#mm.writes

[moo-moo-meadows]

For your Georgebur royal au, I always had this thought of George teaching Wilbur archery flirting

MY GEORGEBUR ROYALTY AU?? I didn’t think people still knew about that or cared enough to actually send an ask,, oh my gosh, okay, okay. Gnf teaching Wilbur archery (to flirt) handshake Wilbur teaching gnf ballroom dancing (to flirt) so we’re gonna try to do both of those + an added something :D mostly cause it fits their characters but also kinda fits their roles in the story? Wilbur is the antactic prince from this long bloodline and his family is probably very regal meanwhile George is a prince, yes, but a prince of the forest. Complete different vibes

send writing prompts pspsps

“I’m no good with weapons.” Wilbur isn’t sure how their conversation had lead to this topic. It’s often that their conversations seem to follow no rhyme nor reason. One moment they could be talking about their childhood, the stars, the next; doubling over in laughter over shared experiences with prickly old nobles at balls.

George frowned as Wilbur continued, “That had always been something that was more of my brothers’ nature. We’re all trained with a sword, of course, but it never felt right in my hands the way a quill or an instrument does.” He flexed his fingers lightly, grazing the tips of his fingers.

“I think I might disagree.” George, who had been laying with his back against a mossy rock, sat up, arms flexing as he propped himself up. Rid of his outer coat, complaining of the sun rays that beat down on their skin at the clearing which they found themselves in, he sat in a simple tunic which revealed lean yet toned arms and a collarbone powdered like the cream-colored spores on top of mushrooms. Due to George’s unblemished countenance and thin figure, Wilbur had once thought him to seem more elegant than particularly strong. Not once did he think that again after watching the same man who seemed as delicate as the stars take down men twice his size with ease, laughing with his twinkling smile all the while.

“Do you fathom know me better than my old swordsmanship teacher then? Who I brought to tears the last time I tried to wield a sword and nearly cut my little brother's head right off?” George smiled. He knew of the story. Wilbur had told it to him once before, miming the way his sword clumsily soared through the air and then out of his slippery grasp–he always seemed to have loose lips the same way around George–and barrelled right at poor Tommy, bright-eyed and waiting for the day he would be allowed to wield a sword like his strong big brothers.

Needless to say, Wilbur’s lessons stopped there, and Tommy’s were delayed for some time until he could trust being around swords again. Not that it hindered his natural talent for the art in any way. Perhaps it is his confidence, and Wilbur’s lack thereof, that made the difference.

“I think that they simply gave you the wrong weapon and that your strengths lay elsewhere.” George hummed.

“Yes, dear, they lay with the words on my lips and the chords at the tip of my fingers.”

George shoved him lightly, rolling his eyes. The brown and blue hues seem to twinkle. “That too, of course. You know I mean something else.” Wilbur stayed silent, so he continued. “Have you ever tried wielding a bow?”

“I can’t say that I have.” There were some bows in the armory back at home, but Wilbur had never trained with them. Swordsmanship had been the bare minimum for their curriculum, and he didn’t even pass that. He knew that Techno and his father were adept, while Tommy, though talented, had no care for it.

“Would you like to try?”

“When done properly, wielding a bow should not just use the arms, as many might think, but the entire body. Your back and your core especially.” George’s hand trailed from Wilbur’s shoulder down his back, making him shiver.

“George,” he said at length, fingers clenching infinitesimally against the string of the bow. He can almost feel George grin behind him as he pulls his hand away to move more towards Wilbur’s side, judging his stance.

“Tight here, loose here.” George’s fingers fall naturally against where Wilbur erred, correcting him bluntly with his words yet gently with his actions. He flinches as George’s hands fall on his waist, and George merely raises an eyebrow up at him. “Keep this part forward, and your feet shoulder length apart.”

“Do your people normally teach in this manner or is it just you?”

“In what manner?”

“So… touchy.” Wilbur’s used to having things demonstrated for him, or to learn simply by doing and having his errors beat out of him, more or less. Still quite tactile and hands-on, but in a much more different way.

George hummed, stepping back to look at Wilbur’s stance once more. “Which answer would you like?”

“The honest one?”

“Deep breath. Shoot when you feel ready,” George replied instead. As Wilbur felt the crisp air enter his lungs, he thought that George would not give him a proper answer. Instead, as the arrow whizzed past his cheek, George whispered.

“Maybe it’s just because it’s me, and you.” Wilbur’s arm jerked, and the both of them watched as the arrow embedded itself just slightly left of the bullseye.

“Does that feel better than wielding a sword?” A callback to their earlier conversation.

“You did that on purpose.” Wilbur huffed. Again, with no rhyme or reason.

“Maybe so.” George walked over to pull the arrow out of the target.

“I’ve found that there’s something quite more satisfying with landing a successful shot than a successful hit. It’s a lot more technical, but in a way, there’s also something melodic about the way that your body moves almost in tandem with the bow and arrow. Like the string of a violin, or the beat of a drum.”

Or two hearts writing their own melody.

“Is that why you always seem to disappear during this time of the night?” Wilbur mused, reminiscing the first time they met. It had been a starry night just like this one, and they are atop the gazebo from back then too, which has now become something of a special place for them both to get away to.

George shrugged one shoulder, but his smile said it all. It’s awkward in the way it always is when there’s something George doesn’t want to admit but has left out in the open for people to assume anyway. “Just like you never saw a reason to learn to fight-”

“I tried, still,” Wilbur interjected, though he is right. There has been enough bloodshed in the Antarctic Empire’s past to ensure that at least the dynasty of Wilbur and his brothers’ generation will pass mostly peacefully, and if they play their cards right it will hopefully stay the same for the next generation, too.

