Figured it's been a while, and my previous masterlist wasn't cutting it for me, so here's an intro post.
I'm Eris (they/them), and I write fanfiction (my ao3). Main fandom is currently Arcane, though I also post stuff about The Locked Tomb and also Sleep Token as of recently on here. My writing is usually tagged with 'eris writes things'.
Consider this blanket permission for any transformative works based on my works! All I ask is that you credit me (tagging me, linking the work, or using the 'Inspired by' link on ao3 work nicely) and inform me so I can fawn over it <3
And for part three and the 7th of June here are some fics with Dream returning to the New Inn and Hob, happy dremling day and enjoy,
part one and two
Feb 13: First by aquilathefighter (499):
On the day Dream returns to Hob at the New Inn. They talk until the pub closes and go up to Hob's flat, where confessions occur.
Cobwebs by Torte (1.7k):
Hob waits.
It is all he can do. He sits at the table in the tavern, sometimes drinking, sometimes talking to other visitors.
Mostly he just stares at the door and waits.
A Friend In Deed by SerenAur (2.2k):
A take on how that first meeting in The New Inn went. Dream is in dire need of some kindness. Hob provides.
here for a reason by cuubism (2.6k):
Hob's out for a walk when he stumbles on his old stranger, feeding birds and looking very sad.
pie of birds and grief and ocean water by Chrome (4k):
“Yes,” he says. “But—humans, do you have it where you are hungry, and you only remain hungry so long, and then you stop being hungry?” His blue eyes meet Hob’s brown ones, and it feels as though they hold a memory between them of Hob at the old inn, wolfing down food. Do you know how hungry you can get when you can’t die?
“And then it comes back,” Hob says. An unpleasant feeling gnaws at his gut, not unlike the sensation of hunger itself. “But yes, it comes and goes.”
His friend nods. “I have found that after…some time, it is no longer a unique sensation.”
“What does that mean?”
“Do you feel your skin, Hob Gadling? Your bones?”
“No,” he says.
“Hunger, too, can be a part of you,” he says.
Hope, and a Bottle of Merlot by MDJensen (4.3k):
In which two friends just want to visit their old tavern, one last time.
Soundless reunion by Ryunya (6k):
After a century in silence, Morpheus escapes his captivity and finds himself unable to speak.
It makes his reunion with Hob Gabling hard to navigate, but they manage.
simple dreams of comfort by softestpunk (6.7k):
In his captivity, Dream thinks of Hob. His smile, his company, his touch, his love, his body, the life they might lead together.
After his escape, he goes to visit the real thing, and gets more than he allowed himself to dream of.
The Weight Of Our Memories by RambleOnWaywardSon (6.9k):
“Why don’t you have more faith in human nature?” Hob asked.
Dream looked at him, eyes a little dark, squinting. “Why do you have so much?” he countered, slowly.
Dream shows Hob where he's been, and Hob shows Dream something about how to heal.
You're Late by vampiringg (7.5k):
The Sound of Her Wings but Dream shows up while Hob is in a lecture.
I Wanna Hold Your Hand by Moorishflower (7.5k):
Hands are such a human thing, Hob thinks. To make, and shape, and create. The elegance of thumbs. Fashioned by thousands of years of slow and careful evolution for the sole purpose of holding.
He wants to hold Dream. To rub their fingers together, that singularly human grasp, to push their palms flat, and their chests close, and he's not sure if he wants to hug his friend or cry on his shoulder, because he should have been there. He should have known.
Hob has a hard time believing that Dream forgives him. He has an even harder time believing that Dream might want him back.
Maybe This Is All Just a Dream by my_written_minds (9.1k):
When a man clad in all black walks through the door and admits Hob is his friend, Hob doesn't know whether to hug him or play it cool.
When it is obvious something happened, something terrible, Hob doesn't know whether to hug him or play it cool. Again.
In other words, Dream starts talking and doesn't stop. And suddenly these once a century dates are no longer once a century. More like once a week.
New Moon by Delta_Pavonis (11.5k):
They continued to stare at each other and Hob felt the familiar coil of heat low in his belly. Well, that answered that question: still desperately attracted to him even after all these years.
Picks up right where "The Sound of Her Wings" left off. How Hob and Dream's reunion (and the days, weeks, months after) go.
the first steps by chubsoneuropa (chubsonthemoon) (12.6k):
Perhaps even dreams can change.
Or: Dream and Hob, through the seasons.
