but your author very deliberately uses the word front, because that’s what it is, a story, a lie, about as thin as your sheet of standard cardboard.

“Tag! You’re it!”

“All I ever wanted to do was to fly, but I don’t know if it even matters.”

One lone little criminal? A band of thugs?

Dan depends. where are u taking me Phil Paris? Phil Oh wait ive done that Phil god im so smooth

“Um, yeah, I think I did.” Phil says eventually, looking straight ahead. “I think I was talking about how pretty Paris is... or maybe the museum? I can’t remember really.”Phil chuckles, and Dan frowns, not having picked up on any of that. “Wow, I didn’t get that at all.” Dan says, laughing at his own ineptitude. “I guess I’m worse at French than I thought.”

they’re going to make pickets and signs with anti-capitalist slogans out of craft paper and bamboo

“Maybe we should save that lesson for after class.”

blood sheeting out of the wound and down his wrist.

th-this is a-all I have.

“If you want me to leave, you’re going to have to tell me.”

I love you

You took advantage of me.

and it’s good to know he’s mar-

The more Ranboo reads, the stranger he finds it that everything in the forest is so friendly with him, but then he thinks about who he’s always with.

One day it’s the crumbling remains of a medieval church, roof completely gone and letting in the bright fall sunlight, dead leaves carpeting the floor and the twisting vines of some giant plant wrapped around through open windows, stained glass long gone, but when Tubbo swipes his fingers under his eyes, Ranboo can see it glowing in the afternoon light, kaleidoscope of colors dancing across the ground.Another time, it’s a massive oak tree, golden leaves heavy on it, and one mischievous look from Tubbo and they’re racing to the top, and Ranboo tries to be careful at first, but after he slips the one time, foot instantly catching on a sturdy branch that wasn’t there before, he stops worrying, scrabbles after Tubbo in wild abandon, chasing his giddy laughter up through the leaves.

pupils slit to the side rather than circular

Tubbo lights up like the sun

gymnast (?)

Um, yeah?

Death does in fact come for us all

We’re not charming some landlord into letting us live there rent free, that’s not fair to them.

I want to be loved because it’s his choice, not because I made him.

I am the Prince of Underhill, I have duties to my people and my land that have gone neglected-

but all the lights and flickering images on the screen only made his head pound worse.

she can usually coax a few of the dryads into dancing, spins in between their whirling leaves with wild abandon.

and he can see it unfolding in front of him, Arthur giving that thing a dance, crowning its head with their branches, forcing him to watch it stand by his brother’s side, lording over him for an eternity.

Tubbo would gladly take the devil himself

eidetic

obfuscate

“S-Surprise.”

“Safe travels, may the Four Celestials light your path.”

“I-I never would’ve let you hurt each other that badly I- I made sure you were safe, all of you.”

“Why remain loyal to an institution that only causes you pain? That’s hurt you? It’s…madness it’s-

you think no, you are happy

“I’m tired of running, o-of getting shot at, w-worrying about if I’ll get to live another day with you or not.”

“I-I don’t want to.”

Ad Astra

he lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding

planetside

“I-I’m a b-bad person, a flawed being, he might n-never speak to me a-again…b-but that doesn’t mean I deserve to d-die.”

you think you wanna find out

“Reshaa shut your whore mouth or I’ll do it for you!”

Lesson Forty-One: Duty comes before attachments is that why he never looks at you

it’s okay if it’s him

I told you Enderian was a nightmare language. Why do you think literally no one else speaks it? It’s horrible.

Are you even listening to me, Ranboo screams at him, and it’s not because he’s angry, tense line of his body he never stops talking like he’s trying to fill up empty space like he’s trying to prove he’s there, and Tubbo’s eyes slip closed, head falling back against his chair, shadow on the wall not even there doesn’t matter never did, achingly empty hole in his chest because it’s Ranboo whispering it’s nothing where he lays delirious and out of his mind, but that’s not what he really means. I’m nothing

know you anywhere

like it’s not even social awkwardness, it’s something else…something worse.

It doesn’t make any sense, he’s a prince, grew up with everything he could ever want, would’ve been swamped with servants and courtiers from birth, and if Tubbo’s remembering right, he has like, six, seven siblings, so his family would’ve been there as he was growing up, so why does it feel like somethings gone sideways about him?

it is next to impossible to know where you stand with them, and they’ll never, even under pain of death, tell you.

“Good morning.”Dream is bashful in the morning, hiding his face in George’s neck. George barely moves, only shifting to press a kiss into Dream’s hair. “Make me breakfast. I want scrambled eggs.”

“Wanted you,” he mumbles through kisses and lovebites, “wanted you so bad since forever.”George bites his lip to keep certain things from spilling out. But Dream continues on, and finally he gasps, “Me too.”A pause. “Really?” Those big green eyes look up at him, some sort of moonshine. “Yeah,” he admits, “for the longest time.” It would sound worse aloud, but with Dream kissing his neck and raking his hands all over him, he can stand to let things slip. Slip, slip, slip, underneath the water, underneath gentle touches, underneath the weight of what he understands as love.

George thought he would be terrified, that every thought of what this means for the algorithm would overtake him.

Numbers creep into his head for the first time since they’ve stepped foot on the islands, and the green and red arrows flicker up and down in his mind.

“I like you,” Dream whispers, like no one will hear it.George only hums and gives up another kiss.

affection woven in the words.

“You just look quite handsome.”

a

George replies, because maybe it is

midnight sun,’

The awkwardness between them is strangely wonderful.

one bed

He honestly thought the night in the tent had been an anomaly, like a skip in their code.

But now—they are in Norway. They are in Norway, and Dream is bending his body to get out of their tiny car. The air smells of salt and fish. They need a map to get around. They have both never set foot on this road, and still, they are here together.

Henningsvaer

Instead of replying, Dream takes his hand off of the steering wheel, and intertwines his fingers with George’s. His eyes are trained on their passing setting for the rest of the ride, but George thinks if he looked at Dream again, he might have to kiss him.

Strawberries are in season in May. Bushes and bushes are ripe across Dream’s cheeks, and surely his own.

“It’s funny that ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’ is playing during this conversation.”

The sight of it all makes him want to scrape his knees. Not to hurt himself, but in the way that he imagines would come from running in the worn hills. Maybe if he tried to make his way down to the shore too quickly, with Dream chasing behind him, it might happen.

“An hour, probably.”“The whole hour that we’re trapped in this car.”

George isn’t sure how he feels knowing the difference.

Lofoten

Eventually, Dream’s hand moves to trace circles on his back.

The left raindrop beats the right one in his make-believe race.

The phrasing is funny, like Dream wants to make sure that George is actively participating in the act of being held. It’s sweet.

He feels even colder.

Hold me or something.” No reply comes, only a yawn. George does notice that Dream’s body stiffens at the suggestion.

One day on the islands, and they are already shifting.

Sleeping in the car might look weird to the owners though

cognizant

“I don’t want to ejaculate in your tent,” George shoots back, a smile creeping in. “Maybe another time.

he stares into the vast emptiness in front of him. The sea rocks back and forth, tide only pleasantly disturbed by the onslaught of rain.

You really can’t, he reasons, knock on a tent.

He reaches an arm up out of his thermal sleeping bag to trace light lines in between the damp patches of fabric. Little constellations form between their imprints, and his breath steadies as his fingers etch pathways.

rituals

As the first raindrop hits the tent, George’s eyes snap open.

meet so many unique people.

In the Hall of the King Underhill