#And sometimes in his loveliest dreams

[rainydays12]

[thestars-inheaven]

I need the entirety of The Drowning Faith tattooed on my face

[sweeetsh]

“He can’t be real, she thought. A boy made out of flesh and bone could not be so painfully lovely, so free of any blemish or flaw.” | “She’s the only divine thing he’s ever believed in. The only creature in this vast, cruel land who could kill him. And sometimes, in his loveliest dreams, he imagined she does.”

[brbarou]

sometimes, in his loveliest dreams

[whyamiheretm]

- She’s the only divine thing he’s ever believed in. The only creature in this vast, cruel land who could kill him. And sometimes, in his loveliest dreams, he imagines she does.

this was supposed to be posted here on valentine’s day but i forgot to happy late valentine’s day from your favorite doomed lovers

closeups under the cut 💋

[itsswritten]

“To the stars who listen and the dreams that are answered”

ＡＺＲＩＥＬ

⁂ Share your pain

In the wake of a heated argument, you and Azriel find yourselves adrift, the once unbreakable bond strained. Faced with the questions of whether love can endure the shadows of past traumas, can you work through this?

⁂Threads of Hazel

A mating bond can connect those who have not even met, but can it save them too?

⁂ Gone

Sometimes it take's heartbreak to move on...or to realise what you've always had.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Final Part

⁂ Cauldron-born

When an unexplainable energy pulls the Inner Circle to barge into the Day court, they're all shocked at what they find. But it's Azriel who can't help wonder if his dreams have finally been answered.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 - wip

⁂ Wings Universe Masterlist

The world of Prythian’s loveliest couple. (Fairy x Azriel)

ＡＺＲＩＳ

(Azriel x Reader x Eris)

༄ When the sea calls for three

In the aftermath of war, peace reigns over the realms of Prythian, but the delicate balance hangs in the hands of two unlikely mediators—You and Lucien. As the newly appointed Emissaries of Peace, your duty is clear: maintain alliances, foster understanding between courts, and navigate the intricate webs of fae politics.

But when fate deals an unexpected twist, revealing that you possess not one, but two mates, the tranquillity you've worked so hard to uphold is suddenly threatened. Caught between two males who refuse to share, you find yourself thrust into a precarious position, torn between duty and desire.

What will you do and who will you choose?

Intro | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 - coming soon! i will try get to this asap

ＥＲＩＳ

~pending~

ＣＡＳＳＩＡＮ

~pending~

ＬＵＣＩＥＮ

~pending~

[bitchycloudsblog]

The Poppy War series is absolutely NOT a romance series but 'She’s the only divine thing he’s ever believed in. The only creature in this vast, cruel land who could kill him. And sometimes, in his loveliest dreams, he imagines she does.'

[inbarfink]

So when discussing the ending of ‘Over the Garden Wall’ and the nature of the Unknown in general, I think it is important to remember that it’s left deliberately up for interpretation. You know, it’s not a Quiz with one concrete answer we must uncover, but it’s more about our interpretations and personal feelings. Each and every one of us experiences that journey with Wirt and Greg into the Unknown in a slightly different way. 

So what I want to do here is not present a Correct Interpretation that will dispute all the others and prove them all wrong and prove myself right, I just want to share my own outlook on the nature of the Unknown. In the hopes that others will like it and it’ll inspire more cool readings and interpretations

So on some level I do agree with the popular theory that the Unknown is some sort of Afterlife - but I don’t see it as a regular Afterlife for human souls, I think it is an afterlife for Stories. This place is where fictional characters and stories end up once they’ve been totally forgotten by the living, ‘lost in the clouded annals of history’. and become.... unknown It is quite literally a place where ‘long forgotten stories are revealed to those who travel through the wood’.

That’s why the Unknown is a mishmash of different time periods and primarily visually and narratively influenced by stuff like fairy tales, ghost stories, children’s books and old cartoons - these stories have a high-tendency to be forgotten and thus get lost in the Unknown (whatever it’s because they rely on oral traditions or because they suffered from very poor preservation historically). 