“Yes, of course. Just as you tried, and failed, so did I when it comes to dancing.”

“But you seem so graceful.” Graceful. Elegant. A number of other synonyms for the words flash in Wilbur’s mind.

“Graceful in battle, that I’m sure of. But when it comes to dancing I literally seem to have two left feet. Trust me, countless have tried to fix my wrongs. I’d say the one who’s gotten close to making me seem at least somewhat presentable while dancing was Dream, but–”

“What about me?” Out of nowhere, Wilbur blurted out. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, George’s dual-colored irises shining curiously, but he couldn’t help the words from escaping when George mentioned the countless others who have attempted to dance with him that made Wilbur realize that they have never shared such a moment.

“What about you? You want to teach me how to dance?” Despite asking it as though it were a question, George was already beginning to slide off the roof, the answer known but unspoken between them. He landed gracefully, as always, and held up his hand to help Wilbur down. Not that he needed any assistance, but he took it anyway, if not just to pull George close to him once both his feet are planted firmly on the ground, their shoes squeaking on the marble floor as he brings them to the center of the gazebo.

George stumbled a little, and Wilbur couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll step on you, on purpose,” he threatened.

“Shh,” if they were quiet enough, they could almost barely hear the music playing all the way from the ballroom. It’s even fainter in Wilbur’s ears, drowned out by his heart beating louder as George tilted his head up towards him. Their lips came together for just a moment, Wilbur allowing himself the reprieve of smiling against soft chapped lips before he moved them into the proper positions.

“You know the steps?” A nod, bashful. From the kiss, maybe, or the prospect of what’s to come. George had never liked making mistakes in front of Wilbur, though he loves him even more both despite them and because of them.

“Try leading me, then.”

“What?” George snapped, but Wilbur just smiled, ever so patient. He moved George’s hands and waited for him to move. He did, a few moments later, hesitantly.

“Don’t think about it too much,” Wilbur advised, his voice a murmur as to not break the moment. He didn’t seem too successful as George’s mouth still twisted in displeasure as he took the next step and the next.

“Easy for you to say. How many ladies, is it, that you’ve danced with just like this during balls?”

“Jealous?” George rolled his eyes, turning them. Wilbur fought back a smile.

“Like you weren’t jealous at the prospect of me dancing with someone else, either.” Wilbur couldn’t even find it in him to get mock-angry as they stumbled a little on their next turn, George’s face flushing with the mistake before they right themselves and continue on.

“I’d neither confirm nor deny that statement. Only if you tell me if I’m doing a better job at teaching you than all the rest of them so far.”

“Careful, or your feet mind end up worse than theirs.”

“I’ve never let someone else take the lead, if that makes you feel better.” George’s hand twitches where it’s situated on the small of Wilbur’s back.

“It doesn’t.” It does.

“I hope perhaps you’ll still allow me the pleasure of being the only gentleman you’ve danced with whom you didn’t ruin the shoes of.” George ducked his head but brought it back up upon the insistence of Wilbur’s knuckle underneath his chin. They smiled at each other, fond.

“We’ll have to see.”

On some other night, Wilbur’s knuckle would find itself brushing high against George’s cheekbone as his eyes flutter, both tired and bright at the same time.

“I’ve never seen eyes quite like yours.” Wilbur would murmur, into the space between their lips. Into the space between their souls. Ice blue eyes against brown and blue. George would only hum in response, and in an infinitesimally small gesture, lean closer into Wilbur’s touch.

He knows the other must have heard the phrase more than enough, but Wilbur could write poems about his eyes’ hues. Already has, in his mind, more than enough times. Not just the mismatched color, both the earth and the sky at the same time, but the depth, the expression. It’s like a renaissance painting that transports you to that time period, except its two portals that transport you to a world where everything just seems right, with no preamble. Somehow, Wilbur finds that he’s already living in it.

[the-feels-i-do-not-own]

@mm.writings 

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[mess-thoughts]

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[touringfromtheparkbench]

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[moo-moo-meadows]

Prompt?

C!Wilbur finding C!George sleeping in the forest with flowers growing around him

you said c!wilbur so i went with kinda revivedbur vibes i think?? and i was gonna write till george woke up but i got lazy and this has been a few days (maybe even weeks now) so imma just post it bc,, yeah

send writing prompts pls pspsps

Wilbur stumbles through the overgrowth, just one more part of the forest that seems to reject him; a bland and horrid eyesore amidst the various hues of brown and green. He understands why the forest fights back. A sanctuary and a ticking time bomb don’t often go well together. But something seems to call him further in. Not quite a voice in his head nor a feeling in his heart. Just… a calling. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t claim to, either, but maybe when he reaches what he’s hoping to find–

He brushes past a canopy of leaves and steps, nearly trips once more, into a golden meadow. The word sanctuary has never felt so right. It feels less like a clearing in a forest and more like a resting place for something too pure for the world to touch. Bright, blinding. Wilbur’s hand twitches at his side, as though his body knows something his mind does not. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong here, in this untouched and sacred place. His mere presence sullies it.

But oh, does he wish he could stay. Wilbur yearns for the times in his past when everything had been so bright, so blinding, just like this moment. He wishes the sun could burn away his sins and he could stay here, finally at peace. He moves closer, as though being carried by the breeze.

Rosewood. The name for it beckons in his mind as he catches a glimpse of it between lush green moss, grass, and various other fern and fauna. Between the daisies and the cornflowers. Dark brown locks blow lightly over a peaceful face, long eyelashes casting the prettiest shadows over unblemished sun-kissed skin. It’s as though the earth and Life itself are cradling him in its arms. It only takes a moment for him to recognize the other, even with most of his features hidden behind the flowers blanketing him.

