?”

But her hands are scrabbling for his arm, his right arm, rotating it until she can see his forearm, the skin unmarked and unblemished and un-fucking-bitten.

Her oh my god comes out wet and garbled, and she slumps forward until her forehead meets his chest. Joel staggers - steadies - and wraps an arm around her shoulder as she twines her fingers into the sides of his shirt and sobs her relief out against him.

“You’re alright,” she hears faintly above her, his hand rubbing a slow path up and down her spine. “‘S alright.”

They stand there together until Ellie’s sobs subside and she leans back, peering up at him as if she can’t quite believe he’s here. And she can’t, not really - the dream was so vivid, so life-like, she can still smell the dirt, can still hear the echo of the gunshot, can still feel the tightness of Tommy’s arms around her, pulling her away from him permanently.

Joel’s staring back at her almost the same way, uncertainty and confusion and hope all warring visibly across his face. He cups her cheeks, thumbs brushing away stray tears as they still fall, and his brows tug together.

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” He asks softly.

“I –” Ellie’s throat closes, head turning enough to catch sight of his bite-free arm again. “I had a nightmare last night, I guess. But it was one of those nightmares that feels so real, everything about it was so clear, I can still remember every little detail of it, I –” She shifts her weight, a hiss escaping when her right foot flares with pain. “Jesus fuck,” she breathes, looking down.

“What –” Joel follows her gaze down, his hands tensing on her face. “You’re bleedin’.”

Sure enough, there’s a small pool of blood on his back deck, her foot throbbing and tacky with it when she lifts it to examine the damage. It’s a deep gash, right through the middle of her foot, and a glance backwards shows a few bloody footprints across the deck.

“Yeah,” Ellie replies quietly, looking back at him, “I think I stepped on something in the yard when I was coming over here.”

Joel shifts to the side of her, hooking an arm under her shoulders. “C’mon, inside.” He nudges her forward, supporting her weight as she hops awkwardly on one foot.

“No, I can take care of it,” Ellie protests weakly, even as she lets herself be led over to the couch. “I don’t wanna get blood on your floor or anything.” Joel props her foot up on the coffee table before disappearing into the kitchen and reemerging with his first aid kit, a dented white case that had been in the house when he’d moved in.

“Yeah, well, you showed up here freaked the hell out and bleedin’, so humor me for a minute and let me fix you up, alright?”

Ellie sinks a little deeper into the couch, watching as he cracks it open and pulls out a wipe and some gauze. She doesn’t know how there’s even anything left in it at this point, after years of bandaging up her cuts and scrapes, not to mention his own. “Alright.”

She leaves him to work in silence for a moment, eyes skating over the room around them curiously. Not really anything has changed since the last time she was here other than a couple more wood carvings, maybe some new books. The clock on the mantel ticks loudly in the silence, right next to the drawing of him she’d made. She can still see his face, gone all soft and pleased in the way she only ever saw from him rarely, staring down at the drawing with his hand over his mouth. Eyes glassy as he’d immediately gone to get a frame for it.

The drawing he’d done of her in turn had been taken out of its frame and shoved in the middle of one of her books. She hadn’t been able to make herself get rid of it anymore than she could stand to look at it.

“So…” Joel draws the word out, glancing up at her briefly before returning his attention to her foot. It stings as he carefully wipes it clean, a towel resting under her heel and slowly darkening with blood. “You gonna tell me about this nightmare of yours?”

Ellie starts to pull her leg back immediately, but Joel’s too quick - his hand clamps around her ankle to keep it in place like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” she says sullenly, crossing her arms over her chest and feeling for a moment like the fourteen-year-old she had been when they met.

Joel hesitates, hand squeezing her ankle and then releasing it in favor of pressing a bandage to the sole of her foot. He keeps pressure there for a long moment, shifting her foot to rest on top of his thigh to hold it better. “You don’t gotta tell me about it if you really don’t want to,” he says eventually, eyes still on her foot. “I just know it had to have been pretty bad if it had you runnin’ to me all panicked like that.” His voice fades into something a little more forlorn, like he recognizes how out of the ordinary it is now for a tear-stained Ellie to be showing up on his doorstep. For Ellie to be on his doorstep at all, after a year and a half of careful avoidance.

Ellie tilts her head back to rest on the back of the couch, eyes on the discolored ceiling. It’s easier than looking at Joel and seeing all the layers of him as she’d known him overlapping. The utter asshole of a man she’d first met that had flung her into a wall and pointed a gun in her face; the softer version he’d become after their argument in this very house, teaching her about football and how to shoot; his face as he’d admitted to lying to her, to ruining any hope of a cure; the face from her dream as he’d prepared to go off into the woods and die; and the man now carefully bandaging her foot with his head hung. There were too many versions of him that pulled too many of her heartstrings and had her feeling entirely too many different ways.

