#littleearth writes Tumblr posts

[sleeplittleearth]

@domaystic day 7: stained clothes

Laundry Day | Hob/Dream | 1.6k | G

Dream does laundry and struggles with making mistakes (i'm not projecting, you're projecting)

---

Dream was starting to really settle into humanity.

He'd risen with Hob this morning; he'd boiled water for tea without starting an electrical fire (a mistake he'd only made once before), and toasted bread without burning it (a mistake he'd most recently made yesterday, but it was hardly his fault when he'd been distracted by the sleepy way Hob smiled at him first thing in the morning). There was still a lot to learn, but he was getting the hang of things.

And now, he was going to do laundry.

Hob was away at work for the day, and Dream wanted to something nice to surprise him. He'd watched Hob load and unload the washer enough times that he felt confident he could replicate the process. And the machine did most of the work, anyways. None of the backbreaking work of a washboard or the limb threatening work of a mangle—he'd been party to some of the nightmares that emerged from invention of that infernal device.

The modern washing machine was a breeze in comparison. All he needed to do was load it, add detergent, and push a button. He didn't even have to worry about shrinking anything in the dryer, since it was a perfect day to put the wash out to dry on the line. Hob would come home to perfectly clean, crisp smelling clothes that were precisely the size they started.

Dream began by gathering up the clothes for the wash. Neither he nor Hob was overly skilled at actually putting things in the hamper, so he went around their bedroom and bathroom piling things into a basket—jeans draped over the chair in the corner, shirts forming creases on the floor, socks that had actually made it to the hamper, and the scarlet jumper Dream had helped Hob pick out on the weekend. The colour reminded him of opium poppies, and it made the warmth in Hob's eyes and skin sing. The sooner it was washed, the sooner he could convince Hob to wear it.

When his basket was full and the flat noticeably tidier, Dream gently piled the clothes into the washer, sprinkled in a scoop of powder detergent, and shut the door firmly. He was careful to check that the machine's settings had not been disturbed from the last time Hob did the washing, before finally hitting start and then wandering back to the bedroom to straighten up some of the remaining mess.

He could hear the machine churning along as he worked, the sloshing of water and mechanical whirring providing background noise in the otherwise quiet flat. After a few minutes of tidying, the room was in good enough shape that Dream felt he had earned a break, and he settled against the headboard of the freshly made bed to read (Hob was in the habit of bringing home stacks of romance paperbacks for him from the library).

It felt like almost no time had passed when he was stirred from his focus on the description of some physiologically dubious but emotionally impactful lovemaking by the musical alarm of the end-of-cycle signal. He set aside his book and made his way into the kitchen to gather the clean laundry to bring out to the balcony.

When he first opened the washer, he was greeted with the soft scent of lavender and clean clothes, and he smiled to himself at the pleasant aroma.

And then he saw the clothes.

The darker clothes—the jeans, the black trousers, the soft charcoal hoodie that Dream liked to borrow—they looked just fine. Hob's new jumper looked just as vibrant as it had when they picked it out in the shop. But everything else, everything that had gone in the washer a shade of white or cream or pastel blue, was now pink. Some baby pink, some bordering on a soft coral, some with a definite violet cast, but all undeniably pink.

Dream snatched the red jumper out of the basin as if that would somehow reverse the damage. The bright colour was looking decidedly less lovely now, but he still went and laid it out to dry flat on a towel, switching out the white one he'd prepared with a dark navy one with perhaps sharper movements than the task required.

All the time, he was thinking about what was to be done with the other clothes. The smartest thing to do would probably be to text Hob for advice—a man didn't live more than six centuries without learning a thing or two about stain removal, especially with his history. But he'd wanted to surprise Hob with something nice, not another job. He didn't want him feeling like he was always babysitting Dream; he should be able to do something as simple as wash a load of laundry on his own.

He would just wash them all again.

Not the jumper, of course. But he had plenty of time before Hob came home to run the machine again. Probably a couple times. He briefly considered using the bottle of bleach under the sink—but even Hob had expressed difficulties with bleach stains, and he didn't need to add another problem on top of this one.

So, he went back to the machine, dumped in another scoop of soap, and set the machine to work again. This time, instead of wandering to another room, he sat on the floor directly in front of the washer, staring in at the sudsy water with his knees up and his arms wrapped around his shins.