It’s an old face. A familiar face. Perhaps one Wilbur thought fondly of once in a blue moon. Thought of in yearning perhaps only slightly more. Then was back then and this is now, but he can still remember the flecks in his brown eyes reflecting the moonlight, the goggles that typically hide them nowhere to be seen. He wonders what those flecks would look like now, in the sun. If they would still be the same.

[moo-moo-meadows]

Georgebur being domestic? Wilbur cooking breakfast and George hugging him from behind, disheveled hair and still sleepy or just them waking up in their bed in the morning.

me? finishing up this little georgebur thing while dnf are in their pride month arc tonight? it’s absolutely more likely than you think. changed up the prompt a bit so i hope u don’t mind, dear! and sorry it absolutely took way too long 

send me writing prompts pls pspsps

“Wil?” George sighed, his eyelashes fluttering in the soft morning haze. The curtains block out most of the early sun rays, but even still George could sense that it’s quite early. Much too early for Wilbur to be getting up, even with his insistence of keeping a good sleep schedule.

A slender hand brushed through his messy hair, the touch so soft and gentle that it nearly lulled George back to sleep with ease. Wilbur tucked a piece of hair behind his ear and bent down to press a kiss to his forehead, humming softly.

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you up, darling?” The sappy pet name almost didn’t register in George’s sleep riddled mind, but when it did, he scrunched his face up and buried it in their soft covers, eliciting a warm chuckle from his partner. “Go back to sleep love, I’ll be back in just a second.”

Even though he said that, Wilbur’s fingers did not stop running through George’s hair until his consciousness faded.

A few hours later, George is roused from his sleep once more. This time feeling much more awake. As promised, Wilbur had returned while he was asleep. Had curled up behind him, his arm wrapped loosely around George’s waist from behind. Their legs, likewise, tangled up under the covers. It takes a bit of maneuvering to get out of his hold without waking him up, even when George didn’t want to, but he eventually stumbles out of bed, leaving a mumbling Wilbur in their mountain of blankets and pillows.

He goes through the motions; washes his face, brushes his teeth, still feeling like this whole morning had just been a dream. After nearly burning himself when beginning to make breakfast, though, George is finally able to come to his senses a little bit.

It’s not often he gets to cook breakfast for the two of them, with his sleep schedule being nothing short of an enigma, even to himself. He’s someone who prefers to go at his own pace. That means sleeping when tired and waking up when less so. Unfortunately, this means that he’s usually out of sync with the other. Sometimes even working on complete opposite schedules where George falls asleep when Wilbur is just barely waking up to get the day started.

He’s just about done with the pancakes when he hears Wilbur shuffle down the stairs, and is just about to turn to greet him when he feels two arms (and their blanket) wrap around him from behind, as well as a head come rest itself against his shoulder, Wilbur’s fluffy mess of a bedhair tickling his neck.

“Good morning.” George simply replies, reaching up to pet him as he hums sleepily, nuzzling into the crook of George’s neck further. “What did you have to do earlier?” Wilbur mumbles incorregibly, making George squirm as he feels the words against his skin. Wilbur is swaying slightly, bringing George along with the motion, and George is sure he doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it.

He’ll never admit it to anyone in the world, but these moments are some of his favorite. When it feels like it’s just them two in the entire world. No eyes on them. Simple, quiet. It suits them much more than any grand gesture would, though George knows Wilbur wouldn’t mind those either if that’s what gets George’s heart racing. It does as well, but not always in a good way.

“Let go. I need to finish making breakfast. Go take a nap in the living room or something.” Wilbur let out another noise again, something along the lines of ‘nuh uh’ or ‘don’t want to’ that has George sighing lightheartedly.

George then proceeded to drag the half-asleep Wilbur around throughout the entire process of making breakfast, almost setting the blanket around Wil on fire in the process and burning their entire kitchen down. 

[moo-moo-meadows]

Spare Georgebur royal au please? I really like your au and feel like it's been years since I read about it!!

anon i am on my hands and knees for you,, oh my god. idk every time i talk about my georgebur royalty au i always feel like the only clown in the whole circus so it really means so much that you enjoy it, so much so to seek it out omgfhgdf i’m crying thank you. this one’s for you anon i put my heart and soul in it, as i always seem to do when it comes to this AU lmao don't tell the others i have favorites x

send prompts pspspsp

“You love me,” his voice is so soft Wilbur nearly thinks he imagined it, a mere little thought wondered, pondered out loud. It’s clear to Wilbur that it was not something he was meant to hear, but he responds anyway.

“You say that as if it is hard to believe.” Wilbur reaches over to tuck a piece of George’s hair behind his ear, fingers grazing against the jewel attached to his lobe. An icy teardrop, a tiny thing in the grand scheme of things, and yet it still makes Wilbur’s heart swell due to what it represents. “Are you not as beloved here, as I am in my kingdom?” George turns his head, letting Wilbur’s touch stray against the warmth of his cheek, and smiles quietly at him.

“Maybe it’s because it’s me, and you.” An echo of a former conversation that makes Wilbur’s smile turn even more honeyed, and this time he finds that he doesn’t quite hate the term nearly as much.

“You’ve not said it back,” he remarks, his tone making it clear that he’s only teasing. Though Wilbur’s strength lies with his words, he does not need them to feel secure. Not when he already knows that his feelings are reciprocated, if only from the way that George brandishes his earring so proudly and only ever seems to smile and laugh and blush as much as he does when he’s around him.

