#fic on tumblr

[cobalt-sugar-punch]

I had to go looking for this in my history because I remembered I read one where the Creature was worried that his new fully functional cock would release nasty gross like his tears, but it's literally some peach ring cream, like he's supposed to have eaten some when she had the candy out, right before they killed Janet. I love it even schtick aside it's really good fiction and y'all should read it.

[221btardisimpalawithloki]

eat your dirty laundry - the hot mic au

Dean pulled into the KAZS station parking lot in the dark of early morning, headlights cutting through the inky blue. His four hours of sleep were doing him no favors, and as he walked in he knew the station's space-age coffee maker would be the only ting keeping him alive this morning.

If nothing else, waiting for the pressure boiler to heat up and espresso beans to grind gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. Only two more monthis til his contract was up, and he could renegotiate to move to dayside and maybe even get paid enough to move out of his brother's guest room. Only two more months and he could get to a market in the top 150 and get paid the same peanuts but get broadcast beyond northern Kansas and central Nebraska.

Grabbing his horrible coffee concoction from the driptray, he made his way to the bullpen to grab a rundown and bother whoever was in there. He brightened up seeing it was Cas, his favorite meteorologist.

"Mornin', sunshine," he said, leaning a bit too far into his space.

Cas didn't react. "Good morning, Dean. What does this sounding look like to you?"

Dean choked a little on his coffee. "Sounding?"

Cas sighed and turned around, rolling his big blue eyes. "It's when they send a balloon up and it measures air temperature and humidity."

Dean looked at the graph thing on Cas' computer. "It looks like a graph thing. And one of the lines goes up, and one of the lines zig-zags a lot?"

"That's what I was afraid of," Cas said.

"Yeah?" Dean asked.

Cas pointed a long finger at one of the lines on the graph. "When the lines intersect, it means the atmosphere is unstable, and severe storms are more likely. The more unstable the atmosphere—"

"The more severe the storms," Dean interrupted.

Cas slumped a little. "Yeah."

"Has the National Weather Service said anything?" Dean asked.

"The Hastings office is monitoring it, but it's not even 6 a.m."

Dean looked at his watch. 5:47. Shit. "I gotta get on the desk. I trust your judgement though. Knock 'em dead."

With that, he gave Cas a rough pat on the shoulder and headed out to the studio. Billie, the floor manager, waved him over.

"You read the rundown yet?" She asked.

Dean glanced it over. In the A block, his rights were getting stripped away, in the B block a kid broke a fishing record with a Barbie fishing rod. At least in the C block he would get to improv banter with Cas before doing it all over again at 7 a.m.

"Remember to smile this time," Billie reminded him.

Dean grimaced with all his teeth. "You got it." He walked backwards to take his place next to Jo behind the desk, clipped his lav mic to his blazer and put in his earpiece.

But the thing was, he could deliver all the vile news every morning with a smile. It was his job. Be careful not to alienate the geriatric ghouls who actually watch the 6 o'clock news, because it was his practiced neutrality or fuckin' Fox News. And as they came out of the B block into commercial, he didn't feel any more disillusioned than usual. And his favorite part of the morning was coming up: Cas.

Dean could see him in the control room, sharing a heated discussion with Naomi the news director. However it ended, it meant Cas came into the studio in a mood. As he took his place in front of the chroma key, the reflected green light set his features into a sickly pallor.

Cas looked over at him. "Dean. As journalists, our job is to tell the truth, right? Even if it's inconvenient?"

Dean didn't like where this is going. "Yeah, man."

Cas nodded, having made up his mind. "You've been a good friend at this station. Thank you for your support."

"Of course, I trust you. Cas, what—"

Billie cut in. "We're back in five, four—"

"Thank you, Dean."

"Three, ✌🏾, ☝🏾"

"I love you."

[cobalt-sugar-punch]

here it is also if you're like me and like saving things on AO3 for easier sorting

I complained that Morpheus's season 2 cemetery fit wasn't tits-out, @magnusbae said "tits in outfits are so devastating because you know there's tits to be seen but they're in," I decided that's something Hob would say while drunk and that he should say it to Dream's face. And here we are.

--

“Listen,” Hob says, with the slurred, utter conviction of the very intoxicated, “listen. This’s. Important.”

“I am sure,” Dream agrees, sipping his wine. He himself is not drunk, but he’s gaining a surprising amount of amusement from watching Hob.

“You listening?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah,” Hob sighs, looking down into his glass. “You’re a good listener.”

Before Dream can respond to this, Hob shakes himself.

“But listen. S’such a tragedy you know?”

“What is?”

“Tits,” Hob says passionately, and Dream chokes on his wine.

