#anyways yeah. nest.

[kalashtars]

so my bed is pretty high right, and there's nothing underneath it. like it's fully a crawl space. anyways so for a while now i've been thinking about putting a blanket down there and some pillows, maybe fairy lights and things and just make a space that is small and dark. tell me why i only just now realized i've been thinking for weeks about building a fucking nest.

[barawrah]

puppycat roommates au ♡♡ if shirt not left out for mu qing to steal then why shirt comfortable and warm and perfectly cosy for a nap....

[skrunksthatwunk]

actually i'm still thinking about the moral orel finale.

he has a cross on his wall. do you know how much i think about that bc it's a lot.

a lot of stories ((auto)biographical or fictional) centering escape from abusive/fundamentalist christianity result in the lead characters leaving behind christianity entirely. and that makes complete sense! people often grow disillusioned with the associated systems and beliefs, and when it was something used to hurt them or something so inseparable from their abuse that they can't engage with it without hurting, it makes total sense that they would disengage entirely. and sometimes they just figure out that they don't really believe in god/a christian god/etc. a healthy deconstruction process can sometimes look like becoming an atheist or converting to another religion. it's all case by case. (note: i'm sure this happens with other religions as well, i'm just most familiar with christian versions of this phenomenon).

but in orel's case, his faith was one of the few things that actually brought him comfort and joy. he loved god, y'know? genuinely. and he felt loved by god and supported by him when he had no one else. and the abuses he faced were in how the people in his life twisted religion to control others, to run away from themselves, to shield them from others, etc. and often, orel's conflicts with how they acted out christianity come as a direct result of his purer understanding of god/jesus/whatever ("aren't we supposed to be like this/do that?" met with an adult's excuse for their own behavior or the fastest way they could think of to get orel to leave them alone (i.e. orel saying i thought we weren't supposed to lie? and clay saying uhhh it doesn't count if you're lying to yourself)). the little guy played catch with god instead of his dad, like.. his faith was real, and his love was real. and i think it's a good choice to have orel maintain something that was so important to him and such a grounding, comforting force in the midst of. All That Stuff Moralton Was Up To/Put Him Through. being all about jesus was not the problem, in orel's case.

and i know i'm mostly assuming that orel ended up in a healthier, less rigid version of christianity, but i feel like that's something that was hinted at a lot through the series, that that's the direction he'd go. when he meditates during the prayer bee and accepts stephanie's different way to communicate, incorporating elements of buddhism into his faith; when he has his I AM A CHURCH breakdown (removing himself from the institution and realizing he can be like,, the center of his own faith? taking a more individualistic approach? but Truly Going Through It at the same time), his acceptance (...sometimes) of those who are different from him and condemned by the adults of moralton (stephanie (lesbian icon stephanie my beloved), christina (who's like. just a slightly different form of fundie protestant from him), dr chosenberg (the jewish doctor from otherton in holy visage)). his track record on this isn't perfect, but it gets better as orel starts maturing and picking up on what an absolute shitfest moralton is. it's all ways of questioning the things he's been taught, and it makes sense that it would lead to a bigger questioning as he puts those pieces together more. anyway i think part of his growth is weeding out all the lost commandments of his upbringing and focusing on what faith means to him, and what he thinks it should mean. how he wants to see the world and how he wants to treat people and what he thinks is okay and right, and looking to religion for guidance in that, not as like. a way to justify hurting those he's afraid or resentful of, as his role models did.

he's coming to his own conclusions rather than obediently, unquestioningly taking in what others say. but he's still listening to pick out the parts that make sense to him. (edit/note: and it's his compassion and his faith that are the primary motivations for this questioning and revisal process, both of individual cases and, eventually, the final boss that is christianity.) it makes perfect sense as the conclusion to his character arc and it fits the overall approach of the show far better. it's good is what i'm saying.

and i think it's important to show that kind of ending, because that's a pretty common and equally valid result of deconstruction. and i think it cements the show's treatment of christianity as something that's often (and maybe even easily) exploited, but not something inherently bad. something that can be very positive, even. guys he even has a dog he's not afraid of loving anymore. he's not afraid of loving anyone more than jesus and i don't think it's because he loves this dog less than bartholomew (though he was probably far more desperate for healthy affection and companionship when he was younger). i think it's because he figures god would want him to love that dog. he's choosing to believe that god would want him to love and to be happy and to be kind. he's not afraid of loving in the wrong way do you know how cool that is he's taking back control he's taking back something he loves from his abusers im so normal

[emin-folly]

Imagine that there's this person whose whole thing is being without fear and the fandom decides he's afraid of a dude in a fursuit.

Fandom Logic (tm)

I think it comes down to primarily two reasons, one being because people think it's funny

They think it's funny that this character without fear can suddenly be afraid of this human Bat guy. If it was just a few people in the fandom doing this, it wouldn't be nearly as bad; people are after all allowed to do whatever they want, even if we don't like it. The problem lies in where the actual comic writers start adapting this as canon as it's a huge disservice to Hal's character

The second reason is just basically these people legitimately think Hal should be afraid of Bruce because he's ~The Batman~ (which, again, you're allowed to think that, just know that's not really in character for Hal....like at all)

The whole deal with Bruce is that, both in universe and in real life, he's designed to terrify low level criminals: thugs, crooks, any unsavory person who wanders the Gotham alleyways. That's the environment Bruce works the best in. Where he can easily slip into the shadows, where he can become the night and make himself out to be a monster he wants to be. The only people who should be afraid of Batman are the ordinary hoods and criminals that infest cities

But when you suddenly stick him in a brightly lit room like the Hall of Justice next to all these colorful superheroes, that's where his effectiveness pretty much stops. All his tactics and methods to scare people don't really work here. Suddenly, he's just some guy in a bat getup with a scowly mask on. And these are seasoned superheroes, they don't scare easily, especially the ones with powers like speedsters or Kryptonians. Bruce is out of his element. Everything he does to try to act scary should look comical and silly at best

And as for Hal, I think we can all agree that Hal has definitely seen some shit. He goes off into deep space, for months up to a year or so. Who knows what kind of unimaginable horrors he's had to deal with?? Going a bit into headcanon area, but I think that if Hal wasn't desensitized before, he definitely is now. He's not afraid of space Cthulhu and he is not gonna be afraid of a bat furry who furrows his eyebrows really hard. Hal isn't scared of anything--physical, that is. And I feel like Hal is definitely the kind of person who sees straight through Bruce's BS posturing, Bruce's whole act just doesn't work on Hal.

Unfortunately, just like a tornado, any character who comes close to a Bat gets dealt major damage and we're still picking up the pieces and trying to set things straight again OTL

[pharawee]

You must pretend to be me so he'll tell you more. You can do it, Non.

Ɐuq λonˌɼɼ qᴉƨcoʌԍʁ ϝμɑϝ λon ɼᴉĸԍ ᴉϝ ϝoo·

[angeart]

hhau mimic arc rambles - part IV: the inbetween (hot spring bath)

(~5,5 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

-- a piece of warmth in a cold wasteland (a piece of hope in a nightmare) --

It takes some time, to slowly patch up the wounds on their souls and bury the incessant fears. Scar and Grian have each other, and they aren’t letting go. Not this time. Not again. Never. (Unless we get our hands on this au which, oh, we have. Funny thing—)

It’s now the midst of winter, and they huddle from shelter to shelter, clothes wet from snow, progress slow as they have to constantly try and cover their marks. The food is scarce, and they’re using every trick Juni taught them in late autumn to stay safe and not starve. (The thought feels bittersweet, but they don’t linger on it.)

And one day, the sun disappears. [This will be the eclipse bonus ramble, dw about it rn <3]

In the aftermath, they’re both feeling destabilised and unsafe. Grian in particular grows to feel like even more of a liability, becoming quiet and withdrawn. Terrified Scar’d leave him, despite feeling like maybe it'd be for the best if he did. (Best for Scar, that is.)

Scar does his best to divert Grian’s attention from bleak thoughts. He talks about hope, and possibilities, and—most importantly—future. He remembers that one time [in a bonus fic we never finished kjxnb bUT ONE DAY] when Grian mentioned wanting a treehouse. Wanting a permanent place. Somewhere to stretch his wings. Somewhere to be.

He tells him, softly, that come spring, once the trees are less barren, they can try building one. They will do it! Scar will build as many as it takes. Each better than the last!

And one day, they’ll get far enough. And they’ll build one that’ll last. And they’ll be able to stretch their wings, free.

Grian isn’t sure how much he believes that. But he wants to. He wants to.

They wander through the lands, seemingly directionless. The winter is harsh. The violet is bright against the whiteness of the snow and the dark brown of the bare trees. Still, with stolen cloaks, they do their best with the circumstances, never feeling warm or relaxed.

That is, until they stumble upon something rare.

They find a cave that is warm and, curious and seeking shelter, they go in. 

Inside, they find a large cavern with the ceiling caved in, sunlight pooling from the hole down onto a steaming surface of… a hot spring.

Scar gets immensely excited and, without hesitating, dives right in. The warmth is blissful, melting away all the aches and coaxing frost out of his bones. It’s the best thing he’s felt in a long time.

“I’m never getting out of here. You’re gonna have to drag me out. I am willingly turning myself into a raisin.”

Grian, unlike Scar, hesitates. His wings are still dirtied and full of debris, never preened, never touched. Kept dishevelled and dull to try to hide their desirable sheen. Flaring up with discomfort and aches, muscles tense and never stretched, in an attempt to turn them into something that’d be less of a beacon.

Getting them wet would mean washing off months of that effort. (Months of held-in suffering.)

And Grian wants to sink under the water and feel its warmth, relax into it just like Scar does, but he can’t. He can’t get through that mental block. So he just crouches on the side, sad and torn and wistful.

Scar tries to coax him in by assuring Grian they have enough time to dry them (he doesn’t use the word wings). But drying them isn’t the problem. The problem is making them bright again.

Scar doesn’t quite understand what is holding Grian back, but he tries to offer him ways to sidestep it without tacking a name to it. He holds out his hands and opts for goofiness, asking if Grian is shy, promising he’ll close his eyes, as if it was a simple act of undressing that was the problem. He’s trying to offer a simpler anxiety to latch onto, one more easily dealt with.

And despite the anxiety, Grian laughs a little at his antics. It’s barely a laugh, strained around the edges, but the fondness rings so clear through it.

But Scar’s suggestion doesn’t solve Grian’s problem, and Grian is wholly unwilling to name it and put attention to it—to the hopeless way he feels about the weight settled on his back. 

Scar is stubborn and determined, trying to read Grian without pushing too much. He wades to a more shallow part of the pool and softly—and still so very lightheartedly—points out that Grian could take a dip there, feel the warmth, “And only half of you gets turned to raisins.” Endlessly aware of what they’re not saying, words tucked between the lines: Your wings don’t have to get wet.

 Grian eyes the side Scar pointed out with enough suspicion, as if he expected the ground there to be playing a trick on him, in fact not solid at all. Slowly, he uncurls and shuffles over to peer at it, taut yet curious, unsure yet hopeful.

