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[youreanidiom]

🤲💖

[youreanidiom]

sapogie i love you so much

[youreanidiom]

George having a first class computer science degree. George having 4 a levels in maths, dt, physics and chemistry. George being a coder before he was a youtuber. George being the objectively best coder on the dream team. George knowing how to play multiple instruments and having a good handle on speaking Spanish. George playing multiple sports as a child including swimming, tennis and football.

George crying when he saw a romantic tiktok. George going into a depressive episode from being away from his friends. George dropping everything to follow his friends. George crying on stage when his friends complimented him.

This man is so unbelievably smart and so unbelievably emotional. People see that he’s pretty and deadpan sometimes and that’s all they see but he is literally one of the most human people I’ve ever seen

SAY THAT Georgenotfound is one of the most talented charismatic entertaining people I have ever followed and almost 3 years in i am still just as fixated because of it.

[youreanidiom]

Oneshot #1 - Nothing / dsmp pjo au (c!dnf) 2k

this is a little bit of an experiment to see if i like writing this pjo dsmp au, and if people like reading it. its super short, but i wanted to get out a little bit of writing to see if i was into it. if i like it i'll start working on more :] so basically feedback is APPRECIATED

“You’re awake.”  “How could you tell?” “I can always tell. Idiot.”

“You’re awake.” 

Dream blinks. The bottom of the top bunk comes into focus in all its wooden glory. He’d been staring at a blur for the past half hour, desperately trying to stay awake. 

“Dream?”

Okay, that really is George talking, and not some sleep deprived delusion. George’s head peeks over the side of the bunk facing the window, moonlight eclipsed by his hair. He can barely see his features, but he knows exactly the look George is giving him. Something between judgmental and concerned. 

“How could you tell?” Dream whispers back. 

“I can always tell. Idiot.”

George likes to tease him for sleeping like a corpse, hands laced together over his stomach. Dream moves his hands to his sides before George gets the chance to mention it.

“D’you want me to do the thing?”

“No.” The last time he let George use his sleep magic, he had a nightmare worse than the ones he was running from in the first place.

“I’ve gotten better at it!” George promises, sounding a tad desperate. “Let me try.”

Some of their cabin mates begin to shuffle in their sleep. There’s a quiet, ‘shut up’ thrown their way, sounding a little bit like Tommy. Probably Tommy.

Dream lowers his voice further. “I’m going for a walk.”

There’s a pause. But it doesn’t seem like he hates the idea. “We’ll get in trouble.”

Dream sits up, swiveling his head around the room to see if anyone’s paying attention. From the back, he can see everyone sound asleep in their beds. When George was claimed, the Hermes cabin elected to put George in the very back corner of the room. The general sentiment seemed to be that they were afraid of George emanating some kind of sleep stink or something. George seemed sad being ostracized, which was understandable.

It was easy for Dream to swap with his new bunkmate, which delighted the boy. George had said he was only pulling long faces because he wasn’t able to bunk with his best friend anymore, which. Dream had no particular emotional reaction to. Please trust him on this.

(Later, Hypnos would claim more sons, and the Hermes cabin would get over it, and Dream will just have to seethe in silence.)

With the coast clear, he stands carefully.

“Mr. D is going to turn you into a tree.” George rolls to the other side of the bed to watch, glaring at him through the wood railing. 

“Come with me.” 

“What? I don’t want to get in trouble. Can’t you just lay back down?”

Dream holds out his hand, reaching up. “Just trust me.”

He’s aware that it isn’t exactly a convincing argument. George tentatively takes his hand, anyway. His hands are soft like they haven’t worked a day in their lives, which might be a little true. But they’re only kids, so time will tell.

George keeps hold of his hand even as he climbs down the ladder. It makes Dream sort of feel like, a knight or something.

“You’re, like, my princess.” Stupid thing to say. Whatever, he already said it, and George is already trying not to laugh so he doesn’t wake everyone up. He holds his breath through a snort, which makes a silly noise, which makes Dream struggle not to laugh as well. Domino effect of stupidity.

Dream tries to communicate with his hands that they could be careful of the creaks in the floor, which he’s previously memorized. George sleepily nods his head like he understands, still smiling dumbly, and immediately steps on one of the loose boards, letting out a very long and tedious creak. 

Okay, fine. If any of the kids in the cabin snitch, they’ll know they aren’t truly Hermes’ child, and the unclaimed ones can cross him off their list.