And that is what the theme song, ‘Into the Unknown’ is talking about…

Where can we pretend that dreams do come true? In Stories.

And what are ‘the loveliest lies of all’? Now that would be Fiction. 

The entire concept of stories is a huge theme of this song, I think.

Beatrice and her family, Adelaide of the Pasture, Auntie Whispers and Lorna were all originally fairy tales. Maybe the same fairy tale, or maybe they were originally separated before being ‘melded’ together. (If, for example, the last child to Remember them before they were forgotten just assumed the Bad Witch in both the Auntie Whispers and Beatrice stories was Adelaide)

Pottsfield was an old urban legend about a haunted ghost town, Wirt and Greg basically played through its ‘plot’ directly. 

Miss Langtree, the schoolhouse and the other associated characters come from a long-forgotten and out-of-print children’s book. That’s why those characters tend to talk in comically-stilted expository dialogue. 

The Tavern was the setting for a series of 20’s animated cartoons.  (Although obviously set long before that era). The Tavern Keeper was created as a Betty Boop clone and was the main character. The Tavern setting was probably a mere framing device for all sort of musical animations. The reason why none of them can comprehend the idea of not having some sort of Title or Label is because that’s how they were written - all given job-related titles but not named.

Fred the Talking Horse was a main character from a forgotten tradition of humorous oral stories where he was sometimes a trickstery anti-hero and sometimes a straight-up comedic villain protagonist.

Quincy Endicott and Margueritte Grey were characters from a satiric limerick about the greedy rich and their wacky habits. (Quincy was at least inspired by a real-life person since his name appears on a tombstone in the real world)

Possibly the same limerick where the punchline was the status-quo at the beginning of their OTGW ep, that both rivals’ mansions have become connected and they assume the other is a ghost haunting their house. Or maybe they were each from different regional variations of the same limerick about a greedy rich weirdo being lost in their own house and going mad. 

Frogland and their little boat might be from a children’s book as well, but I also think that maybe… from the vignettes shown at the opening of the series…

That one might take place outside the Unknown, and shows the real inception of Frogland. Two brothers making up stories with their toy boat by the river. Since they never shared these stories with anyone else, when these two brothers died or maybe just grew up and forgot their boyhood misadventures by the stream - these stories also ended up in the Unknown. 

The Fishing Fish we see briefly in ‘Babes in the Woods’ might be a small comedic illustration from a children’s book, or another piece of limerick, or just someone’s random notebook doodle that gained a life of its own first in the creator’s mind and then in the Unknown. 

Cloud City, the North Wind and the Queen of the Clouds were also, much like the Tavern, from a very old cartoon.

The Beast was once just a mere Boogie Man to keep young children from wandering off into the woods. Ending up forgotten in the Unknown just ended up giving him a whole world of lost souls to harvest. 

Maybe the Woodsman and his daughter were always a part of the story of the Beast. But since it seems that the Woodsman being a lantern-bearer is a fairly recent development - they might have had their own separate story. Some sort of pastoral novel about a family moving near the woods? But their narrative has been ‘hijacked’ by the Beast. 

Wirt and Greg ended up lost within the Unknown cause had they actually died in the lake that night - they would have become a Story in their town. I mean we have a moody lonely teenager and his adorable little brother disappearing/dying - on the night of Halloween - after last being seen in a graveyard - with the older brother’s last act on this earth being to hand his crush a cassette of his love poetry. Can you imagine what sort of Urban Legenda you can grow from those seeds?

But as they were not yet dead, and not a Story yet… so they were technically an Unknown story. Between the borders of life and death from a human perspective because they were about to die, and from a Story perspective because they were just about to be born.

And the ending sequence, with the little vignettes showing where all the characters from all the episodes ended up. I think that’s almost like Wirt and Greg back in the world of the living and the real - being able to create happy endings for all of those stories they've met. That’s how the Woodsman’s daughter ended up being alive all along - it was less that the Woodsman's whole tragedy was a wacky misunderstanding all along. But it became so as a gift of thanks by their new storytellers - Wirt and Greg.