It’s timid, at first. The undressing, the reach for water. But as soon as his skin meets the warmth, yearning shoots through him and he can’t stop himself.

The water splashes in his rush to get in, something that delights Scar immeasurably.

And it’s quickly clear the water is only going to incite him to give in further, setting alight a craving for more. To keep sinking, to submerge all of his body, to melt against its warmth and let it make him stop aching. 

Unable to resist but still unwilling to get his wings wet, he ends up opting to slump himself over Scar’s shoulders, letting most of him dip into the enciting warmth of the water.  

The effect is instant: the warm water eases the hidden pains and tension right off, making Grian huff in relief as his hold on Scar turns lax, trusting Scar to keep him safe. It’s only Grian’s back that keeps some semblance of tension, wings held up above the water line even as the rest of him helplessly melts into it.

And Scar has to ask. Inevitably, the issue cannot be skirted around anymore. “Why don’t you want them wet…?”

Grian’s breath hitches, and just like that, all the tension and anxiety is back. Just like that, he’s pushing away, back upright into the shallow water, and then further, splashing as he goes, until he’s perched at the edge of the pool, safely out of its depths.

Arms wrapped around himself and shivering, Grian tries to breathe through the reminder of everything that’s wrong, everything that he doesn’t want fixed—can’t have fixed—attention pinned to his feathers that he reslots against his spine, dry and as small as possible. 

But there's no sidestepping this anymore.

It’s only when he admits, words miserable and broken, muffled into his palms and edging a sob, that washing the wings would turn them into more of a beacon, that Scar truly starts to understand this.

It was always only implied and never spoken—the topic of feathers always carefully avoided to sidestep the panic lurking just beneath those words—now broken and brought up to the surface for the first time since Grian's freak out on that very first day so long ago. 

It slots together in Scar’s mind now: It’s not just trauma and fear keeping Grian from allowing anyone (including himself) to touch his wings; it’s his unwillingness to brighten what he believes is to be a spotlight that’s made a home on his back. It explains weeks and weeks of unpreened, tucked back wings hidden uncomfortably under the cloak Scar gave him the day they found each other. What Scar thought was a deep-rooted anxiety born from the time they spent apart actually goes much, much deeper. The fear is a constant in Grian’s mind.

Scar pauses, taking the new pieces to the puzzle he’s been offered and pressing them into place, considering the proper approach. “Grian,” he tries again, voice soft. “One little soak isn’t going to make a difference.” (He wishes it would. He wishes Grian would wash them out properly, let them shine like they did before. He’d fight off the whole server if he had to in order to see that once more.) 

Something desperate in Grian is latching onto Scar’s words. He’s begging himself to listen, to give in, to let go, to succumb. He sniffles, dropping his hands a little bit, looking over at Scar, silent plea written into his eyes. Please. Please please please. 

He wants Scar to win him over. To convince him. To yank this tight knot of anxiety and let him breathe.

With a sigh, Scar continues. “We don’t have to wash them, just…” He hates going along with any part of this, but he’s not about to change Grian’s mind so easily. He has to bargain. “... One hour. One hour where you don’t worry so dang much. Just relax, forget everything else. Let me—” He doubts his word choice for a moment, but commits to it, considering them appropriate. “Let me watch your back.”

There’s a pause. And then, from his curled-up position, Grian asks: “One hour?” It’s small, a word just shy of crumbling to dust. He wants this. He needs this. He needs Scar to sway him here. But he can’t just give in. So he asks for more. He asks Scar to promise that this won’t cause anything bad. 

"Nothing bad," Scar assures immediately, even if he doesn't truly have the power to promise that. He'll make it true. He's determined to. "I'll make sure of it. And you just relax."

The words bounce around in Grian’s head.

Nothing bad. I’ll make sure of it.

He sniffles, wrangling the ever-present constraints of anxiety, and then, ever so slowly, he uncurls. His hands drop from his face and his glistening eyes find Scar’s, locking onto them as if Scar was his life raft. “Okay.” 

He isn’t sure he knows how to relax, not where his wings are concerned, but he’s been tense and scared for so long, he’s so tired, so greedy for the idea of it. And if Scar can somehow will it into existence, Grian will do his best to give himself over to him.

It’s slow. Every move hesitant and unsure, every Scar’s word soft and reassuring. He tells Grian it’s just the two of them here. He leads him, step by timid step.

Grian ends up draped over him again, arms wrapped around Scar's shoulders, trying to stifle his fears into his hold of him as they tentatively make progress into the warmth that begs Grian to surrender completely.

Grian’s coherency is slipping from his grasp as the warm water and the security of Scar’s presence take over. He hasn’t allowed himself to relax in so impossibly long, only ever forced by the circumstances. (Feeling faint, being wounded, dizziness pulling him to his knees—) This is different. This is so very different, and he finds himself simultaneously nuzzling against Scar and entirely letting go, his grip growing weak as Scar holds him with his back above water.

Grian’s wings falter and droop the littlest bit. He barely notices it. They’re hovering so, so very close above the waterline.

He hums, and they dip further, and—

He twitches, startled at the sensation of water against his feathers. Running on nothing but well-trained instinct, his wings flap, frantically splashing water.

Scar pulls Grian a little closer, keeping his hands firm and tight so he doesn’t drop him altogether. “Hey, hey, hey it’s okay. I’ve still got you.” He slides one leg out a little wider to maintain balance, continuing to mumble soft shushes. “The water won’t hurt ya, G.”

Grian pulls himself tight against Scar, his wing movements calming somewhat at Scar’s reassurance. They’re left treacherously hovering over the water again, unsure, as Grian buries his face in Scar’s neck, eyes tightly shut. He’s tense again, back at square one, and even the warmth of the water isn’t working enough to lull him out of it.

But Scar says the water won’t hurt him.

He knows that, right? He’s— The water won’t hurt him, it’s just the consequences he’s meant to be afraid of. But Scar already promised those will be okay.

Grian knows Scar doesn’t have the power to promise that.

Still, he tries to wrangle both the rational and irrational parts of his fear.

He breathes heavily, pressed close to Scar, and he whimpers a quiet, very unbrave sounding word: “Down?”

“Yeah?” Scar asks, a little unsure. “Do you— want me to let you down?” He doesn’t move his hands yet.

Feeling the steadiness of Scar's hands, Grian is sure that there won't be anything unexpected; not unless he agrees, nods, gives consent. But his head is so messy, not knowing how to communicate, and he's not sure he won't misstep.

"The wings?" Grian asks, and it's not much more coherent than the original question.

“The—“ Scar tuts his tongue, remembering to take the time to think. He glances over at Grian’s wings, something he very purposely tries not to do typically, but with Grian’s head tucked against his collarbone, he looks them over, curious. “Yeah, yes— you can let them down, G.” A small reassuring press of his fingertips. “Really.”

Grian takes a breath at the encouragement; it's damp and hot, water and scar's skin heating him up, both working on stealing all the tension out of him.

Gingerly and with a tinge of fearfullness, grian relents.

He lets his wings drop.

Tentatively, the feathers meet water. Calmer, this time. Expecting it. 

Grian’s hold on Scar doesn't exactly tense up, but his fingers curl, feebly looking for a tidbit of purchase, something to hold onto as his wings spread and sprawl, rippling the water, floating atop it, and— And it's so warm and it feels so good to stretch them, to let them be without force and without pressure and—

There's a half-sob, something small and all too relaxed and relieved, as looseness floods through Grian. His fingers uncurl and he sags further against Scar, whimpering quietly without any real distress. 

Scar can’t help the bright, genuine grin that spreads across his face at this success, even despite the small sobbing sounds—because he knows, he knows it’s from overwhelming relief. He had half a mind to cry when he first stepped foot in the water, so he can only imagine how Grian feels right now. “Shhh, good, good,” Scar coos, pressing a soft kiss into Grian’s hair. “Still got you.”

Grian makes a jumble of incoherent sounds at Scar's praise, melting further into the warmth. His eyes are closed and his muscles loosen bit by bit, aches stolen from them. He's not working to support any of his weight anymore, surrendering it all to Scar and to the water. He doesn't even register his wings fully; they float, and it makes them feel numb and nonexistent in the best of ways. 

Loose feathers and dirt drift across the surface, the spot near Grian growing murkier.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Scar whispers, not wanting to disturb Grian’s moment of bliss here. He eyes the spot where the water darkens from the dirt and debris coming free from Grian’s wings, trying not to let it affect his mood, tug at his heart. 

He wishes he could rake his fingers through the feathers and dislodge all the uncomfortable things that poke and prod at Grian on a daily basis. We wants to hold him closer and take care of him, wash all the troubles away, but—

Baby steps, he reminds himself. 

Grian's mind is hazy, all of him melting into the warmth bit by bit. (He doesn't remember the last time he was warm.) He feels engulfed and cradled, held and supported, and it makes him want to drift off. He's melting further into it, eyes closed and mind pleasantly dazed. He thinks he might just stay here forever. (The insides of his wings are warm warm warm; the water gently bobs them, the muscles loosening after months of being stiff and taut.)

It reminds Grian of what it feels like to be comfortable. (He isn't sure he can quite grasp it; the feeling seems too big for his comprehension.) He lets out a long, reverberating hum, almost purr-like, sinking further into the water. His eyes are still closed. He's secure in the knowledge that Scar's still here, he's got him. everything is okay.

Everything is more than okay.

"'m gonna live like a raisin," he says as a vague threat, or a promise, or— or something. Something mildly delirious. He's never getting out of this lake. It's too nice. He's going to stay here and submerge himself in bliss and escapism.

“Yes!” Scar croaks out amidst some airy laughter. “Join me in the raisin life, Grian!” 

Scar's laughter echoes around Grian, setting bright, joyful sparks behind grian's ribcage. He could listen to that sound forever.

While keeping his arms in place, supporting Grian so that he doesn’t sink entirely, Scar ducks his face back underwater and blows some bubbles, loving the feeling of having semi-clean skin for the first time in far too long.

Grian hears the bubbles. Curiosity gets him to crack one eye open, only to see it's just Scar being silly. Unbridled, a laughter spills from him and— He's laughed before, sure. Here and there, they’ve had their moments. But never before has his laughter felt so light in this world. Unburdened.

Scar’s ears flick attentively and he pokes his head back out to share a grin— practically beaming at Grian due to the delightful sound. It’s a genuine Grian giggle and Scar is loving it. It rings like victory, dancing across the air. Scar feels like he’s won a tiny battle. (And it’s a much-needed win at that.) 

“Seriously,” Scar says, smile still pressing at the edges of his cheeks. “Dunk your head in— it feels amazing.”

The idea doesn't seem as daunting as before. Encouraged by Scar's delighted grin, Grian can't help but wish to oblige.

His wings flutter a little, and then he's tilting himself, taking a breath. No more warning is given before he fully submerges his head.

The water rushes around him, muffling the world instantly. It's warm all around him.

Just like Scar before, Grian also brings his arms to rub at his hair, reveling in the feeling until he needs to come up for air. He pushes his now-wet hair out of his face and blinks, before he settles with twinkling eyes set on scar, a wild grin on his lips. "I did it!" And he finds that he wants to do it again.