But her eyes slip shut and the vision of him walking towards the trees with a trembling arm and two patrolmen swims behind her eyelids, and the words fall out.

“You died.”

Joel’s hand stills on her foot, the gauze half-wrapped around. He doesn’t say anything, and it’s like all the air has been sucked from the room.

“You died,” Ellie repeats quietly, swiping a stray tear from her cheek. “You got bitten out on a patrol, and me and Tommy had to go say goodbye to you, and then I watched you walk off to go kill yourself.”

His hands resume their ministrations, but even without looking at him Ellie can feel them trembling. Fuck, she’s already said this much, so she might as well keep going.

“Tommy came to get me,” she whispers, eyes still shut, “and told me you got bit. And so I went out with him to see you before you – before.” Her throat goes tight, and Ellie forces herself to sit up and look at him again. Even feeling him securing the ends of the bandage isn’t enough - she needs a visual reminder that he’s still here, that it was all just her brain’s idea of a horrendous joke.

Joel finishes bandaging her foot but makes no move to stand or to return her leg to the coffee table. One of his hands stays wrapped loosely around her ankle, his gaze on the ground between his bare feet. He’s still in his pajamas, Ellie realizes for the first time. She must have been banging on the door hard enough to wake him - there’s not even the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen.

“Was there more to it?” Joel asks when she doesn’t continue, and Ellie swallows.

“Yeah, it –” she blows out a breath, fingers knotting together in her lap. “We got there and you’d…you’d gotten bit on your arm. Same place as me.” Joel’s right arm twitches slightly, his eyes finally lifting to meet hers. “And…we –” Ellie clears her throat. “We said goodbye.”

“What did we say?” Joel asks quietly, a note of fear in his voice like he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

“Well,” Ellie takes a deep breath, resituates herself a little but doesn’t pull her foot from Joel’s thigh, “I got really pissed at you. Told you it was all your fault because of…because you –”

“Because of what I did at the hospital,” he fills in for her. There’s no recrimination in his voice, no guilt or anger, just understanding. He’s holding her gaze steadily, encouraging her to keep going, something sad lurking in the depths of his eyes that Ellie doesn’t want to try to name.

So she keeps going, spills out all of it - all the things they’d said, the puns, the way she still hadn’t been able to let go of her anger but the way his death had all but destroyed her from the inside out. By the time she stops talking, her throat is dry and her cheeks are damp again. So are Joel’s, his hand still cradling her ankle.

Silence envelops them, the air in the room leaden and heavy with a grief that still feels too real, too raw and present. Ellie still can’t believe how clear the whole dream was - how clear it still was in her mind even now - and she still half expects to blink and be alone in his house. Blink, and he’ll be gone, out in an unmarked grave beyond Jackson’s walls, and she’ll be here with only grief and resentment and fading memories of his laugh to keep her company.

But Joel remains solid in front of her, tangible, his calloused hand still keeping her tethered.

“D’you want some tea?” He finally asks, looking up at her a little uncertainly. “I’ve got some things I’d like to say about your nightmare, but I think maybe we might need some kinda fortification for that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Joel steadies her as she stands, hands hovering nearby as she limps to the dining room and settles into the chair by the window. It doesn’t hurt quite as bad to walk with the cushion of the bandaging, but she knows she’s gonna have to let Tommy know and probably get herself taken off patrol for a couple weeks.

Ellie sits there, watching as Joel busies himself at the stovetop, pulling down an extra mug to go with his owl mug, digging out a tin of tea that she’s pretty sure she left here after she moved out, pacing back and forth until the kettle whistles and he can pour both of their drinks.

Joel brings both mugs over to the table and sets them down, turning back to dig a small jar of honey out of one of the cabinets and carry it back along with a spoon.

Clearly, he still remembers how she likes her tea.

The smell of his coffee permeates her nostrils as she stirs in the spoonful of honey, and for once she doesn’t recoil from it. She’ll never admit it to him, but the smell had grown on her over the years. Not the taste - never the taste - but the scent of coffee was something Ellie came to associate with Joel, and with safety. Coffee and sawdust and whatever oil it was he used on his wood carvings. She’d forced herself to stop seeking out the smell of it when she’d cut Joel out.

This morning though, Ellie just lets herself take a deep breath and inhale it as Joel settles himself across from her.

“‘M sorry you had that nightmare,” he begins slowly, staring into the depth of his coffee mug like it’ll have all the answers. “And I’m glad that you came here and I could help you out.”

“Like old times,” Ellie can’t help but say, thinking back on bandaged blisters and cut hands, and Joel gives her a brief, wry smile.

