Could I request Nightmare with a reader who won't stop biting him? For no particular reason what so ever?
SPEEDRAN THIS UPON FINDING IT WAS YOUR BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRHTDAY
"It's Just Teething. Swear."
SUGGESTIVE
'Nightmare playfully muffles you with his hand, and when life gives you lemons… You bite into them.'
Word Count: 1,000
Pairing: Nightmare x Reader
The evening sun could never quite reach the innermost castle courtyard. High and dark stone walls block the yellow dwarf long before its light could filter into the garden, leaving the cobbled pathways bathed in cold shade and temperature perfect for close, intimate holding.
Only stripes of rays through the thin slits of angled rooftops and tiered towers could decorate the pond and vineyard and oaks in gold.
From your place comfortably tucked into the far corner beneath the largest oak of the garden, and in spite of having spent seasons upon seasons here, you can't help but admire its fantastical beauty all over again as your company behind you is busy with his own entertainment.
Listening to the fast turns of his pages, and the here-and-there twitter of a bird, you let your eyes roam.
Paths that encourage lazy morning walks are bordered by weathered log and lit by the occasional firefly, winding throughout and across the expanse of the yard. Connecting every sight to see and place to lounge.
To the west, your left, is the elephant eared and cattail decorated pond, filled with koi of various speckled whites and oranges. A circled and fenced pavilion sits in the center as the most common resting place between you two, reached by with a bridge of rustic stone.
Ahead to the north is a vineyard, rich in purple grapes that you regularly rob whenever it is you're taking a walk out here. Layered with the type of plots you'd see in ricefields and separated by more rustic cobbled stone, which… You're not an expert, but you think it's an aesthetics design choice much more than an agriculture thing.
Your right is—
Blocked by an idly swaying tentacle. Almost agitated in its movements, actually, and a hair away from caressing the side of your face.
You imagine your company, of whom you're sat between the legs of under the garden's largest oak, has reached an upsetting part of his novel.
Mare's knee earns a gentle shake by you, in an effort to check in on him. All noise he makes in response is simply a disgruntled hum, a type of tone he only spares when he's containing how troubled he is.
Well… Now you're just sickly curious what the hell his book's out.
And though he could read your mind—which.. well. "I fail to understand what it is you find intriguing within such vulgar stories…"
…
You try to turn just over your shoulder to get a look at him, but the way you're sat is preventing that. Plus now that one tendril is actually holding your face. "So. I literally don't know what you're talking about."
"Pornography."
Excuse you? Is that one of your books he's reading?!
You can hear him place the book down onto the dirt with an audible and disappointed 'huff', and from behind he replaces the feeling tentacle with his two hands. Cupping your face.
He gently squishes your cheeks, "There will be no more of that within your library."
You're already trying to dislodge his condescending hands from you, "WHAT?" But all that does is earn your wrists restrained by his malleable appendages.
If he wants to start something, then by all means—"If you can't take the heat, then don't read about the heat, bro!"
Nightmare makes a noise at your inappropriate wordplay, and squeezes your face further in what could've been seen as cuteness aggression in any other scenario. Right now though is faux and exaggerated regret for being partners with someone crass.
You continue, though, because you live to bully him and push buttons, "I'm sorry, did the whole 'penis in va—'"
What that does is get you muffled by his palm.
…
And like he already knows you better, because he does, "Don't dare put your tongue on me."
Then where do I put it?
He drops his head to the back of your shoulder, and drawls out an annoyed groan. But you could hear the smile he's trying to hide.
Mm… You don't really like how he's finding such amusement in this, though. It's like you're not the real winner between this exchange, y'know? And if you're no longer permitted to lick him, then…
You swing a restricted elbow out best you could to catch his guard on something else, and during that split second opportunity where his hand loosened thinking he had to bind you better, you bite down into him.
…It's bone, as you expected.
But what you weren't ready for was nonchalance. Stillness. Indifference. Not even a deep-voiced squeak of protest from your king about biting him.
Nightmare's head doesn't lift from where it's resting on your shoulder, either.
All cues going to him truly being okay with this, but given his streak of absolutely caring for all things you annoy him with, you know this is a mask he's wearing.
But surely biting his hand should have elicited an immediate response, no?
So, naturally and with a taste for curiosity—a wonder for what he'll do if you push him just far enough—you put more pressure into it. Enough so that you have to focus on not straining your jaw, amidst the paranoid voice in your mind telling you to not hurt him.
But could he even be hurt? By you and your bite, at least.
…
Harder. Ignoring that thought of preservation, of trying to be sweet, like you want to hurt him. You have to know. What will he do? Anything?
…You're overexerting the muscles in your mouth, and still nothing.
Is he waiting for something? Does he like this? Why has he not reprimanded you for this yet? Or.. maybe he really just does not care, and you're hurting your jaw for nothing.
Confused more than anything, you start to loosen—
You nearly choke on a cut-off gasp, letting go of his hand the rest of the way, when he sinks his teeth into the side of your neck.
I have a silly idea — Reader asking Classic or Killer “Would you still love me if i was a worm?? 🥺🥺🥺”
Not so silly alternative idea — Reader asking “Would you still love me if i was a rock? 🥺🥺” and we timeskip to Sans sitting beside Reader’s grave.
chose to write 'bout classic loving you as a worm, and its safe to say he would. more love than what you were mentally prepared for.
"Ah, Yes. Worm Time."
'Ask a man a dumb question, and you'll get.. apparently a more thought-out answer than you were expecting?'
Word Count: 1,100
Pairing: Sans x Reader
The living room is the absolute perfect temperature.
A slow day meant to be spent indoors with a loved one, doing.. pretty much not a damn thing in the company of each other.
It's comfortable. A preferred pace of literally nothing as you faintly register the fact a calm rain has started. The short-term and brain-deteriorating content on your phone all you were really caring about—without actually caring much about it.
Something you do to shut your mind off and pass a bit of time, really. A popular activity when you're sitting with Sans in the living room, butts imprinted on the cushions that sink.
In your typical position of you sat upright and flush to the backrest, while Sans… He takes a much more cuddly approach. Something you would have taken for your own, but he long established you as his teddy bear before you could protest.
..Not that you would have objected.
His legs slung over the arm of the couch, head tucked into your lap, and a little on his side facing away from you so he can read his Kindle.
The situation perfect for mindlessly scritching his skull as you just as mindlessly watch video shorts. The two of you parallel playing in content silence, snug as a bug.
…
Up until the random and unfiltered stories turned to something that actually sparked a coherent thought and an interest.
Super cute and various trends girlfriends record and do with their boyfriends. 'Would You Rathers', something where they try to finish each others' sentences, a.. 'Blindfold Kiss Challenge'? And…
The worm thing.
You forgot all about the fabled worm thing…
Would Sans do that with you?—Why was that even a question, of course he would. In a soulbeat. Dumbass cutesy shit is what he lives for. Y'all have even baked a cake with you blindfolded and him muted, so.. Like…
Movement from your lap draws you out of the one train of thought you had, though you quickly find a new one upon looking down to see what it is he's doing.
Getting impossibly more comfortable on you. Like he belongs there, on you, in your care and against your warmth.
You're struck with cuteness aggression, but you keep your hands to yourself for now.
During his adjustments, he caught your soft gaze in his peripheral, and he stops to more properly turn his head and look up at you.
His smile shifts lopsided upon 'catching you' looking at him all sweetly, and his smirk opens to prompt, "yess..?" Hoping to get something out of engaging you. Maybe a little compliment about how cute he is, because why else would you be gazing down at him like this?
But.. all he gets is a stupid and horrendously blunt question, with a tone of voice as neutral as possible, "Would you love me if I were a worm?"
…
…
He quirks a brow, though there's no other change in expression the way he's staring at you.
You push, not any deterred, "Serious inquiry."
Sans' smile very quickly changes to something bordering on insanity, his eyesockets squinting in absolute mirth—the change so fast you get a little whiplash of surprise—the type of face you've come to recognize as 'you hit his autism jackpot with this one.'