Because if dreams can't come true, than why not pretend?

[ghostlyreader09]

hi!!! so sorry that it took so long to write my first fic but here!

the loveliest of weekends

gojo x yn

The light seeped in like a secret, golden and quiet, through the thin fabric of the curtains. It stretched across the floorboards, pooling in soft, rippling waves, illuminating the lazy tangle of blankets on the bed. Somewhere outside, the world went about its noisy, necessary business, but here, the air was honeyed with stillness, thick and slow.

Her arm hung loosely off the edge of the mattress, fingers brushing against a stray sock that had been kicked off sometime in the night. She stirred just enough to nestle deeper into the warmth beside her. Gojo’s chest rose and fell steadily under her cheek, the rhythm slow, hypnotic.

His hand lay on her back, weightless but steady, fingers tracing invisible shapes that never connected—a circle, a heart, a star, something abstract he didn’t even bother naming.

“You’re awake,” she mumbled into his shirt, her voice soft and muffled, but he heard the smile in it.

“Caught me,” he replied, his tone playful but whisper-soft.

She peeked up at him, blinking against the sunlight, and Gojo swore she looked like something from a dream. Her hair was a little wild, sticking up in all directions, her eyes half-lidded with sleep, but her lips were tilted upward just slightly, and it was enough to make his heart do that stupid thing it always did when he saw her.

“I’m starving,” she whispered dramatically, though she made no move to leave the comfort of their cocoon.

Gojo raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And yet you’re still horizontal. Curious.”

She swatted his chest lazily, but he caught her hand, his long fingers curling around hers. He brought it to his lips and kissed the tip of her pinky like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“What’s for breakfast?” she asked, though it came out more like a whine.

“I don’t know,” he replied, his grin widening. “What are you making me?”

That earned him another swat—this one more deliberate—but she was laughing now, soft giggles muffled against his shoulder. She kicked her feet under the covers, and Gojo grinned like he’d just uncovered some great treasure.

“Okay, okay,” he conceded, shifting onto his side so they were face to face. His hair was a mess, silver strands sticking out in every direction, and she reached up instinctively to smooth them down. “How about this? You stay here and look pretty, and I’ll make pancakes.”

“Deal,” she said immediately, grinning.

He propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “But only if you promise to keep smiling like that,” he added, his voice soft now, almost serious. “It’s very motivating, you know.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she hid her face against his chest, muttering something about him being “impossibly cheesy.” He laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that filled the whole room, bright and unrestrained. She couldn’t help it—she started laughing too, their giggles tangling together like the sunlight and shadows on the walls.

Finally, Gojo threw the blanket off and stood, stretching dramatically like he was preparing for the Olympics instead of making breakfast.

“I’ll get started,” he said, looking back at her with a wink. “But if you hear the smoke alarm, it’s not my fault.”

She snorted, burying her face in the pillow. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he called from the doorway, “you still love me.”

The only answer was her pillow muffling more giggles, and somewhere in the kitchen, the sound of him humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like (song).

The first thing (Y/N) noticed was the silence. Or rather, the absence of it. The faint humming from the kitchen had stopped, replaced by an eerie, foreboding stillness.

She lifted her head from the pillow, squinting toward the doorway. “Gojo?” she called, her voice still heavy with sleep but tinged with suspicion.

From the kitchen, there was a sharp clatter of pans and something that sounded like a muffled “Crap.”

Her brow furrowed, but she couldn’t suppress the little grin tugging at her lips. She threw the blankets off and padded to the kitchen, the wooden floor cool against her bare feet. As she rounded the corner, the scene that greeted her was almost cinematic.

Gojo stood in front of the stove, spatula in one hand, a smoking frying pan in the other. His hair stuck up in wild angles, his t-shirt slightly askew, and his expression was a perfect blend of sheepish and panicked. The smell of something burnt filled the air.

