#anon.user

[systemerrorbonnie]

I keep thinking your pfp is wormwood from dont starve tho tbh i feel like youd like him a lot

* who is wormwood from dont starve? =:O

[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]

"remember that van gogh wil sweater i was so obsessed w but never got in the end?" yeah haha who would go through with getting the van gogh sweater ... (tugs my collar nervously)

OMG REALLY how much did u pay for it and i wanna see

[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]

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]

It is from honesty hours, I say, one of both mayhaps 👀 a positive one and a negative one?

for /neg every billionaire in america. jeff bezos since he wants to be up there so bad you can go die in the sun 🖕🏽 for /pos i look at tommyinnit and my brain is literally “sunshine sunshine sunshine sunshine sunshine” for like at least 15 seconds straight so i think i do have to say him

[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.”