What has he done?
"i just gotta show ya somethin'."
He's already standing up, Kindle long-gone to his Inventory, and your hand is taken to pull you up to your feet with him.
You're.. being dragged to his room?
The smile he's sporting is audible, "been waiting for this question."
"Literally what? What does that mean?"
His door is slammed open, and he drops your hand to jog in.
"Sans."
You know he is absolutely vibrating with excitement when he puts in the physical effort to get on his stomach(?) and reach far beneath his bed.
Sans slings out a few sweaters that were folded, a box of Jordan's with.. you ignore the price tag you caught a glimpse of. Some heavy textbooks you could squash a horde of roaches with in one blow, more clothes (?).
Three over-flowing folders. Unnecessarily fancy ones made of brown leather, corners decorated in gold trim, and is the type with the three rings that hold papers in place.
He sits up onto his knees with them in hand. And while kicking his things back under, catches you staring weird. "what?"
Pointing at his alpha-wolf-CEO-ass folders, "How much did you spend on those?"
"garage sale. 5 gold each."
Huh.
The used-to-be-expensive folders get thrown onto his mattress, where—with excessive and giddy flare, paired with a wink at you—he swings the first one open.
Front page is labeled "The Varieties of Glass Enclosures: The Pros and Cons to Each Kind".
…Ain't no way.
He begins his presentation, "so," flipping through to pictures of different glass jars and bottles, "starting off small, we got these. cutesy and portable, sure—something i think you'd like to live in if you were a worm, but the lack of space would make it difficult to spoil you rotten. and also, a lot of these have such narrow openings, so you wouldn't even get to have a cool rock."
You're given a very pointed and serious look, "you need a cool rock." Turning back to his folder, "so these are a no-go."
He skips about twelve pages to get to aquariums that could take up an entire garage, "you'd be a worm, so i imagine it'll be okay for me to commit federal fraud under your credit lender to buy you the best of the best."
"while we're here, could you please pick out an enclosure for yourself? it would really save me the stress on my heart organ if you did it yourself. i'd hate to inconvenience you with any poor choices i make."
"…" Safe to say you're blanked the hell out.
He playfully pushes, "…well?"
You pinch your brow and shut your eyes, trying to figure out if this is real or not. "Can I decide later?"
A shrug of bony shoulders tells you that's not a problem at all, "yep!—ah, while we're also here, and something i think you'd have a far easier time deciding on than your permanent place of stay…"
Another folder is taken from the pile, and opened up to a random page somewhere in the middle.
Clothes he's drawn pictures of. And as he goes through the papers, you see he's made dozens. "how about we pick out some wormy clothes for you? something nice and presentable!"
HIHIHI (◕ᴗ◕✿) i heard youre a good writer and wondering can you do s/o headconons of cross, dream, dust and that bardy boy Piper? (Ngl im starting to love that silly yes ive read some of your works of him they're just *chef kiss* and im totally not a fangirl or anything tho— *coughs hysterically and runs away)
Sorry it's taken me so long. Headcanons are not my strongest, but I suppose that's never stopped me from learning something new.
Cross
You've never seen a boyfriend be more paranoid for your safety.
He's side-eyeing every relatively intimidating man that walks by you on the street, hand holding at all times in public in case you get lost, and he wants you to text him when you get home safe.
He doesn't mean to come across as overbearing, and he is truly doing better about it as time moves on, it's just... He's genuinely so worried.
He knows what it's like to lose loved ones. It's something that's really affected his love life.
This all does mean that he's superb at taking care of you, though. You'd likely be his first, but he's so good at this 'boyfriend' thing that you would think he's a serial dater or something.
He insists on buckling you into cars, changes out his signature short-sleeved coat for a long one to cover you better, walks behind you up stairs in case you trip, walks ahead down stairs in case you trip, locks in when he's crossing the street with you, pulls out chairs and then helps push you in, is zipping up all of your jackets for you, makes sure you get into elevators before him, and he's probably insisting on cutting up your food for you.
He is a doter and a yearner. Hardcore style. A man of casual intimacy and subtleties.
The biggest sucker for lazy mornings despite preferring to be disciplined in his routine. He'll stay in bed with you an extra hour longer to feel your heart beat and your chest expand with your lungs, to feel your warmth against him, to breathe in your shampoo if you had showered just the night before.
He knows the way you prefer your towels to be folded, how you load your dishes, the little ways you glide your hands on the steering wheel when turning your car, how you use gestures when speaking, the side of your mouth you most commonly smile with, how you slightly tuck into yourself when sneezing. He's down bad.
He gets you flowers every so often, bending at the knee and looking up at you with the prettiest smile when doing so. Loves going out in search of local pastry shops to try new, chocolatey things with you. Took you to a couples' painting class once and fondly keeps the finished products displayed.
Has a professionally printed photo of you in his wallet where a drivers license would be.
The curve of your smile's been memorized, too.
Dream
He's going to everyone he knows to ask for tips and advice and what to do to be the perfect boyfriend. Someone teaches him how to use Google just for this research, and he spends ten hours a week looking up how to treat you right before even asking you out.
Sure, good emotions come as naturally to him as winds that carry dandelions, but the idea of you makes him fawn like an adolescent rabbit. He's freaked out and overthinking everything that's meant to be what he is.
He's going overboard in his paranoia to make you happy.
Dream hears 'flowers' and seeks out someone to teach him how to make his own arrangements. He's going to the most bizarre and inspiring places every Thursday to handpick flowers, only deeming the bouquet adequate once it's too big for the both of his hands to fit around. Topped off with a handwritten note attached with delicate twine, the note's content something poetic like "And to my most radiant, lovely, who brings me joy," and he sprinkles a bit of glitter over the misted petals.
He hears 'dinner' and tries learning how to cook, but to his sadness he ain't built like that. Most he can do is make some mean instant muffins. To make up for this, he's taking you literally any and everywhere to eat.
You already know he's rich. Not that he's outright accepting payment for all the saving and heroism he does, but it's that he can't say 'no' if someone's insisting enough. He, shamefully and awkwardly, has a lot of money.
He also doesn't know dip about finances or how much things cost, so please don't take advantage of him. He doesn't know any of these price differences.
This does mean that you're regularly getting things that cost more than a prosthetic leg. He doesn't know any better. He just sees stuff he thinks you'll like and gets it.
He getting y'all matching clothes and stuff, too. All the time. He has the money.
Hears 'romantic getaways' and next thing you know you've already seen thirty different OuterTales four months into your relationship.
Hears 'kissing' and his Soul beats out of his chest every time he's reminded about that particular act. Like, he's sweating about the idea of being so 'vulgar' with you. You make him NERVOUS. Takes months of hand holding before he deems it safe and appropriate and gentlemanly to hug you. He's SO scared of doing something wrong.
You'll need to be the one to initiate the leap. That 'leap' being a kiss on his cheek once he's done freaking out after being asked for his consent.
Holding doors open for you, guiding you with a very modest hand to the middle of your back, keeping you on the sidewalk farthest from the road, tying your shoes, offering you his coats… Does your dishes for some reason when he visits? He tried folding your laundry one time, but he had a panic attack seeing your undergarments.
He probably blushes like a pale sunset.
Dust
The way your Soul beats is borderline a drug to him. A relaxant. It's a lullaby against the torment in his head.
His need to be close and the constant lazy afternoons are a bide to get even nearer your Soul's song. He's always falling asleep on you because of this calm, too. His head tucked into your neck either laying down or standing up, atop you with the side of his face pressed to your chest where your heart and Soul both hum strongest, side-hugging you as you're busy at the stove, grabbing at you in the haze of his sleep, hooking his legs with yours on the couch—He is cuddly.
Sure, it takes some insane time to get to this point, but this point's getting got to.
He'll trace his fingers over where you sew and patch his torn scarf, the holes he's picked into his favored jacket, oddly paranoid about accidentally poking his blunt fingertips through the new gloves you get him, prefers to eat whatever it is you're eating, likes to walk a step behind you when going somewhere together, uses your shampoo when washing his hands, YEARNS.