“Um,” he started, glancing over at her with a weak smile. “Breakfast is… coming along.”

She folded her arms, leaning against the doorway. “You set the fire alarm off, didn’t you?”

“No!” he said quickly, then hesitated. “…Almost. But I handled it. Like a pro.”

Her eyes dropped to the pan in his hand, where a blackened, pancake-shaped object sat, looking more like a hockey puck than food. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“What is that?” she asked between giggles, pointing at the charred mess.

“This,” he said, holding the pan like it was a masterpiece, “is art. The first pancake is always a sacrifice to the stove gods, okay? Everyone knows that.”

“Oh, really?” she teased, stepping closer and peeking at the counter, which was dusted with flour and splattered with batter. A second pan sat there, slightly tilted, with more batter oozing onto the countertop. “And the second one? Was that for the stove gods too?”

He followed her gaze, wincing. “Okay, so there were… complications.”

“Complications?” she echoed, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Technical difficulties. Equipment failure. User error. Who’s to say, really?” he rambled, setting the pan down with exaggerated nonchalance.

“Gojo,” she managed, wiping tears from her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around her waist, “you still love me.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away, her giggles still bubbling up uncontrollably. “You can’t keep saying that every time you mess something up.”

“But it’s true!” he exclaimed, spinning her around dramatically, his grin impossibly wide. “What we have is unconditional, everlasting, eternal love.”

“It’s gonna be eternal if you don’t burn the apartment down first,” she shot back, though she was laughing too hard to sound remotely serious.

He released her, turning back to the stove with a theatrical sigh. “Fine. Sit back, relax, and let the pancake king redeem himself.”

“Pancake king?” she muttered, grabbing a stool at the counter. “Is that self-proclaimed, or…?”

He ignored her, pouring a new dollop of batter into the pan with the focus of a man attempting heart surgery. The batter sizzled, and for a moment, it seemed like things might actually go well. But then Gojo, ever impatient, tried flipping it too early. The half-cooked pancake folded onto itself, landing with a splat.

“Crap.”

Her laughter exploded, unrestrained and full, as she doubled over on the counter. “Oh my gosh! You’re the worst!”

Gojo turned to her, holding the spatula like a weapon of honor. “This is slander. Defamation of character. I’m trying to feed you, and this is how you repay me?”

“I’d rather starve!” she wheezed, wiping her eyes again.

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “After all we’ve been through? After I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and batter into this meal?”

She slid off the stool, moving toward him with a wide grin. “Okay, okay, let me show you how it’s done, pancake king.”

He surrendered the spatula reluctantly, stepping aside but not before leaning down and planting a quick kiss on her cheek. “You’ve got this, sweetheart. I believe in you.”

“And you’re staying out of the kitchen,” she warned, shaking her head.

“Fine,” he said, grabbing a burnt pancake and taking an exaggerated bite. “But if you need me, I’ll be over here, enjoying my gourmet cuisine.”

Her laughter echoed through the kitchen as she got to work, the scent of batter and burnt pancakes mingling with the warmth of lazy love.

Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the warm, sweet aroma of perfectly golden pancakes. (Y/N) flipped the last one onto the growing stack and turned to see Gojo sprawled dramatically across the counter, his head resting on his arms.

“Are you dead?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Starving,” he groaned, peeking up at her. “Neglected. Betrayed. Left to wither away while you flaunted your superior pancake skills.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled, carrying the plate over to the table. “Here, drama king. Your royal breakfast awaits.”

He perked up immediately, sliding into a chair with an eager grin. “Finally! I knew you loved me.”

As he reached for the maple syrup, (Y/N) sat across from him, resting her chin in her hand as she watched him slather butter onto the first pancake. He caught her staring and paused mid-slice.

“What?” he asked, cocking his head.

She shrugged, her cheeks warm. “You’re cute when you’re excited about food.”

He blinked at her for a second before breaking into a wide, boyish grin. “You think I’m cute, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she muttered, stabbing her own pancake.