Outside, the air is warm and perfect, like it always is. Or should be, anyway. George’s hand is cold.

“Okay, so, where are we going?”

Dream points up to the roof, and George’s expression sours. 

“You didn’t say anything about climbing.”

“Well, I’m not gonna take you to the woods if you can’t be quiet.”

“Is that where you go? Won’t nymphs catch you?”

“We’re the babies, they think we’re cute. They just tell me to go back.”

“We’re twelve, not babies.”

“Yeah? Then get climbing.”

George stomps the ground petulantly, but doesn’t go back inside. Dream has to let go of his hand to show him how to climb up. The breeze sifts through his hair gently, the cool air clings to his skin. He’s made this climb a few times, not that it’s hard. But he can hear his friend groaning with every new foothold he has to take.

It’s a big cabin, it’s got to hold a lot of kids. He pities the kids who have to sleep in the top rungs, they have to climb up and down at least two ladders to get in and out of bed. Maybe the ones on top are, like, the strong half-bloods. Ares and Hephaestus and stuff.

Dream pulls himself up on top of the roof with ease. 

“Not so hard.” Dream gloats, smiling at George still struggling on the last edge. 

“Help?” George frowns pitifully, voice small and winded. He holds out his hand. “Please?”

Dream takes his hand and pulls him up. “I’ve gotcha.”

He wobbles a bit on his feet, but steadies. George is only in his pajamas, his own sacred artifact. Sometimes he’s seen him walking around camp in his pajama bottoms. There’s only two beads on his necklace, opposed to Dream’s six. He thinks he’ll have to turn his necklace into a bracelet and get a new one pretty soon. 

“I’m so tired.” George whispers, rubbing his eyes with force.

“You’re always so tired. Do you mean it this time?”

George moans grumpily. He’s standing like he’s waiting for Dream to tell him what to do. So he does. 

Dream takes his hand and guides him to lay down on one of the flat parts of the roof, above a protruding window. The wood is old and creaky, and tomorrow Sapnap (who sleeps at the top of Cabin 11, though Dream thinks it's pretty obvious who his godly parent is) will tell Dream to stop going up there in the middle of the night for what is probably the tenth time.

Together, they look at the night sky. There's few clouds, like always, and somehow all of the world’s constellations are clear. Like New York isn’t right next door.

That one is Andromeda, next to Cassiopeia. He learned that in class the other day. “Class” used loosely– they try hard to have stuff for kids to do around here. 

“Is this what you do?”

Dream looks at him. “Hm?”

“Like. When you leave your bunk you just come up here? When you don’t go to the woods.”

“Yeah. I like the silence.”

“Hm.”

There’s a long pause. Then, George asks another question, sounding even more sleepy than before. Something unnatural tugs at Dream’s eyelids when George comes near. 

“Did your nightmares come back?” His voice is quiet, so quiet, so not even the sky may hear. 

Dream didn’t want to say as much in front of so many people. Even if they were asleep. He nods. “Let me help.” George pokes his shoulder. 

“I’m scared!” Dream laughs quietly, “You did a terrible job last time.”

“Okay, whatever, I’ve been practicing.” George says, accent really peeking through. His mother is from Oxford, if he’s remembering correctly. Work visa. Not that Dream really understands what that means. He just understands George sounds very British, and it’s fun.

“Really? And who have you been practicing on.”

“Sam.” George seems rather proud of himself. “Sam, and it was good and I did good. So you should let me help.”

“Oh.” Dream really thought he’d catch him in a lie. “What does Sam even dream about?”

George rubs his eyes, moaning in thought. Which is a strange way to describe it, but that’s what George does. He rolls away, attempting to yawn away from him. He’s been trying not to yawn near people. It’s cute, but doesn’t make much of a difference. Dream yawns, despite his best efforts. George rolls back when he’s through. 

“Sheep.” Is all he says. He leans his head on Dream’s shoulder. “Let me help.” “Why are you so adamant?”

“Because it’s, like, the only thing I can even do. Everyone can like, make cool plants or be super smart. I just sleep.” George hesitates, but follows through. “And I like you. You’re my best friend.”

Dream’s heart swells, enough to melt his apprehension. Or, maybe it’s the desperation that comes with sleep deprivation. It occurs to him he never changed out of his jeans. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Do it.”

