#i'm. not sure how to feel about that razor ad

[awordwasthebeginning]

.

[charmercharm3r]

Can I make a request? Lee Know being a soft dom and possessive with a brat gf. They had an argument, but later meet up at an event. She wore a shoooort dress that barely covers her butt just to get to him and she gets punished when the get home. The brain rot is real >.<

I'm so sorry this took almost a month...it's been a loooong December. hopefully this is worth the wait!

Angels in Bodycons

LMH

Masterlist

wc: 5.2k

warnings: smut, sexual explicit content, dom!minho, angry sex?, orgasm denial, use of toys, handcuffs, masturbation (m), cumshots, reader is a brat, mean nicknames (slut), jealousy?, also fluff sprinkled in there

-

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.” Minho wasn’t budging. It was the same argument about the same dress every time. He loved it and despised it, the glossy black satin was perfectly shaped to your body and bunched slightly at the hips, accentuating your curves. The sweetheart neckline was lined with lace, he couldn’t pry his eyes away. The only other place he ventured to stare at was the decreasing length, your legs completely exposed and your ass just barely covered. Which was the exact reason Minho refused to let you leave the house wearing it.

“You’re sounding a bit possessive there, babe. It’s my body.” You weren’t supposed to be getting ready for another few hours, hair messy and face bare as you reached into your top to adjust your breasts so they filled the cups nicer.

Minho was supposed to be attending another red carpet event and he was allowed a plus one— not that anyone knew. Dating in his profession is, after all, forbidden. No one needed to know anyways, but having to keep you a secret made him all the more anxious to bring you with him. He couldn’t hold your hand or sling an arm around your waist when someone was getting just a bit too close. Being dressed moderately was the one thing he asked of you during times like these.

“No, it’s our body. Because you’re mine,” he stood from his spot on the bed, coming up behind you and kissing your cheek. Just as he did, he slyly unzipped the back of your dress.

The sweet gesture was just a diversion from his words that you processed a second too late. He was already making his way into the bathroom when you spoke again. “My body is my body, Min.” Bathroom door just slightly ajar, you knew he could hear you.

You stepped out of the dress and hung it, displaying it on the bedroom door. “Sure, of course it’s your body, baby,” he called back. “But this is a big event. I don’t want you to embarrass me by wearing something that looks like you just walked out of a love motel.”

Goosebumps raised against your bare skin, temperature suddenly running hot even though you were just in panties and a bra. You felt uncomfortable in your own skin by his words. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Your voice raised.

Minho kicked the bathroom door open a bit wider, barely peeking at you from over his shoulder as he picked up his shaving cream and razor. “Don’t make that face. You know what I mean.”

“No, I really don’t,” you crossed your arms over your chest, annoyed now. “Explain it to me in a way my tiny hooker mind can understand.”

“I never said you were—“

“You didn’t have to.”

“Babe, c’mon. I don’t have time for this now. You know how I feel about the dress. End of story.”

He continued on with his routine, mumbling something about having to get to the company for hair and makeup before going to the event. You sat in your shared bed with the covers up to your neck, almost stewing in petty anger. The conversation about the dress ended the same way every time, there was no winning when Minho was this stubborn.

The goosebumps didn’t fade as you watched him scurry around grabbing what he needed. His words replayed in your mind and only added to your growing temperament. It made you feel small, humiliated, and self conscious. Is that really what he thought of you? Was that the real reason he didn’t want to be seen in public with you?

“Are you sure you don’t wanna come with me now? If we get there early, they might have time to do your makeup, too.” Minho offered as he slipped on his shoes.

You hadn’t moved an inch since covering up in bed. “No. Don’t want your hooker girlfriend to embarrass you.” He stopped dead in his movements, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing.

“Please, Y/N. You’re not a hooker and you‘re not an embarrassment.”

He was about ready to leave when you muttered to yourself in anger, “not an embarrassment ‘cus I technically don’t exist.”

“I heard that.” Entirely fed up, Minho almost walked out the door right then. But even through his negative emotions, he made his way to the bedroom to see you off. Coming up to your side of the bed, he leaned in to kiss you. When you didn’t kiss him back, Minho clicked his tongue and grumbled, “fine. Don’t bother coming if you’re going to be like that. See if I care.” And he left.

It had been hours since you last spoke to your boyfriend. Fighting with him was the one thing you hated most, it was tiring and unnecessary. But this was an ongoing issue. If he hated the dress that much, he would’ve thrown it away and not told you. Instead, he ogles you in it and promises to rip it off your body while simultaneously threatening to burn it if you dared to wear it outside the confines of your house. His last parting words sparked what would be the beginning of your worst idea yet.

Pretty, coquette-esque makeup, hair neatly styled, the only thing missing was your dress. The one Minho specifically wanted shredded called out to you. It was screaming for you to put it on and see if he cares. That’s exactly what you did.

You showed up to the event in the dress, adding some sheer tights for the littlest bit of decency possible. You disregarded all the looks you got from strangers as you entered the building and did as told so that you could get in as an artist plus one. Contrary to Minho’s thoughts on the dress, his stylists had another opinion. Befriending them back when you first started dating had since boosted your ego exponentially, they were always kind and supportive. Especially now as you spotted them along the side of the large ceremonial room. You stuck with them, talking about anything and everything as you scanned the crowd. “He’s over there,” one of them mentioned, motioning with her eyes towards your boyfriend and his group members.

They were huddled around their table like a pack of high school boys, laughing amongst themselves when one of them tossed a half empty water bottle into the air and landed straight up. On the far side of the table that faced you, you made eye contact with Chan, who discreetly nudged your boyfriend next to him. Minho shot his head in the direction of his friend's eyes and landed on you. For a moment, he smiled brightly. Then his gaze tracked down and the smile faded. Slumping back in his chair you could see him purse his lips and tongue at his cheek in annoyance.

The displeased expression on his face made you feel vulnerable, heart shaking in your chest a little as you nervously tug the end of the dress down. Perhaps the sudden change in your attitude drew too much attention, the same stylist put her hand on your shoulder and said sweetly, “you look good. Don’t worry about him.” You gave her an apologetic smile.

It was a few more hours of mingling with the hair and makeup group, whom you’d grown accustomed to hanging out with at these events. The few of you found an open table and were chit chatting when someone came up behind you, leaning over your shoulder and saying, “hi, are you new? I’ve never seen you around before.”

The voice was one you didn’t recognize, turning to find a man. He didn’t seem to be dressed as the other idols in flashy clothes but rather a simple dark blue suit. He introduced himself and took the empty seat next to you. Over the course of a few minutes of talking to him, you found out he was a stylist for another group, to which your friends welcomed him happily.

What you didn’t see was your boyfriend boring holes into the back of your head from across the room. If anyone outside of your group had any idea of your relationship, they’d see the steam coming out of his ears.

By the time the end of the night rolled around, you’d only glanced at Minho a handful, each time he was already looking at you with clear anger. The male stylist next to you leaned over to you once more and whispered, “you look amazing.”

Your eyes went wide for a moment, caught off guard. An unknown blush creeped upon your cheeks, “thank you,” was all you’d said in response.

But Minho could see everything. He could see the stranger lingering a little too closely for a little too long, he could see your lips smiling and moving overly enthusiastically, he could see you getting flustered at whatever it was the man was telling you. He watched your little group stand and start to leave for the night. The man put his hand on the small of your back and stayed by your side until it was time for you to part ways. In the minute it took to say goodbye, you never once adjusted the length of your dress, ass practically on display for the entirety of the industry to see. 

All the while, Minho did his best to keep a cool demeanor. But his friends were walking too slow for his liking, ultimately taking the lead and striding perhaps a bit too fast for any normal idol to be taking when parting the spotlight.

You were still conversing with some of the other staff when the group walked into the lounge room. Already stripping off his costume blazer, Minho silently made his way over to you and handed the coat to the stylist, shooing her away as politely as he possibly could in the heat of his anger. “Hey baby,” you whispered, smiling sweetly.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He backed you against the wall, keeping his voice low.

“Supporting you? Talking with my friends?” You tilted your head up, “you look great, so cute in white.” The tips of your fingers played with the hem of his button up.

Minho grabbed your hand to stop your fidgeting, gaze hard on your face and dead serious. It was hard to keep up the playful attitude when you could feel the heat of his feverish skin. Your smile faded, meeting his stare. Subconsciously you pulled down the hem of your dress, arms coming up to cover your chest. The way he was looking at you now wasn’t your boyfriend, it wasn’t loving or sweet— instead replaced with exasperation and a bone chilling void that took over his usual warm eyes. He didn’t need to say anything else, only barely furrowing his eyebrows and letting the grip on your hand loosen slightly.

He didn’t need to say anything else when you moved towards his spare change of clothes and took his hoodie and draped it over yourself. He didn’t need to say anything as you pulled your dress down as far as it would go. He didn’t need to say anything as you waited for him to be allowed to leave and ordered a cab as soon as possible. Even as the two of you made your way home in silence, his hands in his lap but knees laid against yours, Minho didn’t say anything. 

The walk from the outside of your building up to your front door felt both too slow and not slow enough, the bubbling nervousness in your gut as your boyfriend threw his keys onto the coffee table and ran a hand through his neatly styled hair finally burst. Word vomit.

“I— I know you’re mad and I’m sorry for not doing as you wanted but I don’t regret wearing the dress. You might not like me in it but I felt pretty for once! In a room full of beautiful people, I felt pretty and I felt confident, then you look at me like you’re disgusted by me and it makes me feel like shit. But damn it, I felt pretty. So I’m sorry for embarrassing you but I’m not sorry for feeling pretty.” No, not word vomit. Completely and utter annihilation of any waning conviction you might’ve had.

By the time you’d caught your breath, Minho was standing with his hands crossed over his chest and eyes blinking blankly at you. He didn’t even so much as breathe loud enough for you to hear. Silence. Deafening silence.

“Say something,” you pleaded, voice cracking as your throat burned and eyes stung with pressing tears.

But Minho didn’t. Instead, he dropped his eyes down from your face towards your chest that was covered by his hoodie. In a blink, he was standing before you in the middle of your living room and was stripping the garment away. Hardly touching you, his hands spun you by the waist to turn around, gently peeling the straps off your shoulders and unzipping the dress. When it fell to the floor, he moved onto the stockings, taking hold of the waistband and ripping the flimsy material in half so it joined the pile at your feet.

You stood there quiet and self conscious. You knew he was looking at you, up and down, arms coming to cover your bare chest once again. The lacy black panties did extremely little to hide the remaining parts of you, your legs pressing together.

“You think,” Minho’s gentle voice whispered in your ear, “I'm disgusted by you?” You didn’t trust yourself to speak, only nodding and shutting your eyes tightly.

“Stupid baby,” tone of voice mockingly sweet, your skin raising goosebumps as he reached around to caress your forearms. The feeling of his shirt against your naked back made you tense up, but also fold at the heat of his body behind yours. “You were the most beautiful one in the room.”

He interlaced his fingers with yours, slowly pulling your hands away from your chest to leave you entirely exposed. Your breathing became more labored as he let you go only to trail his fingers back up your arm towards your neck, tangling his fingers into your hair. You almost let your guard down at how kind he was being, shuddering when you felt his lips pressing at the junction of your shoulder. And in a split second, Minho tugged your head back by the roots of your hair and latched onto your neck with his teeth. It made you gasp and emit a broken groan.

You could do nothing but ball up your fists and arch your back into him, do nothing but take the harshness of his bruising teeth. The few seconds he’d take to lap his tongue over the raw skin would transmit into his grip in your hair by pulling tighter. His free hand came back between your legs, hooking his fingers under the thin strap covering your cunt and pulling hard. The arousal-soaked fabric rubbed at your clit, not nearly enough for pleasure but just enough for minor relief. There were so many things happening at once, your brain felt hazy and it was only getting cloudier. You didn’t realize you were rutting your hips into nothing but the tightened panties until he let go, moving to tug you by the hip flush against his. Ass slamming into his clothed erection, your brain screamed at you to stay still, stay still and maybe he’ll be nice.

No, you couldn’t. Adrenaline was coursing through your body and it took over your foggy, horny brain. You rubbed against his crotch, hoping to entice him into taking them off. But he didn’t, all Minho did was let you writhe in his grasp and tease yourself over his clothes. Then, raising his hand from your hip, it came back down and collided with your skin. Your back bent at an almost bone breaking angle. He did it again, and once more, slapping the same reaction out of you until you were gasping for air.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t tie you up and punish you until you're begging me to stop.”

His breath was hot against your cheek, if you were just a bit more in your head you wouldn’t have caught that his chest was heaving as heavily as yours.

“I’m sorry,” was all you could say.

Minho clicked his tongue, “not good enough, princess.”