Their moonlit garden seems even more lovely in the reflection of George’s dual-colored eyes as he smiles wider, tilting his head further into Wilbur’s touch, and he once again is reminded of a cat due to his lover’s antics. “Won’t you rather me say I’m yours?”

“No,” is his pensive reply after not even a beat.

George quirks an eyebrow. “No?”

“You don’t have to be mine, though I’ll have you if that’s what you wish. What I want is your love, not you necessarily.” Wilbur captures George’s lips in his, who softly sighs into the kiss. Part fondly and part exasperatedly.

“Must you always out romance me at a time like this?”

“Well, won’t you humor me and say it? Why are you so shy?” George turns back to gaze at the roses, leaning his body into Wilbur’s side and therefore his warmth.

“My family never did any of that ‘love is weakness’ bullshit,” Wilbur raises his eyebrows at the sudden vulgarness of his words, but stays silent as George continues, “but they’ve always equated vulnerability to weakness, and I know love makes even the strongest men vulnerable. It’s hard to unlearn something that I’ve been taught since before I could even walk,” he pauses, a breath.

“But I think I’d like to try if it’s with you.”

(“you are the first person to make me speechless” :handshake: “you make me feel like it’s safe to be vulnerable” georgebur in my royalty au making me want to throw up /pos)

“Careful, dove,” Wilbur murmurs. He must be drunk on moonlight and their time spent together; he doesn’t even realize that the words had escaped his mouth until George turned towards him.

“Dove?” George questions, pulling Wilbur’s hand away from where it covered his mouth as though he could take the words back. “What is that? Not ‘love’?” He tilts his head and Wilbur pretends as though the word in the sense of a term of endearment in George’s voice doesn’t make his heart stutter. Most things, in that sense, make his weak heart tremble, but Wilbur is but a weak man himself when it comes to his lover.

“It’s nothing. Forget it, please.” A sliver of desperation to cover up his mistake. He doesn’t even realize, once again, how his words seem to mirror something from a past conversation that flickers almost dangerously across George’s face.

“We know what happened the last time you told me to forget about something,” George says remorselessly, in both a forgiving and unforgiving way that makes Wilbur wince the tiniest bit. “Don’t we, dove?” He leans towards Wilbur with a curious ‘I won’t let this go’ kind of expression, repeating the word mockingly to show Wilbur that he won’t just forget it this time. Not that he did any other time.

“It’s-it’s something my parents would call each other, sometimes. I’m sorry. It just-it slipped out.” The vulnerability that comes with admittance makes Wilbur almost want to shrivel up. The underlying meaning behind ‘it slipped out,’ the idea that at Wilbur’s most honest self, he mirrors the way his parents act is, to put simply, embarrassing. Wilbur thought that he was past embarrassment at this point.

George’s eyes soften. More like, his whole expression both melts and brightens, eyes flickering with a hint of shyness that seems to bubble and bubble until he turns away, looking back to where he had been looking before. “Don’t apologize for something like that,” he coughs, bashful. The hand that’s holding Wilbur’s tightens.

(woahh george pov moment!! not sure how i feel about this one. honestly i don't know how i feel about his character as a whole in the fic but I'm trying it out a little and what better to test it out than to write bits and bobs of george's pov of their first meeting?))

“Look, George. All those sparkling lights in the sky are the twin gods’ tears blessing you, and our land.” George cannot remember his mother’s face. No amount of portraits scattered across the castle nor remarks that he and his sister carry her countenance well would ever amount to the gentleness in his mother’s expression that he fights every single day to remember and hold on to til his hands are balled into fists and shaking. He cannot remember her face, but he remembers the sweetness of her voice and her gentle touch on his head as he cranes his head up to look at the blanket of stars that seemed so unfathomable to him, only a child’s mind at the time.

Every time he looks at those same stars, he wishes he had looked longer at his mother instead. What was her expression on that night? Had she known her fate? George does not often lie, but he will admit now that to him, it is not the twin gods’ tears that stain the night on this supposed momentous day.

Frankly, he’s not sure why he said such a thing to the boy with the beautiful starstruck eyes, nor does he know why he’d asked him to stay when normally he’d force him to leave. Maybe it’s because his eyes, if George could go back in time to see his child self, must be the same as his that night. Maybe it’s because of ‘fate,’ as his mother might say if she were still-

If she were still-

Maybe he had been desperate for a distraction. Not from the celebrations, all meticulously prepared, all meant for him when all he wanted to do was count stars til his vision was too blurry to differentiate constellations from each other, and all else that was happening just beyond the closed doors to the balcony they were in. And maybe it was fate after all, though there was something in George that somehow knew that this stranger would be the only one to humor him when he asked to pretend. Pretend. As though foregoing his name and his title and abandoning his claim to this land and the stars above would make everything that happened on this terrible momentous day only a lie and not something that George will have to live with for all his life.

Well, it works. The twin gods must truly favor George, or perhaps they pity him, perhaps they are apologizing and perhaps George simply chose well. The kind and beautiful stranger told the most vivid and alluring tales and spun life with his voice both in speech and in song and George did not forget. How could he, when he knew too well what those icy blue eyes represent? But maybe, he allowed himself reprieve; he laughed harder than he’d had in years and smiled, genuinely, eyes creasing and heart both heavy and oh so light, and for that night that was more than enough.

He laces their pinkies together on top of the pavilion his mother loved. The stranger takes the rest of his hand and George would only find the gentleness to be half-familiar and remember it for years to come.