The cycle passed much slower this way, but eventually, the signal sounded. The electronic melody felt mocking where before it was cheerful—he would be lucky if the sound didn't become a permanent headache trigger after today.

And the clothes were still pink, so back in they went. Third time's the charm, he thought, but Dream didn't hold out much hope for this round either. This time, he slumped back against the kitchen cabinets to wait, staring at the ceiling or his feet more than the washer.

When the alarm sounded again, he felt pain throb in his temples. That confirms that, then. He pulled the clothes from the washer—he was definitely letting his desperation delude him, but he thought they almost looked a half-shade lighter. At this rate, he'd only have to re-wash them a few dozen more times to get them clean.

Neither his head nor Hob's water bill would enjoy that, so he finally conceded defeat for the moment and went to hang everything to dry. Maybe a freak storm would blow through and carry everything off before he had to explain himself to Hob—who would be home soon, one way or another.

With the laundry hung up, he fussed about making a pot of tea for Hob's return, thinking to bribe his way out of some disappointment, and tried to settle back into his novel to distract himself while he waited. No such luck, of course. Every mention of the heroine's blushing cheeks and petal-pink lips reminded him of the Oxford shirts and tennis socks on the clothesline. He chewed at his lips, glancing from the page to the front door and back again, reading the line several times over.

When he finally heard Hob's keys clatter in the lock, his heart rate spiked. It was silly to be getting so worked up—while he was hardly a saint, Hob had been nothing but patient and kind with him over all of his missteps as he adjusted to being human. Even the electrical fire. There wasn't even risk of serious bodily harm this time. But still his heart pounded as the door clicked shut behind Hob.

"Hiya, love," Hob said, dropping his bag and keys by the door before coming over to press a kiss to the crown of Dream's head. "How's your day been— Oh! You washed my new jumper! How sweet."

Hob's face was sickeningly fond, and it was that that broke him.

"I ruined your clothes."

"You— what?"

"I ruined them. I tried to do something kind for you, and instead I wrecked your things like some kind of bumbling child."

Dream was scowling, his eyes burning dangerously.

"Hey, hey, no. I'm sure you didn't wreck anything. I don't even smell smoke." Hob's smile was kind, far kinder than he deserved.

"Come. I'll show you."

Dream marched out to the balcony, with Hob on his heel. Once there, he gestured at the rosy line of clothes.

"See? I wrecked them. I can buy you new ones—or, I will, once I find work, but I—"

"Dream, love, you didn't wreck anything. C'mere."

Hob held his arms open for a hug, and reluctant though he was, Dream went to him, sliding his arms around his waist and tucking his face into his shoulder.

"They're just clothes, Dream. And even if they were wrecked—which they're not, since I happen to look excellent in pink—I wouldn't be mad at you for making a mistake that nearly every human that's ever learned to do laundry has made." He stroked a hand over Dream's hair, squeezing him tighter for a moment before pulling back to make eye contact. "Okay?"

"…Okay."

That gooey, fond look again.

"Okay. Let's go see about some dinner, then."

---

The next morning, Dream rose with Hob. He boiled water for tea (no fires), he toasted bread (only a little burnt on the edges), and he kissed Hob goodbye as he headed to work in his new red jumper, with a perfectly coordinating pink shirt underneath.

He was starting to really settle into humanity.

[at-divinebeing]

my first Creative Loafing write up! Shout out Ben Braunstein for listening and a bigger shoutout to Ian for having me out last night! This is so tight cuh... next step is a front cover spread 👀👀 - also, lol @ "introspective sex jam" @yanimo_ 😂😂😂😂 #TheVoid #LittleEarth

[sleeplittleearth]

slightly late, not very smutty smurch day 14:

pain, aftercare, "Do you trust me?"

(prompt list from @staroftheendless)

---

"Do you trust me?" Dream asked. His voice was muffled by the pillow most of his face was buried in, but Hob could still hear the uncertainty creeping in.

Hob made a point of cuddling closer, nuzzling into the back of Dream's neck as he pulled him to his chest.

"With my life, if it were still up for grabs."

Dream was silent a moment. When he spoke, his voice was small, barely more than a whisper.

"Why?"

"Because you're my friend. Because you've trusted me, with so much."

"But I have caused you such pain. Revelled in it, once."

"And it's nothing to the joy, the pleasure, of simply having your company now. And more besides."