My Emotional Support Raven by Sylcian_SPH_Legacy (13.3k):
Hob Gadling left a long red arrow on the barrier to guide Dream to the New Inn. But what if he didn't?
Cue a very lost (inside his own head) Dream and Matthew doing his best to help him (makes five hundred meters and understands emotions).
You found me by Avelera (15.2k):
Hob Gadling is recently divorced and not in a good mental place when Dream walks into the New Inn over thirty years late for their appointment.
So, instead of warmly welcoming Dream, Hob decides to finally give him a piece of his mind. As far as he's concerned, it's Dream's turn to be the good friend if he wants Hob back in his life.
He was not expecting Dream to take him up on that challenge.
the melting press of the sun by cuubism (15.5k, unfinished):
Returning to Hob felt like a formality, right until Dream stopped outside the crumpled skeleton of the White Horse Inn.
What We Build and What We Burn by queerofthedagger (23.5k):
After Dream finally finds him in the New Inn, Hob struggles to rebuild his trust that this—Dream returning—will always be the case. At the same time, the concern that something has gone horribly wrong grows through meetings, dreams, and details that Hob shouldn't notice but does; not that Dream is much more forthcoming than in centuries prior.
That's okay, though; if Hob has learnt one thing, it is how to be patient. Mostly.
the majesty of fantasy (protects me from tragedy) by im_not_corrupted (26.3k):
This time, Dream’s imprisonment takes more from him. Upon escaping, he finds himself unable to move on. He is tired, even after regaining his tools and power, and cannot understand why he’s unable to shake off the effects of his time imprisoned.
After Death suggests finding Hob Gadling, he finds The New Inn but does not walk inside. The idea of seeing the cruelty he has suffered first hand reflected in Hob is too terrible for him to bear, and so he returns to The Dreaming.
After some prompting, though, he begins to visit Hob’s dreams. Somehow, he finds a safe space there in the company of his friend.
take it slow by im_not_corrupted (34k):
After his duel with Lucifer and retrieving his stolen tools, Dream is injured and in pain. When he sees Hob, the man insists on helping him care for his wounds.
Another Word for Ache by Pellaaearien (111.8k):
When Dream escapes his cage, he is starving in more ways than one.
Weak and wanting, he goes in search of what will satisfy him.
Hey friends- This is super embarrassing, but I have started a GoFundMe because I was in a minor accident which resulted in me breaking my front teeth (tw: the gofundme page includes a picture of said broken teeth).
I received treatment for the surface damage, but I still need to go back for follow up care, and I don’t have dental insurance.
Also, I still have slots available for commissions if you’d rather help out that way!
I don't think Tolkien is a good fantasy writer because he scored the highest at some objective Best Fantasy Book Test that every fantasy writer has to take, I think he's a good fantasy writer because he created a world based on things that he was interested in. I feel like a lot of fantasy writers think that they need to create a whole language for their world because Tolkien did and obviously his books are the best so they have to emulate him, but Tolkien did that because he was a linguistics nerd. I think the lesson to be learned from him is not that you have to include elves and deep history and new languages, but that you have to write endlessly about the things you are a huge nerd about and use those things to create your fantasy world
What's your favorite creature from any video game world?
Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.
as you wish, mysterious cat
my favourite creature(s) from any video game world is either Mutt from Kingdom Come: Deliverance, the goodest boy ever. i mean, just look at his little face!
OR Sunwings from Horizon: Forbidden West. Whether they count as creatures or not is up to you, since they're machines, but they let you fly across the map and I adore them so much.
They need to invent a "I have to voice my needs & wants otherwise people won't know them." that doesn't put me through the same emotions as the first caveman being hunted by a sabertooth tiger.
Shipping fictional characters isn’t representative of your moral values. It’s representative of your particular psychic damage and the themes and motifs that haunt you. Hope this helps.
Ok now THIS is the stuff I wanted when I followed the Julius Caesar tag and I don’t even get it from there?? Am upset by this betrayal of the tumblr system
and not one sunrise more - a Roots of Chaos fanfic
Gen | No Warnings Apply | 2k | Sabran/Ead
Summary:
"How strange that I might find you here, Sabran," she teases, and amusement sparks in Sabran's eyes. Something holds her back. A need to ensure that this is real, perhaps. That they have made it.