[moo-moo-meadows]

thanks to aty liking that post i actually remembered to post the dreamnap drabble soo here it is

The netherrack digs into Sapnap’s chest, hot and painful and solid but crumbling where he grips at the edge with one hand for extra stability, bloodied and bruised knuckles turning white. With his other hand, his hand is the only thing keeping Dream from plummeting into a pool of lava. 

“Dream,” his voice wavers like the heatwaves that blur his vision as his eyes falter to the depths below them. They must be 50 blocks above the air, at the very least. If it were solid ground… Well, Sapnap isn’t sure that Dream would be able to survive the fall even then, even with all the dirty little tricks he always seems to have up his sleeve. 

“Sapnap,” Dream’s voice returns him to the present, followed by the feeling of his hand purposefully almost slipping, if not for Sapnap’s grip tightening. The sweat accumulating between their palms making everything painfully slippery.

“Wh-what, what are you doing!?” Sapnap shouts. The netherrack crumbles further. He should conserve his energy and focus on a plan to get Dream to safety. He knows logically that he cannot hold on to him forever, even though right now it feels like each second is both infinity and only a single moment. Though Sapnap has never been the logical one between them. Really, neither of them are.

“Sapnap.” He has that voice again. The one he has when he’s about to do something crazy. Sapnap hates that he knows it so well. “Do you trust me?”

Sapnap’s bottom lip quivers despite himself.

“Do you trust me?” He asks again, smiling now. The one hand he had gripping Sapnap’s arm loosens until it eventually falls off entirely. Sapnap sees the vague outline of his inventory out of the corner of his eye where he’s refusing to look away from Dream’s face. He would never ask this if his mind hadn’t already been made up. If he didn’t already know the answer. 

“Yes. Fuck. Yes, I trust you. You crazy idiot.” It’s always yes, and it will always be yes. Dream could get into the stupidest shit and Sapnap will always, always follow. Will always be one step behind him, protecting his back, supporting him. 

“On three, okay?” Dream takes a deep breath. They don’t need to say anything else. 

“One,”

“Two,” 

“Three.”

♡

Dream’s lips are featherlight over the stars on Sapnap’s knuckles, and lighter still when he turns Sapnap’s palm over to lay worship on raw skin that never grew back quite right, the only part of Sapnap’s body that doesn’t run hot. His burn marks. Dream thumbs at them idly, moving Sapnap’s hand so that it cups his cheek, which would be strikingly cold from the night sky if Sapnap could feel it. Dream’s face, when the clouds part and allow a droplet of moonlight to shine through, appears pensive, tentative. Sapnap strokes his face once, twice, tracing the scar on his high cheekbone, right under his eye. He tilts his head, too many silent questions all at once. 

Dream answers two of them with a sigh falling onto Sapnap’s lips, which part under his, and then answers the others with his hand around his waist pulling him closer. “What are you thinking about?” He vocalizes one of the unanswered questions through their breath, curled together like smoke. 

“You.” Unabashed, simple, honest. It makes the red crawl up Sapnap’s neck. 

“I know that.” He does, the thought makes him shyer, “what exactly about?” 

“Does it…” Dream’s eyes flutter softly. Sapnap can almost convince himself he can feel it against his own cheeks from how close they are. “Do they still hurt… your scars?”

“Are you still feeling guilty over it? I told you to stop doing that.” Dream sucked in a sharp breath, releasing it just as quickly. 

“I know, it’s just- I don’t even… remember. At all. I try so hard every day to remember, but it’s like something is blocking my brain.” 

“No duh, you almost died. Trauma, dude.” Sapnap points out.

“We almost died.” He pauses. “Do you remember?” Hopeful.

“Bits and pieces.” Huh. Must be the trauma. Though Sapnap wouldn’t tell him even if he did, which they both know, unspoken. “Why do you want to remember so badly? From the little I can recall, it’s not anything… good.” 

“You should know me by now, Sapnap. I never make the same mistake twice. But if I can’t remember, then how am I supposed to…” 

“Protect me? You know you don’t need to.”

“I know. I want to.”

[moo-moo-meadows]

@poisondwt few weeks(?) overdue but here is ur kwt as promised :>

I want to hold him. The thought is a confession in and of itself. Dream wouldn’t consider himself a particularly physical touch kind of person. He likes it probably as much as an average person, and not much more. In comparison, Karl was definitely one of the touchiest people he’s met. To find that he’s gone from not being bothered by his touch to actually yearning for it is, well, like he said, a confession. Or the start of one, at least. A realization. One that Dream doesn’t necessarily know if he wants to fully realize or not.

Unfortunately for him, this topic isn’t one that he can just leave for another day and let gather dust in the back of his mind until it rears its ugly head at all the wrong moments once more. No, the wrong moment is right here, right now.

Dream’s hands twitch at his side as Karl’s arms tighten around his neck. Not enough to suffocate him, of course, but the feeling has never felt safer and more grounding. I want to hold him. The thought returns, sharper. Crystallized by the fact that, well, he can. There’s no one stopping him, and no one would bat an eye if he just, wraps his arms around him as well, hold him tight. Keep him safe. No, the real problem would be what he would have to admit to himself if he does, and what that means for both of them after.

Holding him now means nothing just as much as it means everything. It could mean ruining so much and it scares Dream that he’s still willing, still wanting to do so.

“Dream? You good?” Karl’s voice cuts through the mess that is his thoughts right now, and when he feels him start to pull away, his heart lurches in his chest. He pulls him back in, and at the moment it all feels so easy, so right. Perfect, almost, in the way that imperfect things often are, cause Karl’s elbow definitely hits his shoulder and their chests bump against each other just a little bit too much, but it’s everything Dream’s always wanted. He hopes Karl can’t hear his heartbeat.