“In,” he manages, once he’s swallowed and not asphyxiated, which felt dangerously possible despite his nonhuman form, “what way?”

“Always covered up,” Hob says mournfully, face crumbling. “Should be more societal—” he stumbles over the words, tongue heavy in his mouth, “socially acceptable to just. Be tits out. You know?”

Dream is not certain he himself has a strong opinion on the matter. He does not spend much time contemplating others’ breast tissue.

“Perhaps one day it will be,” he says, in an attempt to soothe Hob’s devastated expression.

“Can’t come soon enough,” Hob agrees, and raises his glass to Dream’s in a toast to the matter.

Dream obligingly clinks their glasses, and after Hob has drunk, swaps Hob’s glass of beer for a glass of water. Hob doesn’t seem to notice.

“Horrible to know that they’re there and you can’t even see them,” Hob continues.

“Torturous,” Dream agrees. “Unsurvivable.”

“Nah nah nah,” Hob counters, waving a hand. “Tits is a reason to survive.”

“I see,” Dream says, hiding a smile. He suspects Hob will be too hungover to even remember this in the morning. Probably it is for the best.

“Eleanor had great tits,” Hob sighs. “Among other things.”

For a moment Dream worries his cheerful drunkenness will tip over into melancholy, but then Hob adds, seemingly oblivious to how he’s blowing past his usual boundaries, “You know. I always thought—” he hiccups “—that you would have. Fuckin’. Bangin’ tits.”

Dream drops his wine glass.

It shatters against the table, but he pays it no mind as he stares at Hob, who’s looking off into the middle distance, lost in a memory.

“Dunno why,” he says. “You’re always so. Covered up. But I know there’s something there. You’re beautiful, you’re…” he trails off.

Dream does not know what to say to this, to the revelation that Hob is thinking of him in such a way. It strikes him more strongly than even hearing the word tits applied to his person, which is its own hard shock indeed.

Perhaps he is more drunk than he’d thought, for the first response that does come to his mind is would you like to see them?

This is undoubtedly a cue to end the evening.

“I think perhaps you should have some water and sleep now, Hob,” he says. “Your body will not thank you tomorrow.”

“Mmm,” Hob says, not really listening to him. “Yeah…”

Dream takes him by the arm and pulls him up from the table, manages to maneuver a stumbling Hob to the stairs at the back of the inn, to his bedroom, where he lays Hob down on the bed, pulling off his shoes. Hob reaches for him, and for a moment Dream is afraid Hob is going to grab at his chest, but he doesn’t, just lightly touches Dream’s cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, the words all blurred together, and something in Dream’s chest tightens.

“Sleep now, Hob.” He brushes a hand over Hob’s forehead, and Hob falls asleep instantly, relaxing into the pillow.

Dream lays a blanket over him, leaves water and aspirin on the nightstand. Stands, observing Hob, for longer than is proper or necessary. And then takes his leave to the Dreaming, where Hob’s words, drunken ramblings though they were, circle him for hours afterwards.

--

The fact of the matter is. Dream wants Hob. And has for some time. He does not know when exactly it struck him, only that he has increasingly become fixated on Hob’s hands, on the breadth of his shoulders, the warmth of his eyes. He has not known how to broach the topic. He has never had a lover who was a friend before.

Nor had he known whether Hob would be receptive to such a thing.

He supposes he has that answer now.

Hob has also handed him, though he probably did not realize it, an easy way to convey his interest. It will also, Dream thinks with a little smile, be somewhat… amusing to surprise Hob with the reality of his desire. Likely he never thought that would be the outcome of ranting to Dream about his breasts, such as they are.

I will visit him tits out, he resolves. Tomorrow, when he wakes.

--

Dream is no stranger to more revealing attire, though he has not cared to wear it since his captivity. This, he thinks, is worthy of making the change. He garbs himself in normal slacks and boots, his usual long coat open and unbuttoned— but under it is a sheer, long sleeved shirt, ruffled collar, cut out over the chest precisely as Hob had requested, drunk though he was. Truly, Dream thinks, observing the look in the mirror he has manifested in his chambers, the fashion of this decade is interesting indeed.

Thus clothed to the requirements, Dream commands his sand to take him to Hob’s flat, now that he can feel Hob has woken. He stands in Hob’s living room, and he waits.

Hob comes into the living room at the sound of his arrival, rubbing his eyes, still sleepy and hungover. He’s still in pajamas, and clearly has not been awake long. “Listen, Dream, I’m so fucking sorry, I should not have said— oh holy fuck.”

“I thought this would appeal,” Dream says, and watches Hob reel, eyes wide.