“Isn’t our hair disgusting?” Scar says, laughing and smiling like that’s somehow a good thing. 

"It’s sooo gross," Grian agrees with a laugh. He drifts closer, reaching out to run his fingers into Scar's wet hair and rub at his scalp, wanting him to feel nice.

Scar makes an approving, happy hum and leans into the touch. “And you’d touch the gross hair? Wow, you must like me or something. How embarrassing,” Scar croons, grinning with all his teeth as he pesters Grian.

A growling noise rolls out of grian, but it sounds wrong, soft and unthreatening. He grins right back, and he moves closer, gaze flicking to Scar's lips. "Yeah. I guess I do like you. Or something." And then he presses on Scar, pouncing to use his own weight to push Scar under water. "But you should really wash them some more," he notes playfully with a laugh.

Scar barks out a half-yelp half-laugh as he’s submerged, bubbles rising to the surface until the noise escapes the watery prison when he comes back up. ”Wow,” Scar grumbles, absolutely no bite to his bark. “And here I was being so nice.”

Completely unphased by Scar's grumble, Grian cackles. And then he leans forward, hands settling on the sides of Scar's jaw as both of them drip water. 

Grian's eyes close and he kisses Scar.

“Oh,” Scar’s mouth barely forms the words before he’s pressing closer, greedily kissing back. There’s a bit of whiplash from going from being dunked under to being kissed, but it’s a pleasant sort of ride, the kind of dizzying back and forth he would have always expected from Grian. Part of the reason he was always so drawn in.

Bouncing lightly in the water, Grian breaks the kiss only to press a laugh against the corner of Scar's mouth. He's holding onto him, fingers finding their way back into Scar's wet hair. His feathers trail ripples behind him. "Do you want to help me wash my hair?" he ends up asking, sounding so very hopeful and impulsive, eyes alight as he peers up to meet Scar's gaze.

“Yes!” Scar exclaims, instant. Because he really does want to. 

Grian's expression brightens and softens simultaneously at Scar's quick agreement. Eager excitement settles abuzz under his skin, oddly fitting alongside the newfound looseness of his muscles. 

Scar removes one of his supporting hands first, testing if Grian isn’t still melting into the water too much to handle it without them.

Grian shifts to readjust, to carry his own weight and stay floating. He gives Scar a small nod. "Floating raisin-in-training," he reassures, wildness tipping into an almost timid grin.

Scar snickers, highly amused by the continued bit. "I'm very impressed with the raisin's progress," he teases as he removes his other hand, allowing Grian to wade freely. "I wish we had soap. I still don't understand how to make soap." It's a mournful statement, but Scar manages to keep his tone light, as if it's a joke and not a genuine problem. He opens both palms and wiggles his fingers in a goofy invitation, letting Grian lead the way on how he wants to do this.

Grian doesn't, in fact, know how to do this. He just knows he wants Scar's fingers rub at his scalp and brush through his hair and he wants it all to be nice and good. (He wonders if his hair will be fluffy when it dries. Fluffy hair and somewhat clean skin. A luxury.) (He wonders how will Scar look at him, then.) "Should I... turn my back to you?" he wonders.

But turning his back carries many things with it. (Namely his wings.)

Scar’s eyes flick to the sprawled out feathers—a lightning-fast glance, trying not to be noticed—before he hums in thought. He doesn’t want Grian to have to reel his wings back in. He likes that Grian is finally relaxing them like this, having them splayed out without care. 

So instead, he tries to say that this is good. That he likes facing Grian and looking at him. He steals a kiss, quick and gentle, drawing Grian’s attention away from any implications turning around might have.

Grian lets Scar's affection easily distract him; for once, he's not hyper-aware and hyper-vigilant about his wings, and so the warning thought dissipates before it even has a chance to form properly, everything in him instead paying attention to Scar's adoration and the promise of getting his hair washed. He giggles quietly into the kiss at Scar's exclamations. "Alright. All yours." 

Scar’s heart swells at all yours, the words satisfying something small yet primal deep inside his chest. 

But as it turns out, Grian floating in the water on his belly really isn’t a position suitable for hair washing. They fumble, Scar trying to throw out some pointless, dead-end suggestions, staying lighthearted even as it’s becoming clear that there’s no way around this.

Grian hums, glancing at his wings—the top feathers are still dry, as his wings float the inner-side down. The seeping warmth from the water keeps them relaxed and feeling good, and Grian doesn't even realise he's considering them without the usually instant flare up of anxiety.

"Let me try something," he murmurs, an edge of experimental pensiveness to his tone. He pushes himself away from Scar, using him solely for momentum, so he wouldn't have to wade to get more space. He spins, water rippling, feathers gliding across it.

He doesn't make enough space. His primaries almost brush against Scar.

Scar flinches back to avoid the wings, shocked by the casual nature in which Grian is currently treating them. He’s relieved, certainly, but slightly nervous as well. “You better not be trying to escape, you have a good fifty-some minutes of relaxation left, mister.”

Grian glances over his shoulder, chuckling at him, but doesn't deign to answer. He's climbing to the shallower part again; his wings are heavy, dragging him down as he fights them and flaps them around, sending droplets through the air. He curls them, bringing them forward, and with a squinted focus, slowly lowers them back down.

The water turns murky again in an instant, as the backs of grian's wings hit water. He almost slips off the perch of the platform as a wave of weakness rushes through him at how good the warm water feels on those spots. His eyes flutter shut without him intending for it, and a groan leaves his throat.

And then he's slipping off the edge back into the depths, this time purposefully. his wings are spread around him, messy and wet and wide, and—

He semi-floats on his back, his hair now dipped in water. It feels so insanely relaxing—a word he was forgetting even exists; he lets out a dazed hum, eyes still closed, temporarily forgetting his mission is to get back to scar.

Scar chuckles quietly to himself, trying to shield the sound with the back of his hand. He’s able to ignore the distress the muddied water caused him last time, too enthralled by the wide span of Grian’s wings, which he hasn’t seen in so long. 

 Even dirtied and drenched in water, they’re beautiful.

“Should I leave you alone with the water for a bit—?” Scar teases after another moment of admiring Grian. “Would hate to interrupt.” 

Despite saying that, his hands itch to touch. They twitch and he hides them underwater, remaining patient.

"Mmmm." Grian lets the water gently push him around, and he keeps his eyes closed for a while, staying silent after Scar's question. But then he remembers: he's going to get his hair washed. Scar's fingers are going to press and rub against his scalp and—

"Please do interrupt," he begs, dark eyes dazedly finding Scar.

“If you insist,” Scar says like he’s not equally as antsy. He approaches with caution, careful to wade between any scattered feathers, then wiggles his fingers on either side of Grian’s head. “Any requests? Gentle? Deep tissue massage? Kisses or no kisses?” He hovers over Grian’s head as he asks, grinning.

Grian peers up at Scar, upside-down, and even though he appreciates Scar’s silliness and him offering choices, decision-making feels a bit overwhelming right now. 

And yet as soon as he catches sight of Scar, he can’t help but tilt his head more, desiring more closeness. His hair submerges, obliging towards the task at hand, but there’s far more than that in the simple gesture: Grian’s throat is bare (so is the rest of him, to be fair) (exposed wings included), and there’s something eager about the way his lips fall slightly apart. “Kisses. Definitely kisses.”

Without hesitation, Scar leans down, smiling. “Oh excellent, that was my recommendation anyway!” He plants a kiss on Grian’s forehead to start, just a taste of what he’s offering, then threads his fingers into Grian’s flowing hair underwater, keeping his touch tentative for the time being.

Grian hums, both at the kiss and at the touch, a sound that reverbs in his throat. His wings spread a little more. He’s feeling pleasant and pleased, edging that state of melting into everything.

Scar starts by running his fingers through Grian’s hair, mapping out the territory and smoothing out his locks to make it easier for the proper cleaning. 

Helpless to stop it, Grian finds his eyes falling shut again. Everything's so pleasant and lulling, he can almost imagine falling asleep here. (He's certainly tired enough for it, the dark bruising under his eyes speaking volumes about that.) He wants Scar to keep touching him, to keep brushing his fingers through his hair, to— to be here, in this, with him.

“Good?” Scar checks even though he knows the answer, his fingers still gentle; he wants to hear Grian say it, confirm that this is happening, that this moment is real amidst this server of hostility and cruelty.

“Good,” Grian purrs mindlessly.

Scar slowly adds more pressure, lightly scratching at Grian's scalp for maximum effect, trying to provide as much relief as he can. 

Grian lets out little noises—sleep-laced, groggy little things—as he melts against every Scar's touch. He wants to tell him how really, really good it feels, but he can't find coherent enough words, nor make his vocal cords work. He just floats, in more ways than one. "'m sleep," he murmurs, as a warning. 

He wants to look up at Scar, but his eyelids are heavy, his body gently bobbing in water that keeps him warm and relaxed. Scar continues effortlessly lacing his fingers through curls and working small bundles of hair through his fingertips to loosen any pesky dirt that's made home there, finding almost as much pleasure in this little routine as Grian does.

"Gosh, making it my job to keep you from drowning?" Scar scolds lightheartedly with absolutely no disdain. Truthfully, the wings might be working as enough of a feather floatie for Grian anyway, but Scar doesn't mind making up for where they slack. 

"Mmmmhm," Grian confirms. His muscles are so lax. He forgot this was even possible. He hasn't felt pleasantly sleepy in so long—so many horrible dreams and endless fears and never-ending tension. This hot spring is tempting him to succumb to everything it offers, and Scar's hands are breaking the last of his resistance. "Won't let me..." he trails off, meaning to say won't let me drown. The sentense stays broken, sinking out of Grian's reach. "Trust," he murmurs, barely audible, word slurred with sleep.

Scar's about to ask who won't let him sleep, but understands that's not what's being said after he continues listening. He smiles. "Of course not," he confirms, lightly scratching behind Grian's earwings, a spot he himself took great relief from.

The scratch behind Grian's earwings sends something in him skittering and haywire in the best of ways. He chirps through the haze of sleep, unable to catch himself. His earwings flutter against the water, sending a small spray of droplets around them, but they settle back down quickly enough, limp like the rest of him. A drawn-out coo is coaxed from Grian's throat as he blindly tilts his head further into it, chasing the pleasant touch. 

There's no tension to Grian’s expression, no fear marring the space between his brows.

It feels like a dream, if this world ever knew such a thing as good dreams.

Scar chews at his lip, swallowing down all the comments we wants to make about how adorable Grian is all relaxed and bird-brained. He's not so sure Grian is sleepy enough to resist groaning and quipping back at that, so he resists, wanting him to continue drifting. 

He directs his fingertips over Grian's temple and to the top of his forehead, grazing his nails over the skin as gently as he can and massaging into the base of his hair. And he lingers. Keeps rubbing circles and tracing across Grian's hairline, taking his fine time as if he intended to clean each individual strand.

The way Scar is touching him would make Grian go positively insane if it wouldn't turn him into an incoherent puddle first. He hums, quiet, the sound barely there, edging dreamy delirium under Scar's attentive guidance. 