"Ead," the last Berethnet replies, and Ead has missed her voice, the soft silk of it washing over her. Her name has never sounded better on any tongue but hers. "I heard rumour of a woman wearing a cloak red as blood who docked today, and had to see for myself if it was truly you.” She eyed the distance between them with distaste. “Do I have to demand you kiss me, lover?"
****
After ten long years, they reunite.
Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Reunions, Pining, Love Letters
Read on Ao3, or below the cut <3
The sands of Perchling glisten under the light of the mid-afternoon sun. Waves lap at the shore, and the skies are a brilliant, crystal clear blue. A rare sight for autumn in Inys, where rain often collects in puddles and clouds conceal the sun.
That is something Ead has not missed about Inys. Even in the summer months, the isle is so wet, nothing like the dry heat that blankets Lasia. When she spent seven years in Inys, desperate for the familiar comforts of her home while learning to navigate the treacherous waters of the Inysh court, she had thought the heat of summer in Inys a particular kind of hell.
The air remains heavy even now, despite the cold carried in by a breeze of seawater that tangles her hair. Eadaz uq-Nāra stands upon the shores of Perchling and breathes in deep, allowing the sea air to fill her lungs, clear her mind. The bustle of the city doesn't reach her here, where the beach stretches for miles, undisturbed by workers and tradeships.
For ten terribly long years, she has dreamed of standing upon this beach.
Each one had passed achingly slow, and time refused her requests to move faster. Her promise to Sabran had not left her mind in that time, no matter how busy she found herself in the Priory. Even now, it comes to her mind as easily as their first kiss. Sabran's hand in hers, and a vow as weighty as those whispered between companions exchanging loveknot rings. Ten years from now, I will find you on the sand of Perchling, and we will find our somewhere.
She has held that promise close to her chest, even while the miles between them ached, temporarily soothed by stolen nights spent in one another's arms. Not nearly enough to stop Ead from wanting, her heart a traitorous, aching thing beneath her ribs—but enough to remember the promise of somewhere and find the strength to endure until the next letter, the next visit to Inys in the guise of diplomacy.
The last letter she received from Sabran sits in her pocket, the sword and crown of the Berethnet seal broken weeks ago. She'd opened it with fervour upon receiving it, the sight of the red wax sealing it shut making her heart flip behind her ribs. She has memorised its contents already and she can hear the words in her mind, spoken in Sabran's own voice.
Dearest Ead, my love,
Our tenth year since our defeat of the Nameless One approaches. By the time you receive this letter, I will have abdicated the throne in favour of Roslain. I trust she will serve Inys well, as I have, without the burden of the Saint to hang over her. I will leave her in the care of Loth and Marian, both of whom will support her in her transition to her new position.
It has been too long since I have glanced upon your face and held you in my arms, my love. Our somewhere calls to me, and I hope you might meet me upon the sand of Perchling, so that we might find it.
Yours, always,
— Sabran Berethnet
As though there has ever been any real doubt that Ead would meet her here. She’d read that final sentence in her room in the Priory, beside herself with joy and triumph, and immediately set things in motion for the next Prioress to take over. As soon as she oversaw the ceremony, she climbed atop Aralaq, who already knew where to take her. Across the world itself, to the person she spent a decade waiting for.
She knows Sabran has never doubted her conviction and her devotion to their vow. It is written across ten years of letters exchanged between the Priory and Inys, again and again. The word somewhere scrawled in Sabran's elegant hand became a familiar comfort on the nights Ead stared at the ceiling above her bed, wishing for nothing more than her love by her side, her bed achingly empty without her. Proclamations of adoration, well-wishes blanketed in longing, Sabran's recollection of recent events at the Inysh court—all of it kept her company on those nights.
Never had Ead known loneliness until returning to the Priory again, the sisters calling for her to be made Prioress. Growing up, she always had the sisters of the Priory and a duty to protect the orange tree, to honour the Mother and defend the world against the Nameless One as she once had. She'd had Jondu by her side, to train with, to hunt down the wyrms that slept undisturbed in the great many mountains around the mapped world, waiting for their master to call them to rise again. They were a family, all of them, and loneliness had no room to grow roots in her when her place in the world sat solely with the Priory.
She had not felt it even when serving the Mother in the court of Sabran Berethnet, a mere maid of honour in an unfamiliar court. While the customs were unfamiliar to her and many there saw her as little more than a heretic, despite her public conversion to the Six Virtues, she'd still had her task—protect the Queen at all costs, in case the Berethnets truly did keep the Nameless One chained as the Deceiver proclaimed. She'd found friendship in Marian and Loth, who welcomed her brightly, who taught her about court and cared not for her heretical origins.