Like on a leash he tugged you in the direction of your bedroom behind him, being thrown into the center of the bed and taking off your panties. Instantly, he stole the garment from you and dangled it from the tip of his finger. Minho loomed over you from the edge of the bed, tall and daunting. In a whisper, “are you sure you want this?” Following his eyes to the panties, you nodded shyly. “I need you to use your words, baby. I’m angry but I don’t want to hurt you… too much. So speak while I’m still letting you.”

Sitting up on your elbows and legs spreading, “I want this.” An unreadable smirk disguised as deviance and mischief crept upon his face.

“I won’t stop. You know the word.”

The word in question; catnip– because why else would you be thinking about catnip while he was torturing you unless it became too much? Or three taps onto him or any hard surface that could get his attention. Minho didn’t need to repeat the safeword aloud for you to know what he meant.

When you nodded, he walked around the side of the bed purposefully. He still towered over you as he reached down to caress your cheek, the only moment of saccharine he’d shown you since that morning before he left. And in a split second, the same hand wrapped around the back of your neck and your panties were being shoved into your mouth. The taste of your arousal was more of a turn on than you’d ever care to admit, but Minho knew you liked it. He knew your limits and had every intention of pushing you to the very brink.

Cunt still exposed, mouth full, you watched and waited as your boyfriend reached under the bed for his black box of goodies. He shook it in his hands, the rattling of toys only making your pussy clench in anticipation. Warmth shot through you as he dug around in it, eventually finding what he was looking for and tilting his head in your direction. “You’ve pushed it too far tonight, princess. Don’t these look too appealing?” The clinging of his favorite gadget made your eyes grow wide. Shiny silver handcuffs, not even lined because he enjoyed being able to reminisce.

Minho dangled them the same way he did your panties then unlocked them, setting the key onto the bedside table. Still fully clothed, he manhandled you onto your stomach and hiked your ass into the air. He was rough in the way he forced your head into the mattress and locked your arms behind your back. There was hardly any room for your wrists to move without the cuffs digging into your skin, only enough to not cut the circulation. Even though he explicitly said he wouldn’t go easy, it wasn’t until you tried to tug on the bondage did it really sink in how badly you’d fucked up tonight.

He’d left you in this compromising position for a split second and left the room, coming back with your dress in hand. You could see him over your shoulder toss it onto the lounge chair in the corner of the room that was perfectly placed in your line of vision. Wordlessly, Minho reached into the black box again, not allowing you to see what he pulled out. But you couldn’t take the silence anymore, attempting to speak but muffled by the panties in your mouth. With a sigh, he pulled the gag from your mouth for just a moment.

“Say what you wanna say. Last chance.” He peered at you with shadowed eyes, not entirely the same way he did in the dressing room but nowhere near your boyfriend’s usual kind demeanor. Stoic, stern, horny beyond belief but the need to prove a point much greater than the straining in his pants.

“Talk to me.” Your voice cracked, weary but prepared for whatever he had in store. Minho’s eyes softened for just a second. “Please. Talk to me.” He nodded just once before gently pushing the panties back into your mouth.

The buzzing sound of a vibration filled the tense room, your ass swaying in the air in response. It was completely involuntary, you were no stranger to those sounds. It made you clench around nothing again, cunt puffy and untouched and so desperate.

Without warning, Minho shoved the vibrator into your clit, dull thrum just enough to make your body jolt forward and push your face further into the sheets. Your fingernails dug into the skin of your palms, the stimulation already proving to be more than you anticipated. In fact, it was hardly anything, Minho was hardly giving you anything and yet you were mewling like a cat in heat.

He stood on his knees behind you, caging your legs between his as he held the toy. “Close your legs, slut.” His voice was rough, condescending as he forced your legs shut with his own and entrapping the toy between them. The nickname made you shiver along with the added vibrations throughout your lower half. “If you let go, you won’t be cumming tonight.”

He wanted you to hold the vibrator between your legs, but it was already becoming more difficult to do, especially when he raised the speed by two. It was slightly more than a thrum now, making your muscles clench and body twitch. 

You moaned into the fabric, blinking away the painful and pleasurable tears. Minho moved towards the seat with your dress, turning his back to you and picking it up. “Why can’t you just listen to me? Why do you make me punish you?” The sound of his zipper opening and fumbling fabric stood out between your own lewd moans.

Neck and shoulders already aching, you tried to get a better look at him but as you moved the vibrator shifted. It pressed into your clit at a different angle, a better angle that had your body going stiff at the coil tightening in your gut.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare,” Minho ordered, slumping onto the chair. His cock was out, pants down his thighs and your dress in hand. “Keep looking at me, princess.” The vibrations started to feel stronger and not enough at the same thing, the constant stimulation leading you down a dangerous path.

“You’re always pretty– always so damn pretty it hurts.” You did your best to breathe and force your orgasm back, but your request for him to keep speaking made it hard. Slowly, his free hand came down to his dick, just holding it straight up and tightening his grip around the base. “Do you know how hard it is,” Minho reached down to his balls, “to watch you be so pretty and I can’t do a damn thing about it?”

Bringing your dress to his nose, he inhaled deeply, then exhaled and his eyes rolled closed. “And you smell so good. I bet that guy could smell you, too. I almost yelled across the room to get him to back up.” You watched as he stroked his cock slowly, up and down while your body spasmed in restrained pleasure. “I saw the way you blushed, princess. Did he compliment you? Is that where all that fake courage to talk back to me came from?”

The sudden surge of your high nearing made you whine louder, but fell upon deaf ears as Minho continued. “Yeah, that’s what it was. You’re a little praise slut. My praise slut. Do I not make you feel pretty, angel?” Fending off your orgasm and answering him was the hardest thing you’d faced so far, shaking your head and your muffled words turning into a whimper. “No, I treat you so well. The one time I ask you not to do something, you do it anyway. This fucking dress. You looked so gorgeous tonight.” You moaned louder, unable to stop the tears from seeping into the mattress as he started to twist his wrist faster.

If you weren’t gagged, Minho would’ve heard you begging like your life depended on it. With how intent he was at keeping eye contact, it very well could’ve. You struggled to keep your body up and the cuffs jingled every time you attempted to pull your wrist apart. Every time your orgasm passed, it rose quicker the next time around. You were stuck in a torturous state of give, give, give, deny. Repeat.

A grin washed across your boyfriend’s face as he watched your muscles tighten to fight the high. He was proud that you even lasted this long, and usually he would never tell you that, opting to show you. But he learned something new when your toes curled as he called you beautiful again. “Never gonna let you wear this fucking dress again,” his hand around his cock sped up, heaving in your lingering scent on the fabric.

Through gritted teeth and the taste of your arousal licked gone, you managed to coherently whimper, “please.”

A loud chuckle rumbled in Minho’s chest as he stood, taking the dress with him to stand at the side of the bed just out of reach– not that you could’ve touched him anyways.

“Asking so nicely after being a brat all fucking night.” The pace of his hand moved subconsciously at the same as your body writhed. “Will you be good? If I let you cum, will you be my good princess again?” You nodded furiously. He laughed, “yeah, you will. Because you’re mine. Your pretty little cunt is mine.”

You tugged at the cuffs harder, using all your strength to keep you from falling over while Minho thrusted into his hand, keeping your dress pressed to his nose. Another repressed orgasm faded and you had lost count of how many passed. You were humiliated, overstimulated, exhausted, sweaty, and touch deprived. To top it all off, your boyfriend was still making fun of you. And you couldn’t even hate it. You couldn’t be mad because it was exactly what you wanted despite feeling all those things.

His cock twitched in his hand, so close to release. Minho reached over and pulled the panties from your mouth, a string of spit following as he tossed it to the floor. Even with the new freedom, you didn’t speak, not wanting to disobey again.

Teeth biting into his bottom lip, Minho moaned, “tell me you love me.”

“I love you. L– love you more than anything.” It was as true as true can be, but it didn’t ease the now painful knot in your stomach tightening, already knowing you won’t be able to cut it loose.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, only yours. I belong to you,” your voice was as shaky as the vibrator pressed to your raw bundle of nerves.

He seemed to like that answer, his hand tightening and focusing on the tip, swiping the precum with his thumb and spreading it around. “You belong to me,” Minho mimicked, “I own this dress. I own you. Only I get to ruin you like I’m going to ruin your slutty little dress.”

“Please, ruin me.”

The tears and drool made your face glossy, enough to push him over the edge, muttering the permission for you to cum just as he did. Minho took one step closer to you, holding the dress beneath his cock as his warm release shot onto your back. The raw crashing orgasm made your body burn white hot, vision go blank, and all your muscles lock. The vibrator dropped from between your legs, unable to take anymore. The second you relaxed, Minho used the key to free you from the cuffs. Every inch of your body was sensitive to the touch, even more when Minho used the dress to clean his cum off your skin. It made you shiver.

Minho fell to his knees as you toppled to the side, finally face to face. His cheeks were decorated with blush, eyes warm brown that were swimming with adoration. “Did so good, princess,” he whispered, kissing your cheek and brushing your sweaty hair from your face.

He knew not to touch you just yet, still too sensitive for anything other than a few kisses. While your body recovered, Minho stripped his clothes and left them in a pile on the floor, tossing the soiled dress along with it. He gathered wet wipes, water, and icy-hot balm for your muscles. By the time he returned, you wanted nothing more than to hold him, eyes closed and still reaching out blindly for him.

“Min,” you dreamily called out, feeling his presence enter the bedroom again.

“I’m here,” he came over to your side again, placing everything on the nightstand and putting the toys to the side for cleaning later. You only groaned and reached out for him again, feeling his hand in your palm and attempted to pull him closer. “Hold on, baby. Let me wipe you down. It’s gonna be cold.” You didn’t even bother bracing yourself, knowing how warm your body ran that after the initial shock, it’d feel good. And you were right. The coolness of the wet wipe was soothing against your raw pussy, almost moaning again at the sensation. Minho laughed, finishing his duties and moving on to making you hydrate after a few minutes of you fighting him on just letting you sleep.

“One more thing. C’mon, you can do it.” His words of encouragement made you fold and let him maneuver you onto your back. You heard the icy-hot bottle open and close, then the bed dipping between your legs and his big hands gently taking hold of your thighs. The slick of the gel made his gliding palms smooth and the tingling feeling easing your tight muscles.

“You really make me feel like a princess,” you mumbled, half way towards sleep. Minho chuckled at your tired expression, bending over and pressing kisses to your stomach. As he finished his routine and climbed into bed next to you, you found the energy to speak again. “I’ll never wear the dress again. And I’m sorry.”

Arm curling over your torso, Minho pulled you closer, back against his chest. He hummed and peppered kisses over your shoulder and neck, “yeah, it’s kinda wrecked now anyways. I’m sorry, too.”

Sleepily giggling, you rolled over and nuzzled into his chest. The sound of his heartbeat was comforting. Minho held you as gently as possible, but the lingering worry that he was still upset kept you awake. Through the haze, you prodded the subject.

“We’re good?”

“Oh angel,” he responded immediately, arm coming up to hold your head against his chest and pressing a kiss into your hair, “we’re always good.”

[im-not-samantha-im-samanta]

I’d like to request PIB Death’s reaction to his GN!s/o coming up to him one day and booping his nose. I’ve been thinking about this a lot haha-

Hello there! ^^

Thank you for your request, it's a very cute idea! Though truth be told, I struggled with this one so much - I couldn't figure out how Death would react! Not to mention I hated whatever I wrote-

Also, so sorry for how long it took me to write this, like I've said, I been struggling with this one BUT also been struggling mentally, so yeah. (⁠;⁠ŏ⁠﹏⁠ŏ⁠)

I also just read a good fic with Death, then read this one I wrote and realized I'm not good at portraying Death...yeah imma end myself now (⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠෴⁠ ⁠༎ຶ⁠)(⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠෴⁠ ⁠༎ຶ⁠).

Anyways, I couldn't really decide if I wanted to do imagines or a fic, but ended up going with a short fic... or more like... a drabble? (⁠๑⁠•⁠﹏⁠•⁠)

I kind of experimented with my style, felt like adding it a different feel. Hope y'all like this one nonetheless! ^^"

___________________________________________

{Death, his s/o, and nose boops}

Settings: I don't think I specified it throughout the story. Though a bit more of a romantic vibe, I think?

Genre: Pure fluff! :3

!TRIGGER WARNING!: Don't think there's any! Maybe just brief talks of life, mortality and death, but that's to be expected with Muerte ^^,

Sidenote: Reader is written as gender neutral, but if they might have a more female feel then it's purely unintentional and I apologize!

Sidenote: I've never written full fluff fic (or more like drabble) before , so I hope I did well ^^"

-

That should be all, muffins! Feel free to read now ^^.

Hope you'll enjoy <3.

___________________________________________

Death was old as time itself.

A sad but an important part of life, he's been here since the very start.

And so, he's seen everything.

