Je rêve de toi 🌌

dream x george | ao3 -  5,785 words dear sarah | awfultune

“but i spend too much of my time, wishing that he was online.”

dream and george were schoolmates from elementary to high school, they seemingly and unknowingly drift apart after a few unlabeled dates and an adorable storybook about a blob and a mushroom. the blond is left alone — reflecting on their experiences with the sweet boy he has fallen for ever since they were in elementary school.

“hush, i’m gay and i found you to be very nice and very pretty. remember that one time you gave me your pencil because i forgot mine? i was whipped after that. i remember the type of pencil too, it was strawberry scented with cows and bees printed along the covering.”

“you’re easy to draw in, so, if i find myself liking you, should i just give you a box of pencils, then?”

“you don’t have to, a kiss will suffice, pretty boy.”

or, a cliché chat fic, with more to it than meets the eye.

fic under the cut! 

series / chaptered works 

inspired by a series of messages whilst watching howls moving castle during movie night in my discord, i wrote this at midnight on a tuesday, sitting in my car, and while listening to a spotify playlist called ‘fuckboy songs that unironically fuck’. enjoy.

The meadow and the forest whisper of ancient stories long forgotten. For beneath the grass and the moss and even the deepest roots of the tallest tree, there is a history that only the earth itself remembers. Tales locked away in stone buried under the soil that has become the grave of all that came to rest beneath the open sky. A cool breeze of the late summer air blows through reeds on the bank of a narrow stream, rippling with chilled water that’s traveled from the spring at the top of the eastern mountain. It waters the nearby land as it carves and twists its way through a field of late blooming perennials and into a forest, where the trees are almost old enough to remember the stories. The stream feeds a small pond just beyond the edge of the wood, where an old cottage sits neatly and quietly.

Though, for a peaceful place, a quiet corner is rare. Whether it be through the voice of a songbird, the groan of a bullfrog, or the wind through the trees, a tale is always being told. Tangled roots, overgrown vines, and unturned stones are home to many that reside beyond the mountain and next to the stream. Frogs perch upon toadstools and call to each other. Crickets and insects chirp and squeal throughout the day and into the night. Spiders spin their webs and squirrels build their nests in the boughs of trees. It is never quiet in the meadow or the forest, but it has not always been as it is now. There was once a time when there was only the silence of death heard there, hanging low and heavy like a dense fog over the land. The birds didn’t sing. The frogs didn’t cry, the flowers didn’t bloom, and the wind was still. Before the witch came and made her home by the pond, the trees had accepted their death and had begun to lay themselves to rest. It’s a shame this story is sealed in stone, for this is one the earth does not care to remember.

.......ᕕ( ՞ ᗜ ՞ )ᕗ

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