“You’re scared?” George looks up. His eyes are the kind of blue you see in the scariest parts of the ocean. The color of trenches that touch the center of the Earth. “Don’t be scared. You’ll wake up no matter what.”

“I wasn’t scared of that, but, I guess now I am?” It’s hard to keep eye contact. Something about the sleepy glaze of George’s eyes makes Dream’s soul want to give up. Whatever that means, he’s not sure.

“Sorry. It comforts me to think about.” George holds his arm gently. “You have to look at me. Remember?”

Truthfully, he didn’t. He doesn’t remember anything about how George lulled him to sleep. But he follows his instruction, and soon enough he can feel darkness creeping in all around him. It feels like having the biggest, heaviest quilt gently laid over him. It feels like getting dragged underwater. The sound of the wind in the trees melts into pure silence.

He’s vaguely aware of the sound of a yawn, his or George’s, he’s not sure. And then there was nothing at all.

For the first time in weeks, he doesn’t dream. No nightmares about green fire and the earth swallowing him whole. No death, no inevitable fates and failures he can’t avoid. Just, cold nothing.

He’s woken up by someone poking his cheek. He’s slow on the uptake, which is unlike him, but it’s so early in the morning some of the sleep lingers like a shroud. It’s a nymph. She’s not very happy. You can’t keep doing this. 

And when George is asleep, he’s really asleep. And using magic tuckers him out– he’s only just started trying to use it. There’s like, a meter he’ll have to level up. At least that’s what George said. 

Bottom line, he’s hard enough to wake up when he hasn’t exhausted himself. Dream is tasked with the impossible job of carrying George back down and into bed. 

It’s a good thing he weighs nothing. 

[youreanidiom]

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Sam fires Bad from the prison for his involvement with the Egg

Pink Slip

While working a weekly shift as a prison guard (or glorified cell-cleaner, really) Bad finds that the prison walls seem to dampen the effect the Egg has on his mind.

Eventually, it gets him fired.

My fic for @sixteenth-day-event

(also on AO3)

If you asked Bad whether he liked working as a prison guard, the answer would be complicated. There are some things about the prison, and especially about the Warden, that unnerve him, yet oftentimes, being in the prison helps clear Bad’s mind. It’s like a breath of fresh air, stepping beyond the obsidian maw into the dark, cloistered halls. Not that the air in there was fresh—it was quite stagnant and hot, the sort of the stillness that makes sweating an useless defense of the body against the heat. But he felt it inside, like a glass placed over a fly to dim the buzzing. That’s what it did for his head. It made things clearer: less fogged.

He had a feeling he knew why. That these walls kept things not only in but out. That for the hours where he patrolled and cleaned, his mind was his own, again, or at least more so than it had been.

Maybe that’s why he was willing to do some of the dirty jobs around the place, just to keep himself employed there. That, and if he had to guess, he was the only guard who’d ever changed a diaper. (Thanks, Sapnap.)

So his duties looked like this: patrol the halls, report anything suspicious or damaged to the Warden, then at 5 o’clock sharp, when he was to bring the prisoner his evening meal, he cleaned the bedpan, along with anything else that had gotten soiled in the cell. If anything was damaged or dirtied beyond repair, he was to confiscate it and report it to the Warden to be replaced. He’d only done that once, in regard to a hairbrush with a broken handle, but he’d never seen the prisoner get a new one.

Now his hair was long and matted, and his bedsheets had holes worn through them, and Bad was too afraid to report the damage, lest he return to find the prisoner sleeping on a bare mattress. 

(He’d complained once about the conditions in the prison. Expressed concern that the prisoner ate his weekly meal from Bad like it was the only food he’d been given in days. Expressed further concern about leaving the bedpan unwashed for so long—and not just for the sake of his nose. The Warden reminded him what the prisoner had done. Said Bad seemed too sympathetic. Asked if his prison should be run like a hotel. If the prisoner should be treated like a guest.

Bad said no.)

Maybe that was why he brought the new sheets. Tucked into the bottom of his supply cart, just a simple white sheet and a matching pillow case. The blanket would have to stay, it was too bulky to sneak in a new one, but it wasn’t as though Bad was concerned about the prisoner getting cold in that sweltering box.

The hardest part was convincing him to stand up so Bad could change the sheets.

“You need to what?” he asked, looking up with filmy eyes. 

“Change your sheets. Can you stand?”