Not that he'll ever admit he's yearning this hard—to anyone, even himself. He doesn't deserve this, deserve you, but also he thinks that he does. But also that he doesn't. It's… Complicated.
He's in such a war with 'Do I deserve a happy ending?' and 'I DO deserve a happy ending!' that he just doesn't approach any of it and clings silently.
The 'What ifs?' ring through his head on occasion, though. Those softer thoughts are what convinces him to let you in just enough to keep you close. Keep you as his. To keep listening to your Soul's humming.
Maybe he'll let you hear his Soul sometime soon. In the meanwhile, please hold him slightly tighter. And not that he'll be humoring you enough to believe a word, but tell him he's okay. Kiss his brow and dote on him. Invite him under the covers of your bed, the comfort of you and your pillows. He wants so much of you, but he doesn't know how to ask. Doesn't want to ask.
His mind's in a delicate place. Don't psychoanalyze, just be there. He'll come to you.
He can't deny that the thought of you is wonderful.
The idea of waking up together in a bed you share, in clothes you share, under a blanket you share, a nightstand matching yours—a happy ending he's starting to think he does deserve. I hope you're ready to never be let go of.
Your Soul sounds just like the echo flowers he used to pray to.
Piper
He's found the tune of your laughter to be a very wonderful thing, memorizing its pitch and matching it to a note from his flute.
Your smile and happiness now follow him on his more solo travels, his performances, the practices he plays in private—everywhere.
With your laugh pitch matched, it's become a staple in his music. Old songs rewritten to carry you, new ones made to subtly show you off.
Everyone he's played for has heard his adoration for you without realizing.
Your laugh spreading on the winds you're not breathing, decorating the halls he sings in, his audience having the highest pleasure to hear you. He may not stress over leaving his own mark on the multiverse, but he loves to leave your's.
When asked what inspires his song, he speaks your name with the fondest smile, a crinkle to his eye, his brow relaxed at the recollection of you. He's grateful to have found that the feeling of love hasn't left him. That he has someone else to cherish.
And alike showing you off to the multiverse through notes and performance, he's showing you the multiverse.
There's not a trembling aurora or exploding nebula or sea of flowers or golden valley or a ruby more brilliant than his eyes that you haven't seen. He wants you to witness it all, to experience such poetic wonders almost as lovely as you, to hold his hand and be guided through poppy fields.
And he'll never confess this, but he actively seeks out rain when taking you somewhere because he loves holding you flush to his side and under the protective cover of his held-high cape, shielding the both of you together. Bonus points if there's a coffee shop or something nice nearby to take shelter inside of with you. A warm drink, sat at a booth by the window, listening to the pellets of rain and your voice? That's a pretty good day for him.
He's beginning to run low on universes to sing for you in, but he'd never go short on songs about you and your likeness. You're his muse.
PRETTY PLEASE COULD YOU WRITE DUST X READER FIC!!!!! (I struggle with insomnia and I think it would be funny if this man would try to help someone get to sleep) Some cuddles and kisses would be very appreciated!!
Did somebody order Dust cuddles with a side of Dust kisses?
"Insomnia? Hardly Knew Her."
'You and Dust regularly share sleepless nights together, enjoying each other's company. Tonight's no exception, though he is receiving a lot more sweet kisses than typical.'
Word Count: 1,300
Pairing: Dust x Reader
There's a warmth in the air of your room that wasn't there before. And no, it's not originating from the heater you had just turned on a few moments ago, nor is it you suddenly having gotten warm beneath your several blankets.
It's the type of heat in the atmosphere that you're intimately familiar with. That holds and hugs and cuddles you far better than any weighted, heated blanket could.
The magic that signifies Dust has just shown.
You sit up the smallest bit in your bed, pushing back the corner of a blanket, and there he is. At the foot of your mattress, both hands in his pockets, posture low in some type of stalk (his standard pose), and staring right down at you.
Or what you think is right down at you. His face is obscured yet again. Can't even see his eyelights shine through.
Not quite sure what else he could possibly be lookin' at, though.
You draw a hand up to your forehead to make a lazy 'flip the hood' gesture, but you're ignored. And the best response you could come up with to being dismissed is to ignore him in return, rolling over in bed and tucking yourself back in. Like he's not even there.
He disliked that.
Dust is a man of… well, he's a needy attention hog, but he doesn't want to be the one to work for any of it. So, he's not a fan when you make him have to put in effort to get what he wants.
You hear his slippers 'thunk' away against something, the weight of his steps as he nears you, and then there's a dip in the bed where he hiked a knee up.
"move."
You couldn't possibly roll your eyes any farther north. "I'm too tired for your shit." But, alas, you make plenty of room for him.
"doubt you're tired."
Yeah, sure, whatever. He's not any better about sleep. "Leave me be."
You're ignored. He quietly and greedily takes the space beside you without any hesitation, like he belongs here—and you could probably say that he does.
Although he doesn't pay any of the bills around here, so you'll continue to lightheartedly specify the 'probably' in belonging in your space and home.
He most definitely does. It's just that you both haven't put a label on anything yet.
Dust snags the end of the blanket from your offered hand, and dips himself right beneath, already shimmying himself to get up close to you with no care in the world.
You get about two seconds to process that he is particularly NEEDY tonight before he goes as far as to lock his arm with yours(?).
The side eye you give him gets ignored—the avoidance a trend between y'all—and you feel as his gloved hand drags across the skin of your forearm. Dust's phalanges find your palm, pressing into the give of it, and then slides the last bit upward to your fingers where they twine.
He's holding your hand all sappy-like, but also there's zero pressure. His hand is lax and hardly even holding you, really.
You give him a small squeeze and shift your head to face him, but he's looking straight up at the ceiling. His eyelights and expression are visible, though.
The red of his eye is hardly there. The blue's blown out like he's enjoying himself, but his brow is tense.
Can't help but tease him for not holding your hand properly, though, "Got plans to be emotionally constipated all night?"
He makes a soft noise in response. Probably a grunt.
You simply squeeze his hand again, "Thought so—"
Turns out you were wrong. And you're yet again reminded that Dust is indecisive. But what he did figure out is that laying right beside you and touching your arm isn't enough.
He has a concept of personal space, sure, but after you've previously convinced him that he deserves things (a long time of work), Dust has become unpredictable.
And increasingly clingier.
He suddenly sits up, almost startling you, and there's no time to waste when he's already moving to crawl on top of you.
The space between your legs and across your body becomes his resting spot.
There's a small battle he has with the blanket to try getting it perfect over the both of you, and after deeming that to his standard, he drops his head to your shoulder and settles down, his arms sprawled outward and feet probably hanging off the bed.
He's like a… you want to say a 'cat', but you don't want to offend him.
You feel him exhale his discarded tension against your skin like it was punched out of him, and the remainder of his weight is put on you when he relaxes.
Dust is heavy, but not so much that it's uncomfortable. If anything, you could probably describe it as 'grounding'.
You're just glad he can find comfort in you. Or, well… on you. Your relationship—whatever it is—has been hard. But things get better, and things have gotten better.
He lets you cup the back of his clothed head in one hand, and your other you press to the center of his back to keep him to you.
You smooth your hand up and down him, trying to see if you can take a peek beneath his hood. You can't. "Y'alright?"
Seems you don't get to have any answers this time around. All he does in response is turn his face to press into your neck, and grumbles incoherently against your skin.
So, naturally you decide to dote a little extra on him, since he's chosen to act all cute and whiny.
You hug him the slightest bit firmer to you, and tip your head the very short distance needed to kiss him on the top of his skull through his hood.
He immediately tenses.
Like he wants to sit up and get off of you, which you brace and ready for, already arming yourself with an apology for upsetting him—but after a small and quiet beat, he settles again. Going fully lax once more.
He decided he liked it.
Shifting your hand placement to hold the back of his neck instead of his head, you gently and slowly massage him there while you pamper the rest of his noggin in small and noiseless kisses; although on his fabric and not his actual skull, since he's not quite presenting that real estate to you.