At this, Hob dropped a kiss to Dream's neck. When he spoke again, it was through a barely contained grin. "And anyways, a bit of pain's half the fun, if you're doing it right."

[sleeplittleearth]

for @domaystic day 6: under the same umbrella

Clover and Fescue | Hob/Dream | 900 words | G

Rain fell heavily in the garden, loud on the crown of the apple tree and the surface of the pond, and softer on the lawn and garden beds. New plants, perennials fresh from the soil and annuals from the nursery, glistened with beaded moisture that pooled and dripped into topsoil and compost, saturating the ground. Crocuses and daffodils bounced and sprang under the weight of the rainfall, and the grass danced as though stirred by an army of inch-high men, a Birnam Wood of clover and fescue marching on the cobble path. It was nearly too early to see, the murky light of dawn and dark clouds dampening the view, but everything was the vibrant green that only came from a spring storm.

Dream, utterly still and soaked to the bone, sat in the midst of it on the garden bench.

His dark hair was plastered to his neck, though still stood up in extravagant cowlicks in the back where he'd slept on it. His t-shirt (technically Hob's) was translucent and clinging to his shoulders, in a way that would be distracting in any other circumstance, and he had his bare feet planted in the grass. Air plumed from his nose in grey clouds of mist in time with the slow expansion and contraction of his ribcage.

"You're going to catch your death out here, love."

Hob did his best to drape the wool blanket he held around Dream's shoulders while juggling the handle of his umbrella, dripping a great deal of water on his own head in the process. When he finally had both blanket and umbrella mostly under control, he settled beside Dream on the bench, umbrella held between them to attempt to keep the rain off them both.

Dream remained silent, the only acknowledgement of Hob's presence being a subtle lean against his shoulder. From this angle, Hob could see the way rain had gathered in his eyelashes, darkened and clumping like he'd been crying.

He hadn't been, at least not recently. Dream was not one for an inconspicuous cry—his eyes went red-rimmed at the barest provocation, and retirement had made him susceptible to blotchy cheeks and congestion as well. His nose and cheeks were pink with chill now, but his eyes were clear, his breathing even. And Hob liked to think he had developed a good sense of Dream's expressions by now—he did not seem sorrowful so much as pensive, lost in thought and perhaps not fully emerged from the stillness of sleep.

They sat together in silence for a while, gazing out into the garden as the sun rose behind the clouds.

Eventually, the weight of the umbrella began to wear on Hob (even being in permanent fighting trim, fatigue was inescapable), and he broke the quiet as softly as he could.

"What's on your mind, my friend?"

A long pause followed, and for a moment, he thought Dream would not answer, that they would remain blanketed in only the shushing sound of rain until his arm fell clean off.

"The rain," Dream finally said. His voice was startlingly clear, steady, for so early in the morning.

Hob only nodded. He was learning that sometimes all it took to get Dream to open up was the space for him to speak. So he waited. He made space.

"In the Dreaming, the rain was always part of some larger emotional overture." Dream frowned. "It was part of me. When I looked upon it, it was like looking upon ones own tears in the mirror. I came out here this morning because I wanted to experience it as it is, removed from the trappings of my own emotions. As the waking world does. But it still feels curiously melancholy."

Hob tried to imagine what it would be like to have the very air around him bend to his emotions, every thunderstorm and ray of sunshine a well-timed bit of atmospheric storytelling. He thought about what it would be like, if he had spent all of his lowest moments surrounded by the chill and damp of the rain, could never be pulled from dark thoughts by cheerful sunshine on his skin. But then, that was just it, wasn't it?

Hob looked at Dream earnestly.

"Tell me, love, how were you feeling when the rain began last night?"

"I… do not know. I was asleep. The rain was there when I woke."

"Okay," Hob said, soft as the rain. "Do you think perhaps that it might not be you who has summoned the rain, then, but the rain that weighs on your heart?"

Dream seemed loath to agree, but he nodded.

Hob placed his free hand on Dream's knee, awkward though it was, and gave it a squeeze.

"Probably experiencing it just right, then. Plenty of people get a bit sad when it rains. Though you don't have to."

Dream, face cast in the red light filtering through the umbrella, looked at Hob like he'd nonchalantly offered to slay several dragons on his behalf.

Hob stood and offered a hand to Dream.