The prisoner looked down at his legs like he didn’t trust them, then back up to Bad with much the same feeling.

“You’ve never done that before.”

“The Warden wants me to change the sheets,” Bad lied, and at last the prisoner seemed to understand. His expression turned blank, resigned, and he nodded, shuffling to the edge of the bed so he could throw his legs over the side and rise—wobbly—to his feet. Bad ached a little inside watching him hold the wall for support as he moved away, but he waited until he was well and clear of the bed before he started. He’d learned a long time ago not to get too close to the prisoner. He didn’t react well to that.

Bad tucked the sheets around the corners, fluffed up the old, squashed pillow as best he could, and laid the tattered blanket overtop. He put the meal tray on the blanket, since the prisoner usually ate in bed, and when he turned around he saw his expression had changed.

He looked crumpled. Like he would cry, if only his body had enough water in it to make tears.

“Did the Warden really ask you to change my sheets?” he asked.

Bad didn’t answer.

He couldn’t lie again.

…

Something shifted. The prison became an escape for Bad. He walked his weekly route around the halls with a brisk pace, feeling the tension in his joints release, the teeth-grinding bitterness roll off him like steam. He grew more determined, more willful. It was here and only here, after all, that he could exert his own will.

He began to bring a change of clothes with the meal and the cleaning each week. He stole two of the orange uniforms from the supply closet, and snuck one in, leaving it under the prisoner’s pillow. He was clever enough to pick up the hint, and Bad found the old, smelly, tattered one under his pillow the next week, which he threw away. They exchanged the two new uniforms weekly after that: the prisoner would dress himself in the clean one and Bad would take the dirty one away to wash for the next week. 

He wasn’t sure it would work, at first. Didn’t think the prisoner would change in front of him. But he did it mostly when Bad’s back was turned, and that seemed to be enough privacy for him. (Bad still caught glimpses of scars and burns he’d never seen before, but he pretended he didn’t see—both for the prisoner’s sake and his own.) 

Slowly, the prisoner let him get closer. Would occasionally say a few words to him, outside of conversation pertinent to Bad’s duties. Would even let him stand close enough to touch him. 

So Bad got bolder. He brought in a rag and some soap and asked the prisoner if he would like to be clean.

That question confused him. Bad saw in gnawing at him, the confusion in his eyes, the press of his brows.

I don’t deserve to be clean.

“Just let me wipe your face,” he said, and the confusion melted into obedience.

“Okay.”

He held himself very still. He gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white and protruding from skeletal hands. Bad moved slowly, wiped the rag in soft, careful circles over the dirt and oil crusted along his hairline. It took awhile to come up. Bad had to rinse and wring the washcloth several times, the water in his bucket turning just as gray as when he moped the floor. But slowly, the skin below revealed itself, pale and flaky over scars and acne. 

The prisoner began to cry somewhere in the middle of the cleaning. Silently, jaw clenched, trembling with the will to remain still for Bad. But he cried nonetheless, and Bad wiped away the tears with the rest of the dirt.

When Bad was done, he remained there—eyes closed, shoulders melted down, face pressed forward—while Bad folded away the damp, dirty washcloth and wrapped the soap in a fresh, dry one.

“Here,” he said, trying to offer the parcel to him so he could clean the rest of himself, later, unobserved. But the prisoner did not open his eyes.

Bad sighed.

“Dream?”

His lashes fluttered, his green eyes wide, suddenly attentive.

“Here.” He pressed the gift into his palm. Dream took in a shuddering breath. He looked scared.

Still, he said: “Thank you.”

…

“What is this?” Bad held the pink paper away from himself like that would make it less real.

“Your termination letter,” the Warden told him. He was standing, arms behind his back, a large, oak desk between them.

“What have I done? I—I’ve never been late. I do the worst job here and I never complain,” Bad argued. “Who’s going to clean the bedpan now, Ant? You?”

“You don’t need to worry about that anymore,” the Warden said. “You are no longer an employee of this prison.”

“But—but why?” Bad’s lips were dry. He almost wanted him to say it. To admit that what Bad had done was wrong. That it was wrong, somehow, to offer human decency to a fellow human being.

But the Warden did not say that. Of course he didn’t.

“You are no longer committed to this cause. Your loyalty lies with the Egg. So leave it there.”

“The Egg?” Bad almost laughed. “This is about the Egg?”

“Yes. You’ve been distracted, these past few weeks. I think we both know why.”