His breathing is slow and soft on your neck as you love on him, his body and posture relaxed and loose, the tension having completely faded under your attention.
Though, per the usual, he's a greedy son of a bitch.
Dust finally brings his arms forward, looping them around your shoulders as he sits up the very slightest bit—just enough to be able to lift his head and look at you beneath lidded eyelights.
You don't move away when he draws himself closer, his blue'd out and fuzzy lights leaving your gaze to drop to your lips, and he presses his own to you. Soft, unhurried.
There's the smallest bite to your bottom lip, but it was hardly felt, and even abandoned in favor of kissing you slowly a second time. Like he quickly realized doing it sweetly fit the vibe far better.
And only those two kisses was what he wanted.
He's just as slow falling back to rest himself on you, moving his arms to wrap around your waist instead of your shoulders, and the energy in the room changes to a far more satisfied one.
Maybe the two of you will actually drift to sleep at a decent hour, with the comfort of each other.
Hii! I want to ask for a dust and reader fic if that’s okay? I just really like how you write him and he just so happens to be my favourite sans variant😋I always wondered how would he react if we would steal his hoodie and wear it. (Although one thing that is always on my mind if that I really want to sew on his hoodie bunny ears😭, I know dude is tough but I feel like maybe he wouldn’t mind it so much because we did it)
ngl this mofo might get a part two.
"Dust Bunny"
'You take a petty creative liberty to his jacket's hood.'
Word Count: 1,700
Pairing: Dust x Reader
The heat of your back porch patio would have been too uncomfortable if you didn't have this stand-up fan.
Sure, it's shaded with a ceiling, and sure you could have just done this inside, but sewing by hand is most enjoyable when you're kicking off—rocking back and forth—on the ceiling-vaulted bench swing.
Here and there sounds of birds, the muffled noise of neighbors equally minding their business, cars passing on by.. The creak of your swing's chains. Your fan working double-time, giving an almost lulling white noise sound.
Hands steadily moving, you steadily moving as you absentmindedly swing in this peace, fingers non-stop with busywork you begged him to let you do.
Mending Dust's jacket of its abhorrent number of cuts and rips.
It's nearly finished, too. You've not been keeping track of the time, but given he's not yet out of his shower, it's at least been a while.
You'd say an hour and a half, give or take.
He… mm.
Dust takes the longest showers you've ever seen. It's almost comical if you weren't so genuinely baffled. And also concerned…—for the cost of resupplying your soap so frequently. Like, hello? He's so expensive.
When you got into this relationship, you didn't think he'd assert himself as a cute little sugar baby.
…He's not actually one in the fricking slightest, but internal banter is how you're choosing to cope.
At least it gives you time to make the final stitch in the final tear.
In time for the back door's hinges to alert you of a presence—statistically Dust's, right? You look up to see who it is, just for that good paranoid measure, and…
It was Dust, yeah, but not wearing what you were expecting.
Instead of a regular lounge fit you were imagining he'd put on, or at least his everyday get-up minus the jacket—it's the everyday get-up, PLUS an identical blue jacket on.
Visibly cleaner. Newer. Like it was literally just freshly acquired from a four-arm rack at a clothing store.
…What. What?
Then what was the point in letting you go through this trouble if he had a replacement?!
He's already crossed the patio and to the bench swing with you. Taking a seat, fishing his phone from his Inventory, and crossing a leg over the other.
All lax and content beside you. Not a tense 'muscle' in his shoulder or anything.
You hear him opening up Minecraft. The main menu music that you only need to register a few notes of to recognize because of how often you two play together.
If you were to stab him with a small sewing needle, would it do anything to bone?
He goes into the survival world you share, and he starts opening and closing all of your chests. The noise making you lose what composure you had, and your brow twitches.
You finally ask, "So.. where'd ya get that?"
He stops his semi-annoying onslaught of looking for an item he's misplaced, and turns his skull just enough to see what you're talking about.
And when you point to his jacket, and then a much more vague gesture to the one in your hand..
"infinite jackets."
—No, right, that makes sense!!!
Dust returns to his game, and you're just as quick to continue interrogating him. Not out of anger or malice or.. maybe frustration, but nothing severe. It's more such raw confusion that you can't place.
The type of bafflement at something where it feels you can only relieve the fog in your head by being theatrical and dramatic, "So. Help me to understand something, right?" Your voice raised a pitch, "What was the point in letting me fix your crap if you have infinite jackets?"
But he doesn't answer. You don't get whatever closure your reflexes were seeking.
You hear him begin to mine stone, and then the creaks of the swing's chains return. What you didn't realize had stopped until he only now took over the kicking for you.
He kills a skeleton in his game, and you briefly wish you could do the same.
With his old jacket in a tighter grip, you snap up the rest of your belongings, and then use the momentum of the swing to push off and to your feet in one motion.
Leaving, marching off inside in a huff that already makes you feel better, "Okay, I'm gonna do whatever I want to your jacket! It's mine now, thanks!!"
Slamming the door shut behind you, not letting him get a word in. Although he wouldn't have to begin with.
…
He didn't answer any questioning because he thought it was cute of you to do something like that for him.
You were quick to recall a popular pet name of his, and had gotten to work. In… what you think to be pettiness? Wanting to pull a reaction from him?
Not that you even remember the purpose of this anymore.
You had, at some point in your endeavors deep within your sewing machine, forgot about what brought you here.
All of your supplies lain out, along with a blue pillow case you tore up for its fabric (a spare you got for Dust), and a 3g pillow you pull apart for its stuffing when making other crafts.
So locked in on a project the past two hours that you've lost sense of everything outside your room.
..Well. You kind of need to be, when operating something that could so easily go through your finger.
And after all the crafty labor, the problem-solving creativity you've hard-earned from past practice and experimentation, and an annoying amount of pulling stitches to re-do it all.. It's done.
With one last and very firm tug to the ears, borderline abusing them to see if it's actually done, and will stay done for a long time—it is.
Quick to put it on, excited to bask in the euphoria of having finished a project (and also to stand up straight), you don't even bother zipping it up before you're already playing with the ears that… you find drapes all the way down to your chest.
Okay, that was an oversight and not how long you meant for the ears to be, but it's still cute and fun!!
Rocking back and forth, side to side, watching them bounce and swing and sway..
And then you bump into something hard behind you.
Dust, who you forgot was here, had at some point entered the room under your notice and was right there watching you for an unknown amount of time.
You back away on startled instinct, hitting the desk, knocking over your chair, the bunny ears swishing hard and fast; before it all finally settles. Your heartrate, too.
The two of you staring at each other.
"I literally forgot you were here. Hi. Hi?"
You're graced with a hum in the back of his throat, but otherwise no actual response. Meanwhile, the staring contest goes on.
Eye contact not any broken when he takes the two steps into your space to reach a hand for you—for the ears you've desecrated his past(?) jacket with.
He looks at you a little longer before being the one to glance away first. To the ears, where he gives them a small tug that takes you an inch with it.
You want to hit him with a snarky 'Okay, buddy.' But your desire to see where this'll go overrides the sass.
Wondering how he'll react, what he'll do, how he'll handle what you did. Staying put where he has you by the ear, and letting him explore what you've done to his hood.
But you can't read him. Not this time, at least.
…Up until he suddenly loosens his hold, and you catch an amused huff under his breath.
With the long and draping ear still held in his lax palm, his tone having a.. flair to it? If you didn't know him so well, you wouldn't have noticed the change in voice.
"swap me."
You blink, "…What?"
He lets go, though not bothering to take a step back as he starts to strip his newer hoodie off. And like nothing is wrong with his behavior, now clad in just his light grey turtleneck, he offers you what he was wearing.
"trade."
…You do. Mindlessly, because a part of you has decided that blanking out and doing as told would be better than questioning his impossible behavior ANY further. Taking off your bunny one, and you swap.
