Howdy! The first chapter of the new fic has been published to my account. It's called "It's not toxic if it's not canon (yet)" go check it out if you want!

 Helloooo all! Sorry to bother, but I had a (not so) quick question as we slowly near the end of this fic. I've got a new (still mostly unwritten) dreamnoblade story sitting in my drafts. It's very different from Potato Man, but (in my opinion at least) the writing is much better and the characters stay a bit more consistent personality and canon-wise. Should I start posting it? Or would that not be something you're interested in/comfortable with.

If it would help, I could also post it exclusively on ao3 along with some other, shorter works (some cleaned up & expanded versions of the bonus stories in the a/n's + some other never-before-seen canon and cut out scenes that I thought were cute, as well as just random oneshots)

As I said earlier in this story, it is being rushed to completion due to the unfortunate situation I placed the Technoblade character in, as well as just a general discomfort with continuing this fic. I am trying to keep the plot moving while still keeping the pacing decent, but it is a rather difficult feat, and the story has suffered for it. 

With this new fic I feel I have done a better job isolating the characters from the content creators and so there is hopefully less discomfort on both ends. This means I can spend more time exploring the world and focusing on character development without starting to spiral. (Yes, it happens. No, not often. Yes, I have a therapist; she is helping.) 

So, again I ask: post, or no? 

(I can also publish the first chapter either in here or in a separate story so you guys can see how you like it.)

Tl;dr: I wrote another (better) dreamnoblade fic that I'm thinking of posting. (I'm also mentally ill, but getting help) Thoughts?

Now for the silly little bonus story <33 (its so cute guys. So silly.)

~•~

Dream had been running for a long time.

His boots swish swish'ed through the long grass, the worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder thumping against his hip with every other step. Ahead of him: the faint splash of running water sounded from the tree line. More importantly though: the distant barking of dogs coming from somewhere behind him.

He swerved into the forest, drought-golden grass replaced by thousands of brittle pine needles crackling beneath his heels.

The dogs always found him eventually.

He should've known that before trying to settle down in a town. He barely made it three days before a piercing howl woke him in the middle of the night like a shot. He didn't stay long enough to see the wanted posters go up.

The water was louder now, and he veered right again, pushing through a bramble patch. 

The stream (it wasn't deep enough to be called a river) was wide, maybe ten, fifteen feet across. This was good. He shivered. The water would dull his scent, but it was spring; (At least, he thought it was) the water would be freezing.

Another bark, closer now, was enough motivation for him to step in.

It was cold, he realized, as the water soaked through his boots and socks. He took another step, trying to minimize the inevitable splashing noises. It was cold, but that was easier to fix than a dog bite. An injury of that caliber would be a death sentence. 

He kept his gaze fixed on the opposite shore, trying to ignore the icy water that swept over his ankles as he trudged forward.

Dream had been running for a long, long time.

He only remembered his name from the posters that tailed him from town to town, barely recognized his reflection in puddles and lakes.

He couldn't remember why he was running.

The posters said something about a crown, about a king. About a thief.

All he knew was that he couldn't let go of his satchel. 

The dogs had been a couple miles away when he'd started crossing the river, but now he could hear their growling practically in his ear. One mile. That was all that stood between his escape and certain death.

His feet found solid ground. He'd really prefer not to die.

More thorns awaited him, barring his passage, demanding a toll. With a sigh, he pushed through the bushes, wincing as the barbs stabbed through his flimsy clothing, drawing blood. So much for diluting his scent.

His blood was like gold for those dogs, he'd learned. They seemed to crave it. Not just his, either. The dogs went feral any time blood was spilled in their vicinity. It was creepy.

A howl, and close. Half a mile at best, and closing in quickly.

He panicked, legs bursting into motion like blades on a windmill; turning, and turning, and turning. He'd been running for so long that he'd forgotten how to do anything else.

Vaguely he remembered a time where fighting those dogs would have been child's play; a training regimen thrown in to stave off boredom. Now, though, he owns no sword as it is too cumbersome to carry around, and while he is light on his feet, his strength has dwindled.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

The sound of his footfalls are swallowed by the pine needles and moss blanketing the ground. His heartbeat is given no such mercies so it roars in his ears, distracting him from the pounding in his head.

When was the last time he ate?

The dogs had decided to fan out and circle him, as evidenced by the panting now audible from several different angles. 

He was ahead for now, but even under the canopy of branches he could tell the sun was setting. Sleep, unfortunately, could not be skipped, so the second that ball of fire sunk below the horizon, he was screwed.

A branch snapped. He didn't look back. There was something bigger here now.

The satchel slammed against his hip in time with his pulse, and he used one hand to hold it there in place.

He couldn't tell where the dogs were.

He couldn't tell there was a root in his path.

The toe of his boot smashed into it, sending him down, down, down onto a bed of pine needles.

It was there he flailed about for a few seconds, unable to think straight due to the pain.

Those seconds were precious, irreplaceable. Another branch broke beneath an unmoving heel. 

Out of the leaf cover came a man cloaked in royal reds and glittering gold, his hair a cascading waterfall of sunset pink. Dogs bayed around him, but he silenced them all with a glare. When he spoke, his voice was deep and almost monotone:

"It's been a while, Dream." His lips curved into a cruel smile, red eyes assessing Dream's, well, everything.

"Who are you?!" He shouted back, terror edging his voice. But he knew, even if he could not remember. He knew from the second the man had stepped out of the trees. The cape, the gold, the crownless head. The thief, the crown, the king.

"King Technoblade." Came the calm response. Dream couldn't think, couldn't breathe with those eyes on him marking his every move.

"Then me? Who am I?!"

"A traitor." The king hissed, eyes narrow. And then, the world went dark.