He's been there, done that, seen that, heard that,...

Yeah, he's seen everything, and it was hard to surprise Death.

Or at least, that's what he liked to claim, completely unaware of what tricks up your sleeve you, a mere mortal, still had.

And only now, when the two of you were peacefully sitting on the couch in the living room, did he face the truth that he, in fact, has not seen all after all.

You were up to something for sure, otherwise there'd be no reason for that rascally smile on your face as you slowly extended your hand towards Death, your pointer finger outstretched and aiming for Death's nose or so it seemed.

Death said nothing at that behaviour, after all, now that he was with you, he knew firsthand that mortals- humans especially - were weird creatures.

And so, he let you do your thing, having too much adoration for you to stop you.

Not to mention, a curious creature was Death, and intrigued by your actions, he just watched with a raised eyebrow and a smirk as your finger slowly neared his nose.

Then your finger was closer and closer and-

"Boop!" squeaking out in voice of high pitch, your finger tapped his nose, squishing it.

Then dead silence fell upon you.

Death was quiet, saying nothing at all.

His pointy ears had perked up though, his eyes of crimson wide as he seemed to be processing the action you'd just done.

And you had no idea what reaction to expect now.

Death was unpredictable, and figuring out his next move was something you had never succeeded in.

Nobody has, not even once.

And when the dead silence went on, filling the room like a thick fog, you couldn't help but retreat your hand and offer a nervous, meek smile.

You weren't scared of course, you knew your dear Lobo wouldn't bring you no harm, not now not ever.

But that uncertainty of what he'd do still left you wary after all.

Much to your luck, though, Death spoke at last.

"What... what was that you just did?" he questioned and a light grin stretched across his face, ruby red eyes wide and intrigued.

The expression was somewhat an unsettling one.

Death's eyes all wide, glowing, burning like wildfire, his razor sharp teeth all exposed by his twisted grin.

And combined with his massive stature and eerie aura, one could easily feel preyed upon...

But the word 'scared' did not describe how you felt at that moment.

You weren't scared, you knew better than to be distrustful of the wolf.

You trusted him fully, you didn't fear him even when he gazed at you like that.

You weren't scared.

Not when, with enough attention paid, you could notice Death's tail wagging ever so slightly.

And not when you had another giveaway of him being just intrigued by your action with no side motives - he intensely sniffed the air through his big nose with light growls rumbling in his throat.

Again, this action could seem intimidating to anyone else and could make them uneasy, but you knew that this action meant no danger - in your case that is.

In your case, you'd say it was something like when dogs panted happily when something caught their interest.

In other cases, mostly when it came to people who were reckless with their life or when it came to people who hurt others, this action had similar, but much more dangerous and terrifying meaning...

Well anyways, with that you knew you were in no real danger.

Although you still needed to be a bit cautious about what Death would do.

It could range from shrugging it off to starting a hunt with you being the prey.

"Oh... I... booped your nose...?" you answered and offered an awkward smile, unsure whether or not Death would be familiar with such term.

You didn't count on that much though.

"You... booped... my nose?" Death repeated after you, the term unfamiliar for his tongue.

And that eyebrow raise was enough for you to know your dear Lobo's never heard such word. Yet, his grin still remained the same - sly, intrigued.

Death added nothing more though, and only stared at you with his wide eyes that made you feel in the story of Little Red Riding Hood when The Big Bad Wolf stared at the little girl with wide eerie gaze, and the girl uttered those famous words: "But Grandmother, what big eyes you have!".

You wondered where your own story would lead to if you uttered those exact words to your Big Bad Wolf... Your Lobo feroz...

Nonetheless, you got the silent hint, and went ahead to elaborate what it meant to boop someone's nose.

"It's when you affectionately tap or squish someone's nose and say a 'boop'." you explained softly, smiling meekly.

Then taking a note of that light head tilt and eyebrow raise Death did at your words, you added: "It's a show of endearment,".

"It's a show of endearment," Death repeated after you as if checking he's heard correct, his voice holding a quality you couldn't really pinpoint.

Was it amusement you heard? confusion? disbelief? something else? It was hard to tell.

And then, Death fell silent once again.

It was silent again, and you weren't sure of what to do, Death being way too hard to figure out at the very moment - just like most times...

Hesitantly, you prepared to say something - anything - to break the awkward silence.

But then a chuckle came.

A chuckle came, and Death muttered: "Oh my," before covering his eyes with his paw and a grin grew on his face as his shoulders bounced ever so slightly.

Was he...?

And then it came!

Death broke into a fit of laughter.

Death was laughing!

He was wholeheartedly laughing like never before, the deep sound being sharp to the ears yet warm to the heart.

"Squishing nose and making a silly, high pitched sound to show affection!" Death exclaimed, shaking his head with amusement all written over the wolf's face as he laughed.

He seemed to be having the time of his life, and you couldn't help but smile, feeling all warm inside at the sight.

It was honestly sweet, refreshing to see Death like that, and so you didn't even risk saying something, letting your Lobo have his fun.

"My," Death breathed, his laughter eventually dying down to just an occasional chuckle, "you mortals never fail to amuse me,"

"you never really disappoint..." Death mused still shaking his head some with an amused grin on his face.

"Squishing nose and making a silly, high pitched sound to show affection..." he repeated his earlier exclamation, a light chuckle escaping him again before his half-lidded eyes found yours and he went all silent.

"Yeah, it is quite strange, isn't it?" You said lowly once your eyes locked with Death's, a meek smile playing on your face as a light chuckle left your lips as well.

It really was unusual yet amusing, you had to admit that.

Though still feeling a bit awkward in the moment, your instincts told you to ramble, which you attempted to do: "Honestly, I don't even-".

But then.

"Boop," Death muttered and his clawed finger tapped the tip of your nose!

Oh no way! Did he just-??

"Boop..." Death repeated, and chuckled at how silly the sound sounded before he did the action again.

He booped your nose and let out that silly 'boop' sound, making you peek at his finger cross-eyed and scrunch your nose as he smiled.

And right after he did all that, his ears and whole body perked up and his tail wagged all happily!

And as Death's soft smile twisted into a wide, satisfied grin and Death yet again intensely breathed through his nose, growls rumbling in his throat, the message was made clear:

You better prepare for a life filled with nose boops from now on.

Better watch out.

___________________________________________

[erictmason]

“BOUND FOR FREEDOM, YEAR SIX, DAY TWO: “Scenery”

“Scenery of the Stage (or, Much Ado About Knothole)”

"Ready for your big moment, superstar?"

Sonic gave a playfully exaggerated bow at Sally's comment. "You know me, Sal: I was born ready."

The princess rolled her eyes a bit as she moved closer to the hedgehog at the center of the stage. "If that was true, you wouldn't have to do rehearsals."

"Who says I do?" the hedgehog asked as he stood back up, tapping the script he held in his hand. "Maybe I'm just bein' polite so you don't feel bad."

"Then that would be an impressive little trick, and I would love to run our scene together with just me having a script," Sally replied coolly.

Sonic chuckled a bit. "...yeah, well, maybe tomorrow," he said with mock-swagger.

"Somehow, I thought you'd say that."

Mindful of the scenery pieces around him, Sonic began to pace across the stage a bit. "...outta curiosity, how far have you read into this play Amy's puttin' on anyway?" he asked.

"Oh, all the way through," Sally replied with mock-swagger of her own. "That's my special talent: I actually read the scripts I'm going to be performing."

"Yeah, well, I speed-read mine," Sonic answered ("Naturally," Sally added in a playful whisper), "but I think I got the gist of it."

He pointed to himself. "I'm playin' a dashing debonair hero type, although there's apparently someone else in the play whose name literally IS Hero? But that's not me."

"Thank goodness," Sally chuckled. "I can't imagine how much worse your ego would get if you were literally called Hero."

She did her best not to squeak as Sonic zipped over to her side, now pointing at her. "And you play a lovely lady of Court who's known my character a long time."

"Apparently," Sally offered, "there's nothing they enjoy doing more than having 'witty banter' whenever they see each other."

That got an amused grin out of Sonic. "Oh I know, it's my favorite part of the whole thing! Lets me really put my razor-sharp wit t'work!"

"But only for so long," the princess said, now pointing right back at Sonic. "They do eventually fall in love, you know."

"Sure, sure," Sonic said, leaning back away from Sally's outstretched finger, "but it's not like they'd stop the banter after that point, right? I mean, they've known each other so long, why would they wanna suck all the fun out of their relationship just 'cuz it, like, went official or whatever?"

The two had a little laugh at that, but Sally's ears slowly perked up; Sonic could see in her eyes a thought had just struck her. "...huh," she muttered. "Two long-time friends who slowly realize they're in love while constantly teasing each other...."

At first, Sonic tilted his head in confusion, but it did not take long before his own ears had perked up. "...you don't think Amy was so insistent about us takin' on these roles for any special reason, do ya?"

They looked at each other, then the scripts in their hands, and then back to each other.

"Nahhhhhhhhhhh," they both said, waving each other off.

And yet, as rehearsal began in earnest, they realized just how little they had to change in how they spoke to play their parts.

[strixcattus]

(Explore) What’s your favorite chapter?

(Explore) If you have a least favorite Chapter, then how would you go about changing it?

Tough questions!

For the first one, I think I might have to give three different answers for three different metrics—

Narratively, I think the best has to be Happily Ever After. It's very well done and it sums up what I'd been thinking about the values of various endings very neatly. And the chapter's Narrator gets to have a moment of growth before the end? Incredible.

In terms of satisfaction or fun... they dull over time, but Hunted!Eye of the Needle will always have a place in my heart for how fun it was to play the first time around. Something about sticking to your principles and overcoming what used to be an insurmountable opponent. Loved it.

And in terms of the interactions... it's a toss-up between Nightmare and Razor, but I think Razor might win out, both for the conversations you can have with the Princess and for all the small interactions you can get in Chapter III. I once spent a decent amount of time going through every possible choice with a fine-toothed comb just to see all the interactions—and I'd be willing to go back and do it again since I'm not sure I was looking at every combination of Voices.

Going by a combined metric, I don't even know. Every chapter Most chapters have one thing they do very well, and comparing Hunted!EotN to HEA is like comparing apples to oranges—they're doing different things, and they're doing them well. (On the other hand, oranges are better, so...) This is a question for a second Comprehensive Princess Rankings.

For the second—I do. It's Prisoner.

It's hard to say why I ranked her chapter so much lower than Damsel's pre-Pristine Cut—checking back on my old Comprehensive Princess Ranking post says I liked Damsel better because of the Princess herself and how subtly narrative-savvy she is, which checks out.

(You may also note that this ranking as least favourite is a significant drop from her previous place. This is largely, but not exclusively, due to chapters such as Wraith and Tower gaining esteem between then and the Pristine Cut release.)

But now? It just... feels like there are only two things to do in her chapter. Take her head out of the cabin, or let her die. (Or chain ourselves up, which is to be fair quite cool.) Sure, there are now two different ways to let her die, but.. there were always two different ways to let her die, and it doesn't make that much difference to me that one of them now leads to a different Chapter.

I was hoping before the Pristine Cut released that her new chapter would give us something else to happen, but there isn't a single change within the chapter itself. Even Princess and the Dragon has a cool lead-in and some fun messing with the normal narrative structure of the game, despite not giving us any actual new options. But the Cage is just... identical to Drowned Grey until you actually get there. There's no visible logic as to why one is one and not the other. (There is in reverse, but that doesn't help.)

Prisoner just always felt to me like there wasn't much to do, but that there could have been some potential added, and the hope placed it somewhat higher on the rankings. And then there wasn't, and it... fell.

(The Cage itself is a chapter I haven't explored enough to have anything resembling an opinion on. But I will say it's on thin ice as it stands.)

[cgogs]

dear atlas, c!dnf | 4.7k | angst with a happy ending

@dreblrsecretsanta for @purpleglitch !! Sorry for the early upload, it's just that I'm about to be BEYOND busy for the holidays and figured I'd upload this now while I have time. I hope you enjoy it so much!! Happy holidays to you <3

Each step up the castle tower sends a razor-sharp, bone-deep bolt through Dream’s legs. It’s his boot’s fault, mostly. He’s been meaning to replace them, it’s just that every hour more important things are added to his to-do list. Mediate this conflict, protect George, meet with someone here, monitor status on this, go here, deliver that, and try not to die until the day’s itinerary is complete.

Shopping just isn’t a high priority, but he’s beginning to reconsider that sentiment. He really should just give in and invest in another horse, but it would probably just be killed within a month and they’re just far too expensive for that. 

His armor clinks quietly as he moves, uneven and exhausted. A small part of him alerts like a guard dog– straighten up, nobody can know you’re vulnerable, anyone could hear how hurt you are– but another painful step quiets the barking. He traps the groan behind his teeth.