His grab carrying a wisp of excitement that you notice, but he just.. holds it in his one hand. Looking down at the lump of fabric like… You don't know, actually.
He's being weird—and he's gone. What. What?
Dust shortcutted away out of literally nowhere. No cue, social or otherwise; just gone.
Okay.
Well. Another morning without word from Dust.
You don't know what it is Dust does when he absolutely fucks off like that, but.. whatever.
Not picking up your calls or texts, either.
He'll eventually come around, you suppose. He's never vanished longer than a week, and it's been…You don't remember.
Like, what, three days? He's fine.
Not quite sure why 'three days' was so hard for you to remember. Maybe because you've only just woken up not long ago.
Dust used to not come back for almost two months, so wow, what an improvement!
…You shouldn't be so snarky this early in the.. 9am is not that early, calm down.
—The air shifts.
Turning to greet your (intruder) GUEST, this routine of him showing up unannounced a normalcy between you two, though he can still somehow manage to catch you by surprise.
Though this time, the 'surprise' being he's wearing the bunny ear modified hoodie.
The exaggeratedly long fabric framing his face as he keeps his head and posture low, looking up at you from beneath lidded sockets.
Morning sunlight from a window creeps onto his cheekbones, revealing a dusting of lilac flush. Barely there, but you see it.
He lifts his head the slightest inch, and the ears shift with him.
Sooo I kind of have a request? My birthday’s coming up on June 9 (wanted to give a couple weeks heads up in case you were busy), and I wanted to see if you could do a Horror x Reader thing? It doesn’t even have to be my sona, or that long, just a little something.
Idk.
It almost feels rude for me to ask, but that might be my own brain trying to talk me out of it…?
Sorry in advance if it does come across as rude, and if you can’t do it, I would completely understand!
I have a lot of your writings to catch up on (usually bc I’m too busy to read much), but I absolutely love them! 🫶✨
Again, hope it’s not too much trouble for you ☺️
ok so i wasnt smart enough to ask what your timezone was so i could time this birthday gift right, so UH. this is me posting now just in case it's already the 9th for you :l
AND HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAYYYYYYYYYY
"An Intolerance"
'You're all the sudden babysitting a very large and cuddly grown man after he got more drunk than planned.'
Word Count: 2,000
Pairing: Horror x Reader
The karaoke on the other side of the bar is becoming increasingly harder to ignore.
It had been a very simple endeavor of tuning it out when you first walked in with Horror about half an hour ago, ready to modestly party in celebration of Birch's first job (and to lightheartedly bother him), but now the atmosphere is downright unbearable.
Or.. maybe you're just becoming irritable.
You weren't paying attention to what Birch was mixing into the colorful and fun drinks you were pointing at.
You wanted to challenge him and his brand new mixology certification, and chose what looked like the two most aggravating drinks to craft up.
His face was so focused and tensed that you could've sworn you heard a band in his braces snap. Aside from what you think needs to be another visit to the orthodontist to get that checked out, he made your drinks like it was childs' play.
It certainly looks like Birch earned that certificate.
…Anyway, you think there was tequila in both of them. That's what you were trying to get at.
Tequila gets you pissed off for, like… about half an hour. You can walk this off in a minute, it'll be fine.
You're sure the karaoke sounds great… But you still want to snap the microphone from out of that girl's hands.
There is very suddenly a gruff and drawling voice that sounds almost inside of your head, but it's actually just to your immediate left. "i c'n almost smell the anger on ya, l'il."
You look over in time to see him menacingly sit up a little in his bar stool, almost.. posturing? What?
"…You can?"
"no." And then he casually waves over his brother like he didn't just purposefully startle you.
You hate this guy.
Horror's a piece of shit sometimes, but he's also really cute, so you suppose he can be quickly forgiven.
Birch comes bouncing over—almost literally—"MORE FRIES?"
Your most recently emptied glass is gestured to, "two of whatev'r the hell ya gave 'em. red sparkly.. shit."
The bartender's eyelights comically squint behind his large glasses, looking deep into Horror's with a serious everything that tells you Birch is very suddenly in protective brother mode. "ARE YOU SURE? IT'S GOT… …" Birch suddenly leans obnoxiously forward at the hip, and honest-to-God genuinely whispers, something you didn't know he could do, "It has monster alcohol…"
You butt in, "I drank monster alcohol?"
A large and nicked hand drops onto your head in the worst head pat ever, "yer fine." And back to his brother, "i'll take it."
"BUT YOUR… REGULATION…"
His huh?
Horror just shrugs at whatever that meant, and you audibly hear Birch gulp in response to what seems like his older brother's bad decision(?).
You'll ask later. Sounds like Horror's not gonna be the 'designated shortcutter', which is fine. You guys can catch a bus when you're done bugging Birch, it's cool.
He's sloshed.
And during the lecture you just front-row witnessed Birch lay out on Horror, you learned that this intolerance is only applied to monster alcohol.
A monster could get a fix—a minor one, typically—on human alcohol, but your beverages aren't the same.
What gets a monster actually drunk is the magic within their drinks. It spikes their mana lines, giving them that inebriation.
And that mention of 'regulation' you overheard was apparently Horror's issues regulating his mana. Originating from his injury. A disability(?). So… in short, his tolerance was critically shot.
Both boys thought it would be alright enough for Horror to have some liquor, because he's a pretty tough guy and it's been years since the blow to his head, but wow that didn't work out—
Your barstool is almost pulled out from under you when Horror grips the frame of it and jerks you toward him.
You would've gotten immediate vertigo if he hadn't dropped his heavy head atop your's, shocking you out of the minor dizzy spell from being yoinked.
…There's a purr building within his throat, which you very vividly feel rumbling against the crown of your head where he's aggressively nuzzling you.
Okay. This is becoming an issue.
Well..! Not really, no. You live for his attention and his overwhelming cuddles, but maybe not at a bar and in front of his younger brother.
He pulls at your middle and nearly yanks you off your seat and onto his, which would have been his lap because he takes up his entire stool.
You managed to catch yourself with a hard palm to his shoulder, keeping yourself seated where you're meant to be.
Let's not get Birch fired on his first day off training. You need to get Horror home before a scene is caused.
You catch the lanky one's attention when he circles back, waving your wallet at him in a signal.
He takes the briefest of glances at Horror, his rapidly deteriorating state, his grip on you, and immediately nods in understanding. Yeah, the bear's got to go. He knows his brother'd be safest with you.
…Okay, but am I safest with him?
The bus ride home could not possibly be any farther away from your place. The road feels so unnecessarily stretched out.
It's not all that crowded in here, although there's plentiful enough people looking at you for you to feel more claustrophobic than what's actually encompassing the entirety of you.
Horror is a brick wall of warmth, on what is metaphorically like all four sides of you.
Instead of the three combined seats you guys typically take up together (because he's a big boy and needs two), it's been narrowed down to that simple two—he is almost sitting on you. Enough so that a seat's been freed up.
His far leg is slung over the both of your's, almost folding himself over you, his arms right around your shoulders in what could look like a chokehold from another angle, and you're right back with his head on top of your's.
The purr is stronger, and this time audible. He sounds like a big, happy predator cat.
He could also be mistaken for a motorcycle in the distance.
Thinking of him as an oversized, cuddly cat is funnier, though. You feel like you're his childhood kitten toy that he's found after all these years, and he doesn't want to lose you again.
…Remembering cute cat videos like that is a really good distraction for the fact that you're being cuddled to death on public transportation.
His next purr cuts to a grumble that you feel vibrate your head, and you get squeezed into what's just about to be a true chokehold.
You frantically tap at his forearms like you're tapping out of a wrestling match—"Horror."
And then he whines.
Stars have actual mercy. You're never letting him drink again. In fact, you're restricting his diet to WATER just to be safe.
"We're almost home. You can go to bed soon." And water. You're going to make him have water.
…Wait, what helps monsters come off mana spikes?
A quick phone call balanced between your shoulder and ear as you juggle a bear and house keys… isn't pretty.