But there, in the ten years spent as Prioress, Ead learned what it meant to be lonely. To want something out of her reach, and to look forward to something she could not yet have.
She endured, as she always knew she would. The Priory flourished under her charge. Prioress was never a title she expected to earn, though she had always dreamed of it, as every woman who grows up in the Priory does. She never imagined it would be her hand wielding the sword that would end the Nameless One, that she would hold one of the two keys that imprisoned him once more beneath the crashing waves of the Abyss, and that these actions would see her rise to Prioress.
Under her care, the Priory healed. Scars still remain; gorges upon stone where wyrms dug their talons, scorch marks that will forever remind them of what they almost lost at Kalyba’s hands.
With the Nameless One vanquished, Ead set her sights upon the remaining High Western. Her initiates hunted Fýredel to the ends of the known world, towards the Gates of Ungulus. With the defeat of the Nameless One and the loss of Yscalin, Fýredel withdrew to a cave within the mountains to slumber, and found his end at the hands of the sisters of the Priory. Many were made Red Damsels the day they returned, dying their cloaks with his blood as the first Red Damsels had.
And with the last High Western defeated, the Priory hunted down remaining wyrms, whatever hadn't been defeated on the Abyss—as many sisters as Ead could afford to send.
Throughout it all, she only wished she could have Sabran by her side to witness it all. She poured all she could into her letters to the Queen, in carefully written code, keeping her informed. Her love’s admiration and pride soothed the aches of her absence, but it was never quite enough.
Ead took every opportunity to visit Inys that she could, accompanying Chassar under the guise of diplomatic relations. Sabran Berethnet greeted her every time with a familiar gleam in her eyes that Ead so adored and a softening of her features, imperceptible except perhaps to those closest to her. Every time, the court and their responsibilities bled away until it was only them—the pretender and the Prioress, the blood of the Saint and the heretic. And every time, Ead snuck her way into the Queen's bedchambers where Sabran waited, as beautiful as ever, and they exchanged kisses that set Ead's heart ablaze until the candles burned out and sleep dragged them under.
Ead misses her like she missed the tree, the Priory, after spending seven years in the Inysh court. Her skin retains the memory of tender touches, her lips burn with the memory of Sabran's lips, and her bed is empty without Sabran nestled against her, head tucked under her chin and Ead's arms around her middle.
The Priory is her home, and it always will be—but Ead's heart has dragged her back to Inys, to Perchling as she promised. She has found a second home in the heart of Sabran Berethnet, and cannot keep herself from it any longer.
Ten years, and not one sunrise more. That was the promise they made, once they returned to normalcy after the battle of the Abyss.
When she hears sand shift under weight behind her, the excitement that had been gathering in her chest since first receiving Sabran's last letter unravels until she’s ready to burst with it.
She turns on her heel, her heart an aching thing in her chest. The sight of Sabran standing there, bathed in sunlight and draped in finery, is greater than all her dreaming, than anything her imagination could've concocted. The smile she wears is far more glorious than anything else Ead has witnessed in her life, reaching her jewelled eyes with an unrestrained joy the likes of which Ead rarely sees on her. In court, she kept herself guarded, for a Queen cannot be perceived as weak—but here, where only Ead may see, she allows herself to wear her joy freely, and the flower behind Ead's ribs blooms once more.
"How strange that I might find you here, Sabran," she teases, and amusement sparks in Sabran's eyes. Something holds her back. A need to ensure that this is real, perhaps. That they have made it.
"Ead," the last Berethnet replies, and Ead has missed her voice, the soft silk of it washing over her. Her name has never sounded better on any tongue but hers. "I heard rumour of a woman wearing a cloak red as blood who docked today, and had to see for myself if it was truly you.” She eyed the distance between them with distaste. “Do I have to demand you kiss me, lover?"
It is all she needs to fling herself across the small stretch of sand holding them apart. Her hands cradle Sabran's face, and her lips are soft as rose petals against Ead's. Sabran clings onto her with as much ferocity as she kisses with, and Ead cannot help the laughter that bubbles up, delight lighting her up like a sunray. It banishes the shadows that clung to her in Sabran's absence and her lungs burn for air and she is so wonderfully alive in a way she only feels in her lover's arms.
Breathless, Sabran pulls away to rest her forehead against hers. Their breath mingles in the small place between them, and Ead wants nothing more than to remain there until the tide comes in. This is her second home, and she has waited too long to have this.