He really does feel himself drifting, sleep latching on and consciousness waning. The combination of stacked-up tiredness and the wholly complete relaxation are taking him over and, before he even fully realises what's happening, he's completely limp, breath evening out. 

He dips a little in the water, but stays mostly afloat anyway. Scar preemptively lifts one knee to catch Grian if his body starts to dip too far underwater, but he seems steady enough for the time being. 

Content with his successful attempt to get Grian to relax, Scar goes for softer motions, just enough to keep the flow of pleasant sensations going without doing anything that could wake his sleeping bird. 

After a minute or so, Scar sneaks a proper glance at Grian’s splayed out wings, how they fill the water around them with dirt and smaller pieces of debris. He has to resist plucking a twig from a close-by cluster of feathers, praying the water will do it for him. He settles for what he can do for now, not willing to abuse the trust Grian is offering him here by pushing his luck.

He hums a soothing, soft melody as he works, filling the space as he gets Grian’s hair clean, hoping to keep the avian’s sleep relaxed and nice. Without nightmares, for once. Warm and safe and spoiled. 

Such strange concept for this world.

And yet even those things can exist here.

Scar watches his sleeping bird and he thinks that maybe there’s hope for them still after all.

[findafight]

Au idea I'll probably never write:

Steve as seven au, BUT he escapes at the same time as El in season 1. They get separated after Benny's, when seven tells eleven to run and definitely kills a couple government agents to give her more time.

So the a plot of will being missing and Mike finding El? Standard canon except El is ALSO looking for her brother and is worried about him. She sees that he's mostly safe and tries to help find will but also insists she go to her brother soon.

B plot of barb and Nancy...idk I haven't really thought about how that'd work without Steve's kickback. Maybe they go to a party (like actual party not the five person hangout) together and get separated and no one notices barb disappear from the edge of the lawn. Idk

The C plot is seven, kinda bloody and definitely cold, wandering out into the middle of the street, and one Robin Buckley almost running him over with her bike. She immediately clocks "guy who seems pretty fucked up" about him, and offers him a ride to her house. But Robin has never been the most coordinated of people and biking with a(admittedly probably too skinny) teenage boy sitting in her package rack is hard, and combine that with a guy driving like the devil's after him, they end up swerving of the road.

Eddie steps out, apologizes profusely, and offers them a ride. seven is sceptical, especially when both of them pause when he tells them his name, but does end up in the van. He finally gets a chance to breathe once they get to the Buckleys', and Robin gets him some leftovers.

He sits in front of the tv set to a blank station, tucks his head into his shirt instead of blindfolds, and tries to see El.

He sees her older, with flowers braided through long hair, laughing. Too far. He sees her with short curls, a patterned button down, eating something in a cone beside a mustachioed man. Too far again. He sees her tiny, scared, holding his own small hand. Not far enough.

Finally, finally, he sees her as she knows her now, mostly, standing beside a group of children and in front of a monster in a large room.

Eddie and Robin have no idea why their new friend? Has turned the tv on to static and is hiding in his shirt, but figure he's had a rough day. He pops his head back out, blood dripping from his nose, and grins, telling them he knows where his sister will be.

Anyways blah blah blah El sees where people ARE Steve sees where people have been/will be (based on where/who they are right now. Futura is constantly in motion etc).

Idk season 2 would happen very similar as canon minus stancy break up (they never date and are just friends) (also Steve tells Robin and Eddie he and El are safe and they pass it on to the kids) El finds Kali, Steve fights demodogs, etc etc.

But I want a (pre?) season 3 scene where Robin and Steve are hanging out as soulmates do, door closed because they are discussing Sensitive Subjects (gay shit) and giggling like schoolgirls. Hopper, in all his disappointed dad glory, opens the door and starts in on a rant about keeping the door open three inches.

Steve, bitch that he is, just tilts his head to the side and says "but that is for when we are with people we date. I am not dating Robin."

Hopper, not yet picking up what's happening, sighs. "Kid. It's about propriety. You can't be alone with Robin, because what if you do start dating. Then it's. You have to set an example for El!"(it would be a nice move bringing up Older Brother Responsibility, except...well.)

"but we aren't. I am dating someone else?"

"still need the door open three inches, pal. When El is home, at least"(El is almost always home)

"we do! And you complain about the loud music!"

"wait. Who are you dating? I thought Nancy was dating Jonathan still. She barely comes over." Hopper please pick up what Steve is putting down oh my god.

(hop has forgotten Robin is there and she is trying very hard not to make noise but Steve keeps meeting her eye sometimes because dear god. truly an iconic moment in friendship history.)

"yeah obviously. Eddie comes over all the time, though."

"what does Ed- oooh. Ah. I see. That's why you keep the door open even though he complains."

Steve nods like Hopper is the dumbest man on the planet. He might just be. "Yes. Because you said El had to and she asked why I didn't have to so then I started to leave it open when Eddie was over. At least Eddie doesn't laugh at you to your face"

"Eddie laughs behind my back?"

"he said you didn't know we were dating but I told him of course you knew, the door is open three inches."

Hopper clasps Steve's shoulders and looks him in the eye. "Steve, I need you to keep telling him that. And not mention this very awkward conversation we had."

"because he was right."

"he doesn't need to know that."

That's all I got lmao (also check the tag ramble I added lol)

[crazy-fangirl2524]

Seeing people reacting to tsc and them getting shock over things I thought was obvious and I was getting annoyed until I realised maybe not everyone reread aftg like a million times and have read most of the analytical posts and yeah maybe I am the problem instead

[danny-chase]

Anyways petitioning DC to let Steph, Cass, and Duke interact with Dick and have fully fledged crossovers with him like the others do instead of just throwing them in the background of some big batfam crossover together... also the amount of people that think the fanon version astounds me with the sheer amount of comics showing Dick being a good brother to Tim and Jason exists 😩

[opal-owl-flight]

Someone has to tell her so I guess i will, 8 I get you were mad and are tired of violence but insulting captain for being quite doesn't help and 4 just got over hateing herself, you kind of knocked that recovery down a few notches. You're normally rational

“Captain has twice allowed someone to completely insult or punish them without even attempting to show rank. Ive seen how much they beat themself up over whats said or done to them. Dont you think Im tired of seeing that too? If I dont tell them to be more assertive, this will just keep on happening. Things will continue to spiral. Everyone will fall apart easier and easier.

And Four?

She made promises to me. To never do what she did to the Captain again, and to help me feel safe in this new world.

So forgive me for being disappointed over broken promises.”

[elizakai]

Will it bother you if i ever want to spam like or reblog things ?? Some people hate that from what i’ve heard<

-🪆

whaaaaat :< of course i don’t hate it!!!

I think it’s really cute 🥹🌸 °o .*•.

[plasky]

I just had a really dumb character idea

So you know how there's like mimics n stuff to which they transform/mimic and object/thing/person

I then also thought of a cuckoo bird and how it inacts brood parasitism

What if let's say this was translated to a sort of mimic thing where the mimic leaves their child to some random family and the child shifts to look like they belonged to that family although still looking more off/off-putting

The mimic child then causes "accidents" to the rest of the children in the family leaving only them in the end to have all the food and everything they need for themself to live

[daisychainsandbowties]

thinking a normal amount about a treasure planet au. Beatrice on her solar kiteboard, doing the daredevil flip sequence framed against the setting sun and then getting hauled kicking and screaming back to her parents’ house in manacles with a defiant expression on her perpetually dirt-smudged face.

climbing out the window at the first opportunity to go down to the dockside inn, making nebulous plans to steal her kiteboard back but ending up down at the edge of the dock staring past her boots and into the mists. gripping tight to the wood beneath her as she looks up at the sky and dreams of anywhere but here, of stealing a skiff to get off this planet. a reluctant twinge at the thought of going alone.

Bea with all her star maps and her intricate knowledge of spaceships and their solar sails and how to navigate out there where the artigrav net is all that stands between you and floating through nothing, forever.

startling when she hears the familiar sound of someone booking it down the pier on wooden crutches. night has already started to speckle the sky above, and as she listens to the thunk of the crutches on the pier, Bea thinks of the complicated metallic lattice she has on her desk at home, partly disassembled because she’s still trying to work out parts of the engineering. Ava’s birthday is in a month.

she has to stay that long, and then she’ll leave. she will.

turning to watch as Ava races towards her with soup stains on her shirt and messy hair jammed flat beneath a ‘pirate’ hat she bought off of a traveling salesman last year. the tricorn wobbles precariously on her head as she moves. Beatrice just waits, a slight smile on her face.

there are bruises high on each of her arms, from the pincer-like grip of the police bots, manhandling her away from her kiteboard to snap manacles around each wrist.

she rubs at the skin there, but ignores the bruises.

when Ava arrives, a little out of breath, Beatrice holds up a hand so she can help herself down onto the pier. there’s no water beneath them, only a few hundred meters of empty air and curling mist.

Ava keeps one hand on Bea’s and the other on her shoulder, letting the crutches clatter down between them as she sits.

“Mom says you got arrested again,” Ava says cheerfully. “She says they’re threatening to send you to prison.”

Beatrice shrugs, “I wouldn’t mind it, so long as my parents did not visit.”

Ava’s fingers are covered in bright red band-aids, from chopping vegetables all day with her poor hand dexterity. Beatrice watches the colours blur as Ava punches her in the arm, right on the bruises. “Liar, I know you’d miss me.”

her arm throbs painfully, but Beatrice’s expression is carefully neutral as she responds. 

“I might.”

she stays with Ava that night, both of them reading her old book with its floating images of ships and canons and pirates leaping from vessel to vessel. Captain Flint, materialising out of empty space to steal away gems and gold, “the loot of a thousand worlds.” Ava traces the projected lines of the solar sails with her fingers as they flicker into being. 

Beatrice has repaired the book over and over, making the colours brighter and sharper. the tiny shapes of pirates all made up of light. Ava has the book open on Bea’s chest as she lies next to her, legs all entangled in the sheets they’ve kicked off because the night is so warm.

she seems oblivious to how Beatrice’s breath hitches at almost every touch.

they’re almost asleep when they hear the explosion, a ship crashing into the cliff-side, tumbling over and over before they hear the pop and hiss of heated metal. a bloom of smoke outside the window.

Beatrice gives Ava a piggyback ride down the stairs just before Ava’s ‘mom’, Suzanne, emerges with her pulse-rifle primed, hair loose around her shoulders.

they stumble into the yard and discover a pirate, a robot, still bleeding from a wound in his abdomen, crawling from the wreck of his ship. Beatrice heaves a shard of twisted metal away from him and finds the surface slippery with blood.

behind her, Ava sways a little, shivers in the cold air, but she’s still standing when Beatrice turns back to her.

the dying pirate tells them almost nothing useful. he’s half-mad, cluching at Beatrice’s shirt until the seams tear at the collar, then turning to Ava. he fetches out a lockbox from his ship, blood spilling onto the ground at the movement. unlocks it and takes odd sphere from inside.

it drops into Ava’s palm as he rasps, “Whatever you do, don’t let them find it.”

then he wheezes, shudders, stills.

they stare at him, Ava’s free hand finding Bea’s, holding tight.