In fact, it's almost like you're inside of a fever dream. You've taken care of Horror before, sure, but he's gone actual 'baby mode'.
Is this typical of drunk monsters? Or is this something specific to him? …Actually, you really think you're okay not knowing.
You are babysitting an overgrown dog that would only feel close enough if he were buried beneath your skin.
…Clifford. Clifford The Big Red Dog.
Well, you've got his next Halloween costume in mind.
You should consider your obituary next. And maybe a set of keys that isn't so horrendously hard to wrangle. You can not for the life of you unlock your front door, and it doesn't help that you're being insistently tugged left and right by your boyfriend.
—All this tugging has distracted you.
You fix your phone before it slips from where it's pressed to your ear, offering your (not really) free hand for Horror to occupy himself with. "Sorry, what did you just say, Birch?"
There's the clatter of customers in the background, but he's making the multitask work just about as well as you are, "THE ONLY THING HE CAN DO IS SLEEP IT OFF. THERE'S NO 'QUICK FIXES' FOR MONSTER ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION LIKE THERE IS WITH HUMANS."
"You must be lying."
There's a pause. "WELL… YOU COULD GET HIM TO DRAIN UP HIS EXCESS MAGIC, BUT I WOULD IMAGINE THAT'S NOT ON THE TABLE WHEN HE'S UNDER THE INFLUENCE AND CAN'T MAKE PROPER DECISIONS FOR HIMSELF."
…Ah.
You finally get the key in the damn knob, "Yep, sounds like we're going to sleep—"
You're yanked. Broken through a shortcut right inside, dropping everything to the carpet in your panic, the both of you crashing sideways on your couch, just as you proclaimed victory against the door and made a plan.
"HELLO?" Birch calls out from the floor.
…
A third drink is about to be required. You're on the cusp of losing your marbles.
There is finally a stillness.
It did not take a whole lot of effort to convince Horror to free you from the couch. The prospect of a more comfortable space piqued his interest so fully that you were lifted with a speed typically reserved for someone smaller than him.
He made the mightiest work of bringing you bridal into your bedroom, where he placed you in the middle of your mattress and then laid himself right on over you.
You'd whine about needing a blanket, but he is radiating enough heat for you to be genuinely comfortable.
It's nice. You're finally away from the chaos of it all and are somewhere you're much more in control of.
…Well, you're not really in control of what's happening, but it's leagues better than what you originally had to work with.
He's listening to more of what you're saying. He's quiet and still. He's being all sweet.
Horror's mellowing out. He must be enjoying the privacy and safety of your bedroom, too. A familiar space. Dim-lit and comfortable.
You certainly feel that way about safety and comfort. And you're loving being out of the spotlight of public.
You're out of that horrible situation. It's okay to relax and be still. To allow yourself to be held and used as his source of comfort.
He's being used as a source of comfort, too, so it's not like you're being scammed.
Horror makes a move, suddenly deciding he wants more of you.
You're scooped clean around your middle, where he squeezes and pulls at like he's about to lift you from the bed, and he does.
He takes you upright with him and then drops to his side, again taking you with him.
The two of you now facing each other. The black iris within his red eye the roundest and most blown out you've seen of him. Again reminding you of a very big and happy cat.
It's warbling, too. Something you very intimately recognize as an affectionate expression; one he looks at you with often.
And then, while tucking you under his chin and in his arms, he grumbles, "i love you.."
…
You don't think you've ever been more parental over a boy in your entire life. You have got to give this man everything you have.
His hug is returned. The most enthusiastically you've moved since the start of this shit show.
As far around his upper body that you could wrap your arms around, you couple it with doing your best to twine his heavy legs with yours, which he happily helps with.
And to top it all off, you decide to draw a hand upward to the back of his head, massaging the base of his neck.
He melts in to you even farther, his deep purr returning.
This is pretty tolerable. Though you're still banning alcohol.
'You've been in the hospital a solid day, nobody knowing you're there because you're fine, but.. uh… Dust just walked in uninvited.'
Word Count: 1,200
Pairing: Dust x Reader
The nauseating smell of S-Tier disinfectant on every possible surface has finally settled down with your steady adjustment to being here.
It's not been long, really. Just some hours. Or… Well, time has been mildly iffy for you. Maybe half a day? More than?
Nothing you're really concerned about, is what you're trying to get at.
Some things happen, and it's not like you're in any type of critical condition.
Just enough for you to have gotten a referral after seeing your primary care physician, and now you're staying the night to be professionally monitored, with an expectancy to be home tomorrow just before noon.
You're nice and comfortable, oddly enough. A very clean and dim-lit room, the big lights having been turned off at your polite request. It's not terrible, lounging on a hospital bed. Though you do wish you had the foresight to open the blinds before getting cozy under the plush covers… You can't tell where the sun is, to dictate the time.
You… also wish you had the foresight to bring a phone charger.
Really don't know what time it is. You're kind of going off the cues of staffing and the levels of ruckus out in the halls.
There's the impression it's nearing nighttime, given you've not had the company of a nurse in a long moment.
Maybe it's best to try falling asleep—skip the time, y'know? There's not a lot of entertainment going on, aside from the sick beat you tried rapping with your heart rate monitor earlier.
—Ah, wait, more muffled ruckus outside, though it's lingering like they're standing outside the door. Interesting. Is someone about to come in?
You kind of hope so. It's gotten the smallest bit lonely.
With the door's opening, the brighter and much whiter lights outside filtering in around the silhouettes of two people, you don't need to properly see one of the figures to know who it is.
You can smell the pine and the underscore of acetone.
Dust. Why? What?
How?
Who you already figured was your nurse steps around Dust's stone-still and only mildly creepy figure in the doorway, bee-lining to you at the bedside with a fun pep to her step.
There's nothing in her hands, only equipped with a loose and tired smile as she looks down at where you lay, "Hey there! Sorry for the startle, I'm just here to show your boyfriend where your room was."
Your… your huh? Is that what he told her?
She continues, "I'm just about to get off, actually. My nighttime replacement will be here any moment to introduce himself." Ah, so it is late. "Is there anything else you need from me before I get on out of here? A third blanket, 'nother pillow.." She vaguely gestures around with her hands.
You're still stunned by the whole 'Dust calling himself your boyfriend' stunt, so Dust takes the opening to respond in your place.
"we'll take the pillow."
The nurse gives him the warmest smile and a thumbs-up, backing away some so he could insert himself into the shared space of next to you, "Got it! What else are we thinkin'?"
Dust isn't paying her any more mind. Looking right into you, only flicking his gaze away for the briefest moment to look at your heart rate monitor. Which has substantially raised with his arrival, and he definitely noticed.
Your name is called, snapping you into it long enough to finally respond to the sweet nurse, "Uh—nope, I'm good. Chillin', even."
Giving her your own thumbs-up, albeit far weaker and less thrilled than hers. Not like she noticed your unease, though.
And with that, she trots off with a sing-song, "Okay!~" Closing the door behind her.
Leaving you and Dust alone in a hospital room, him looming over where you lay mildly prone in a bed that's very suddenly become itchy. Hands in his pockets and posture lax—all chill like he hasn't just stalked you all the way to a hospital.
You regain just enough of your nerves to sass him, "So… What? What is this?"
He just unnervingly tilts his head in question, his grin widening with pure damn glee.
"You told them you were my boyfriend?"
He blinks in mock confusion, but he knows what he's doing, "are we not?"
You blink in actual confusion, not knowing what he's doing, "I'd hope not. There's the implication marriage would come next, and being locked in such a serious relationship with you sounds…" Trailing off, but hopefully your 'Ehhh…' gesture of a shaking hand fills in that blank.
Dust just giggles with a hung low head.
And then he starts climbing into bed with you, "what's so bad about being stuck with me?"
You're immediately flushing, an expression he zeroes in on as he successfully scares you to the other side of the bed, making ample room for him.
"I could list a few things!"
But he's already under the covers before you could protest any further.
Not like you would have denied him of this, anyway. Your… 'relationship' is odd, confusing, not a single label other than the apparent 'boyfriend' he gave the receptionists—he can't stand being away from you for long, and you him.