“And I don’t expect anything to change, even with how scared and upset you were.” Joel takes a sip of his coffee, setting the owl mug back down with a thunk. “‘Specially once I tell you that I agree with everything the me in your nightmare said.” His voice wavers a bit, but his gaze is steady as it joins with hers. “I don’t regret what I did. I’ll never regret it.”

Ellie’s jaw clenches, but she doesn’t interrupt. This was what her mind had been trying to tell her with that dream, right? Hearing Joel out, letting him say his piece and deciding where to go from there, before it was too late to do anything.

When she stays quiet, Joel’s shoulders lose a little bit of their tension, dropping from around his ears. “I know that’s probably not what you wanna hear. But after I lied to you about what happened at the hospital - what I did,” he clarifies when Ellie’s fingers twitch on her mug, “I told myself that if I ever got the chance to talk to you again I’d be completely upfront about it. So I’ll tell you, I’d do it again. Anything to save your life, kiddo.”

Ellie sits, sips her tea, lets the silence envelop them once more. What he’s saying is nothing new to her - she’s always known he didn’t regret it, wouldn’t change his mind, would kill anyone he deemed a threat to her without a second thought. And it still pisses her the hell off, the way that he’d taken a crucial choice from her, ruined the one thing she was supposed to be good for. It still makes her want to toss her tea in his face and storm out.

But even as she thinks it, she hears the Joel from her dream murmuring I gotta go, baby and sees him vanishing into the woods. Feels the gaping wound left by his death, filled only with her anger and resentment, and Ellie knows - she doesn’t want that. This world they live in now…anything could happen. He could get bit; she could get shot. At his age, he could have a heart attack or a stroke or just fucking die.

And Ellie doesn’t think she’d be able to live with herself if he died thinking she hated him.

“I’m still mad,” she says slowly, and Joel nods, not really looking at her. “I might always be mad. I don’t know how to forgive what you did.”

“Yeah,” Joel says sadly. He rotates his mug between his hands, thumb running over the lip of it almost absently. “Yeah, I know.” He says it like he is already expecting a return to the way things had been, to distant and polite greetings, to separate lives.

“I think I’d like to try though,” Ellie manages, her voice barely a whisper. “Like I think…” The table in front of her blurs slightly and she blinks away the fresh round of tears to look up at Joel. He’s watching her with guarded hope on his face, his own eyes glassy. “I think that if something happened to you, like in my dream, and things were the way they were, I think I’d regret it the rest of my life.”

Joel swallows, hands white-knuckling his owl mug. “I’d like that,” he tells her hoarsely. “I’d really���I’d really like that.”

“Okay,” Ellie says, letting out a breath and feeling like a hundred pound weight has lifted from her chest. “Okay, good, that’s…good.”

They finish their drinks in a quiet that feels less tense and weighted than anything else that’s been between them…all the way back to that ridge overlooking Jackson, if Ellie really thinks about it. Him lying to her there had been the biggest crack in their relationship, made wider and wider by every time he doubled down on it.

But now it felt like maybe it could be fixed, like things between them could start to shift back to how they had been on the road.

Ellie washes their mugs in the sink despite Joel protesting that she oughta stay off her foot. He hovers - nice to know nothing has changed - one hand perpetually outstretched like she’s about to suddenly topple over. He escorts her to the door too, asking only once if she’s sure she’s alright to walk across the yard to her place. He doesn’t ask her to stay - they both know that would be too much, too soon - but he watches from the porch as she hobbles carefully down to her home. She gives the offending rock a wide berth, eyeing the sharp point of it - smeared with her blood - with distaste.

Joel’s still on the porch when Ellie gets to her door and glances back. He gives her a wave and starts to step away like he’s gonna head inside.

“Hey,” Ellie calls impulsively, and Joel pauses. “Wanna watch a movie tonight?”

Even from across the yard, she can see the way his face lights up.

“Yeah,” he’s grinning from ear to ear, “yeah, kiddo, I’d love to.”

love you rocky, hopefully you're having a delightful birthday 💗

[sandman-connect4]

Rules

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[tiny-merkitty]

25 days of moodboards: favorite children's book ☁

ok so !! i havent really read any kids books in years, and i don't have any that i had when i was a kid anymore either, but one i remember really liking when i was younger was the Disney bedtime favorites — i remember asking my grandma to buy it at a store when i was like 5 and then having her read it to me every night :3 obviously it's like, multiple books in one big book, so i decided to just go with a general disney-bedtime theme inspired by the cover <3

[shadowdoodles]

Whumptober belongs to @whumptober

Day 26 prompts: Shivering ; Childhood trauma ; Laboratory