Dream stops for a moment to lean against the wall, hand braced on where the candelabra fixture hooks into the stone. This spiral staircase is dearly kicking his ass, more so than usual. Without the climb to focus on or the pain to blur his vision, he has the opportunity to take in his surroundings.

The castle is quiet, quieter than usual, candles burning low and dripping on the floor. Moonlight cuts through the windows at an angle sharper than it should. 

Dream pulls his communicator from his belt to check the time, a curse slipping out under his breath as the numbers meet his eyes. It’s nearly three in the morning. He’s coming home late. Very late. They talked about this, Dream promised he’d try to get home earlier. 

Guilt settles thick in his gut, despite barely having the brainpower to feel much of anything at all other than exhaustion. He blows the stray hairs out of his eyes, chuffing like an annoyed horse.

Four nights ago, George had been waiting behind the door at the top of the tower. Dream knew he was in trouble before George even opened his mouth. He was holding a clock and asked Dream to guess how late it was. When he guessed wrong, George shoved it in his face, too close to even see the hands, and angrily proclaimed it was nearly one in the morning, and that Dream had been coming home at one in the morning every night the last week after spending all day ‘doing god knows what, who knows where.’

Dream had done his best to be earnest and honest, as much as he could be. If George had it his way and was privy to every little thing Dream did, he’d be stoned in the street or tied to a pyre. Dream’s not sure what events would bridge the gap between these two truths, but he knows it would happen.

He had told George he would try, but that he had so much to do this week. George was anxiously picking at his cuticles the way he did when he was thinking hard, and asked him to promise he wouldn’t come home later than this. Dream thought he’d be able to. And, yes, he’s sorry he broke his promise but… it’s all so important. So important.

He hadn’t meant to let time get away from him. He just had so much to do, and so many stupid things got in the way, Tubbo and Fundy, then Q… and he got in a scrape on his way back and it was all just so fucking stupid.

Guilt grows like a vine up his throat.

He’s sorry. He thinks about what he’s going to say, how he’ll explain himself. He can’t grip on a coherent sentence or script, eyelids heavy like mud, mind fuzzy, feet aching.

Maybe it’ll be fine. George will be asleep, and they can talk about it in the morning. He’ll open the door and see dark hair splayed over feather pillows, still as death. Dream will strip his armor and curl into his body and fit whatever position George fell asleep in, and he’s so excited for it. Though currently, he’s not sure which lover he’s looking forward to seeing more– the bed or the boy.

The last seven days have felt like seven years.

Wax drips onto his fingers. Wincing, he takes another painful step forward. Suddenly things like guilt and excitement were as far away and abstract as distant planets or stars. 

Dream nearly falls through the door when he reaches the summit. He catches his breath, straightens his posture, and prepares to get ready for bed without waking his king. 

He opens the door as quietly as possible. Thankfully, it squeals only a little bit. He tiptoes in, craning his head to look at the boy already fast asleep. He’s curled all the way to the edge of his side of the bed, back facing the door. Dream wonders if it means something. 

He unhooks his cloak first, folding it gently on the table in the middle of the room. It’s a large room that can fit a round dinner table, as well as bookcases and couches and a fireplace. The kinds of things George doesn’t appreciate as much as Dream thought he would.

The boots are next to go, then his sword and his axe, then armor one by one until he’s stripped to his pants and shirt. After a moment’s thought, he shucks off his pants. Shirt and boxers. He looks at the bed and practically salivates, not even thinking to bother with changing his bandages. He sets his comm on the bedside table and attempts to lift a leg to climb in.

Dream’s legs wobble and give out as soon as he leans his weight on the bed. He collapses onto his side, a symphony of pained noises trapped behind the cage of his teeth. He looks up, wide-eyed, to see if he’s woken his Sleeping Beauty. George remains still as a corpse. 

He rather pathetically pulls himself up to spoon him, arm laying limply over George’s side. A sigh of utter relief slides out of his lungs as his chest decompresses. It’s relief like an ice bath in the desert or hot soup in the snow.

The bed is soft on his aching body, George’s sweatpants soft on his bare, bruised legs. Dream drags his calves to tangle with his, allowing himself a relieved whimper into the crook of George’s neck. He sometimes teases George for dressing like he’s living in constant winter, but really he wouldn’t change it for the world. It means soft hugs when he drags his miserable body into bed at the end of the day. If he didn’t wear his sweaters, George wouldn’t be able to cradle his head in his sleeves when he’s bleeding, and Dream wouldn’t be able to bite down on the thick fabric when he had to scream. 

He feels the tension in his body slowly unwind. Every breath has him sinking further and further into the mattress, a taut string slowly, slooowly let to rest. He pulls George closer, hooking his arm tighter around his waist. If he wasn’t used to it it might feel a little like cuddling a corpse. 

That dog in the back of his mind starts growling again. Telling him to check, check, check. 

Dream obliges since it’s a simple request, and he knows he’ll never be able to sleep otherwise. He slides his fingers down George’s arm to find his wrist, pressing on his pulse point. It takes a few adjustments, but he finds that steady beating pressing against the pads of his fingers. Alive. Safe. The last requirement needed to sleep is fulfilled. Dream sighs, nuzzling his head against George’s neck, hand still loosely wrapped around the bone of George’s wrist. 

The midnight air is clear and cool. Dream is warm and holding the love of his life. Nothing outside that horrible wooden door matters here. Nothing else matters. No blood, no bone, no war. Just George.

That is, until he hears the unmistakable sound of his communicator buzzing against the table behind him. Dream ignores it at first, but it comes again and again. His eyebrows knit in frustration. He buries his nose further into the dark space between George’s neck and the pillow, like he could outrun the nagging in the back of his mind. 

It vibrates again, breaking Dream’s resolve. He groans miserably, more than half asleep, as he untangles himself to reach back for the comm. His vision is blurry with sleep, making it near impossible to read the screen until he’s blinked a dozen times. The light of the screen shines too bright for how dark it is. He uses a hand to shield George’s direction so it won’t wake him.

It’s Punz. Punz, in code, telling him he’s finished the reconnaissance he’d been told to do two days ago. Updates on the pet experiments, no luck yet. Their theory about the revive book being exclusive to human souls is seeming more and more solid, but that’s not something he wants to be thinking about at the moment. 

<Dream> thkx

<Dream> domt text me this lat e

He fumbles the buttons, accidentally sending Punz a string of gibberish before giving up entirely on typing a coherent goodbye. He’s about to throw the device down and shove his nose back into the crook of George’s neck when the body next to him begins to tremble.

Dream stares for a moment, wondering if he’s hallucinating from lack of sleep. Then there’s a hiccup, followed by two sharp breaths, both so quiet Dream would have missed them if he wasn’t holding his breath. 

“George?” Dream whispers, voice wrecked from all the yelling he’d done today. He drops the comm on the bed so he can lay his full hand on George’s shoulder. He could be having a nightmare, but he’s not sure. All he knows is that he wants to fix it. “George?”

George gives up on keeping it in and starts crying honestly. Whiny but guttural, more hurt than angry– but it’s with his teeth, not throat. Dream sits up in bed, the exhaustion that had been possessing him instantly chased away. 

“B–by?” Dream whispers, word cracked in two from his shredded voice. “What’s wrong?”

He feels like an idiot trying to catch something that’s about to fall, chasing it around with his arms outstretched. He wants to fix this, but doesn’t know how. George is mad, he can tell, but he’s hugging himself, and that isn’t something George does when he’s mad. It’s something he does when he’s scared. 

“You’re safe.” Dream rubs his arm, pushes those beautiful brown curls out of his face, watches the tears fall over the bridge of his nose. “I’m right here.”

“Why’d’you– why’d you lie to me?” George says, strangled. He seems to decide crying is stupid and embarrassing, because he furiously wipes at his eyes. “Why are you always lying to me?”

Dream bites his lip anxiously. The same guilt from the hallway lacquers his insides again. 

“I didn’t– I’m– I didn’t lie. I lost track of time. I’m sorr–”

“You’re lying to me.” George sits up, eyes red and stubborn. He’s pulling his thoughts together to form an argument, Dream can see the gears turning. “You’re hiding things.” 

“I’m, that– okay, just. What am I lying about?”

“Where you go all day!” George has grabbed a pillow to hug, rocking himself back and forth. Dream thinks, briefly, that he looks cute. He wants to hold him, but the way they’re sitting is classic parley formation, facing each other with crossed legs, knees touching. Neither of them can cross the middle line until the argument is over. That’s just how they do things. “I don’t– I don’t know exactly what, but…”

“I’m not lying to you about where I go. I have a lot of projects, and I’m helping–”

“I know. I know. Helping, helping, helping. Fingers in a lot of pies.” George puts up an honorable fight against the wetness in his voice, still furiously wiping his tears. The skin under his eyes has turned an irritated pink. “But why? Why do you have to do so much? You’re my knight. I’m your king. You should be with me.”

George has a way of shooting arrows straight through him. Dream rubs his eyes as the words dig into his gut. His voice sounds defeated already. “I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“Dream. Like, I– I just don’t understand…”

“Yeah, you don’t.” His voice breaks and turns quiet halfway through, like he could’ve softened the blow.  He doesn’t know why he said that. He’s just tired of this same argument, over and over. It’ll be over soon. So soon. He wishes George would just believe him.

George’s expression screws into desperation, fingers digging into his pillow. “Then tell me! Just, tell me, Dream. I’m not– stupid, I can understand things. I’m not stupid.”

It’s not that Dream is angry. It’s just that he’s tired beyond tired and this is the only time of the day he doesn’t have to wear his armor. The one room where nothing else matters but the people who occupy it. He burrows his head in his hands. 

“Why don’t you trust me, Dream? Did I do something wrong?”

“Why don’t you trust me? Why don’t you just–” 

“Because I can’t even trust you to keep a super simple promise! I’m– you can’t expect me to just, like, be fine with never getting to see you.”

“Well maybe if you tried to be king even a little bit, I wouldn’t have to go do all your shit for you.”

George damn near barks, sharp and angry. Dream watches his mouth form the beginning of a thousand different sentences, hands clenching into fists before his expression breaks entirely. His angry grimace turns into a quivering frown, eyes wet with fear, voice pitched and tight.

“Are you cheating on me?”

Dream feels like he’s swallowed a bucket of ice. His back straightens as he shoots up. Instantly, he regrets antagonizing him. He doesn’t know why he said that. He’s lined with dog teeth.

“No! What? Absolutely not.” He wants to break the rules to touch him. So he does. His side stings as he leans to brush his fingers against George’s knuckles. “Never.”

Whatever angry force of nature George had been channeling before is dying now, Dream can see it fading in his eyes. Fading into some kind of relief. Maybe it was the reassurance, or the touch, but something is pacified.

“Did someone tell you that? Or make a joke?” He knows people don’t have many kind things to say about him these days. George picks at his cuticles, rocking slightly. Dream rocks with him a bit, too.

“No. I guess. Not really…” He sniffles. There’s a stiff silence. Dream searches his eyes, trying to read his mind. “I’m sorry. I’m just crazy.”

“What happened?”

“I just really wanted you to come home tonight. I stayed up.” George shrugs hopelessly, looking anywhere that isn’t Dream. “You have to understand from my perspective. I never see you, and then when I do see you you get into bed and start texting someone else. This isn’t the only time it’s happened.”

“It was just Punz,”

“I don’t care. I don’t care. Not, not my point.” George stresses, “you swore you’d be my knight but you don’t even. Knight. And I guess it’s whatever because I don’t really king either. But I… miss you. I miss you.”

Dream doesn’t know what to say. He opens and closes his mouth like an idiot fish, trying to find a way to comfort him but not make a promise he can’t keep. George waits for it. It never comes. They both feel it when the other gives up on a solution. Defeat on both sides. 

They look at the sheets silently. Their knees rub together. Moonlight makes the room glow, lines the edges of George’s hair in silver.

His voice is small when he speaks next. “Where were you tonight?”

Dream was going to lie so he wouldn’t worry him, but. “I had some trouble with monsters. I got pinned down in the forest. I’m sorry.”

George scoffs. Somehow, Dream knows the frustration isn’t directed at him. “Oh my god. That’s not even your fault.”

“I don’t know. I could have texted you or something. I’m sorry I kept you up.”

George wipes his nose with the edge of his pillow. Dream would think it was gross if it was anyone else. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I’m not around. I want to be. This, it’ll all be over soon. Things will settle down.”

“Does it have to be you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

George nods weakly. He knows he won’t get a better answer. Dream doesn’t have a better one to give him. He’s too tired. 

“And you’re not cheating on me?”

“You are the prettiest thing in the whole world. I’d be an idiot.” He doesn’t know if flattery will get him far, but he can see the corners of George’s mouth flicker, and that’s enough. “You’re the only one that would put up with me anyway.”