It had started as more of a.. you being a type of emotional support animal he found on a rainy day, and he was so messed up in the head you couldn't not be drawn in with twisted intrigue.
You wanted to find out what was wrong with him, and in the process became a part of it.
Though, as he cuddles close and gives you a look from under his hood, you find you really don't mind the idea of being with this crazy asshole.
And when he sees your expression ease, the tension in your shoulders settling, his next smile becomes a more genuine one on the corners of his mouth.
His chuckle ruins the moment, "made yer heart rate go down."
You immediately sit up to start swinging your pillow on him, but he rips it from your hand with absolute ease and smothers you instead.
He's cackling up a storm at your agitated flailing as he moves out of the blankets to perch on top of your waist, knees on either side of you whilst just barely holding the pillow to your face.
Only hard enough to keep you stuck under it, nothing that's actually blocking your air, though that was a very brief thought that passed his mind.
When you get wise enough to reach around him, achieving a death-grip on the collar of his hood, he follows your tug to drop on top of you.
Using the pillow on your face as his pillow. The rest of you his cute little squirmy mattress.
Dust makes an exaggerated noise of smacking his faux lips and going 'ahhh…' like he's just finished sipping up something delectable. His hands leave the pillow and loop around your waist instead, hugging you to him like an oversized teddy bear.
"goodnight—"
You've already whipped the pillow out from between y'all and smacked him upside the skull with it.
helloo! Could I request for a dream fic where hes jealous? I mainly sending this ask cuz you said earlier about not getting requests so you don't need to do if you are focusing on aupril or the killer fanfic😊
THANK YOUUUU FOR THE REQUEST <3333. i was getting so bored, and then my dumbass goes and tries taking this as an opportunity to learn 2nd person for the first time. sorry for the 11 days later, dawg.
i personally think i could have done better, but also this was my tenth(?) rewrite. Hoping to give this a prequel after i learn more about 2nd person tho :p !
(also pls if yall dont mind, please tell me how this reads and if anything looks stupid <3 im very actively seeking out how to improve my 2nd person style)
"What's This Feeling?"
'Dream getting jealous and not knowing what to do with these feelings because he's 'meant to be above them.''
Word Count: 2,900
Pairing: Dream x Reader
You don't initially register the awful, dream-crushingly loud blares of a phone call vibrating away at the wood of your nightstand.
Instead, what stirs you first is a dip of weight in the mattress just behind you, giving your drowsy monkey brain a jolting sense of falling.
And then again, stirring you further out of your sleep, there's a squeeze of mighty arms around your middle, borderline threatening to make one of your ribs pop.
That spooning grip becomes more unrelenting as what you assume to be your phone rings again, disturbing Mr. Grumpy Pants more than you.
The only light in the bedroom is your face-up phone, the brightness of it drowning out the glow in the dark stars pasted on the ceiling.
The sun's not even up...
And the call rings to a close, darkening and quieting the room.
You couldn't wake up enough in time to answer, which... is very okay with you! And also very pleasing to your sun, who has relaxed his grip and gently settled his face into your shoulder. Goodnight, again—
...
...Peter. The horse is here.
Who the hell is so adamantly calling this late at night?! Genuinely WHAT could be so important?
You're somewhat forcibly pulled right back down into the mattress with him when you sit up for the phone, but you had swiped it off the stand just in time.
The both of your combined defiances left no room to turn the brightness down before you brought it directly to your face, and you consequently get flash banged as it simultaneously rings inside of your head.
He flinches, too, going as far as to reflexively pull his leg out from where it was tangled between yours.
You don't get enough time to focus your blurred and drowsy vision on the contact name info. There was just one more ring before it would have disconnected, and if they had called for a third time you might've just ended it all.
Phalanges dig into your waist, and you feel him sit up just enough to peep on your call.
It seems the both of you are majorly offended by the disturbance, yet also majorly curious as to who the hell this is and what the hell they want.
Or.. Dream is probably making himself think nicer words, but still the same vibe of 'WHAT DO YOU WANT?'
You draw it to your ear, propping yourself an inch with an elbow to stabilize not only yourself, but your brain. Your push of movement wakes you up more.
"What?" Your voice coming out much clearer than you were expecting, making you sound like an asshole rather than just sleepy.
Which... Again, you're okay with. Because really, who the genuine hell—
There's an awkward clear of throat from a familiar male voice, "Hey! Ah, just checkin' in on ya. You left the party before we could even really, uh.. y'know, spend time together..? ..."
...Javeen. Right. Dream said something felt wrong and he wanted to leave, so you two left.
You couldn't get the chance to really figure out what was bothering Dream so much in the first place. He brought you guys home and.. asked to talk about it later before walking away.
...And then he immediately came back to sheepishly ask for cuddles.
Anyway.
You carefully shift to roll onto your back, making Dream return your space.
The green, glow in the dark stars are visible again.
"..Hello?" Javeen prompts.
Dream's sunset eyelights aren't visible.
"I'm—" You try, but a blanket is thrown over your head in time with your phone taken by a lightning-speed swipe.
The out-of-characterness of Dream snatching your shit brings out your frozen doe response, and you allow whatever's happening to happen.
There's a shift like Dream's aggressively rolled over to put his back to you, and then his clear of throat that cuts off whatever it is Javeen just now tried to say.
You can't hear a thing Javeen is saying anymore, but you can hear Dream… Loud and clear.
"They're taken. Stop calling us at 4 in the damn morning."
…Muffled argument? Javeen sounds defensive, you think. It's hard to tell, and you don't imagine that removing the blanket would help any.
You take it off from over your head regardless, awkwardly settling it down all the way to your hips just in time to see Dream not-nicely place your phone face-down onto his nightstand after saying an aggressive and clenched-jaw 'goodnight.'
…
He does not turn back around. In fact, every visible part of him is so suddenly clenched and tensed up, like he's very belatedly realized that what he did might have been wrong. Late to feel shame.
Is he jealous? You can't figure what else this could possibly be.
You've never seen him explode on anyone, or speak so rudely. Not to even mention that he has not ever snatched anything from you before.
Javeen can suck it, you're not worried about him at all. He's grown, he'll be fine—and also, like, really who the hell regularly calls people at this time?! If he doesn't ever recognize that this habit of his is painfully aggravating to every one of his friends, that's on him.
..You're getting sidetracked, probably from being half-awake. You'll deal with Javeen another time.
You get comfy under the blankets again, pulling them up to just atop your shoulders, and then shimmy underneath to meet Dream's back.
Prodding just at the plane between his shoulder blades, giving him an experimental and careful shake of his upper body, of which he pushes back against to remain stone-still.
…You don't even know where to begin. Is it your place to 'begin', even? You know he asked for time, but… Uh.
You sit up the smallest bit to hover, flattening your palm against his back to hopefully mimic some thoughtful and caring gesture, "Dream? Uh.. so, what was that?"
And he… he whines with tightly closed lips, bending in on himself to tuck and hide his head just inside the blankets.
Uh..?
"I hate Javeen.." He whimpers.
He has never acted like this before, even more especially against someone he hasn't gotten the chance to get to know.
Javeen's… socially challenged, you think, but he's not done anything to Dream to warrant this.. 'behavior?'
Unless something DID happen at the bowling alley, and Dream's not telling you. Keeping some shameful secret to himself. Like maybe he doesn't want to bother anyone, or maybe thinks he's being silly or overdramatic.
Would he tell you if you asked? Is it right to ask? Does he want comfort, or to be left alone?
You've always been the one to be comforted, not the other way around. Not that you haven't tried to be doting and supportive of him, it's just that he has always said he's okay and not in need of that same extension of care.
You… sort of just listened to him and stopped pestering, taking his words as truth.
He's not like anybody else, after all. Not mortal. More of a 'concept' than anything.
But what he's said looks like to have been a coverup. Maybe as to not bother anyone.
You want to be bothered, though. How would you be any good of a partner if you didn't care? If you left him curled in on himself beneath the covers?