“It’s too late,” he teased, taking a big bite. He closed his eyes dramatically, humming like he was eating a five-star meal. “This is amazing. Babe, you’re amazing.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “It’s just pancakes.”

“Not just pancakes,” he said, pointing at her with his fork. “These are made with love.”

“And competence,” she added pointedly, smirking.

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges in that way that always made her heart do a little flip. “Fine, fine. Next time, I’ll stick to being the charming, useless taste-tester.”

“Next time, you can do the dishes,” she replied, kicking his shin lightly under the table.

“Deal,” he said easily, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hand. “Anything for you.”

She felt her cheeks warm again but didn’t look away. Somehow, even with his hair a mess, crumbs on his cheek, and syrup threatening to drip onto his shirt, he looked… perfect. Not in a polished, flawless way, but in a way that felt warm and real, like he belonged here, in these little stolen mornings that were just theirs.

They finished breakfast slowly, trading bites and teasing quips until the plates were empty, and the kitchen was quiet again. Gojo leaned back in his chair, hands resting behind his head.

“So,” he said with a grin, “lazy Sunday nap now or lazy Sunday movie marathon?”

(Y/N) pretended to think, tapping her chin. “Both?”

He laughed, standing and holding a hand out to her. “Now that’s why I love you. Great taste in breakfast and weekend plans.”

She took his hand, letting him pull her up and spin her around for no reason at all other than to hear her laugh again. They left the dishes where they were, padding back to the living room and flopping onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and blankets.

The day stretched ahead, soft and slow, as golden as the sunlight spilling through the windows. And as Gojo wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, she thought there was nothing sweeter than lazy Sundays with him.

thank you and much love💕💕💕

do we like???? feed back is greatly appreciated!

(taking requests‼️)

[bendycxmet]

Hi! How are you? I hope you are doing well <3 I binge-read all of you trigun fics and i loved them, so i wanted to request something too!

How about a Vash x reader where the reader sleeps on him? Vash is listening to them ramble about something and then boom, they fall asleep on him bc hes warm. <3

MY FIRST ASK! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HAPPY THIS MADE ME FOR THE ENTIRE DAY!

i am doing well! thank you for your support! <33

i usually take forever to write a piece, but ur ask inspired me and had me thinking all day on how to go about this. so hope you enjoy this! thank you for the request!

Sweet Dreams

Exiting the bathroom, freshly washed and donning one of Vash’s shirts, you throw your towel over your head, continuing to dry off your head while you peered out into the room. Vash lounged on the motel bed, arms thrown behind him to support his head, lean legs sprawled out and taking up the entire mattress. He was whistling a tune you didn’t recognize, one eye closed while the other surveilled you in the opening of the steaming door. 

“Ya sure you didn’t wanna take a shower? There’s still some hot water left,” you offered.

“Nah, got too comfy waiting here for you. I’ll take one in the morning.” 

He closed his other eye, humming the tune now. He did look comfy. A little too comfy. With his eyes closed, he didn’t see the mischievous glimmer in your eye. The pattering of your feet was his only warning as you dove for him, body landing atop his, an ‘oof!’ sounding from him as your body weight collapsed on his chest. You were cackling at the noise he made, wrapping your arms around his waist as his fingers tickled your sides.

“Not fair! You attacked a defenseless man!”

“Getting comfortable without me, handsome? Ay! Stop it!-” 

His fingers didn’t stop their wriggling assault, only ending when you began to retaliate. 

“Ok, ok! I’m done!” He coughed a laugh out. “Mm, you smell nice. I haven’t smelled this soap before. Where’d you get it?” He twirled a wet piece of hair between his fingers.

“Oh I didn’t tell you! I met this vendor at the market earlier! While you were off looking for your donuts, the smell of the loveliest lavender drew me in.”

Vash hummed along to your story, indicating that his attention was still 100% on you as he played with your hair. He breathed in the calming scent on your skin and hair, allowing it to sway him to sleep slowly. You rambled on and on about how the vendor made the soap, the techniques and oils she used to bring out the herb. 