“Is he… dead?” Ava’s voice in the silence and the dark.

“I think so.”

then, in a burst of light and sound, in a shockwave of displaced air, a ship plummets down out of the clouds, pulling up an instant from the ground.

this second ship looms down out of the sky, pirates dropping from it and suddenly Suzanne is screaming at them to “GET INSIDE” from an upstairs window as she takes potshots at the misshapen shapes swarming down lines of hempen rope.

the air lights up with orange and yellow as explosions ripple down towards the crashed ship, towards the inn. Bea flings one of Ava’s arms around her neck and sprints for the door, Ava holding the sphere (or map?) tightly against her chest.

she sets Ava down gently onto one of the bar stools, runs back to barricade the door. her face is flushed, streaked somehow with engine grease and robot blood, which is black and slightly acidic. 

they exchange a wide-eyed look, too much meaning in it to parse as explosions rock the floor. Ava has both hands clutched around the sphere. 

they both almost scream as Suzanne runs down the stairs in a blur of dressing gown and gun. she has Ava’s crutches in one hand and her rifle in the other. she kisses Ava quickly on the forehead, “Thank the tides you’re safe.” leaves her with the crutches and then goes to fetch an ancient-looking blaster pistol out from behind the bar, presses it into Beatrice’s hands. “You know how to use this?”

“No!”

“Aim it away from your own face.”

and then there are pirates all around the house, glass breaking and fire crackling. Beatrice takes up the rear, pistol pointed at the front door as it bulges under the pressure of pirates flinging their bulk into it again and again. 

they climb out of a window, Suzanne producing a kitchen knife and jamming it into the neck of a pirate loitering uncertainly outside the bolted shutters. there, covered by a tarp, is Suzanne’s old motorcycle with a sidecar attached. lantern-bugs scatter out from under it as Suzanne throws the old tarp away, gestures for Beatrice and Ava to climb in as she covers them with her rifle.

there’s a roar from somewhere in the dark and Suzanne fires a shot, hops onto the motorcycle and revs the engine. then they’re moving, pirates parting before them like the ocean neither of them have ever seen, the vast bodies of water that don’t even exist on this planet.

they seek refuge with Jillian, an archaeologist who frequents the old inn, claiming that she can’t make her coffee taste of anything but soap. she examines the orb, reluctantly passed into her hands by Ava, her and Bea wrapped in an old blanket, sitting by the fire in Jillian’s immense study.

Jillian fiddles with it for an age before sighing, looking almost angry with herself.

“I can’t… seem to make this work.”  

Ava holds out her hand, silent. “let me try,” and Beatrice makes a face at Jillian when she hesitates.

the pirate gave the sphere to Ava; it’s hers. 

it seems much larger in Ava’s small grip. she looks down at it for a while before her fingers start to move, slow but gathering momentum as she presses the little grooves and switches and indents on the sphere. 

until it lights up, showing a map of the known universe, and parts of it that are unknown.

“Is that-” Beatrice feels her words drop away, like the ground beneath the pier where she has passed so many hours sitting with Ava’s hand in hers.

Ava turns to Beatrice, eyes bright as a pair of stars, “It’s treasure planet.”

[dingbatnix]

Deity

Rest (part 2)

I was vibin hard with some DreamXD is actually Dream, so this kinda just spawned :D

It was supposed to be shorter, but somehow it just...exploded into a very long word monster.

Anyway, have some sketchy reference art for Dream and Karl’s god forms. (pending till when I feel like it ;D)

Oh yeah thanks to @local-squishmallow for proofreading! : )

Word Count: 8,164

Warnings: Alludations to Fatal Vore, Fearplay, Ect. Pretty mild on the violence this time, actually :D

Also, y’know, my autocorrect says that ‘alludations’ isn’t a word. But it also says ‘vore’ isn’t a word, so screw grammar, I make my own words and rules >:}

Dream was trapped in an incredibly boring gathering. Again. For what seemed to be the millionth time for this century, and it was starting to get on his nerves. Dream hated gatherings. Now, don’t get him wrong, he was a people person, and he actually liked catching up with old friends and meeting the newly-formed gods and goddesses, but in a gathering like this, everything was too formal. He didn’t want to be stuck in a stiff, fancy environment with little to no humor and no fun. He couldn’t even crack a joke without breaking some social rule or something equally stupid.

Now, as both the God of the End and the Overworld, he was one of the most powerful gods to exist (below the Gods of Prime, of course.) As such, it was his duty to keep the peace between the others by hosting such events, but Prime, if it wasn't the most dry, soul-sucking kind of event he'd ever had to participate in. He couldn’t even chat with any of his friends because he was stuck at the head of the room in a gilded seat in case anybody needed to speak to him, or if any of the new godlings needed to meet him. It was so boring.

If he could, he’d ditch the gathering and go hang out with the two mortals he had recently befriended, but for one, the Gods of Prime would chew him out for ‘abandoning his ever-so-important post’ at such an big event, and two, if they found out he was in contact with mortals, the humans would be killed, and he would be stripped of his powers and position for interacting with them.

He stretched his secondary pair of wings out absently, iridescent white feathers glittering beautifully in the amber light of the magicked sconces. A few appreciative humms purred through the room, but he didn't much care for what the others thought of his wings. He would love to be flying right now, or even sprinting through the trees in the overworld, but no, he had to stay here and look important. He held down an irritated scoff and leaned back in his fancy, slightly uncomfortable, seat.

One of the other gods, (and Dream knew their name, he definitely did, absolutely) sidled up to his side and snapped their fingers, a small, fancy cage appearing in the air next to them. Dream perked up a little at the sight, knowing what it meant. Usually, whenever this particular god approached someone (they were a courier of sorts, for between the worlds), it meant that the mortals of the overworld or netherworld had sacrificed an animal or another mortal in that god's name.

Dream’s currently nonexistent mouth watered. Sacrifices and offerings, particularly human sacrifices and offerings, were delicious. There wasn’t another taste quite like it, at least, not that anybody had found. Dream greeted the other god warmly and leaned forward in his seat.

"You've been given two mortal sacrifices, End." They murmured, letting the small enclosure drift into two of Dream’s awaiting hands. He quietly thanked the god, who nodded and moved away, then looked down through the bars to inspect the two mortals that he had been offered. Being the God of the Overworld and the End did have its benefits, he supposed.

And there, smack dab in the center of the cage, cowering down against one another, were the two human mortals Dream had befriended. His stomach dropped, and if he didn’t have such an excellent grasp over his appearance, his body would have fizzled out in shock.

They were terrified, that much he could tell from how they were pressed up against each other, tiny eyes darting from the large, gilded gathering hall around them to the mingling mass of inhumanely-shaped gods to Dream himself. The dual-colored eyes of the older mortal, George, the one Dream often gave pretty gifts and anything else he asked for, eyed him suspiciously. The one with dark hair and fiery bright irises, Sapnap, who Dream enjoyed fighting and competing with, glared at everything, a dark, angry scowl plastered over his fanged lips. Their hands were twined together, and they had their backs pressed against one another in a horribly defensive position.

The probability that they knew why they were there was very, very unlikely, as the language of the gods, the one they had all been speaking, was indecipherable to mortals. The most they probably knew was that they had been left at an altar, and were then brought to someplace that was too bright, stuffed in a cage, and given to some random giant creature.

The two wouldn't recognize Dream, of course, not when he was in his true body. The size, for one, would make it impossible for him to be the Dream they knew. The true forms of the gods were always massive in comparison to humans and mortal creatures. It was a difference that Dream had never truly thought about until just now, when he was presently aware of how tiny his two human friends were compared to himself. His fingers were longer than they were tall.

Then the white mask over his face, one with an 'XD' marked delicately onto the surface. It was a small shorthand for who he was, as the End and Overworld god, though the distinction was hardly needed. Anyone who could feel his aura would know who he was. The mask was similar to the one he wore in his human body, but there was no way they would know it was him. That, plus the dual halos that orbited over his head to form a spherical 'X.'

The four arms his body hosted, two to each of his shoulders, separated him further from the supposed ‘mortal’ they knew, and the six great white wings that sprouted out from his shoulder blades, an eye of ender floating near the wrist of each, threw that distinction even further.

Dream had always taken his human form when he visited them out in the overworld, unwilling to reveal his godly status to them lest they grow afraid and leave him, and to shield his own actions from the Gods of Prime. He didn’t want word of his mortal interaction to get back to them, lest he be cast out and his two friends killed.

It was customary to consume human sacrifices when you received them, but Dream didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to kill his two human friends! He valued them too much, he was too close to them. He liked hanging out with them and joking with them, and he liked doing the little chase game the three of them had devised, the one they dubbed ‘Manhunts.’

Dream fluffed up the primary pair of his wings, expertly hiding his discomfort, and frowned. He didn’t want to lose that relationship. Not even to have the ambrosiac treat of a mortal.

There was, of course, a way he could safely consume them, but…but that would be terrifying for them. As a God who had the ability to shapeshift, he could do whatever he wanted with his current body. That meant he could form a safe little pocket within himself, to store them for an indefinite amount of time. The best way to get them there, though, would be to act as though he was actually going to eat them, and he didn’t want to be the cause of such fear and panic that they would surely experience.

He decided to leave the cage floating by his side, planning to discreetly release George and Sapnap back to the overworld once the gathering was over, and hoping that nobody would look too closely at the occupied cage, but not too long after he had received the ‘offerings,’ one of the other gods approached him.

The God of Time neared, eyeing the cage curiously. At least, Dream figured he was looking at the cage. Time wore a blindfold around his eyes, a cool lilac-grey that changed color depending on his emotions, that had a dark lemniscate, the symbol for infinity, stitched into the soft-looking fabric.

Dream muttered a small greeting to Time, who returned it absently. He seemed more focused on the two mortals in the cage than anything else, which worried Dream to no end. What was he wanting…?

“Are you going to…?” Time finally asked, gesturing towards the cage in an obvious question. The two tiny mortals flinched away from his hand. Dream thought fast, knowing it would seem suspicious if he outright refused to eat them.

"I'm not in the mood," He grumbled, leaning against his high-backed seat. "The last sacrifice I had gave me indigestion for days." The other god gave him a small, absent nod, fingers tangling in the multitude of chains, trinkets, and time-keeping instruments strung around his neck and shoulders.

"If you don't want them, I'll take them," the God of Time offered, hidden eyes nearly glued to the two humans as he fidgeted with his bangles and watches.

Dream immediately bristled. Oh hell no! Did he want George and Sapnap for himself? Did he want to eat them for keeps?! Dream knew that Time rarely got sacrifices, as most of the mortals didn’t see him as an actual deity. Dream could sympathize for the other god, but like hell would he give his two fragile human friends to someone else to kill.

A few of the eyes that floated about his wings swiveled to glare at Time, and Dream let a low rumble emanate from his chest. It was too quiet for anyone but himself and Time to hear, which was what Dream wanted. He didn’t need to create a spectacle over this, especially not when George and Sapnap were at risk.

"No. They weren't sacrificed to you, now were they?" Dream grouched, maybe a bit too sharply.