He’s past realization now. Perhaps he’s been past it long ago and just didn’t want to admit it. The denial stage, if you will. But what comes after denial and realization?

Acceptance, and everything that comes with it.

[moo-moo-meadows]

Georgebur prompt: Wilbur taking pictures of George with a polaroid (or an old camera) on the beach during a date.

i really am standing on the forefront of the georgebur as like, old timey lovers movement huh. not that i'm complaining!!

send writing prompts pspsps

Click. A picture of George with his fingers idly running through his hair, pushing against the rushing wind all around them. Click. A picture of George, grinning, through the hole of a small rock he found lying around by the shore. Click. Him bending down to touch the seafoam as it curls around his ankles. Click.

“Are you just going to take pictures of me all day?” His voice cuts through the sound of the shutter closing on a playful, fond smile, wet fingers curling around Wilbur’s wrist and tugging. Wilbur struggles to pull his shoes and socks off before the ocean rushes past both of them, getting the ends of his pants wet. Wilbur thinks that he’s going to regret not rolling them up later, but at the moment he can’t find it in him to mind.

Wilbur cycles through all the reasons and excuses he could give before settling on one: “Think of the memories, Gogs,” he says as George scoffs.  

“There won’t be many memories to think about if you have your eyes stuck to the lens the entire time.” George’s face twists in the way that he knows something about what he said isn’t quite right, but he’s too lazy to fix it and simply shrugs. “I’m going to jump into the ocean.”

“It’s, like, 10 degrees out, George.” George shrugs again, this time with a wide grin as he rolls up his pants. “You’re really–” Wilbur is beginning to say, when George whoops and takes a few steps further into the ocean. Wilbur grabs him by the arm before he can get too far out.

The camera in his other hand suddenly feels so much heavier when George turns his face to look back at Wilbur, and Wilbur’s eyes immediately fall to his lips. Quirked, probably chapped from the wind, and slowly moving as George opens his mouth to say something, if not for the wind suddenly picking up and drowning out the sound.

“What?” Wilbur asks, quickly letting go of him to brush his hair out of his face. George does the same to his just as unruly hair and shook his head.

“I said, you too scared of a little water?” George stumbled back into the tides, shrieking as the cold no doubt splashes up his back. Wilbur laughs at him, pulls his arm up to his face–

Click.

[moo-moo-meadows]

Prompt?

George saying "I love you" to Wilbur for the first time

hi hi!!! thank u for the prompt!! it turned out way more introspective than i really wanted, but honestly this is probably better than what i would end up doing if i wrote just a proper "scene" of it. it's helped cement my kind of george in a way, much like how previous prompts have helped cement wilbur in my brain as well. and they're.. in my writing, they're definitely quite different from how the actual streamers are, which i like.

well. different in the sense that you can see why this kind of thought process would translate into the actions that they portray while they're streaming and making content creation, but as fans of them you also know that this isn't how their brains actually work. it creates a bit of separation from the people without making them completely ooc (hopefully ;;;) which is the balance that i strive for a lot in my writing. ugh, anyway!!

send writing prompts pls pspsps

George had known he loved Wilbur for a long time before the first time he said I love you. Perhaps that’s why it had been on a day so uneventful like this one that he finally gained the courage to say it. He’d long accepted the fact, so the only thing holding him back had been verbalizing it out loud.

Wilbur is so easy to fall for, but telling him so is a whole different story. Something about it makes George want to make it perfect. Like the words and the situation and his expression while he says it–which is silly really when everything about them is perfectly imperfect.

So, just like everything else, so is the day that he finally says it.

He takes a deep breath. “I love you.”

George had known he loved Wilbur long before this moment. The real moment of realization would be… well, George thinks that he’s been a little in love with Wilbur for a long time before he realized it had turned into actual love. A little in love in the sense of attraction at first sight, then the kind of love you feel for people you know you could love and fall in love with, and finally the love you feel for a friend before it becomes actual love. As in, having fallen in love. The difference still confuses him sometimes.

Caring for others and admitting you care for them is one thing. George can do that. Appreciating them, being happy around them, wanting the best for them; George recognizes all of these within him and has no qualms about expressing it when prompted. All of these make up the idea of “love,” but if that was the case, then why was it still so different? Dangerous, somehow, to admit out loud when he has no problem saying things that amount to love.

No, dangerous probably isn’t the right word. Vulnerable. The word makes it seem more vulnerable than the admittance of fact through words or otherwise proof through action. He can tell his friends he wants to see them successful and happy and will be there with them every step of the way, but “I love you” is not just opening his heart, but admitting that it had been opened in the first place, and it’s scary to be in that place where you don’t know if the other person can be trusted.

Perhaps that’s the reason why the first time he accepted the fact that he truly loved Wilbur was during a moment where he truly felt he could trust Wilbur with such a thing, even though Wilbur definitely had no clue at the time. Opening the door, if you will.

And the moment right now, of actually admitting it to him, is like finally inviting him into his heart for good. It’s like throwing away the lock and key because he definitely can’t take it back now.

[moo-moo-meadows]

Thinking about the name “Tommyinnit from nowhere” and how true it is because Tommy’s never really had a home. Or maybe because he’s had so many, but none of them have stuck around. 

Thinking about how his home has never been L’manburg, has never been the Dream SMP, but instead the people in it. Wilbur, Tubbo, Techno, the rest of the L’manburg citizens, everyone, and how none of them have stuck around either.