“But I got her card so we can go back and get you a soap! I do love how you smell Vash, it’s almost like you have a sort of gene that prevents you from smelling bad.” You turned your nose further into his shirt, inhaling the raw smell of him–sunshine with notes of something earthy…petrichor, or something along those lines. It grounded you every time. “But geez, would it kill you to wash your laundry sometimes?! You stink!” you lied, teasing a finger into his chest.

He yelped, abruptly awoken by your harsh jabbing. He grabbed your finger, bringing it up to kiss it, splaying your hand open with his own, observing the size difference. 

“We can do a laundry day tomorrow. I saw the laundromat wasn’t too far off from us, so we can easily carry our loads there.” He sighed, a content smile plastered on his face at the domesticity you two indulged in. He entwined your fingers, bringing it to the side of his face. “That reminds me! I got us donuts for the morning! You should’ve seen the options, I mean. I was in heaven, Mayfly. Powdered, glazed, cake-”

He let your hand go as he gestured in the air, passionate about the change in subject.

It was Vash’s turn to ramble. And once he started on his favorite topic–donuts–there was no stopping him. The deep timbre of his voice held some power. His voice always became deeper late into the night, hinting that he was getting tired; but it seemed to lower your heart rate, lower your defenses and diminish the adrenaline you had from a busy day. The warmth of the day seemed to never leave him, his body heat encompassing the parts of you that touched him. You tucked your legs closer to his body as the coldness of the desert night reached for your feet. 

One of his arms was wrapped around you, hand coming to rest on your shoulder. The other was busy with your arm on the opposite side, fingers lightly grazing up and down. The security you felt in his presence never failed to put you to sleep. 

You hummed one last time, eyes softly closing at his praise for a certain jelly doughnut. You promised in your head that you were only shutting them for a minute. What lies you told yourself.

“But I got your favorite! It might have a bite in it, but I saved the majority of it for you! I know you’ll like it, because I know you, hehe…um. Mayfly?” 

Your soft snores alerted him that you stopped paying attention to his tales of the day. He peered down his nose at you, love clearly painted into his features. Your eyelashes were long from this angle, gently laid out on your sun-kissed skin. Your lips were parted, soft breaths felt on his chest as you breathed in his scent on each inhale and exhaled the minty paste from your nighttime routine. He’s told you plenty of times before, but if only you knew how beautiful you looked in his eyes. 

He felt goosebumps rise on your skin from the chill in the air. He reached down to grab the comforter, pulling it up to your shoulders. You shifted slightly, stilling in the creases of his warm neck that was now heating your cold nose. He giggled at the temperature difference, arms also wrapping around your waist as he settled further into the sheets.

He had to admit, his exaggerated noise and fuss at your sudden dive from earlier was only a ruse. He loved the nights you chose to sleep tucked into his side, but he delighted in the nights you chose to smother him, arms always wrapped around him. He had days to live for with you, but there were always nights to live for as well.

“Sweetest of dreams, Mayfly.”

A/N: side note! i am open to requests! i think they're super fun and it really does get me motivated to write more :)

masterlist

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[rachalixie]

sleepy seungmin.

one of the most endearing things you’ve noticed about kim seungmin is how he looks when he sleeps.

how his drowsy eyes look up at you when he’s drifting in and out of consciousness, the one time where his guard is all the way down and he has no reservations in showing how enamored he is with you. how you can see through the clouds in his eyes straight into his soul.

how his soft lips purse a little bit when he’s deep in sleep, forming a cute little pout that you can barely resist the urge to kiss off of him. how they smack a little when he’s waking up, or when they edge open gently when he murmurs your name in his slumber.

how his hands curl up like little labrador paws when he holds them right up to his chest, like he’s protecting his heart from everyone (except for you, showing when his fingers slowly uncurl as he senses you near and they reach towards you in a silent plea for your touch).