“Why is your voice so messed up?” George lays his pillow back down on the bed. His legs unfold and he moves to lay back down. Dream wants to scoot closer, but thinks twice. There’s a moonbeam shining there. He doesn’t want George to see his legs. 

“Screamed a lot.”

“Why?”

“Scaring people to cut their shit out.”

“Mmh.”

This is George’s script for end-of-day. It doesn’t have a lot of heart this time. Dream is realizing it never truly did. He feels bad. George lays his hand in the empty space, beckoning him to come forward or lay down. Dream doesn’t move. He sucks in a breath.

“Are you okay? Did… Dream, are you hurt?”

He’s an idiot for thinking he could keep it from George, of all people. But he didn’t want to worry him.

“Uh. Well, yeah. But it’s okay. I promise. I already treated it.” Dream knows this won’t work. He tries to lay down, legs twitching through the pain. George clocks it immediately, propping himself up on his forearms.

“Show me.” 

It’s not a request. So, Dream does. He pulls his legs into the light in all their bruised glory. His foot, the one that was giving him the most trouble, is a far deeper shade of purple than he anticipated. 

George runs his fingers over each bruise, marble white and cold as stone. His expression is stone. He must spot a hint of bandage from under Dream’s shirt, because his eyes flit from his bruises to his side, and Dream knows the jig is up.

“I promise it’s okay. I promise, George.” Not that his promises mean anything. 

George must think so too. He ignores him in favor of gently pulling up his shirt, spying the blood soaked bandages wrapped around his middle. Dream hisses when the fabric of his shirt catches on the gauze. George frowns.

“Why would you let me just yell at you for being late? You should have told me.” 

“To be fair. I was late.”

“To be fair. You were wounded. You literally got jumped.” 

George gives it an apologetic look, tracing the blood stains with the tips of his fingers. Guilt doesn’t look good on him, but Dream doesn’t know how to fix it. 

“Change those first thing when you wake up.” George sets his shirt back in place. He gently tugs on Dream’s neck to lay down. Nothing sounds better. “And don’t jump around and stuff.”

“I know.”

They curl up together, noses nearly pressing. It’s faint in the dark, but Dream can see the pitiable expression on his face. Thin, cold fingers come to rest on Dream’s jaw. Dream holds his hip in return. Equal and fair, reciprocated and even. George searches his eyes for an anchor, something to respond to. He just looks sadder and sadder as the minutes press on.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I just miss you.”

It’s hard for Dream to whisper back. “I miss y–u too.”

“Do you really?”

“This is my favorite part of the day. Getting to hold you. ‘N be held by you.”

The fingers on his jaw twitch. George’s thumbs cradle his face. Dream watches his face carefully. Though he knows every curve and edge and nasty imperfection of George’s being, it only hits him in moments like this just how much he has to protect. The whole world fits in the curve of his arms. The whole world has a kiss like a nine-volt battery and fury like a god. The whole world waits for him to come home every day, hoping he’s in one piece. Dream wonders if the world knows he’s trying to save it. 

“I love you.” George whispers, barely tethered to the waking world. Maybe he realized he hadn’t said it when they were fighting, or after they decided to stop fighting. Maybe it's the last thing he thinks before going to sleep, and the first thing he thinks in the morning. Maybe it was coating the back of his throat like Dream’s guilt coats his, and he just had to tell him.

“I’m sorry.” Dream kisses him. “I love you.”

George falls asleep with tear tracks that have just barely dried. Dream wipes them away with his thumbs, admiring how peaceful he looks. 

Dream sleeps like the dead, but wakes with the dawn no matter what. He lingers in the warmth for a while before the sun’s light is too much to bear. Properly waking up to pain first thing in the morning is beginning to be a more and more common occurrence. His legs pulse with every beat of his heart, and his side isn’t much better. There’s a few droplets of blood on the sheets, which is what finally gets him to untangle himself from the mess of limbs that snaked around him in the night. 

George stirs lightly, but it’s unlikely he’ll truly wake before eight. Dream gently tugs at the arms around his neck, and they retract with a sleepy, confused mumble.

“I have to change these bandages.” Dream whispers against his temple. 

George makes an agreeable noise before moving to hug his pillow instead. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Dream spends the morning planning his mental itinerary. But also, redressing his wounds, and trying to figure out what to do with his legs. Salve, maybe. A healing potion, but he’s running low and wants to save them for an emergency. Besides, he took a few sips when it happened. It should be fine.

He’s supposed to get up now and meet with Punz. And then work on the book, and then go here and do this, and patrol that. But his legs just won’t move. 

He thinks, maybe for one day, he can spend it doing nothing. Besides, he actually is wounded. He does need to recoup. It’s not an excuse, yeah?

He wants to make it up to George. He’s not much of a romantic, and really he sucks shit at being a boyfriend, but he knows one thing that always makes George smile. The big toothy kind that makes his cheeks pink. He wants to see it before he has to get back to work.

Dream leaves a note on his side of the bed telling him that when he wakes up he should go to the hill outside. The one with the big tree.

Dream hobbles himself to the florist. He hopes that with his mask and baggy clothes, Niki won’t notice his limping. A dozen red roses. By the time he’s gotten there and halfway back, he’s convinced himself he’s walked off his bruising. 

Under the oak tree on the hill overlooking the castle, Dream spies a red cape blowing in the wind, and the glint of gold. The person faraway raises a hand over their eyes to peer, then uses his entire arm to wave at him hugely. It makes Dream laugh. 

They hurry to meet each other. George just seems excited to see him, like he always seems to be, except late at night when he’s already too angry. George doesn’t leave the shade, but he holds out his hands for Dream to take so he can pull him up the hill. Dream gives him one arm, the other holding the bouquet behind his back. 

“Wow. You’re actually in the sun. I never see that.”

“I got you something. I’m, uh, making it up to you.”

George pauses, wide eyed, trying to lean to see what’s behind his back. 

“It’s not a puppy, right?”

“What? No. What? Why would I get you a puppy?” Dream keeps turning to keep him from seeing. He can feel his own smile cracking his face. 

“I don’t know, I got scared! Now gimme.” George tries to blindly reach behind him. Dream grabs his wrist and pulls him close, wrapping an arm around his waist. George smiles at him smugly.

“Not even a thank you or anything?”

“I don’t know what it is yet, idiot. You haven’t given it to me.” George’s busy hands settle for pushing his mask up, instead. The breeze feels cool on the light layer of sweat that’s formed on his forehead. George smiles warmly at his face. It’s a smile Dream doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of. But not the exact one he’s aiming for.

Dream’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Ohh, you want me to give it to you? Here? Outside??”

“Oh, shut up! Show me. I demand it. As your king.” He tilts his head regally, crown glinting in the light that’s casted through the leaves. Dream almost forgets they ever had a fight at all.

Dream pulls the flowers from behind his back and presses them to George’s chest. He tries to give him a smile with it, but knows it probably looks a bit forced. George doesn’t seem to notice at all, face erupting into a smile nearly immediately. The smile. Dream can’t help but stare.

Dream thinks this must be what sunbathing is meant to feel like.

“Dream! I love it. I looove it.” George hugs them close, still beaming. Dream thinks he understands religion. “What’s the occasion?” 

“Huh? Oh. I’m sucking up.”

George laughs. Takes a brief break, then laughs again. “You’re so stupid.”

“I wanted to cheer you up.” Dream rubs his thumb on his side idly, soaking in the feeling. 

“You derailed your whole day just to get me flowers?”

“Uhhh, well. I canceled my whole day to recover from my grievous wounds. My life threatening injuries. Oh no. “ Dream spins them a bit dramatically, just to make George laugh. There’s a few rose petals on the ground.

“Oh, you need someone to kiss it bett– wait, really?”

“Yeah, really. Hey, what was that you were offering just now?”

“You’re not doing anything today?”

Dream shakes his head. George’s face lights up. 

“Stay!” He blurts, “You should stay. Stay here. With me. I’ll kiss the stupid boo-boos better.”

“I don’t have anywhere better to be.” Dream shrugs, casual, aloof. “And I like kisses. Sure.”

Unexpectedly, lips crash into his. All of George’s weight crashes into him, really. Arms snake around his neck, and he tries to support them both before he realizes George is trying to make them fall. He goes limp, letting George tackle him into the grass. George is still kissing him. He pulls Dream’s neck to the side, which Dream allows because he hadn’t realized they were on the edge of the hill.

He yells into George’s mouth as they go tumbling, wrapping his arms around George’s head to make sure he doesn’t hit it. Someone is laughing, maybe both of them, as they spin and spin and spin and leave a trail of petals behind. 

The world finally comes to a stop with George cradled on top of him, gloved hand still covering the back of his head. 

George sits up, looming over Dream’s face, laughing like the whole world is laughing with him. Dream might have gotten the wind knocked out of him. The sun is eclipsed by George’s hair, a halo hanging behind him. His actual crown has probably rolled further away, but neither of them can care about such stupid things when there’s so much in front of them. 

Dream breaks the mirage to sit up and kiss him. Then kiss him again. There’s a buzzing in his back pocket, but it’s tomorrow’s problem. 

Today, the world loves red roses and fits in the curve of his arms.

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Hiii :) I hope ur doing lovely! I have a request if that’s okay- it’s been over three years since I’ve sent a tumblr request so I hope I’m doing this right butttt,,,,

Fuegoleon with a Black Bulls dragonrider s/o? Pretty much all rest is up to you but I’ve had this idea in my brain for a while, a very strong independent dragonrider, who catches our dear Fue’s eye? Bonus points if she’s good friends with Mereo ? :o

Hey! I'm a tired, and uni is consuming me but aside of that I'm good :3 I hope you're too! And thanks for your patience!! I do hope you like this little ficlet

Pairing: Fuegoleon x f!reader Genre: General Fanfic type: Oneshot Length: ~0,7k Contains: A dragonrider reader, she is friends with Mereo, baffled Fuegoleon, an introductory fic

For a good while Fuegoleon assumed himself to be the only one in the kingdom with anything dragon seeming in his possession. Because dragons were a myth. Something that, perhaps, might have been real creatures that existed back in the day, but had now been reduced into creatures that only existed in stories. Why that was the case, he wasn’t sure. Nor did he particularly spend his time wondering about it, as it made no difference for daily life.

For the purposes that seemed relevant for Clover, he was the only one that could control a dragon, though only a spirit.

However, there was a day when Yami asked to have a meeting with him. On a day that was like any other. To which he agreed, because Yami didn’t request audiences for nothing. And as he waited for Yami to merely appear in the Crimson Lion Kings’ base via a portal, he was baffled to hear an alarm being sounded.

Because there was a large creature with claws and razor sharp teeth that wasn’t Salamander approaching the base.

It had been you, dropping Yami in, because Finral had been sent onto a mission.

And while it wasn’t exactly a first introduction, it did pique his interest; his curiosity. Because... who on earth was the person who controlled a dragon? A creature of fire and ashes from a time he thought was in the past.

So, once he came to seek you at the base, he bore a face that was filled with wonder. A raised eyebrow and questions he wasn’t quite sure if he could ask. But he did. In the most polite manner he knew how.

Which, quite honestly, made sense. After all, since he controlled the Elemental Spirit of Fire, it wasn’t uncalled for, for him to bear an interest for dragons.

“Would you like to meet him?” You asked with faint amusement in your tone. “But perhaps don’t start a fight like your sister did,” you added with a laugh, which caught him off guard.

Because he wasn’t aware that you had already had run-ins with Mereoleona. Not that she would necessarily mention such things.

“You know my sister?” He asked, even more bewildered.

“I do,” you chuckled. “We spend quite a lot of time around Yultim, so we ran into Mereo, who was very intrigued. Wanted to have a brawl,” you mused.

To which he blinked, and shrugged.

Pinched the bridge of his nose.

Because yeah... that sounded like Mereoleona-aneue.

“You never answered my question,” you noted after a moment of silence.

His eyes turned to you. A stern, attentive gaze. Eyes of fire and sheer power of will.

Which closed in a slow blink and a chuckle.

“I suppose I didn’t,” he agreed with amusement. “Yes, I would be delighted to meet him,” he admitted.

So you nodded and led him to the backyard of the base, where your beloved dragon companion was happily napping. Until you approached, which made him open his eyes, and look at the two of you. But mostly towards Fuegoleon.

Salamander appeared as well.

And as.... as you watched the man and the spirit approach your companion, there was a strange feeling. An inkling feeling of a kind. That this man, who was approaching your dragon, with his hand before him.

The man who was allowed to pet your dragon, by your dragon, might become something more. A friend at least. Because... there weren’t too many like you in the world. Nor were there particularly many like him, those that commanded an elemental spirit, around either. So... perhaps you could connect over it. Perhaps you might find something in common.

There was a look.

From him.

To you.