The God of Time averted his gaze and raised his long arms in surrender, splaying his hands out apologetically. One of the many ribbons of golden sand that flowed around his body flickered and twisted strangely under Dream's harsh gaze before stabilizing itself.

“What are you going to do with them, then?” He queried, an odd tone bleeding into his voice. He bit at his lip, seemingly nervous, and shifted his footing.

“I don’t know, feed them to the dragon or something?” Dream flared his secondary wings up in a facsimile of a shrug, feigning indifference. He wouldn’t actually feed them to the ender dragon, but it would be a good excuse for why they had suddenly disappeared, and it would back up his unwillingness to eat them.

“That’s such a waste, though!” Time exclaimed, blindfold shifting colors from lilac to a pale fuchsia. “I’ll gladly take them off your hands, End. You wouldn’t have to make the trip to see the dragon if you gave them to me.” The other god pressed, inching closer to the floating container.

Dream hooked a clawed finger through the cage bars and pulled it away from Time, slightly concerned that the other god would snatch it and bolt. He raised his tertiary wings defensively, leaning forward and staring Time down.

“What if I like visiting the dragon? She always enjoys it when I bring her gifts, and she loves the attention. What is with you, Time? You're not usually like this.” Dream snapped defensively, primary wings fluffing up to twice their size.

Time’s shoulders shrunk in, but he pressed on, strangely persistent. Dream was more than a little annoyed and concerned, now. “Please, End? I hardly ever get offerings! None of the mortals really believe in me,” he pushed, seemingly more desperate. Dream brought one of his tertiary wings between them, and, more importantly, between the other god and the two mortals, growing slightly uncomfortable at the God of Time’s intensity.

He realized that Time probably wouldn’t give up on pestering him for the two mortals anytime soon. With a small internal sigh, he came to the conclusion that he would have to take care of the problem in the best way he could think of; ‘eating’ Sapnap and George. Maybe then Time would get off his back about it.

“Actually,” Dream said slowly, tugging the cage in front of him and further away from the other god. “I think I will eat them. I suddenly have an appetite.” The color of Time’s blindfold drained to a pale greenish-yellow, and his fingers tightened in his pendant chains. He tried to protest, but Dream ignored him in favor of focusing on his two mortal friends.

He'd have to do Sapnap first, and get him over with. The fireborn-mortal would fight the most, and probably be the most difficult to get down.

Dream let a jagged black maw form and split the lower half of his mask, testing it a few times by opening and closing his jaw. He didn’t form any teeth, as he didn’t want to accidentally bite either of his fragile friends, but he did shape a soft, pliant tongue, to make the landing into his mouth not as harsh, and allowed saliva to pool over and underneath it so that he could slicken them up and make the journey down easier on all of them. For the faux stomach, he simply opened up a small pocket of flesh between his lungs, just below his heart, and attached it to his esophagus via a small opening near the top of this new space. He supplied air through small connections to his lungs, knowing that his two mortal friends couldn't last as long as he could without breathing.

Fake stomach prepared, he braced the cage with two of his hands and reached into it with a third hand, intent on grabbing the dark-haired human. The bars yielded to his touch, automatically bending around his wrist as he stuck his hand through them.

He moved quickly, surrounding Sapnap in his fist before the tiny mortal could scramble away, pulling him from George’s desperately grabbing hands, and lifting him from the solid metal floor, then up through the bars, out of the cage.

Dream did his best to ignore both of their cries of fear, as well as Time's strangled gasp, as he lightly tossed Sapnap into his newly-formed mouth and closed it. The tiny mortal cursed, shoving at the roof of Dream’s mouth and kicking violently at his tongue. He held his wince and squashed the human against the roof of his mouth, soaking his clothes in saliva. He then pushed Sapnap to the entrance of his throat and swallowed, ignoring the clawed fingers that drew blood and the furious shriek Sapnap let loose.

The sound of tiny screaming drew a few curious glances from the other gods, but they soon looked away. The consuming of mortal sacrifices was normal for them all, so the screeching humans were nothing interesting to watch.

As Sapnap slid down to the safe stomach, Dream turned his gaze down to his brunette friend. George had actual tears in his eyes, and his breath was coming in such short, harsh pants that it was a small miracle that he hadn’t passed out already. Dream felt a pang of regret ring through his chest, but he pushed it down. He had already made his decision. It would look incredibly suspicious if he backed out now.

Holding back another sigh, he stuck his hand back through the cage bars and moved to grab the little mortal. George pressed against the bars of the cage, chest heaving, then tried to lunge underneath Dream's clawed hand as it approached. Instinctively, Dream slapped his hand down on top of the human, slamming him to the floor of the cage and trapping him underneath his palm. Dream winced at George's strangled cry of pain, and resolved to apologize for that later. As well as for everything else. Profusely.

Carefully, he scooped the struggling man up and pressed him between his fingers and palm, negating his struggling. “Fuck off, you monster!” George screeched as Dream brought him out of the cage. The spoken English was a jarring difference from the language spoken in the godly realm, and usually Dream enjoyed hearing it. Now, though? It hurt.

Gently, he shoved the now definitely crying, cursing mortal into his mouth and closed it. Dream ignored the saltine taste of the human’s tears as he ran his tongue over George’s body, and when he finally swallowed, it was a relief to no longer have to endure the flavor of his fear and anguish.

They both tasted amazing, aside from the fact that it was his two closest friends he was eating. Of course, mortals always were like the sweetest ambrosia, and usually Dream really would enjoy it. Not now though. Not this time, not when it was George and Sapnap. He held back a shudder and straightened his shoulders. Now he just needed to wait for the end of the gathering, so that he could explain everything and let them go.

Through everything, Time's gaze never left him. He couldn’t see the other god’s eyes, but something about his aura felt desperate, felt heart-broken. Dream forced himself to brush it off. If Time wanted human sacrifices that bad, he could work harder to make himself known to the mortals. These two, he could not have.

Dream could hear them crying from inside of him, and though the sound never left his body, it haunted him. It tore at his heart, and he wanted to reassure them so badly, but he couldn’t. If any of the other gods knew that he was friends with mortals…

Something sharp spiked into his flesh from the inside, but the wound healed almost immediately. Dream held his winces, and eventually, the two mortals gave up and stopped stabbing at his guts.

Eventually, Time wandered away, a sickening green wash coloring his blindfold. Dream didn’t watch him for too long after he left. He was more focused on the no-longer struggling contents of his gut. They were scared, that was for certain, but maybe it had been long enough that they had realized they weren’t going to die?

Death shot him a knowing look near the end of the gathering. Dream held back a wince. Of course she'd know that he didn't actually eat the two mortals...their lives were her domain, after all.

He raised his primary set of wings at her, daring her to say anything, but she only quirked her lips in a serene smile and turned away. Uncertainly, Dream folded his wings back down and settled back into his chair. Death wasn’t one to call someone out on something, and she was actually quite nice. Maybe she wouldn’t report him to the Prime Gods? He hoped not. He’d have to talk to her when he next got the chance, as soon as he could. He didn’t want to risk anything, even if she didn’t plan to turn him in for breaking one of the Gods of Prime’s laws.

After the gathering, Dream swept from the hall, regally declining any sort of accompaniment from all of his godly friends. He couldn't run through the halls of the citadel without arousing confusion and concern, but he damn sure wished he could. His two mortal friends had spent too much time already being scared for their lives, and he wanted to reassure them as soon as he could.

Before he could enter his chambers, the God of Time intercepted him, stepping out from behind one of the thick, decorative sconces that bordered the door. Dream stopped, reflexively puffing up his feathers and crossing all of his arms. What did Time want now…?

Usually, he and Time were on pretty good terms. They weren't close enough to know each other’s chosen names, but they got along very well. He liked Time, but right now, his behavior was starting to freak Dream out.

"The mortals, you didn't kill them, did you?" Time blurted before Dream could say anything. Dream froze for half a second before forcing himself to look composed. How did he know…? Should he be worried? He didn’t think Time would turn him over to the Gods of Prime over such a small thing as refusing to give him his sacrifices, but…

Dream looked over Time. The other god’s shoulders were pushed out bravely, but his hands were shaking. His multitude of necklaces and pendants jingled with the movement, and his blindfold was still that same sickening shade of greenish-yellow as before. The golden streams of sand that drifted around his body, usually quite smooth and tranquil, seemed more scattered, frantic, even, and were swirling much faster than usual. His face was pale, and he couldn’t seem to stop chewing at his bottom lip.

Dream cocked his head and flared out his secondary wings. "What would make you say that?" His mind was racing, already coming up with possible excuses to toss out at the slightest hint of suspicion. If that didn’t work, he was already mapping out ways to subdue Time, maybe knock him unconscious, and after that…well, the God of Memory still owed him that favor…

"I asked Death, if–if I could have their souls back from her. She said that she didn't have them. So that means you still have them.” The other god blurted, shoulders hitching down just the slightest bit. “That means that they’re still alive…" Time’s chin dipped down briefly, and quickly rose up again. Dream realized with an unsettled jolt that the other god had glanced at his abdomen, where the two mortals currently were.

Dream froze for a moment, then mentally shook himself. He was on equal ground with Time, as they were just about the same in power, so he couldn’t just attack him straight out. He’d either have to bluff his way out of this, or distract Time long enough to catch him unawares.

"What if I do? What does it matter to you?" Dream blustered, straightening up to his full height. The fact that Time was pretty much as tall as he was gave him little pause, but he pushed past it and stared the other god down. “I already told you before, I’m not going to give them to you. They’re mine.”

The God of Time flinched back at the intensity in Dream’s voice, and he seemed internally conflicted. He opened his mouth to say something, blindfold flushing to a pale blue-green, then closed his jaw. The sand around his body fluctuated as his internal debate raged, but finally, he managed to speak.

"I–" Time wavered for a moment longer, then sighed a long, resigned sigh, hands tangling up in his clock chains again. "I know the black-haired one. I–he–. We're good fr-…acquaintances. I don't want him dead." He mumbled, casting his head down and away from Dream.

He perked up suddenly, a fierce hardness solidifying in his aura. The sands around his body condensed into more solid trails, and the color of the cloth around his eyes twisted up into a violent reddish-orange.

"I know I broke the rules, but I don't care. The Prime Gods can stuff it. I’ll even fight you over this, End, I will. Just give them to me, and I’ll leave you alone, okay?” Despite his strong words, his hands were still distinctly trembling. Between Time’s fingers, Dream could feel the unmistakable pressure of the other god’s magic coalescing. He was obviously ready for a fight, even with his visible anxiety.

Dream himself was left speechless at this new revelation. Time knew the black-haired one, knew Sapnap…? He was thrown off-balance by this information, and didn’t know how to react. That, and the fact that Time had basically just insulted the Gods of Prime! He was lucky there was no one else in the corridor. He could be excommunicated for that!

His higher thinking finally kicked up into gear. If Time already knew Sapnap…that meant that Time was in the same boat as Dream was. That meant that he could tell time of his own involvement, and, more importantly, avoid a fight while he still had his fragile mortal friends inside of him.

Dream sagged inwardly at this final thought, and made up his mind. He would, could tell Time, and this whole unfortunate mess would be resolved.