how even when he’s in the loveliest of dreams he subconsciously nuzzles his head into your neck or the softness of your stomach or wherever he decided to settle into that day. how your presence against him, the feeling of your skin on his own, only makes that dream that much sweeter.

how he drifts off sometimes while standing, leaning on you while you’re cooking or washing dishes with his arms wrapped around your waist. his head is lain on your shoulder and his soft, slow puffs of breath tickle the hair around your ear as he snoozes. his weight slowly gets heavier until you’re holding him up, and you huff as you tap your hand to his cheek a few times until he startles awake, tightening his grip around you as he stumbles a bit.

how he falls asleep with his glasses on sometimes, a book left open on his chest and his hands flopped to the side as if he fell asleep mid-sentence. and, knowing him, that’s more likely than not. you’d remove his glasses gently from his face and pick the book up off his chest, bookmarking it (with a slip of paper, not by folding over the corner of the page, you didn’t want him to kill you). he sighs as the weight lifts, breath leaving in a slow exhale as he turns his head to the side, facing you now like a moth drawn to his own personal flame.

—

soft hours

[gabessquishytum]

Hob always thought dream, his friend destruction’s older brother, was so gorgeous but he doubted dream ever noticed him. He was just destruction’s friend, and dream was so much older and more elegant. But he always had a smile and a kind word for hob, and sometimes he would talk to him about art and books and movies. Then dream goes off to college and disappears for a while.

Fast forward about ten years and destruction decides he is tired of his parents’ shit. He cuts himself off and moves in…with his big brother dream, who estranged himself years ago.

Suddenly hob finds himself going over to the brothers’ shared apartment all the time and there is dream, grown up and the loveliest man hob has ever seen. He’s so smart and even taller now, and he has such a sense of confidence and power now that he’s living on his own. And he is such a good big brother, encouraging destruction to be an art major and pursue his dreams.

Soon, dream and hob are close as well, and destruction encourages it, with a funny little smirk whenever he catches dream offering hob a ride, or whenever hob makes dinner for three.

When hob gets kicked out of his place, dream doesn’t hesitate to invite him to come live with them too.

Hob’s crush is back full force. And he feels so stupid—he’s a virgin and he knows dream dates beautiful, interesting and experienced people. He’d never go for someone like hob…

Until one day, hob forgets to lock the door when he’s showering and dream comes in and gets an eye full of hob, ass, thighs, dick and tits—everything. and his eyes go molten with want. He quickly recovers and apologizes and leaves but hob is suddenly full of hope.

Not two weeks later, destruction goes out of town for the weekend, leaving them alone. It’s so nice. Dream cooks. They watch a movie and split a bottle of wine, and Dream puts his arm around hob.

Then they’re kissing.

Dream asks him if he’s had sex before and hob admits he hasn’t. But he desperately wants to.

Dream just smiles at him, lays him down and fingers him until he’s crying into the couch cushions.

This is such a wonderful idea!!! I fully and completely adore the idea of Destruction matchmaking Hob and Dream. He thinks they'll be so cute together! They both deserve nice things, you know?

Hob is so nervous as his relationship with Dream finally begins. He's had a crush - well, maybe he's even been a little bit in love - on Dream for so long now. What if he fucks it all up now that he finally has what he wanted? What if he can't please Dream properly? He's a virgin, after all... but before he can spiral into a proper anxiety attack, Dream soothes him with sweet kisses and basically scrambles his brain. He's determined to make Hob’s first time good, and more than that he's determined to love him as he deserves to be loved.

When Destruction comes home from his little trip, he meets Hob in the kitchen. Hob is like... starry eyed. Standing by the fridge wearing what has to be one of Dream’s silky black pj shirts. There are definitely hickies all over his chest, and one of his nipples is red and has obviously been enthusiastically sucked. Hob is just like "dude. bro. i know you don't want to know. but holy shit."