A look that you couldn’t quite decipher. But it wasn’t a look you minded. It was something of a mix of gratitude, awe, curiosity and... dare you guess affection? Or perhaps just understanding. Only time would tell.

[criolla-star]

Overwhelmed (Vinny x Garmadon)part 51

(I suggest you check out parts 1-50 if you haven't already)

(With Garmadon and Wu this takes place before Vinny left in last chapter)

It was the morning and Garmadon just woke up, he felt slightly miserable, who could blame him, the man he fell in love with is keeping secrets as well is having random stab wounds. The oni was just thankful his brother managed to get him a separate room to Vinny, after the cameraman wasn't in the best of moods. When Wu showed the room to Garmadon, he was curious as to why his brother didn't give the bedroom to begin with so he and Vinny weren't sharing a bed, but Wu laughed out saying he did that on purpose since he suspected something between the two, making Garmadon more paranoid at how obvious the two are in a relationship.

Garmadon managed to drag himself out of bed and out his room where he saw his brother, Wu, "Good Morning brother, sleep well?" Wu asked as he greeted his brother, the truth was the oni didn't get the best sleep, he missed Vinny, he missed hugging and holding onto him as he slept. "Not the best" Garmadon replied to his brother who didn't seem to surprised. "Worried about Vinny?" Wu asked earning a nod from the oni, the long bearded man pulled his brother and began walking, Garmadon was a bit surprised but followed Wu.

"Vinny...is a normal human brother...and some have issues that you wouldn't expect humans to have...though I do understand your concern as he hasn't went anywhere...and the wound on his hand" Wu spoke, as Garmadon listened, he hated this, he knew Wu was right but he didn't want Vinny to have issues he wanted him to be safe and happy. "I know they have issues, but whatever's happening is affecting him mentally and physically you've seen the wound on his hand...I asked him about it and he said he cut it with a razor" Garmadon spoke out his voice not filled with anger but with worry.

The two made it outside of the kitchen, "I can tell...and I'm sure the other ninja can tell too...maybe it's best you don't ask him about it...Vinny needs ti-" Wu was cut off by Vinny walking by quickly, "Morning...I'm going to work..." Vinny mumbled as he rushed off. The oni felt slightly hurt the cameraman didn't acknowledge him more, but after the fight they had I doubt either of the two truly wanted to talk to each other unless they were on good terms.

"Give him time brother...he'll eventually tell you..." Wu spoke in a comforting tone as he placed his hand on his brothers' shoulder who was looking the way Vinny walked by. "I know he will...but I'm worried that when he does it'll be too late..." Garmadon spoke.

(Back with Vinny and Rida go read last chapter for more info on what happened mainly Vinnys' POV)

Vinny and Rida began to jog around, they were near a pretty large park, "Mind if we go run around there?" The cameraman asked the orange eyed man who chuckled out, "You don't have to ask me about where we can go...and you aren't afraid of all the stares you'll get when people see me" Rida asked as he pointed to his scar filled face.

"I don't really care if people stare or not..." Vinny replied as he stopped just before the park, "I'll go if you're comfortable" he added, causing Rida to laugh softly, "I don't remember someone being so worried about how I feel" The orange eyed man said, causing the cameraman to look at him curiously, "So Enji doesn't care? I've kind of wondered what you two are for a while...he seems scared of you" Vinny asked curiously as he stretched out and went to this small stand selling water bottles.

"Enji? Oh he does care about me...and frankly we're both just friends though he's an absolute idiot and flirts...he does it to annoy I'm not particularly attracted to anyone in general...he isn't really afraid of me, he knows his limits and boundaries and not to cross them" Rida spoke as he followed Vinny who gave him a bottle of water.

"That...makes sense I guess...quick question how old are you?" The cameraman asked as he walked back to the park with Rida. "Guess" Rida spoke, Vinny paused for a moment and thought, "36?" The cameraman said curiously ."36!?I'm 29...and Enji's 24, you are?" Rida said clearly looking offended, "I'm 24...and wait you're 29? You don't look 29 and Enji's 24...he acts like he's 9" Vinny said surprisingly. The orange eyed man nodded in response as he followed the cameraman who entered the park.

"I wasn't even close..." Vinny said causing Rida to look at him, "That's so far off..." The orange eyed man spoke causing Vinny to chuckle. "Sorry sorry" The cameraman chuckled out, as the two began to jog. As the two jogged multiple people stared, the two weren't that fazed by it.

"Rida...what's Enji doing for you? You said he wasn't gonna be here because he was doing something?" Vinny asked causing Rida to stop in his tracks and Vinny too. "Now why would you want to know?" The orange eyed man asked as he looked at Vinny with a sweet smile. "I-I'm just curious..." The cameraman responded.

"Enji's just getting something back that belonged to me" Rida spoke, "A-and what's that?" Vinny asked

"An artifact..." Rida spoke, the cameraman could've sworn he heard the orange eyed man's voice become deeper as well as his eyes glow a brighter orange. "R-right..." Vinny replied his voice quiet as he felt a little nervous.

"It's best you don't think about it...we wouldn't want problems now...would we...Vinny...?"

(WOOOOO I'M ON A ROLE 3 PARTS IN LESS THAN 2 WEEKS? YOU ALL EATING WELL!!! I won't lie...this is one of my favourite parts I've made yet I hope you enjoy it)

[midnight-ranger-general-jiyan]

Evening wind sighed over the curling and rising fields. Tattered armor and weapons lay scattered about, adding onto the chaos of the dry grass and dying flora. The remnants of battle left a lingering bitter smell in the air and a moan of pain sounded over the grass that rippled with the wind. One step, then another, the soldier with his arm hung heavy over the woman's neck is about to collapse but his feet move, possesing a mind of their own. One foot in front of another, he's sure he's about to collapse. How long has it been since the battle began or ended? Where was he? Last thing he remembers is the blinding pain that sent him tumbling, and his comrades and the General getting lost amidst the swarm of TDs, and the next moment he sees this...horned woman towering over him with the light beating at her back like a broken halo. He was dreaming, he told himself, already dead. But then her strong grip found it's way onto him, helping him rise. She doesn't speak to him, she doesn't feel the need to, and in an oddly comforting way he's thankful for that as talking would require too much strength. His feet take more steps, one foot in front of the other. His weight and balance hanging onto her like a lifeline.

"We're close.." She spoke, but by the time the wounded and exhausted soldiers manages to raise his head they've already taken several more steps ahead. She spoke softly to him, mild tone thick with indifference as she paused in her step to let him catch a breath. Had she not found him, he would've died amidst rock and torched grass. But he makes note to thank her later. Looking up he can see through blurry eyes the sight of men walking about the camp, but they were still not spotted themselves. "Just a little more.. You'll get proper medical care there, I'm certain" Jien said, nudging the soldier with the arm that was around his back. Her tail flicks behind her, stirring the grass.

@shards-of-the-lost 🐲

(first time doing this so please feel free to correct me if I've made any errors 🙏😔)

Jiyan stood at the crest of the hill, the sun casting long shadows over the battlefield below. His broadblade gleamed with the remnants of the day’s slaughter, and his spear was an extension of his will. The wind, his constant companion, whipped around him, carrying the scent of blood and the moans of the dying. In the distance, the swarm of TDs—a grotesque, relentless horde—surged like a living nightmare.

With a deep breath, Jiyan summoned his inner strength, feeling the aero energy hum through his veins. He raised his spear to the sky, calling forth the spirit of the teal loong. The air shimmered and twisted, forming the ethereal shape of a dragon, its scales a brilliant, pulsating blue-green.

He plunged into the fray, the loong at his side. His broadblade cleaved through the nearest TD, the creature’s ichor spraying across the dry grass. The loong struck out with its claws and teeth, tearing through the mass of enemies with a grace and power that mirrored Jiyan’s own movements. They fought as one, man and spirit, each bolstering the other’s strength. Jiyan’s spear whirled in a deadly dance, impaling TDs with precision and speed. He could feel the wind responding to his will, sharp gusts slicing through the air and disrupting the enemy’s formations. The loong, too, manipulated the currents, creating vortices that pulled TDs off their feet and hurled them into the sky.

Time lost all meaning in the chaos. Jiyan fought with a single-minded ferocity, every muscle in his body burning with exertion. His mind was a razor’s edge, focused solely on the task at hand. But the TDs were endless, their numbers seeming to multiply with every kill.

....

.

.

.

Jiyan stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving with exertion. The battlefield was eerily silent, the only sounds the rustling of the grass and the distant cries of the wounded. He wiped the sweat and blood from his brow, his eyes scanning the horizon. The TDs were vanquished, but the true cost of the battle was yet to be revealed.

His duty now was to his men. He sheathed his blade and set off across the field, his heart heavy with dread. The dry grass crunched beneath his boots as he moved from body to body, checking for signs of life. Some he found were beyond help, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky. Others clung to life, their wounds grievous but not mortal. These he marked for the medics, offering what comfort he could.

Jiyan’s eyes locked onto a lone figure struggling to rise, supported by a woman with horns curving elegantly from her head. The soldier’s uniform marked him as one of Jiyan’s own, his face a mask of pain. Without a moment's hesitation, Jiyan rushed towards them to offer assistance.

[wandaspillow]

She didn’t right?

Scarlett x daughter!reader

Warnings: sh, suicide, abuse.

NOT A PROOFREAD IM SORRY !!

A/N: i haven’t posted in over a month. Everything thats going on in my life is so fucking crazy, i nearly got suspended and im moving to Aussie.

Y/n's POV:

It's my moms week this week, and I can't fucking wait. I hated being at my dad full time because all he would do is beat me, yell at me, and make me feel like a disappointment. So most of the time I would just hide in my room and do my homework.

The only thing he was happy about, was when I would have all A's on my test. But if I didn't I wouldn't be allowed to eat, or he would beat me until

I passed out.

And that's what happened today. I got a B on my math test, and just so you know I'm not very good at maths. And he knows when I get my test back, so when I opened the door he was standing there waiting for my test results and when he seen them he started yelling at me.

I look at his other hand and it hand a beer in it, that wasn't a good sign, he's probably drunk and something bad is going to happen and that's when he hit my head with the beer bottle and then I saw black.

My eyes opened and I saw it was light outside, so I thought it was still like around the time I come home from school, until I looked at my phone and say it was the next day, and my mom is picking me up.

Shit I have to pack my bags, I go to my room and pack my bags and my school books. I get everything I need and leave my room and see that my mom was here, I checked my face for any bruises and there were none thank god.

I look at my dad on the couch sleeping, that's all he does. I open the door and close it behind me, I see rose and cosmo are in the car too. I open the door and say hi to everyone. "How was your dad's baby?" My mom asked me "alright" I say and give her a fake smile.

"Y/n?" Rose says "yeah?" I answer her "can we play dolls when we get home" she asked "of course Rosie" I say and she smiles in her seat. We get to their house and get out of the car, I went to my room and put my bags down then rose and cosmo came into my room.

"Y/n/n?" Rose said "hm?" I said and looked up at her, "what's that on your belly?" Shit I didn't cover them, "nothing I just fell over at school" I say then cosmo said "are you sure sissy?" "Yes I am, don't worry about me. Now how about we just play dolls and cars?" I ask them "yay" they both said and we went to their play room.

It's been a few hours and it was around the time mum would cook dinner, then I remembered I had school tomorrow, the only reason I couldn't go today was cause it was a teacher only day, And I'm glad. "Guys dinner" mom yells from downstairs 'coming' we all say

We sat down at the table, mom made lasagne and she knows I love it (sorry if you don't like lasagne), then Colin came home and I send him a fake sweet smile as he goes and gets changed.

I finished and say I'm going to have a 'shower' and go up to my room. I look for my kit that I have I there, but I couldn't find it..shit I left it at my dads.

Then my see my razor, I drag it across my wrist and make red lines. I see the blood drip down my wirst and watch it, then I cover them up and turn on the shower and get in. When I put my wrist under the hot water it stings but it feels good.

As I finish I get a knock on my door and i say 'I'll be there in a sec', then I dry myself off and change into some shorts and a hoodie. I open my door and see it rose and cosmo. "Mommy said that's she says goodnight, and me too" rose says "and me!" Cosmo added "well tell her I say goodnight and goodnight to you too, I'll see you in the morning" I say "see you in the morning sissy" cosmo says.

I go to bed and see a text from my dad

My 'father'

Where are you?.

Y/n?.

Y/N WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU.

Me

Its moms week dad.

I turn off my phone and go to sleep.

The next morning:

I wake up from my alarm, I yawn and get out of bed. I see my school uniform on my desk and it had a note on it.

'Sorry y/n I have an emergency at work can you take your sister and brother to school please.

Love mom.'

I smile at it and go to my bathroom to brush my teeth. After that I go to cosmo and Rosie's room to wake them up and get them ready.