So yeah, Tommyinnit from nowhere in particular. He’s a nomad in the way he trades his heart to the people he called home and they took it with them when they left, leaving him chasing after them or hoping to find a new place, a new person, to call home. 

[moo-moo-meadows]

you could, consider this, write some nice dreamnap or dreamnotnap? some casual domestic fun? some good vibes? or absolutely anything else that u want that's my only thought!!

Bren lovelesslaugh anything for you my beloved. i remember when you called me jay dreamnap moomoo meadows in 404 once and i’ve not forgotten it to this day. so here i go. trying my best

(tagging aty @atychiphobiasucks because i remember very clearly that when we first found out that dreamnap met up you sent me a prompt asking for smth with them and now, literally months later, i am finally doing it)

send writing prompts i am genuinely begging /lh

dream and sapnap’s second kiss was perfect. it had been a few days after sapnap officially moved, and it was just one of those days where you wake up and everything feels right in the world. he didn’t feel tired at all despite falling asleep quite late after being on streams and calls with everyone, and dream was already downstairs cooking breakfast for the both of them, humming a tune to the song he said he was working on.

sapnap couldn’t help himself; he came down, wrapped his arms around him, and kissed him. despite the eggs burning. despite his morning breath. despite the fact that dream would later purposefully ignore him for hours, despite it all. because it was perfect.

unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for their first one.

they had just been chilling on the sofa, both doing their own thing but wanting to stay in each other’s company. dream had put some random movie on for them to tune out to in the background, and was on his phone probably scrolling through twitter or something.

sapnap was tired from his long trip and was definitely not looking forward to unpacking the rest of the stuff he brought over, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep. his eyes kept going back to dream. his face, his hands, every little minuscule movement he makes from his place across the sofa. sapnap felt a little hypnotized by it all. it makes sense to him now, but at the time he wondered whether it was because he had finally met him after all these years, even though he wasn’t that shocked by dream’s appearance when they met.

it wasn’t until after dream turned to him and asked him something that sapnap realized he had been unconsciously moving closer to him, and he froze, feeling a little bit like a kid who had just been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. luckily, dream hadn’t noticed. or if he did, he paid it no mind.

he hummed noncomittally. tried to play it off as inconspicuously as possible. he tried to make it look like he was just stretching and then leaning against one side. and if that side had been the one closer to dream, then who’s to say?

“what?” dream raised an eyebrow at him, smile infinitely amused and just a tinge fond, if sapnap were to say. his following words being only further supporting evidence.

“i asked if you were getting bored yet.” sapnap’s eyes flicked towards dream’s face. he still can’t believe they met up. he wants to touch him. it would be so easy, just reaching over and brushing his fingers through his hair, or at the beginnings of facial hair on his cheek from the day. lean on his shoulder, hold his hand. all that dumb stupid stuff. sapnap isn’t even that much of a physical affection kind of guy, or at least, he didn’t think so. but…

that’s when he first realized that he wanted to kiss him.

“sap?” dream’s voice broke him out of his reverie once more. he shook his head, trying to get rid of his thoughts before they could manifest in the redness of his cheeks or the shy smile threatening to take over his face. “you good?”

“oh, yeah-” but before he could even finish his reply, dream had already leaned closer, and he swears that his heart stopped in his chest. “uh-”

suddenly, their faces were only a mere few inches apart.

“d-dream.” sapnap would punch himself in the past for how he stuttered in that precious moment, when dream’s eyes, full of concern, came instead to flicker to his lips.

“you should go and rest. you look a little bit sick.. probably from the drive over. you quarantined before coming here, right? did you meet anyone along the way-”

“i’m fine, dude, chill.” this was not his first, and definitely not his last mistake of the night; he tried pushing dream away from him, forgetting that he was leaning against his hand from earlier. sapnap would say that it happened in slow motion. he wishes that it had. but really, it had felt like it lasted a heartbeat. he fell into dream, and before their lips crashed together it was his nose against dream’s cheek first. truly, it was just a terrible affair all together.

“fuck, shit! i’m sorry. fuck.” sapnap clutched his nose as dream touched his fingers to his lips, blushing bright red. sapnap revelled, for a moment, through his watery eyes, how red dream got, and wondered if he was more or less the same intense red.

“it’s fine, it’s fine. it was an accident, right?” sapnap quickly shook his head, keeping his hand on his nose even as the ache subsided, if not to simply hide his face.

“yeah, obviously, still.” that wasn’t the problem, though. the problem was that he liked it. had liked it. had been liking it– had wanted to do it, for like, the entirety of the time since he had arrived, and had just now realized that. fuck.

also, the fact that it had been his first kiss. not just their first kiss, but his alone.

[moo-moo-meadows]

hi hi again, i’m in love with how you write georgebur hskshhaj could i request another georgebur one with them comparing hand sizes? i think i saw somewhere that when someone tries to compare hand sizes with you that they really like you ^^

you’re both so so sweet!! i hope y’all don’t mind that I somewhat combined these two prompts since they both had something to do with hands haha (and like, as a gnf simp,, i get it, i get it) but sincerely thank you ! i’m so glad y’all are liking the georgebur so far :> i’m really glad to be getting back into the swing of writing things as well!

send writing prompts pspsps

Tip-tap. Tip-tap. Tip-tap. George’s fingers play a mindless tune against the table. It would be distracting if Wilbur hadn’t been distracted by him already. By his lips, and how they purse sometimes for no reason when he’s quietly thinking to himself. By his hair, when he pushes it back with his palm only for it to fall back against his forehead and make him huff. By everything about him, really, but especially his hands.