"Why don't we go find some dry clothes, and I can show you the wonders of staying in on a rainy day?"

[sleeplittleearth]

wanted a break from (not) working on my wips, so here's a teensy little smurch snippet very loosely interpreting the day 13 prompts: degrading, praise, and "Shut up." "Make me."

prompt list from @staroftheendless

---

"Are you going to shut me up, or will I have to get you to make me?" Hob asked from his position knelt at Dream's feet, Dream's hand buried in his hair.

"You think highly of your abilities," Dream spoke, tone level, not rising to the bait. "But your silence is not up to me—it is you who will not get what you want if you cannot control yourself."

Dream continued to card through Hob's hair, an oh-so-gentle tease of what Hob knows—hopes—is to come.

"And what is it I want?"

Dream's fist tightened in his hair, and a shiver ran down Hob's spine.

"To be good for me."

[sleeplittleearth]

sharing a teensy snippet from the modern karaoke bar au in the hopes that it might motivate me to actually finish it:

"If I have to hear one more person sing all eight minutes and 42 seconds of 'American Pie', I'm gonna end up serving several consecutive life sentences for brutally murdering everyone in here and then myself." The offending song was just coming to an end on the tinny speakers of the Hideout's karaoke system; Eddie was behind the bar, cutting lime wedges and contemplating whether he would be better off if he shoved a couple of tiki umbrellas through his eardrums. Jeff, who was the audience for Eddie's very reasonable threats of violence, stood on the opposite side of the bar with a half-full tray of empty glasses and a bemused smile. "Wouldn't you being, y'know, dead make prison a little redundant?" Jeff asked, unloading his tray onto the bartop. "Not when I'm done." Eddie waved his paring knife to emphasize his point as he spoke. "It'll be such a violent, repugnant crime against humanity that they'll lock up my bones, just to be safe." He went back to slicing limes, eyes mostly on his hands. "And after all that, I'll still look saintly next to some asshole who saw fit to make a room full of strangers listen to almost ten minutes of off-tempo Don McLean on a Tuesday night." "The nerve of some people," Jeff dead-panned. "God knows you would never pick a karaoke song that's twelve minutes long, like half instrumental, and barely has more than one lyric." Eddie huffed indignantly. "That was totally different! I did it for the bit, and I absolutely killed it! And anyway, Meatloaf is sacred, man." Whatever Eddie's face was doing, it definitely wasn't pouting. Nope. Jeff rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay, whatever helps you sleep at night, Munson."

[sleeplittleearth]

I don't want to jinx anything so soon after finishing "take my shoulders", but I have a new little rom-commy wip that is coming along unusually swiftly so far :)))

[sleeplittleearth]

take my shoulders (as they touch your arms) (1559 words) by sleeplittleearth Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling Additional Tags: Autistic Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Depictions of Sensory Overload, Cuddling as Stimming, Pre-Relationship, Pining, Hob's crow's feet are their own character Summary:

In a startling turn of events, on a dark night in December, Dream of the Endless found himself in the midst of a party. For someone who had spent the better part of a century in shadowy silence, it was utterly overwhelming.

Or, Dream gets overwhelmed, and Hob helps him regulate.

[sleeplittleearth]

all my big projects for this term are finally turned in, so I'll hopefully have time to get some writing done now! the sga verse fic and fake boyfriend fic are both pretty close to being finished, and I have some other thoughts percolating as well >:)

[sleeplittleearth]

🌹

In your honour, I dug out one of the steddie wips I may or may not ever finish. This is from the carly rae jepsen karaoke bar fic:

"If I have to hear one more person sing all eight minutes and 42 seconds of 'American Pie', they're gonna have to lock me up for a horrific murder-suicide." The final measures of the offending song were just winding down on the Hideout's karaoke stage, Eddie stood behind the bar, restocking the lime wedges while he contemplated whether or not to shove tiki umbrellas through his eardrums. Nancy Wheeler, the audience for his very reasonable threats of violence, stood on the other side of the bar with a laden tray and a bemused smile.

[sleeplittleearth]

haha what if I completely restarted the karaoke fic from scratch... what if..

[sleeplittleearth]

trying to dash out a domaystic ficlet this afternoon bc I actually have plans this evening for once, but now I've hit the tiny tiny bit of interpersonal conflict I knew would be included and have ground to a halt