After they're ready I get myself ready, but I keep on having flashbacks about the night at my dads. I sake it off and get ready. I do my hair and get my bag, and see the kids are watching tv, "come on guys let's go" I say and they grabbed my hand and held on to it.

We started walking to their school and as we go their all of roses friends went up to her and cosmos too, "bye guys" I say to them, "bye sissy" they both say and go walk with their friends, as I started walking to school.

I started walking on a bridge, and I looked down and wondered what would happen if I jumped off...probably nothing to be honest. So I got out my phone, and there was no password because my dad never let me have one.

I went into my notes and wrote something. I took my bag off put my phone in it and went on the railing and jumped off, I didn't move, and I wasn't scared. I just relaxed my body and fell into the water and saw black.

Scarlett's POV:

As I'm at work I get a phone call, it was y/n's school, I wonder why they're calling. I answer and it was the office, "hello Scarlett speaking" I say, "hi Ms Johansson I'm here to inform that your daughter hasn't come to school" she says "oh okk I'll call her" I say and hang up my phone and call y/n.

She wasn't answering.

Then she finally answered, but it wasn't her.

"Y/n?!" I say on the phone, "this is not y/n, I found their bag and I heard a phone ringing" the person on the other side side. "Is she around you?" I ask "um ma'am..I don't know how to say this but I..I think she jumped" the person says

"what do you mean by jump?" I asked "she j- jumped off the bridge..." I stay silent "ma'am?" They ask "yes, yes I'm sorry I got to go" I say and that's when I call d the police and drove to where her phone was as fast as I could.

As I got there, there were police officers and other people looking for her. I tried to call her father, but he didn't answer. And soon they found her..she was blue..she looked lifeless.

They were trying to bring her back but they just couldn't, after 30 minutes of trying they announced her dead.

My oldest daughter.

She's dead.

Then one of the police officers came up to me, "miss Johansson I think this is your daughter's" she says. "Thank you" I whispered. It was her school bag, it had all her books and her phone, and lunch.

I grabbed her phone and it unlocked, she didn't have a password?..anyways the last thing she was on, was her notes and I looked at them.

And it said:

The person that was writing my story ran out of ink.

I felt tears in my eyes, I didn't know my daughter was feeling this way..then I looked on her photos. It was photos of her bruises, where did she get them from.

Until I remembered why I left her father. When he drunk to much he would do thing he would regret, but he did it to his own daughter.

I such a bad mother.

TIME SKIP:

I don't know how to tell roses and cosmo. Should I tell them she's gone to live with her dad?, or should I tell them she's gone away?.

I don't know what to do.

NO ONES POV:

After a long time, cosmo and rose have me wondering where their sister is, they tried to ask their mother but she would just say she's at her dad's.

Until today. "Cos, Rosie" Scarlett said "yes mommy?" They both said. "You know how I said your sister is at her dads?" She says "mhm" rose hums, "yup" he says popping the 'p'. "Well..you won't get to see your sister anymore.." Scarlett says to them.

"Why?" They both ask, "because she's in a better place now" she says and they nod, knowing what she meant somehow.

That was two months after her first daughter's death.

My Masterlist.

(Sorry its short)

[acorpsecalledcorva]

Lmfao, so for whatever reason I decided to look at the DID tags on twitter, probably as a form of digital SH and the first post I see on there annoys the fuck out of me

TW for discussion of self harm and self injury

Ok so first thing I see is this

And this is definitely a touchy subject subject for me, I get hyper critical when I see it discussed, especially since some early conversations with my therapist. Even before that discussion though I've always hated the way self harm is discussed even if I couldn't articulate those feelings.

And that's because abstinence as a moral imperative might be the most damaging ideology to ever worm it's way into society.

I mean, even the title of that article "First, Do No Harm, Not Even to Yourself" is soaked in moral judgement, "hurting other people is wrong and bad, right? So why would do a wrong and bad thing to yourself? You wouldn't download a razor blade" and it doesn't even make a proper argument on the moral philosophy of harm, she merely attempts to imply immorality by association. Hurting others is wrong because it violates their autonomy, your liberty to swing your arm ends just where my nose begins, right? It's about consent. In BDSM, a sadist may physically hurt a masochist because they have consented to it being done to them. Similarly, gender affirming care doesn't violate the Hippocratic Oath no matter how strongly a transphobe feels about it because informed consent is given to the treatment. Conversely, genial reconstruction surgeries performed on intersex babies or even infant circumsions should be considered a violation because consent has not and cannot be given.

But how does this apply to self-harm? It's your body, it's your autonomy, you aren't violating shit. Even being in a system no single alter has complete authority over the body, it's still possible to come to a consensus without unanimous agreement because guess what? Making decisions while having conflictual feelings or being in two minds is a perfectly normal human experience.

Am I saying you should self harm? No. Of course not. I'm simply saying that self harm is not an immoral act and I will remove the personhood of anyone that tries to weaponise shame in this way against people who almost certainly feel an incredibly painful and torturous amount of shame and guilt already.

The article is also vaccuously lacking in substance. The author seems to think this 'gotcha' is a sufficient argument but itself, checkmate traumatised liberals, but obviously needs to generate ad revenue through scrolling so offers 8 "new realities" to help reinforce a morally pure and healthy mindset.

1. Feelings are survivable and containable

Uhhh sure, they can be, if you have the right coping mechanisms to deal with them. You can't just tell someone to forgo the coping mechanisms they already have without successfully replacing them with something equally or more effective though. The whole point of dissociation from trauma is because certain feelings ARE deemed to be unsurvivable by the brain, you're not weak minded for thinking so.

2. We have art, reading, distractions, therapist, meds

Yeah no shit, that's not always enough though and you haven't failed if you try them and they don't work, the coping mechanisms have failed, not you.

3. We deserve to feel better

So true! Self harming makes me feel better when emotional distress is overwhelming me, I'm glad we agree

4. We don't need to guarantee pain

You know what guarantees pain? Shaming yourself out of using a coping mechanism without addressing it's root cause, but that's ok because feelings are "survivable" right?

5. We don't have to hurt via self-abuse

I actually don't know what that's supposed to mean, I can hurt myself without hurting myself? I don't have to self harm? I know I don't have to, but I can if it's better to do so than to not

6. Our trauma is over, why continue it?

First of all fuck you, retraumatisation is a very well noted trauma response, but so is shame and guilt so who's really continuing our trauma here?

7. We don't have to stand vigil over pain to honour abused parts

EXACTLY! That's what coping mechanisms are for, hey guess what coping mechanism can be really effective at temporarily relieving emotional pain? I'll give you a hint, it's not reading.

8. We will honour our abused parts with self compassion, understanding, acceptance, and encouragement

Once again so true! I will be compassionate to abused parts, understanding and accepting of the coping mechanisms they choose, while encouraging exploration of healthy alternatives without shaming them if they don't work.

Her website is littered with BuzzFeed style listicles of "25 ways to avoid self injury and prevent self harm" "25 more ways to avoid self injury and prevent self harm" "another 25 even more ways to avoid self injury and prevent self harm" and like, sure, they're all perfectly fine distraction techniques but what really pisses me off about the wording of these is that they're framed as ways to distract yourself from the urge to self harm, as though the urge itself is what's wrong, and not the pain and hurt that the urge is a response to.

Just watch one more movie bro, trust me bro, this next one will be the one that makes the pain go away bro just trust me one more movie bro.

I have wasted so much fucking time hating myself and shaming myself and feeling like a failure for breaking my streak. Torturing myself during some of the most emotionally distraught moments of my life because "it doesn't matter how much pain I'm in I can't give into the urge, I can't do that, no matter what I mustn't ever do that" imagining how much worse I'll feel when I punish myself for being too weak.

Do you know what I do now? I take note of the feeling, give it space and allow it to be present and I make a bargain with myself. I will give myself 2 hours to distract and soothe from the emotional pain that I or another part is experiencing, and if that doesn't work then we'll self harm with no shame or judgement. And you'll never guess what, I haven't even come close to self harming, and that's great! And maybe sometime it won't be enough and that'll be fine too, it'll just mean I really needed to. The parts that want to self harm feel respected and listened to, my hurt and abused parts feel seen because I'm paying attention to them and not fighting with the self harm part and we all get to move through the experience with grace.

8. We will honour our abused parts with self compassion, understanding, acceptance, and encouragement

Fucking damn right I will, in every way I can.

So yeah, that was my first 5 seconds on DID twitter how was your day?

[littledreamling]

★ - sad headcanon for Dream!

(playing to the strengths of the angst king, perhaps >:) )

Ohohoho you picked a good one for me lmao

I could reiterate the headcanon I sent in the server a few days ago (about Dream having trauma from being watched and never being able to feel like he's really alone, even in the Dreaming) but you've already heard that, so I'll pick a new (ish) one. Adding a cut and warning for graphic depictions of violence, major character death, heavy angst, comic spoilers, and my late-night attempt to make the comics worse than they already were in terms of... well, everything lmao. Proceed with caution!

Sad Headcanon:

This isn’t a sad headcanon about Dream specifically, more of a Dreamling sad headcanon, and I’ve made a post about this specific idea before (which can be found here!) so you’ll have to forgive me for bending the rules slightly but here goes:

There is something off, Dream thinks, walking next to his sister. Her usually cheery demeanor is subdued slightly, as if viewing her through a screen door; the outline of her is there, but the details feel fuzzy. When he asks her how she is keeping, he means it. He is concerned. She assures him that she is keeping well, or as well as she can, given her function, and he accepts it. He expects the conversation to be dropped. Or, at the very least, he expects the conversation to move on, and her odd mood with it. Sunlight and humanity have always cheered her up and he does not think today will be any different.

And then he asks about his pet project, Hob Gadling. He is curious, after all, to see how Hob is keeping, especially after their missed meeting. Have you seen him? He asks, and does not miss the way Death has tensed beside him, nor the way her step falters, a minute and monumental waver. He feels his brow crease.

I have, she says, and there is something in her voice that does not sit well, in a way even a century of imprisonment could not match. He can feel his fingers twitch at his sides, the full extent of human reaction he will allow himself, and waits for elaboration.

He asked to see me, she says, and Dream stops short. In the middle of the street, bright sun glaring down through overarching leaves, surrounded and untouched by humanity, the meaning of her words dawn on him like a waxing moon. Dream stops short. His breath, unnecessary and painful, comes in short bursts and Death's mournful eyes scrape like twin razors against his raw heart.

It was my fault, he says, somehow. He forces the words from between numb lips, somehow. Death's eyes soften, somehow. Somehow, it is worse. Just another thing he has lost while imprisoned. Just another thing crumbling in his hands, crushed under the weight of his pride and stupidity.

It wasn't just you, she says, and he does not believe her. Had he asked for help, had he plucked up the courage to be able to trust again, this would not have happened. If he had been able to place faith in Death, or in Alex, or in Burgess, Hob would still be alive. The thought almost sends him to his knees and he realizes that the keening noise in his ears is escaping from behind his own teeth.

Oh, Dream, I'm so sorry, she says, and he believes her. It does not help. How could she? How could she do that to him, knowing their history? How could she have submitted so easily to the whims of a simple, stupid human? He does not realize he is speaking aloud until she answers.

I am as bound to my function as you are, brother, she says, and her voice is soft, understanding. I could no more deny him my gift than you could deny him yours. Nor any human. She is nicer than he is. He has always known that. He suddenly wishes, selfishly, that she were not. If she had been as cruel as some had accused Dream of being, Hob would still be alive. The thought is no less agonizing the second time.

A raven, he gasps, desperation coloring his essence. He should've become my raven. They were mortals, once. Tell me you left him in my realm. He was mine in life, surely you have bestowed him upon me in death as well. He knows it is hopeless even as he says it. The ache in her eyes is answer enough. The anguish infused in every line of her body as she sinks down in front of him (when had he collapsed? He cannot remember) is a needless confirmation.

You are the Dreaming, and the Dreaming is you, she says, and he wishes he could close his ears, wishes he could block out the words he knows to be true, wishes he could stop her from speaking the truth he knows she will speak, she will always speak. With you gone, there was no realm to leave him in. He has crossed to the Sunless Lands, Dream. I'm sorry.

If she suddenly finds herself kneeling next to a pile of sand, she is kind enough not to mention it the next time she sees him. Indeed, the next time they find each other, she simply sits by his side, a comforting presence in the middle of one of the Dreaming's most comforting dreams. Fiddler's Green, newly restored, seems to tremble at the sight of her, of them, sitting together, nearly touching. Dream's gaze is held by his hands, bloody up to the elbows. It would make him sick to his stomach if he could feel anything, but he can't. There is only a numbness, deep in his soul, an exhaustion that all the rest in the world would not be able to touch.

What happened, Dream? She asks, without a shred of judgement. As if she does not know. As if she wants to hear it from his lips. They sit in silence; he does not know for how long. Too long, perhaps, but she has always indulged him. She has always made special exceptions for him.