“Appeal. Appeal? Appeal to what, my fucking dick? Oh Jesus Mary and God-fucking-dammit, I’m making it worse—”

Dream is feeling very validated in his choice now. He smirks, taking a step closer. “You were very passionate last night. I thought perhaps. You would like to test your theory.”

Hob’s eyes are still huge. He swallows, throat bobbing, gaze bouncing between Dream’s eyes and his lips and his bare chest.

“My theory,” Hob says faintly. “Are you coming onto me? Please tell me you’re coming onto me and not just trying to break me. Because you broke me, I’m broken.”

“Until you spoke last night I… did not know that you thought of me like that,” Dream admits.

“Didn’t know? And here I thought I was the most obvious—” he bites the sentence off. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not dreaming, am I? I guess it could still be you…”

“You are not dreaming,” Dream confirms.

Hob steps closer to him, then, as if hypnotized. Strokes a thumb lightly over one of Dream’s bare nipples, and Dream shivers at the touch. Then Hob presses his hands flat to Dream’s chest, cups what little flesh is there in his palms. Dream does not have a particularly substantial chest but Hob seems compelled anyway.

“Are my ‘tits,’” Dream asks, quoting Hob from last night, “‘banging,’ Hob Gadling?”

Hob goes bright red, but doesn’t remove his hands. “Yeah, Dream,” he says, strangled, “you have the prettiest little titties I ever saw.”

This is not something Dream has ever cared about or even considered about himself, but he preens anyway.

“And if you’ve no objections I’d really like to get my mouth on them,” Hob continues. “You free now? Or did you come just to upend my world and run?”

“I am ‘free,’” Dream confirms. This is, in fact, his desired outcome. “Is that the only place you will put your mouth?”

“Fucking hell.” Hob kisses him then, rough and hot, hands going to Dream’s waist to pull him in so their bellies are touching. Dream hums in pleasure. And Hob pushes his coat off his shoulders. It falls to the floor, unheeded. “No, I want to fucking bite you. Kiss you everywhere. And I dunno what you have going on down there, but I’m going for that, too.”

Dream raises an eyebrow. “‘What I have going on down there?’”

Hob huffs. “Well I don’t know, you personification of insanity. What do you have going on down there?”

“What would you like me to have going on?”

“No,” Hob says, half a whine. “Don’t say shit like that, I’m not a strong man. Come on.”

He takes Dream by the hand, drags him towards his bedroom. And Dream smiles to himself. A desired outcome, indeed.

[housederiva]

My housemate's cat came into my room while my dictation was on...

[potofsoup]

Oh look, it seems like there's a Republican-led movement to purge voter rolls in the lead-up to the election! It's almost as if your vote matters and they don't want you to vote! Anyway, I whipped up a quick map (based on this) that shows when the voter registration deadline is in each state. There are a few deadlines coming up in the next week or so.

If you live in a state that regularly purges voter rolls for infrequent voters (the orange ones in the first map), or if you moved recently, it's good to check if you're still registered to vote.

Vote.org makes it super easy to check your registration: https://www.vote.org/am-i-registered-to-vote/

Just put in your address and DOB and they'll tell you whether you're registered. (And they give you a quick link to register online if it turns out that you're not! Only the 9 states in white on my map don't have online registration, and for those they provide instructions on how to do it via mail or in person.) If you want an extra verification, find your state's election website and double-check there.

So yeah, give yourself peace of mind -- do a quick check. :)

[the-coffee-fandom]

Had to make a meme to describe me currently

[kookntae4ever]

This is me. Kinda jealous of all the writers who can write quickly because I can't.

[arrja]

Sukuna finds a strange creature in the forest and decides to bring it home

Fanart inspired by- The Child With Marks on AO3 (Make sure to check it out!)

[happy74827]

Oh the Deadpool tag is trending? I wonder why—

… oh

[so-many-ocs]

“everyone is going to hate it” someone will love it. someone will reach out to you and tell you it changed their life. someone will hold it close and treasure it forever in a way you can’t even understand. keep going

[heywriters]

If you want to write a dumb little story with a dumb little plot and ridiculously silly characters. No one's stopping you. Genuinely, no one should be allowed to stop you. Write that dumb story with your whole heart and don't hold back.

[evadingreallife]

(By trope-specific i mean for example all the slash fics hosting websites, or the nsfw-only ones, etc)

[chromaherder]

Been thinking about them lately.

[autumnillustration]

"Perhaps a lesser-known gift of Kenobi's was his ability to listen."

(AU where post-banishment Ahsoka gets zapped back to TPM, strapped with a fundamental distrust of the Jedi, an apocalyptic vision of the future, and a mandate to help Anakin Skywalker. So, in all this, it's nice to have a confidant.)

edit: link to the fic