"My love," Sabran murmurs. "My rose. I have missed you terribly."
"As I have missed you." Ead pulls away only far enough to meet Sabran's eyes properly, so that she might commit the wonder written so clearly upon her face to memory. She will revisit this moment a thousand times over, she knows that already. "Are you ready to find our somewhere?"
A sharp intake of breath, and another kiss, sweeter than even the fruit of the orange tree. "My dreams have been full of nothing else, Ead."
Ead takes one of her hands. Even now, Sabran's are still slightly cold, and she supposes the chill coming in from the sea doesn’t help matters. "Then let us find it."
Hand in hand, the two of them leave behind the beach without a particular destination in mind. It matters not—Ead is content to discover where they will end up, so long as Sabran is by her side. And she knows without a doubt that Sabran is, too.
i’m so tired of how women are represented in media. i'm tired of being expected to be grateful for crumbs when someone actually writes them as human beings and not just as trophies, incubators, or emotional sponges for the male lead and i’m tired of pretending this isn't a problem
it’s even more draining seeing friends and family be okay with it, just shrugging and saying "it’s always been like that" or "they're just joking"
i’m tired of strong female characters whose only possible endings are either dying for a man's character development or being reduced to just a wife and mother, because writers literally cannot imagine a future for a woman that doesn't revolve around her service to a family
i’m sick of the "makeover" trope where a woman is only "allowed" to be happy or successful if she becomes canonically beautiful. like fr in 2026 we still do that? "put those glasses away so you can be pretty! who cares if you can’t see?" or "why don't you want makeup? do you want to be ugly? nobody will like you"
i’m so tired of people acting up and saying dumb shit whenever we actually get something better. like the constant whining about aloy from hzd being "ugly" or people saying "i don't want to play as a woman" for the new witcher game. and the way bella ramsey were treated for the last of us? i think they did an amazing job at acting ellie and it's hurtful how a big part of the community reacted just because ellie (a fucking 3d model) looked different from them
it’s all so exhausting.
i am so so so tired and i can't do anything about it
with ao3 down i hope this reminds us of what a fanfic-less existence looks like. don’t take it for granted! because it sucks not to have it.
fanfic would not exist without the hours of free labour from fanfic writers and volunteer staff. donate to otw if you have the means. taking a second to give kudos is nothing compared to months of work for writers. a comment will probably make their whole day! sharing and reblogging spreads their work. it’s so discouraging when you give your heart to something, only to receive nothing in return.
support fandom creators and staff. they are the heartbeat of everything we enjoy.
Turned my 728 word Sleeping Beauty-esque post into a 10,324 word fic. On AO3 HERE
Italics are flashbacks
TW: Suicide attempt (in a magical fantasy way, but the intent is there)
~~~
It’s getting late.
While Hob’s appointments with Dream have become far more frequent than once a century, he still finds himself stretching each meeting as long as he can, reluctant to let his friend leave.
They have been talking for hours now, mostly mundane happenings in Hob’s week, and Hob has caught Dream staring a few times now, something soft and peaceful in his gaze. It makes something flutter in his chest, and finally he bursts out questioningly, “What? Do I have something on my face?”
Dream laughs softly, little more than a smiling breath, and shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. I simply…”
Tilting his head, it looks as if Dream is committing the moment to memory.
“I am glad for your friendship.”
Hob doesn’t think he will ever tire of hearing Dream acknowledge their friendship. It makes him feel a little less like a fool for wanting more.
Grinning, he raises his glass in cheers, “I am glad for yours as well.”
Dream doesn’t have a drink to raise, but he smiles.
When he leaves half an hour later, Dream bows his head and says “Goodbye, Hob Gadling,” with that same soft smile. Hob thinks it’s strangely formal.
I know I’m just an old man yelling at clouds and I’m always complaining about the ao3 subreddit, but for the last two weeks or so, r/ao3 has become inundated with “which fic was the worst read for you? explain below” and “what popular fic did you just not like and why” posts, and as a result, folks are in the comments literally linking to ao3 fics and authors they hate and writing paragraphs about why they hated their fic.
Fandom is not banding together publicly to talk about what we hate (other than canon) and it’s definitely not tagging the fic/author so other people can read the “dogshit” (real quote btw) and hate on it too.
If you’re a new fan, that’s not normal. It’s not normal at all.
the night belongs to you @im-not-corrupted - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