Outwardly, he showed no emotion other than his wings folding down against his back and his feathers smoothing down once more. "Come on, then," he finally said, beckoning the God of Time towards his chamber door. Time faltered, blindfold melting into a strained brown, and a befuddled twist curled over his lips. He didn’t immediately move to follow Dream, so the End God flicked a tertiary wing out and waved him forward again. “We…we have to talk, and I don’t want to do it out here.”

Cautiously, the other god followed him as he pushed open the heavy chamber door and entered his rooms proper. Dream could feel Time’s suspicious yet hopeful gaze on the backs of his wings, but he ignored it for the moment.

Once the varnished door was closed and firmly barred, Dream slumped and let all six of his wings droop down until most of his primary feathers brushed the polished floor. Normally, he wouldn't be one to let the other gods see him be anything but strong and in control, but…well. This wasn't a normal situation. Plus, he and Time were already fairly good acquaintances, so he didn’t much care.

Quietly, he flicked out a wing and cast a privacy ward over the room. No word of the upcoming conversation would ever reach any ears other than the occupants of his chambers.

Time looked at him oddly as he set up another charm to warn if someone was approaching the entrance of Dream’s chambers, but otherwise said not a word. He was waiting for Dream to speak first, it seemed.

"I know them both." Dream finally sighed, making his way to the doorway that led to his, in mortal terms, ‘living room.’ Time made a strangled, surprised noise as he followed Dream into the room. “You–ah–what? You know them?” Out of the corner of his vision, Dream saw Time’s blindfold flush up to a bright, startled yellow, and his sand seemed to poof out in a spastic burst.

“Yeah.” Dream wearily eased himself down onto one of the low-backed burgundy chesterfields surrounding a short, gilded glass table, mindful of jostling his tiny passengers, and gestured for Time to do the same. The other god sank down onto the cushions opposite of Dream, confusion still twisting up on his features.

“I…I hang out with them, in a human form, when I don’t have any duties to attend to.” He started to explain, leaning forward to clasp two of his hands together. “I thought…I thought you just wanted to actually eat them. Sorry.” He gave Time a small, apologetic smile with his still-present mouth, and waited for the other god to reply.

Time stared at him for a long moment, before letting loose a long, heavy breath. He ran a hand through his curled hair and glanced at the baroque-styled ceiling. “Ohhh, thank Prime. Thank Prime. Ohhh, you have no idea how scared I was, that you had actually…actually killed him.” He looked back at Dream, then tilted his head down towards the End God’s abdomen. “So…Sapnap’s okay? Err, they both are?” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “I’ll admit, I don’t know the other one.”

Dream nodded, straightening up a little and glancing down at where the two mortals were. “They’re both fine. I formed a separate, safe pocket of air to hold them in for the time being.” He jolted, then, at a sudden realization that flooded his body with guilt.

“They don’t know that it’s safe!” He blurted, six wings flaring up in alarm. “I…I didn’t tell them.” Time’s lips creased in concern as well, at his words, and he leaned towards Dream. “You can get them out, right? Or at least tell them?”

Dream sucked in a short breath with another nod. “Yeah, but they probably won’t trust my words. I’m gonna let them out.”

Gently, he touched at the area of the faux stomach, readying to push at it and squish its contents up, but paused. He had to prepare himself for whatever confrontation came in the next few seconds. Whatever happened, he knew it was not going to be pretty. Neither human was someone to be trifled with when they were upset.

Finally ready, he dug his fingers into his abdomen, squashing the bottom of the faux stomach flat and forcing the two small bodies up into the tube that connected to his esophagus. They cried out, startled, as Dream’s muscles tugged them upwards towards the outside world.

He closed the flesh up behind them as they rose, no longer needing the faux stomach, and not wanting them to fall back down into it.

They passed up into his throat, and slid into his mouth. One, and then two small weights rested on his tongue once more. He could feel them clinging to one another, the flavor of their desperation and fear absolutely pooling against his taste buds, and it made him feel awful.

He cupped two of his hands together and brought them up to his mouth. Very gently, he opened his jaw and slid the two trembling bodies onto his palms with his tongue. Saliva clung to his skin wherever the two mortals touched, but it was fine. He could clean everything up later.

When he lowered his hands to get a good look at them, George let loose a small cry, scrambling back in his palm and pressing up against the barrier his curled fingers made, while Sapnap lunged in front of the other man, trying to block him from Dream's view.

Dream shot a small, worried glance towards Time, then looked back down at the two soggy mortals he held in his hands. He…He was unsure of what to say, of where to start. Seeing them here, now, in the godly realm, in his hands, it really hit him, how much power he had over them, how truly insignificant they were to the grand scheme of the Prime Gods.

Dream pushed that thought away with a special kind of dislike and settled on apologizing, first and foremost.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I didn't mean to scare you guys.” He apologized, speaking in English, the most common language down in the overworld. The two of them wouldn’t understand the speech of the gods. Time leaned forward, probably trying to catch a glimpse of them, so Dream lowered his hands down even more and waited for the two mortals to say something.

At the sound of his voice, George had frozen. His bi-colored eyes were wide with shock and a large dose of fear, and his lips were slightly parted. Sapnap, meanwhile, jolted out of his frightened stupor and exploded.

“Who the fuck do you think you are–what even are you, you bastard? What kind of jackass decides it’s okay to–to fucking eat somebody?! What’s fucking wrong with you?!” Dream could feel the human’s ire in the form of heat as he snarled forward over his palms, and it was only George’s restraining hand on the fireborn’s bicep that kept him from trying to lunge for something vital on Dream’s immense body. “Fucking—why are we even here?! Let us go, before I shred you into pieces, who the fuck even are you–”

One of Time’s hands was covering his mouth. Dream couldn’t tell if he was shocked at the mortal’s outburst, or amused. From the way Time’s blindfold had shifted to a pale grey-green, he’d say surprised and worried. Dream himself didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t bother trying to shut the mortal up. Once Sapnap got started, there was no stopping him. He’d have to work himself out first, before Dream would be able to get a word in edgewise.

A thought drifted into Dream’s head, and he decided to follow it. If it could get Sapnap to stop ranting…

Without a word, Dream let his godly form start melting away. His wings shivered and sank into his back with the slightest sound of shifting of feathers, eyes of ender popping quietly out of existence, while his two free arms merged into the ones holding George and Sapnap. He let the little jewelry and bangles he wore disperse, as well as the dual halos orbiting his skull, and he even went so far as to change his long, flowing robes into the usual attire he wore in his human form. A cropped, bright green hoodie over a tight black undershirt, and baggy, tan cargo pants. Finally, the markings on his mask changed from an ‘XD” to a simple dot-eyed smiley face.

Despite the immense size his body still held, Dream looked, for all intents and purposes, human. He even used his shoulder to push his mask up to the side, finally allowing him to see the two tiny mortals eye-to-eye.

Sapnap’s rant faltered at the sudden sight before him. “—and…Dream…?” The man’s mouth went slack in shock. George, meanwhile, had tightened his grip on the other man’s arm, and had gone as white as a sheet.

“Hey,” Dream greeted hesitantly, keeping his voice low, only now realizing that speaking at full volume around their weak human ears may be a bad idea.

“What the fuck,” Sapnap hissed, stumbling away the few steps he had taken and pressing his back up against George, who wrapped an arm around Sapnap’s chest and stared agape over the fireborn’s shoulder. Dream could feel both of their heartbeats hike up significantly against his fingertips, and he winced. He didn’t know if that had helped at all, but at least it had gotten Sapnap to stop cussing him out.

“I…” He started, then paused, slowly gathering what he wanted to say. Time had leaned forward so far that he was practically on top of the glass center table so that he could see the two humans, but neither of them had noticed the other god. Their eyes were focused on Dream, and Dream alone. “I guess I have a lot of explaining to do,” he finally mumbled, glancing away to look at Time. The other god met his gaze and gave a small noise of uncertainty, one that Dream definitely felt. What did one say, when you had lied to your best friends about your humanity, and especially when the truth had come out in such a way as this? Dream didn’t know.

At the noise Time had made, George had whipped around and let out a small cry of alarm when he caught sight of the other god, tumbling away to press against the heels of Dream’s palms. He dragged Sapnap with him, who only now caught sight of how close Time was. He let loose his own startled cry and shoved George back behind himself, now facing the God of Time with a violent, apprehensive expression on his face. It made Dream feel a little better, to know that they’d rather have him at their backs instead of Time, who was their current unknown, but he knew it was only because of circumstance. He didn’t know if they’d want to associate with either of them after this.

“Who–who’s that? Who are you?” George demanded, voice shaking. His minuscule fingers tightened in Sapnap’s shirt, and Dream was hit with the distinct desire to bundle them both up against his chest and hide them both away from the world, from everything. This was awful, seeing them so terrified of everything.

“It–it’s me,” Time blurted, directing his gaze at Sapnap. The fireborn’s eyes widened, shock coloring his features once more, and his tiny hands scrambled to grasp at George’s for support.

As if just the sound of his voice wasn’t confirmation enough, Time spoke again, more insistently. “It’s Karl,” he nearly pleaded, leaning back over the table just the slightest bit. His blindfold flared to a bright, hopeful-looking blue, and he bit at his lip nervously.

Dream jolted at the sudden drop of Time’s chosen name, and watched in mild shock as Time's form twisted and wavered until a human body emerged from the shifting sands. His wavy brown hair was the same, though now adorned with thick brass goggles, and now Dream could see his eyes, a warm amber in shade, blindfold gone. The majority of his clocks and pendants were gone as well, only a small golden hourglass with a delicate chain looped around his neck. Instead of deeply violet robes, he had a cropped multicolored hoodie, much like Dream's own green one, with a dark undershirt and simple dark cargo pants. Multiple thick belts were looped around his hips, and a simple brown book bag was strapped over his chest and hanging from his side.

A strangled croaking noise escaped from Sapnap’s throat, and he dropped most of his weight against George as his legs weakened on him. Dream moved a thumb to try and help steady him, but the way both of them flinched back stilled his movement. He retracted his silent offer of support. “What the fuck,” Sapnap whispered once more, reaching up to cover his mouth with a trembling hand. George grunted in concurrence, glancing uncertainly between the looming forms of both Dream and Time–Karl? Was he allowed to call him that? Since he hadn’t expressly given Dream his chosen name? Dream didn’t know.

“What…What are you two?” Sapnap muttered, looking up at the two of them and clutching at the pale arms wrapped around his chest. “Where the…where the hell are we?”

There was a long moment where neither he nor Ti–Karl, he decided, answered. “We’re…gods.” Dream finally stilted, killing the sudden silence that dropped over them all. “We–you’re uh, in the Void. The, the Realm of the Gods. You got…sacrificed.”

Another strangled noise came from them both this time, and Dream could see George’s legs shaking now, as well. Oh, End, how badly did they hate him now? Hate Karl?

“Can you—” George started suddenly, then stopped, swallowing to clear his throat. “Dream. Put us down. Please.” Dream nodded hurriedly, lowering his hands down to the surface of the glass table that Karl was rapidly scrambling off of, and flattened his fingers to allow for a ramp to the clear surface.