I killed her, he says, quiet and sullen. I spilled family blood. Even when Lucienne tried to stop me, even when Unity revealed her bloodline. It did not matter. Or perhaps it did. I killed her anyway.

Just a few paces away, the body of Rose Walker is sprawled on the grass, staining the blades underneath her a tacky, child's-mind red. Where her chest had been now sits a cavity, caved in and empty, her very heart torn, still beating, from her breast. Her blood stains his fingernails because he lets it. He does not care to clean himself. He does not care to tidy his realm. He does not care.

You know what the Kindly Ones will do, Death says. It is a statement of fact. It is as immutable as Destiny's own book. He knows this. He had known this. He had not cared. He still does not.

Yes, he says, because he thinks he should respond. There is nothing more to be said. They sit in silence, listening to the last somber notes of his realm ring out, the easy swish of leaves, the gentle rushing of water, the birdsong from the trees. The air is still around them; he is not sure he could stand, or walk, or even move, even if he tried. He does not try. He simply sits. He simply waits.

Dream? Give me your hand, she says, and with a minute and monumental waver, he does. The last thing he feels in the warmth of her skin against his, a familiar presence at his side, and a warm smile. The very gifts that had been offered to Hob Gadling a decade before. Gifts given, gifts accepted. And with a flash of light, Dream of the Endless accepts.

[boltlightning]

ok. saw sweeney todd revival on broadway. i went from not knowing any songs to seeing two productions in one summer so. thoughts:

because im me my immediate takeaway was: it's been a hot second since i saw a show with the orchestra in a pit down in front of the stage AND it was a 26-person orchestra with refreshed orchestrations! it was so crispy and tight and the energy of being able to see the conductor is difficult to put into words. i'm beyond glad they didn't hide the musicians backstage

there were a lot of people there just for josh groban — i was with family whom i persuaded to see this show because of josh groban, and i heard many people in line being like "hey so is josh groban the bad guy? how much does he kill" and there were some changes i feel reflected that. there was so much physical humor, and sometimes lines were added to further give context to someone's actions. i think it works overall, but you could feel the crowd paying less attention when mrs. lovett or sweeney weren't on stage lol

and it's so unsettling! the chorus has some incredible and strange choreography; the light coming through the steps up to the second story is so ominous; the harmonies SOAR through the theater. it's good stuff.

potentially spoily stuff about the production itself below:

and yes OF COURSE the leads were incredible. i feel like len cariou's sweeney is so angry and yet refined, and michael ball's goes hard on the madness and revenge, but groban's is so...sad. he's such a dad, he sings like an angel, it is so uncomfortable when he does something violent. groban's epiphany is HAUNTING and ELECTRIC and the way he interacts with the razors is incredible! and the way he plays a little priest is hilarious but makes it very clear that it is an extension of his mental break. genuinely and eye-opening experience thank you mr. groban

and ashford takes the more emotional cues from the 2007 movie, but makes you actually care about her lmao. like compared to lansbury's frenetic and absent-minded lovett, ashford is laid back and casual and almost lazy about all the weird shit happening around her. she feels bad about locking toby up, sure, but she's still gonna use it as an excuse to get sweeney to pay attention to her! she's funny she's heartfelt she's insane she wants to fuck sweeney todd so fucking bad. it's an incredible combo

and. yeah the rumors are true. she climbs josh groban like a jungle gym the entire time, and on the rare occasion sweeney snaps out of his brooding to reciprocate the flirting, it is HOT. their camaraderie on and off stage is potent. and it works in the other direction too — when he starts to flinch away from her in the second act it's painful.

i do think that the ending sequence in particular is kind of messy up until the last scene in the bake house; there's not a moment to breathe and not in a way that seems intentional? and some of the scenes with the judge/johanna/anthony subplot could have used some love. but. minor qualms. i am biased because kiss me through pretty women is probably my favorite section of the show 😵‍💫

my last takes are: johanna and the beadle in this production are unbelievably good. johanna leaned so into the bird motifs, as well as the idea that she is done waiting around and ready to do violence, much like her father. and the beadle is delightfully amoral and hates his job and delights in the power it affords him. i am so glad they didn't cut parlor songs and let him really eat it up

and. the last shot of sweeney and mrs. lovett is so so so good and i hope they do a professional filmed production of this so people can experience that alone. josh groban's in this it'll sell like hot cakes PLEASE just do it

my first experience with sweeney todd was a local production i saw this june, in a deeply intimate 300-seat theater. i was sitting so close i could've set my drink on the stage. the sweeney was elegant and suave and tortured; mrs lovett was so casually and affably mean. i will think about them forever! and it's very interesting to compare it to the big fuck-off money production considering they both got roasted for having a more emotional sweeney!! here's the theater's 40 second promo for it!!!

nothing will ever replace the original soundtrack in my heart. but i'm gonna be unwell about this revival for a bit

anyway that's all i got!! thanks for reading if you read this. attend the tale and all that (obligatory tag for @r-osehips thank you for the interest ❤️)

[sniperct]

The question wasn't, "why didn't they expel Manchin?" The question was why didn't they PRESSURE him to toe the line like LBJ used to do all the time during his tenure (esp when Zionists within the party did far worse to Cori Bush for far less)? Please answer the actual question.

Just because you don't consider misogynoir and anti-Palestinian racism to be worthy of serious criticism, doesn't mean the rest of us feel this way, too.

Of course I consider both of those things worthy of serious criticism. Its fucked up.

But great work putting words into my mouth.

Re: Manchin. Do these two articles help? The TLDR is they needed his vote on a variety of things and feared he'd take his ball and go home. It was basically a question of how far they could try to push him before he just stops voting with us on everything. The LBJ trick works better when its not literally the one man between control and not control.

Plus LBJ had 62 senators and 260 in the house when he took over for Kennedy and had 68 in the senate and 295 in the house when he won his own election. Like those are HUGE NUMBERS you can get away with pressuring holdouts when you have that much room to spare. And honestly LBJ was kind of in a league of his own wrt this stuff.

But like people need to understand how razor thin this all was from 2010 onwards.

The MAJOR thing with Cori Bush (in terms of her actual primary) was outside money flowing in to influence the election, which is a problem in general but especially vile with an org like AIPAC.

It looks like most of the ads against her were aimed at her voting against the infrastructure bill, raising that as a large issue. Not the only issue that was stirred up, but in US politics the voters usually vote on how they feel about the economy.

Is it bullshit? Yeah. But voters are just going to see she voted against something that directly benefited them and the economy and vote accordingly, without pausing to ask why she took that stance.

Other articles do hit on the I/P stance (like this one where dem leadership endorsed her) but its pretty easy to find headlines about the debate over the issue in her primary so I'm sure it was also a significant factor. Which is, as I said, fucked up.

Ilhan Omar and AOC won their primaries easily despite being as vocal and voting along the same lines. Which goes to my point about all politics being local. Their stances worked out a lot better in their district than it did for Bush. Its also curious that AIPAC didn't spend money against them but that likely plays into the misogynoir thing.

[honeybunniii333]

What about the prompt you’re most excited to do? I’d say ibvs but you might be tired of writing for it, so feel free to pick a different one if that’s the case.

(Ah, how kind! Found this one the most interesting to me! I enjoy angst/comfort and find the idea of Isward bonding over scars cute! TW for self-harm, as that is the prompt I picked!)

Isaac was too far into dissociation to register the sound of footsteps or the tired call of his name or the sound of the bathroom door opening or the startled noise coming from someone. He didn't register anything but the blade and the sting and the feeling of trickling blood. at least not until he felt a hand gently but firmly wrap about his wrist, preventing automatic slicing from continuing. Gold met Brown as he finally snapped out of it enough to register he'd been caught... literally red-handed. "Ed.! What are you doing here!?" he immediately pulled away, dropping the razor in his stupor, which Ed was quick to pick up and place on the sink counter instead. "I live here, Ink, this is my house, remember?" He snorted a little. Why was he acting so casual?... he wasn't fawning over him like Drew or getting mad like his teachers... He quietly stood to open the medicine cabinet and pull a first aid kit and a rag out. "Are they deep?" He asked, busying himself with wetting the rag. Isaac was so confused that he didn't speak for a moment until Ed turned to look down at him. "Are they deep?" He repeated, not condescending, just repeating to make sure he'd been heard. "Oh.. no.. not really." He shrugged, staring down at his bloody arm. "Good, I don't know how to do stitches, so that would be bad." he replied after a short pause before taking his spot of the floor by him o ce more as he gently pressed the rag to the cuts to slow the bleeding and clean them a bit.

"...." he watched the boy as he pulled the rag away and wet a cotton swab with alcohol "This will sting." he commented before beginning to tenderly and thoroughly clean each wound. He was so calm... no pity or tears or even anger. So understanding it was driving Isaac mad. "...why are you being so normal about this..?" He whispered. "You're never normal..." he had to sneak an insult in. Of course, it was mandatory. "......" he didn't answer immediately, and that just made him angry. He yanked his arm away. "Why aren't you freaking out?!"

"...do you...want me to freak out?" He asked, tilting his head a little before dropping the bloody cotton swab onto the bloody rag and pulling some gauze pads and gauze out. "I!...no just.. it's weird." His shoulders sank a bit as he let the other grab his wrist and gently move his arm down to start wrapping it. "Yeah, I'm weird, aren't I?" He snorted a little, and once he'd finished tending to the boys' injuries, he let out a soft sigh and leaned back against the sink cabinet. "... I... didn't like it when Blue made a big deal of it. I figured you wouldn't like it either." he mumbled, staring down at the bandages on his boyfriends arm. Isaac could see the concern in his eyes the way his brows furrowed a little, and his natural pout worsened, and after a moment of studying the boy's face, his words seemed to actually register. "You.. you didn't like it?" He repeated. "No, it made me feel worse. I know he didn't mean to. Seeing someone you care about hurting hurts, and he didn't mean to cry. But it made me feel like the worst person ever for causing it." he added and moved to push the sleeve of his t-shirt up, showing the heavy harsh scaring on his shoulder. "That's why you never wear tank tops.." Isaac whispered "Yeah that and they're ugly." he laughed a little before the two fell into silence. "...Why did... you?.." he wasn't sure how he should ask, but he was so caught off guard by it he wanted to know. "...Middle school was rough." he replied. "It helped me cope with the stress, gave me control over something. They're on my legs, too." he added bundling his sweatpants in his fists. "Have you... cut anywhere else?" the taller boy asked, leaning a little closer. "No, just my arm. I haven't been doing it super long, actually. just since freshman year."

"I see.." he frowned, "You aren't mad?" Isaac looked up at him. "Why would I be mad? I mean, I'm not happy about you hurting yourself, but I'm not mad." he seemed confused at the idea. "I want you to stop." he clarified, "but I'm well aware that that isn't exactly easy." he rubbed at the back of his neck. "So I'll just have to help you with it." he declared with his usual level of confidence. "Oh really?" Isaac rolled his eyes, looking down at his boyfriends hard work and scooting a little closer to rest his head against him.

"I'm gonna have to hold you to that then."

[semperama]

Eager to hear more about the Maxiel horse farm AU if you are eager to tell? X

I've been working on it for like...idk, it feels like a year now, but it's been slow going! The premise is: it's the mid-1930s, the tail end of The Great Depression, and Max's father owns a horse farm in Kentucky. Max is of course expected to take over one day. Daniel was displaced from his job on a ranch in Montana due to the Depression, so he heads East and ends up getting a job at the Verstappen farm. He and Max hit it off, but Max is deeply troubled and undersocialized, and there's the added complication that he is technically sort of Daniel's boss, not to mention much more well-off than him, and it takes them a while to figure out what they're doing.

You can find a couple snippets in my horse farm au tag, but here's another!

"I can do the rest myself if you want," Daniel says. He makes to reach for the razor, but Max pulls back, shaking his head.

"This is the hardest part," Max says. "You will of course cut yourself."

Daniel chuckles, but there's something strained in it. "I’ve cut myself before. Hasn’t killed me yet."

"I will get you a better mirror," Max says. If his father wants him to be more involved with the running of this place, then he will be more involved. He imagines himself arguing that they need to modernize, bring all the outbuildings into the twentieth century. He imagines how Jos would scowl at him and rant about the waste of money, and his resolve fizzles.

"I'll settle for you getting the damn mustache off." Daniel curls his hands around the edge of the mattress and sits up a little straighter. "Go on then. I'm sure it's past your bedtime anyway."

Max’s face must be blazing bright red, but he tries to ignore it, putting his thumb under Daniel's chin to hold him still while he positions the blade and the carefully slides it up to his bottom lip. His hand shakes a little on the end of the stroke, but he pulls away before he cuts Daniel and wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. He makes the mistake of meeting Daniel’s gaze, and what he sees there makes his heart stutter in his chest.