Bad’s lip quivered, his eye twitched. This was the only place the Egg wasn’t on his mind. This was the only place he moved with determination and single-minded focus. This was the only place, in the past year or more, where he felt like himself—if only for a few, small moments in the quiet of that sweltering little cell.

“Do you need me to state it clearer?” the Warden asked. “You’re fired, Bad. And as such, you no longer have clearance to be here. Ant will escort you off the premises.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Bad put the letter back on his desk. “I know my way out.”

[youreanidiom]

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Dream makes fun of Technoblade's style in prison

"I gotta be honest, Dream," said Techno, with a deep breath, rubbing his hands over his knees.

Dream preemptively rolled his eyes; it had been a week (or he thought it had been a week, Dream was counting the days based on when Techno slept which wasn't the best way of telling time but a lot better than his previous method of just guessing) and already he knew Techno's little tells.

"Your decoratin' skills leave a lot to be desired. This cell is not very welcomin' or homey."

"WHAT?"

In the same way Dream knew that Techno had been preparing to say something that would rile him up, he knew Techno's comment was bullshit. Techno didn't actually think Dream had been responsible for the decoration of the cell and he wasn't actually upset it wasn't homey, whatever the fuck that meant, but that wouldn't stop Dream from reacting as if he did.

"I'm just sayin', where are the personal touches?"

Dream rolled his eyes again, exaggerated, struggling to keep his mouth pressed into a straight line. The muscles of his face ached a little.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, "I'll get- I'll get right on decorating the cell I've been locked up in for months." Techno was nodding, face fake-serious, and Dream almost laughed. "Maybe I'll get a- a houseplant or whatever."

Techno was still nodding, fingers tapping along his chin. When his gaze flicked towards Dream, there was a sort of relieved sadness in his eyes. Dream studiously ignored that look.

"A nice paintin' would really spruce things up in here."

A snort escaped Dream. He was slowly losing the battle. His mouth curled upwards.

"Even if- Even if I could get a painting, I'm not going to trust you. Y-your style sucks, Techno."

"HEH??"

Now Dream laughed; the look on Techno's face was still mostly an act, he knew that, but it was a funny one. Goal achieved, he guessed.

"You're wearing a fancy ass cloak in prison. You have- You have a crown! It's actually ridiculous," said Dream, crossing his arms over his chest. The smile was still on his face and Techno still looked relieved beneath the feigned offense.

"Oh, I see, I see." The cell wasn't large. It took Techno three steps to stand next to Dream but he somehow managed to give the impression of ambling his way over. "You're jealous, Dream. I mean, you do dress like a weird homeless man so it's understandable."

Dream's eye-rolling muscles were getting a workout.

"You're so stupid. I'm not jealous."

"No, no, no, I get it, Dream. You don't need to pretend. We're best friends, right?" Techno's fingers brushed the back of Dream's head before placing his hand over his heart. "And because I'm such a good friend, I'm willin' to share."

"Wh-what are you talking about?" Dream asked even though Techno was already taking off his cloak. It would have been too much work to move - Dream's hips were sore, his whole body was sore, and the obsidian hurt his knees - and moving wouldn't have stopped Techno anyway.

Draping the cloak around Dream's shoulder, Techno sunk to the floor next to him. The cloak was soft and heavy. It smelled like smoke and sweat and pine sap and dog. The fur tickled Dream's face. He rubbed the collar against his skin, cheeks going red when he noticed Techno watching him.

To offset the sudden awkwardness of vulnerability, Techno said with a groan, "I'd let you borrow my crown, man, but it wouldn't fit. Your head is kinda tiny compared to mine."

"Fuck off, Techno, my- my head is not tiny."

Techno laughed while Dream hid his face in the cloak.

"Sure, Dream, I believe you." Techno wrapped an arm around him, not caring with such ease when his arm was crushed between Dream's bony back and the obsidian wall that Dream wondered if that had been the plan from the beginning. "I believe you."

@sixteenth-day-event

[youreanidiom]

Fancy lil fella 🎀💖✨

[youreanidiom]

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Technoblade discovers that Dream is living in the prison

~~ @sixteenth-day-event Prompt: Technoblade discovers that Dream is living in the prison

~~ Technoblade didn’t usually think of his rival as an idiot. Usually. But this had to take the cake.

“So uh, why are you here?” he asked, trying to keep the confusion out of his tone. 