Er.. you're obviously not going to force yourself on him, but still.
You try to get to him again, instead rubbing very small and soothing circles to his back where your palm still lain.
There's again no response, no mumble of sound, no inch of movement from him.
…You think the air feels heavy, now that you're out of your head for a moment, but you can't tell if that's the heater or him.
It's probably him. Passive magic he can't keep contained.
Not that you would know for certain, though, given this whole thing is a first. You're doing a lot of guesswork right now.
The phone rings again. Where you're sitting up, you can read that it's Javeen—not that you needed visual confirmation, though, because really who else could it have been?
…
Dream is in no hurry to put on that aggressive display again. Or any display, at all.
You take the reins, sitting up higher to reach over Dream and retrieve your phone from his nightstand. Promptly declining the call, and then opening the phone up to dig through your contacts and block him. No more for tonight, Jay. This is beginning to become a boundary you're breaking.
You turn, still sat up, to tuck it beneath your pillow to properly put away later. Right now Dream is your priority—
..Of whom is now looking up at you; the saddest eyes you've ever seen.
And he's crying.
…You're severely out of your depth.
There's a rustle beneath the blanket, he turns to face you again, and then an arm promptly reaches up and out of hiding to grab your's. And you're gently pulled down to lay.
You take a mindless initiative to fix the blankets back to cover the two of you, nice and comfortable, as he takes his own initiative to snake both arms around your waist and squeeze, burying his head snug into your chest and beneath your chin.
Like he doesn't know what else to do with himself. Like your comfort and the warmth you emit—despite never being as warm as him—is the nicest thing in his world.
And like, although you've yet to get a word out, he knows you wouldn't strike him down in judgment.
And you wouldn't.
You return the hug, albeit less restricting and tight, and loosely around his upper body. One of your hands snaking to his nape where you lightly squeeze at in some massaging motion, one he's melted under countless times, while your other hand is a constant pressure against his upper back that keeps him thoroughly pressed to you.
That makes him feel accepted and safe, although he typically being the one doing the saving.
It's some poetic contrast, you briefly think.
His shoulders lose their rigidness, and you feel a deep and strained breath warm the fabric covering your chest.
He's calming down. The air's becoming easier to breathe, too. So that was his magic affecting the atmosphere…
And his chest isn't lightly heaving with the restrained huffs of crying anymore.
But still, you feel like you have to press him more. Because what on Earth?
You've never been more disoriented since you were born and hacking up amniotic fluid with doctors crowding your ass.
"…Dream?"
He hums, just barely audible enough for you to hear.
"Did Javeen do something?"
…
Silence, aside for an awkward creak in the bed when he shifts an inch.
And then you feel him shake his head, but really it was just his cheek nuzzling into your chest because he didn't have any room. "No.."
"Is it… something he did? In general?"
Again, no.
And also no further explanations. He's only answering when prompted.
It feels like you're almost infantilizing Dream with all this coddling and the soft, prompting questions, but… Holy hell, what else can you do on the spot with no heads-up?
Your man's born from the actual concept of positivity, centuries old, a god more than just a 'Guardian' that he humbly refers to himself as, and now he's all torn apart by something your old high school friend's done.
You stop rubbing the back of his head to try focusing, but you do press your chin down on him a little heavier to hopefully mimic a weighted pillow. "Can you tell me what's going on?"
He abruptly lets out a noise, some short string of consonants and vowels like he was trying to start dumping it on, but he cuts himself off. Like he just does not have the right words for any of this.
You open your mouth to tell him to just ramble on if he can't find the words—you two can piece his nonsense together—but he finds enough of himself to begin without encouragement.
"I don't—I don't know. I really don't. I wish I did so that I could just FIX IT, but I don't know what I'm feeling."
…Okay. Okay, that's somewhere.
"..But you don't hate Javeen?"
"No! Goodness, no. I could never, he's your longtime friend."
You stop. Dream is downplaying how he feels to cater to how you feel, but this isn't about you. He's either lying to save himself from being a bother to you, or he's in absolute denial about whatever it is. Both seem to derive from shame and embarrassment.
You continue, soft-spokenly prodding for more, "But something about him upset you."
"I—" His voice catching in his throat on a heightened, nervous pitch like he's 'busted' in a crime he couldn't help but commit, "I didn't like the way he spoke to you."
You blink down at him, "Javeen always talks to me like that."
“I know.” The answer comes too quickly. Too sharp. “That's why I feel awful.”
That gives you yet another pause.
“He kept looking at you,” Dream murmurs. “And every time you laughed at something he said, I…” He swallows hard, hiding himself a little deeper under your head with a half-hearted nuzzle. “I wanted him to stop.”
…The atmosphere is dense again, you recognize. It's not uncomfortable, though.
His face is so into your collar that his voice is almost muffled, “I don't understand why. You were happy. Nothing bad was happening. He wasn't hurting you, and you weren't doing anything wrong, but I kept thinking about getting you away from him."
…
Your brows pinch together in contemplation and recollection. Because now that he's saying it aloud, the pieces really do fit together in an almost painfully obvious way. "Is that why you were so desperate to get my attention and watch you bowl? And, like, that other focus-grabbing stuff?"
…But no response from him, save for his breathing you can feel heating up your neck and shirt's collar.
You hesitate before saying it, careful not to make the word sound uglier than it already seems to in his head, because boy he's killing himself over feeling something natural.
“Dream…” Your thumb brushes lightly against the nape of his neck. “I think you were jealous.”
His breathing stops. The rest of him frozen stone solid in revelation, too.
Like the answer had been sitting somewhere directly in front of him the entire time, and he simply lacked the human vocabulary and overall human experience to recognize it.
Also like he thought he was immune to those negative feelings, and that jealousy is inherently wrong.
But it's not.
"..Jealousy?" He hushes out just on the tip of his tongue. Disguised as a display of just testing the vowels, but he's appalled with himself.
"Maybe? Sounds kind of like it."
His face twists immediately afterward, grief-stricken in a way that's almost startling. “That’s terrible.”
“No, it isn't.”
“But it felt terrible.” His voice cracks. “I wanted someone away from you. I spoke cruelly to him. I took your phone. I—I didn't want him to have your attention anymore.” He hides his face again. “That's awful.”
Your heart aches a little at how sincerely horrified he sounds. Disgusted with himself like he had just kicked a kitten.
But… For majority else, jealousy would've maybe become anger first. Territorial behavior. Excuses.
Dream sounds ashamed in the same way someone would after accidentally stepping on a living thing.
You exhale slowly through your nose, thinking.
“…I mean, yeah, jealousy can become unhealthy.” You carefully run and trail your fingers along his shoulder blade. “But feeling it at all doesn't make you evil.”
He doesn't answer. You hope that means he's listening.
“You didn't scream at me. You didn't try controlling me. You got overwhelmed to the void and back and didn't understand why.”
Another long silence.
Then, quieter:
“…He likes you.” But it isn't phrased like a question. The tone was something accusatory, but nothing against you. Never against you.
You blink. “Javeen?”
Dream gives a tiny nod against your chest.
Hm…
"Well… Last I checked, he's not into my particular gender. But I'll distance myself a small bit until you figure this out a little more."
He grumbles something soft and unargumentative. Like a 'That's fair' type of sound.
You continue, though, "I don't want to leave you hanging, but that also wouldn't be fair on me or him." And then you embrace him stronger, "I'm yours, in case you were wondering."
…
He lifts his head out from under your chin, backing up just enough to look into you. "Can I please kiss you?" He asks.
You smile something taken aback, but no less amused. You're all the amused, actually. Splaying your previously massaging fingers to something firm, doubling as a silent word of consent against the back of his head, he shimmies upward to level his face with yours, and your lips very sweetly and softly meet.
It was brief, but no less a strong indication of thanks and appreciation.
You two lay your heads back down to the pillows in synchronized time, and you drop your arms to loosely loop his waist the same as his have been around you. "Ready to knock the hell out?"