The two stumbled off of his hands onto the glass, supporting each other even as they sank down to the ground on account of their shaking legs. They eyed the translucent ground warily, and beyond that, the dark rug covering the smooth stone floor beneath them.

Later, Dream would have to clean the footprint-shaped spit trail from the glass, as well as the puddle where they were sitting, but for now it could wait.

For now, he wiped his saliva-sticky hands off on his pants and decided to apologize to them again.

"S-sorry. For scaring you guys. And–and slapping you so hard George." Dream cringed at the mention of the memory, and George winced. "Are you okay?"

Slowly, the brunette nodded, dual colored eyes glittering in the light of the enchanted sconces lining the room. "It's…it's fine. Just a few bruises, nothing that won't heal quickly."

Though he knew that the mortal was probably lying about the severity of the bruises (he had slammed him down pretty hard) Dream breathed a breath of relief. If George was in severe pain, he'd be tearing into Dream about stupidity and for hurting him.

“Why—why the hell did you eat us?” Sapnap suddenly demanded, sitting up straight and glaring over George's shoulder. "What the fuck was that about?!"

“I…” Dream faltered, glancing up at Karl for help. The other god’s eyes darted between the three of them, and he sucked in a heavy, preparatory breath before speaking. “He thought I wanted you two. To, um, to eat.”

Dream joined in, thoughts gathered enough to know what to say. “I…I thought that I only had three options. Err, keep, keep refusing and have somebody get suspicious and probably report me to the Prime Gods, give you to him,” Dream jerked his head at Karl, “to be, what I thought, actually eaten, or,” he paused again, sucking in a steadying breath. “Or just do it myself, where I knew you’d be safe.”

"It's also tradition," Karl butted in, face twisted in a way that made it seem like he wanted to be anywhere other than there. “Nobody–nobody’s ever rejected a sacrifice. There would be an upheaval if someone did.”

Dream noticed that he didn't mention that humans, especially those that had been sacrificed to the gods, were delicious. It was a tactful move, one that Dream would follow along with. There was no need to make the two mortals hate them both even more.

"It also breaks a lot of rules, one of us interacting with mortals." Dream added. "If the other gods had found out, you both would be dead, and Karl and I would probably lose our positions, or at the very least be cast out of the void."

He noticed Karl glance at him at the use of his chosen name, but he said nothing about it. Dream dipped his head at him, indicating that the other god could use his name as well, if he so chose.

"If it had been someone else, if somebody else had been sacrificed, would—would you have killed them?" George asked.

Dream fell silent and turned his head down. He…He did not want to admit to anything, even if it was true. The dead silence was deafening, other than the sound of Karl nervously shifting on the sofa opposite him.

"Have you–" Sapnap started, then stopped. He was silent for an incredibly long moment, and then said decisively, "Nevermind."

Neither Dream nor Karl needed to ask what his question was. Have you had sacrifices before? Have you killed before?

The answer was obvious. But they weren’t willing to say it.

"So…"George started, clear hesitance coloring his tone. "What's going to happen to us now?"

They were shivering. Dream didn't know if it was from fear, or from the saliva still soaking their clothes and the fact that the room was a little chilled.

"Do you guys–do you wanna wash off, or something…?" Dream ventured, pointing carefully at the slick dampness still dripping from their clothes. The two looked down in disgust, but shook their heads regardless. “Maybe later,” George muttered, reaching down to try and wring out his shirt a little bit. “I don’t know about Sapnap, but I really don’t want to be touched right now.” The by either of you went completely unsaid, but both Dream and Karl could read between the lines.

Sapnap was nodding, and it really, really did hurt, how neither of them seemed to be able to trust the gods, but after what had just been said…Dream didn’t blame them. He couldn’t blame them. He’d be scared, too.

"We'll take you two back to the overworld, then, when you’re ready,” Karl broke the choking quiet by answering George’s previously asked question. He wrung his hands together, biting at his lip as he carefully ventured forth his next words.

"If you ever feel like talking to either of us ever—ever again after this, or–or if you need help, just…just call to the God of Time, or the God of the Overworld, okay?" Karl implored hopefully, leaning forward from the cushions of the chesterfield. "We'll hear you, wherever you are."

"I think…" Sapnap trailed off, bisected orange eyes drifting down to rest on a smudge on the glass table. Dream held his breath, hoping against hope that the fireborn wouldn't reject them outright.

Sapnap looked up, first at Dream, then at Karl, where his gaze lingered. "I think I will. I just…I need time to process. Uh, all of this.” He then turned his eyes to George, who was looking contemplative as he wiped his damp hands on his damp pants. After a long, long beat, he finally glanced up and met Dream’s gaze. A whirlpool of emotions were swimming in his eyes, most indecipherable for the God of the End. What he could see, though, wasn’t promising. Apprehension, wariness, the gleam of calculation, tiny hints of lingering fear…Dream didn’t know if George would ever want to see him again. The human may feel like it was too dangerous, may feel like Dream had betrayed him…Dream wouldn’t argue, if that were the case and George wanted nothing to do with him, but…

Dream would be heartbroken, that was for certain.

“I…I don’t know, Dream.” The brunette finally spoke, turning his eyes away again. “I…you’re a god. How am I supposed to respond to that? You ate me, ate us, what do I say?! I’m going to have nightmares from this whole…everything, and now that I know it was you…” He trailed off, glancing at Dream’s chest, then quickly away. “Maybe in the future, I don’t know, but…not, not right now, okay?”

Dream’s heart pinged painfully at the human’s words, but he wouldn’t let himself be crushed. At least George hadn’t decided to completely cut himself off from Dream? The End God had to hold onto that, and hope that it would keep him afloat.

“Okay,” was all Dream said, even though his brain was screaming at him to plead and beg for George to accept him now, because he was still the same guy he knew, just bigger and more powerful than any mortal could possibly fathom.

A solemn moment imposed itself over them all as the four of them mulled over the events that had transpired. Karl was fairly happy with the outcome. Sapnap would…probably come around, eventually, and it’s not like mortal time would be very long to wait, for a god. As a bonus, he had learned that End, no, Dream, had broken the same rules as he had, and in that, he had found a new kinship with the other god. He did feel bad for Dream, though, because it seemed like his other mortal friend, the brunette, was rejecting him. He hoped that George wouldn’t hate Dream for any of this.

Sapnap was still processing. His…very close friend, Karl, had turned out to be a god, (of either time or of the overworld, he wasn’t sure which) and that scared him, but…he could get over it. Karl was still Karl, after all, no matter how big or scary or powerful. Same with Dream. He would get used to it, he was sure. He was just mostly happy that they weren’t going to die in the gut of some giant deity. Everything else? Piece of cake, a flat breeze. Sapnap could deal.

George…George didn’t want to believe any of this. Dream, his very favorite friend, was a god? Dream, the man who could make him laugh in almost any situation, had eaten him? Had eaten Sapnap? What was George supposed to think? Even if it was for their ‘safety’ or whatever, at least he could’ve given some sign, some warning? George knew that he’d be having night terrors after this awful experience. He’d already had trouble with sleep, but now? Oh, he was so screwed. A small part of him hoped, just maybe, he would be able to force himself to interact with Dream without freaking out, but every time the thought crossed his mind, uncontrollable shivers wracked up his spine, and he felt sick to his stomach. He didn’t think he could do it. He didn’t want to. At least he still had Sapnap. At least they were both alive.

Dream wanted to cry. Or smite something. Maybe he could go fry a pillager outpost after this? Maybe. George…he didn’t think George wanted to be around him after this. He really, really hoped George would come around, but he doubted it. He knew the mortal wouldn’t. George was very, very stubborn, which meant that Dream had just lost him. He tried to cheer himself up by telling himself that he may still have Sapnap, and that he had just gained a closer relationship with Karl, but it didn’t help much, not when it was compared with the loss of George.

His thoughts turned to whose fault this all probably was, and a sudden realization that had a snarl crawling over his face passed through his head. He needed to know, so that he could smite them, for causing all of this mess. That, and the indignant anger over the fact that his two humans had been slated to die.

"Who the fuck had the gall to sacrifice you two?!" He abruptly growled, and Sapnap snorted at the sudden outburst. Soon, they were all cackling uncontrollably, and Dream felt just the littlest bit better about it all. Maybe things wouldn’t turn out so bad…maybe.

(End)

~~~~~~~~~~

So, a while later, like, several months or something, George runs into some trouble, alone at night being attacked by a hoard of mobs, and he’s desperate. His armor is gone, his sword is about to break, and he will die if he can’t think of anything. So, he does the only thing he thinks he can do: he screams for Dream, he calls for the overworld god to help him, please, and then suddenly the mobs are being mowed down, one by one, by a (thankfully human-sized) green clad man. Then there’s a terse, heartfelt moment between the two where Dream says that there isn’t much worth doing without George. A bunch of emotions are laid bare that night, but they reconnect, and grow very much closer to each other. 

Sapnap is elated by the news, as well as Karl.)

Taglist that I fucking forgot o~O

@brick-a-doodle-do @i-am-beckyu

[slime-water-shrew]

Okay okay okay that was fucking terrifying… I should not have played some Marbles Nest before bed.

Oh well wish me luck sleeping after I've failed so many people :) aaahhhhhhhhhhh I'm so sorry, town on Gorkhon

[angeart]

I'm not saying I'm easy to summon, I'm just saying I see a tease and I'm like hi yes tell me everything pls.

Was it a nice nest while they had it at least? Did they have it for a bit before it burned?

(also circus tease ooo)

-🎀

i do want you to be easy to summon. please be easy to summon <3

yes, it was the nicest nest! it was high up, surrounded by a meadow and a stream filtering into a lake, a forest stretching around it all, eventually merging into a jungle biome in a not too far distance. of course it was all still makeshift, but it was theirs.

they were there for a while, everything quiet and serene, lulling them into false sense of security. for a while, it genuinely seemed like it could all be over, like they could finally breathe. like they could really stay and settle and be okay. like it's alright to just be.

and maybe for the first time in a long while, they felt like they could stretch their wings.

maybe they ran around and giggled. maybe they made fires and cooked warm meals. maybe they toiled soil and planted seeds, readying for a future.

maybe they ventured into the nearby jungle, and found a birb friend, an incredible rarity and a proof of life, of something winged surviving and maybe even thriving here.

maybe one day, scar woke up to grian gliding freely through the sky, wings catching the marvellous glow of a sunrise.

maybe there was sheepish, much-needed preening, and cuddles, and kiss-pressed laughter. reasurrances and teases and everything else that goes along with it.

maybe scar stood at the edge of a little cliff, safe over water, spreading his tattered wings as grian stood by his side, eager to experiment, to see if he can still glide.

maybe they had some breakdowns and tears, inevitably curling against each other, breaths heaving and sobs hitching, but ultimately they were safe through all that hurt, tucked into each other's hold.

and maybe there was confusion and confessions (ahem mimic arc), and much needed late-night talks, and sun-naps, and little joys taken whenever they presented themselves.

maybe there were actually so many steps towards healing.

—and everything got taken away in an instant.