He and Dream both stood in the prison’s entry hall, just in front of the portal that lead to the outside world. The stack of TNT in Techno’s inventory was starting to weight a little heavier with the realization that was staring him in the snout.

The green teletubby, who was apparently no longer homeless, scoffed.

“What? You asked if I had a house and then have the nerve to ask what I’m doing here?” Dream countered.

Techno could feel the glare coming from underneath the cracked mask on his rival’s face. Looks couldn’t kill, but he was sure Dream was trying. Too bad Technoblade never dies, especially to such a pathetic attempt.

L

L

loser living in his old prison

L

L

Even chat agreed.

“I’m just saying, but living in the same place you were, you know, tortured for several months is not an ideal coping mechanism, I gotta be honest,” Techno replied.

Dream visibly bristled at the comment. “Well, well then you can leave if-if you dislike it that much!” His voice cracked at the end. It would have been funny under other circumstances.

“Look, if you’re that desperate for a home, I can see about sneaking you into my cabin. You can hide from Phil and everyone else. But this place can’t be good for you.” Techno gestured to the stone walls around them.

Dream was definitely glaring at him. Techno was surprised the mask hadn’t disintegrated from the intensity of said glare.

“Just… what are you even doing here?” Dream asked, exasperation in his tone.

Techno sighed. He could tell the truth and have his rival really hate his guts. Or he could lie and say a concerned citizen spotted Dream in the prison area. But he was pretty sure that wouldn’t get Dream to trust him. And considering how tense and closed off Dream looked, that trust was waning by the minute.

“Look, the prison when Sam was Warden was a place of abuse of authority. And Sam isn’t here anymore because Phil and Ranboo saw him walking around as a free man. So I was here to take the prison down as a part of the Syndicate.” Techno retrieved a piece of TNT from his inventory and held it out. “You being here instead makes that a little more complicated. You’re not holding anyone inside, are you?”

Dream’s shoulders relaxed. “No. No one’s here but me. And I intend to keep it that way.”

Techno’s eyebrow rose up his forehead. “But why here? You’re free, Sam was in prison, Quackity has fewer allies. You could have gone anywhere.” He gestured to walls around them. “Why come back here?”

“It’s a fortress, Techno. Completely secure, with all the things I need to stay safe. What better place to be, huh?”

For a moment, Techno could see just barely see the kid he’d dueled before coming to the server. And that image was replaced with the scared young man he’d comforted in that horrid cell. 

“Why do you need a fortress, Dream?”

What had this place, this server done to Dream? To Quackity? To Techno? To all of them. Techno would probably never know.

“You… you wouldn’t understand, Tech. There’s so much…. It’s too important. You wouldn’t understand,” Dream responded, but didn’t quite meet Techno’s eyes. It was almost like he couldn’t.

Techno sighed. “All right. All right, I won’t blow up your house, Dream. Can’t leave you homeless again.” He heard Dream scoff again and grinned at the green teletubby before schooling his expression. “But if you need help, talk to me. Gotta be honest, this is making me a little worried about you.”

He had to suppress a wince as chat exploded.

Technosoft

Technosoft

Technosoft

Technsodt

lol typo

typo L

typo L

typo L

L

Dream’s shoulders hunched before he visibly forced himself to relax. 

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Well, I’ll be off. See ya, nerd,” Techno called as he stepped back through the portal.

As Techno left the prison behind, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding come over him. He ignored it. Dream was an adult. A young and stupid one, but still an adult. He was responsible for his own actions. Techno just hoped it wouldn’t lead to disaster.

[youreanidiom]

I’m vodwatching an old drodcast and everything about it so incredibly perfect. We’re five minutes in and George is pretending they’re having a sleepover. They’re proposing video ideas in perfect sync. Both of them are laughing at every other word they say. (Bonus: a super long wheeze)

[youreanidiom]

awesampunz cozy league gaming my beloved

[youreanidiom]

ducking out of a family gathering to watch a GeorgeNotFound main channel video WE’RE SO BACK

[youreanidiom]

duunnn dunnn... duuuunnnn duun… Bad is coming 🦈

[youreanidiom]

[youreanidiom]

more tina!!!