A pit seems to swallow the butterflies in Wilbur’s stomach as he realizes with intense dread that his attraction to the brunet has reached a point of no return if he’s thinking that even George’s hands are something for his mind to get lost in. It’s not his fault he starts finding everything attractive about the person he’s interested in, and it’s certainly not his fault that George is just naturally attractive in all areas.

It feels so silly that Wilbur almost laughs at himself for it. Like a high school boy who’s just seen a girl’s bare shoulder for the first time. He feels himself get breathless sometimes from yearning so terribly to just reach out and brush a piece of his hair back, or fix his collar, or play with his fingers, run his thumb over each knuckle on each hand. Somehow, things always go back to his hands. Wilbur glances at his own fingers, calloused from guitar playing, and wonders what it would look like and how it would feel laced with George’s.

Wilbur huffs quietly to himself, laying his head and his hand on the table and wishing the distance between his fingertips and George’s would just magically shrink and then disappear. Crossing, closing the gap himself was simply out of the question– He doesn’t want to scare George away more than he probably already has. It feels so often that he could make one wrong move and ruin everything with the other. Is this what it feels like to care about something so much?

“Wilbur?” His voice cuts through the noise, quietly concerned but not overbearing in the way that only George has ever been able to pull off. He dips his head lightly, trying to make eye contact with him, but he quickly looks away–raising his head from where it once rested on his arm.

“Hm? I’m good.” He smiles, knowing that George won’t believe him, but knowing that they knew each other better than to press for such an obvious lie. Such a terrifying ordeal of being known, and yet…

“You make it look so easy.” One of their other friends says, enviously, as Wilbur plucks at his guitar. It’s a few weeks later from his revelation, and all the many thoughts from that day have been stored in the back of his mind in favor of other more important and pressing matters. He’s leaning back, resting easily, his elbow just out of reach from George. They find themselves by each other’s sides in group settings like this easily, and there have been many times where George or Wilbur would lean towards the other for some joke only they were privy to, and Wilbur’s convinced himself that the the way that George’s eyes would crinkle as he holds back a laugh is his alone, too.

“Hm? I guess since I have kind of long fingers.” The gentle strumming that filled the air stops for a moment as Wilbur holds his hand up to look at them, noticing George turn to him out of the corner of his eye.

“Are they abnormally long?” He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Compared to some people, yeah. Yours are about the same, maybe a little shorter.” Wilbur wasn’t even thinking about it when he did it, moving his hand, held up, towards George. It’s only when George holds his up own against his that his mind seems to catch up, all too suddenly, to what’s happening. He hopes the surprise and fluster don’t climb up his face the way it does in his brain when electricity seems to bloom between their palms as they connect for a breath of a second.

His hands are warm, and it’s almost ticklish to the touch. Wilbur focuses very hard on their fingertips, and how his end just slightly above George’s that he could bend them a little and cover his.

“Oh, not that bad.” In Wilbur’s own tiny freak out over their hands, he fails to notice the way George’s voice seems to shake as he pulls his hand away and as they return to each of their separate previous conversations.

Wilbur’s arm moves as though pushing against the rushing of tides, one of his fingers curling delicately around one of George’s and then followed by the others, one by one. He’s shaking, he notes distantly. Or maybe it’s his own tremors that are causing their fingers to knock together. Regardless of what it is–

He leans closer, his forehead almost touching George’s, but not nearly, and whispers.

“Can I kiss you?” George’s lips part as he sucks in a breath, and his fingers twitch against Wilbur’s before finally squeezing, just once, as though mimicking one pulse in their rapid heartbeat.

He nods.

“Cold?” Wilbur glances at George, noticing him blowing into his cupped hands and rubbing them together. The tips of his fingers are red and shaking, a lovely color similar to the one on his nose and his ears.

“A little. I didn’t think I would need gloves.” Wilbur steps closer to him, and doesn’t even need to think of it this time when he reaches out to cup George’s hands and blow on them as well, rubbing them between his.

Wilbur touches them against his cheeks and gasps at the frigid temperature. “They’re so cold!” He exclaims, squeezing them lightly.

“Your face is just hot from your mask,” George replies, rolling his eyes.

“Ah, so you’re saying I’m hot?” Wilbur jokes, bringing George’s hands up to his face once more, this time to press a kiss against his knuckles like a gentleman. George’s face turns even redder than it was before from the cold, and he pulls his hands away.

“You can probably use your face to warm them up now, Gogy.” Wilbur cips his gloved hands against George’s cheeks. If George was any more flustered, he could probably feel the heat from them.

George rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face was undeniable as he tilted his head up lightly. An invitation if Wilbur ever saw one, to kiss him. Which he did, of course, their cold and chapped lips meeting softly in the middle. One of George’s hands came up to rest on top of Wilbur’s as they kissed, and didn’t let go even after they parted.

Wilbur gave George one of his gloves to wear on one hand, while their bare, interlocked hands stayed warm inside the pocket of Wilbur’s outer coat as they continued walking.

“I’ve been meaning to do this for so long.” Wilbur admits, squeezing George’s hand to indicate what he was talking about.

George snorts. “I know.”

“What?” Wilbur turns to him, mouth falling open in shock. He knows? He doesn’t think he’s that obvious.

“You’re not exactly sly. I swear, every time you walk with me you do the exact same thing. Your hand, the one next to me, twitches, and then you shove your hands into your pockets and look away.” George teases him, a grin just shy of fond flickering across his face.

“Really? Do I?” Wilbur thinks back to it for a moment. He can’t remember. He’s always so nervous walking with George that his brain kind of shuts down a little bit.

“I noticed because I’ve been wanting you to do it, too.”