[youreanidiom]

her stars im crying :(( 💫💫

[youreanidiom]

Skephalo gets drunkenly married at Las Vegas. Afterwards, Bad wants to get divorced. It isn’t fair to keep Skeppy off the market. Skeppy would do anything to not divorce

UR MIND!!! This filled me with demons, I need them to get married immediately 😭😭😭

“Oh my gosh.” Bad stared down at the paperwork, his head still pounding, the painkillers having not yet taken effect. Still, even in his desperately hungover state, he was of sound enough mind to see that the marriage license was real. 

He and Skeppy had gotten so drunk last night that they actually got married.

“Skeppy. Skeppy we fudged up,” he said, covering his face with his hands.

“Yeah, um. Not our best decision,” Skeppy said. “But the pictures are cute.”

“Pictures?” Bad turned around with a horrified gasp, and Skeppy just giggled, lifting his phone for Bad to see. They were all sent via text—it looked like Hannah took them—and though Skeppy scrolled through them too fast for Bad to really take in, he had to admit, it did make his heart do something funny in his chest to see them. The lighting was intense, the casino dimly lit and all vintage orange tones, the camera flash giving their skin stark highlights. But their eyes sparkled, their grins were wide, and when the cheap gold bands they’d bought from the on-the-spot officiant went on their fingers, they kissed each other like it was all real. Like they were really in love.

Shame Bad didn’t remember any of it.

“We’re never gonna hear the end of this. And did you sleep here last night?” Bad gestured to the room: his hotel room. “We’re never gonna hear the end of that either.”

“So? Let them think whatever they want.” Skeppy shrugged. “They probably already thought we were fucking.”

“Language! Oh my goodness.” Bad paced around the room, dragging his hands over his cheeks. “We have to get divorced, now, Skeppy. This is such a mess!”

“What?” Skeppy sounded surprised and upset, and Bad stopped, turning towards him again.

“What do you mean?” Skeppy asked, his voice a little shaky, though he was trying to laugh it off. “Why do we have to get divorced?”

“Because we’re not… together?” Bad looked at him with furrowed brows, equally confused. “We were drunk, Skeppy! And marriage is serious! I can’t just take you off the market because of one stupid drunk mistake.”

Skeppy’s lips pressed together like he was suppressing a frown.

“I mean. Yeah, it was stupid how it happened, but, like… that doesn’t mean we can’t figure it out,” he mumbled.

“What? No. No, no, no, Skeppy, come on. I’m not gonna force you to stay with me just because—”

“You wouldn’t be forcing me,” Skeppy cut him off, and Bad’s mouth went dry.

“What?”

“You wouldn’t be forcing me,” Skeppy repeated, louder, more confident. “But if you want to get a divorce—if you don’t want this—then. Fine. Obviously I’m not gonna… take you off the market, or whatever stupid thing you’re concerned about.”

Bad blinked, his mouth hanging open, unsure what to say.

“You… you want to actually… be my husband?” he said, the word so heavy, it almost made him dizzy. “That’s serious, Skeppy. I mean, we were never even—not officially—you know?”

“Yeah, well. We’ve always kinda done things out of order. Haven’t we?” Skeppy said.

Bad looked down, his cheeks flushed. Last night wasn’t the first time they’d kissed. In fact, they’d done a lot of things Bad used to say he’d only do with a committed partner, but he’d made an exception for Skeppy. He’d accepted that to be with him, he had to let it be looser than he really wanted. He had to let Skeppy be free—he couldn’t just take him off the market, as he always said.

And yet. He’d never asked if that’s what Skeppy really wanted. 

“You’d… you’d commit yourself?” Bad asked. “To me?”

“I did last night, didn’t I?”

“But you were drunk.”

“Okay.” Skeppy laughed and stepped closer, taking Bad’s hand in his own, rubbing his finger over the ring. “So let me say it again.”

Bad gulped. Skeppy put his other hand on his cheek, looked him in the eye.

“I, Skeppy, take you, BadBoyHalo,” he started, grinning giddy at their names, “to be my husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward, in sickness and health, for poorer and for richer, until death do we part.”

“Oh my god,” Bad shuddered out the whisper, his heart beating hard in his chest.

“Do you?” Skeppy asked.

“I do.” Bad answered without hesitation, and pressed a hard, passionate kiss to Skeppy’s lips. Skeppy wrapped his arms around Bad’s shoulders, and Bad held him by the waist, grip so tight, he couldn’t ever imagine letting go again.

[youreanidiom]

happy three year anniversary to this stream and this stream only