And Destruction really doesn't want to know the details, but he's happy to slap Hob on the back. He's honestly thrilled to see two of his favourite people getting together. Just... don't tell him that Hob lost his virginity on the couch where they all hang out and watch movies, okay? 🤣 In his own bedroom later, Destruction also finds a gift from his big brother - a very fancy pair of noise cancelling headphones. It's a very nice "thank you for introducing me to Hob" gift. And when he's best man at their wedding in five or so years time, Destruction will fondly remember how he really fucking needed those headphones when Hob went from virgin to slut for Dream’s dick, but he couldn't even be mad about it <3

[dinoshimaaa]

some day, someone will like me like i like you. (pt 2)

this damned feeling. a curse laid upon him for all of eternity. unescapable, tormenting, torturing. first it was disappointment he felt in himself for succumbing to it. but that feeling of shame was soon washed away by the bliss that accompanied the fluttering feeling in his chest, its intensity so strong that it overpowered every other emotion in him, to the point that he only ever thinks and feels of you when you are near. what a shame that you do not feel the same. (feat. wanderer, tartaglia, lyney, gn! reader) (pt 1 here)

or: their heart will always be yours, but you…

(p.s. scara for @seveninchesfrominsanity 😎 and gingey for my best boro @souglias 😍 good luck to everyone on their child pulls!!!!!!!!)

(p.p.s. 8 year-old tartaglia refers to reader as a princess once, but it’s gender neutral otherwise + archon quest and lyney story quest spoilers)

-

the wanderer of sumeru is all but lovely. he is “hat guy”, the mysterious vahumana scholar who showed up out of nowhere just days ago, already gathering an infamous identity for being scornful and anti-social. he is lesser lord kusanali’s assistant, a thinly veiled title to mask the fact that he is a prisoner under her watch. many do not know him because he refuses to work in the spotlight, much like the acting grand sage, and those who do don’t always have the best impression of him.

and even lesser truly know of where he had come from: his mother who is raiden ei, his origins in tatarasuna, his affiliation with the fatui, his obsession with the electro gnosis, and what he once was to sumeru: a false god, a monster, the near-cause of the land of wisdom’s destruction.

but the lack of something will always be attracted to an abundance of something. you are nothing but lovely; the loveliest, if anyone had to say. you are dazzling and you are beautiful, turning heads towards you when you walk the street. you are kind and generous towards the stray kittens on treasure street, and cheerful and easygoing with the store owners when you visit them. people sing praises of you everywhere wanderer goes, and to say he hadn’t had his own experience with you was incorrect.

he remembers himself fighting wave after wave of fatui soldiers, and himself slowly getting more exhausted by the minute, when you came in like a saviour angel from above, plunging on the last of enemies with your bow. he recalls your hits being barely a fraction of how hard he can slice through an enemy, yet when you assisted in defeating those annoying fatui back then, you turned around and asked if he was okay with the brightest smile imaginable.

(to the traveler or nahida, he would’ve given a sarcastic reply. to any ordinary civilian, he would’ve ignored them and been on his way. that day, he recalls being utterly speechless, while the rising sun glows behind your head, giving you a halo, illuminating your smile further. you are the most radiant sight he has ever seen.)

he seeks you out secretly like a stray cat following the only kind soul who fed it milk. sometimes, he watches over you in the air, making sure you’re safe. other times he just observes your interactions with others, ever so relieved to see that you are loved by sumeru just as much as you have shown its people love. more often than not he catches himself drifting off to a dream filled with you, being flustered and ashamed of such pathetic behaviour. but sometimes he also gets too lost in his thoughts, melancholy overtaking his face when he thinks of the shining star that you are.

wanderer’s hands are decorated with filth and blood. they show, sometimes, after an exhausting fight with the fatui. in his peripheral vision, hallucinations of that kid, that blacksmith, and the doctor come and go. in the dead of night, when sumeru sleeps soundly and all that is to be heard are the rustling of leaves in the wind, wanderer looks at his shaking hands and closes them in a fist, wiping them harshly, trying to rub off the sins stained on them. he is a terrible person to others. he is a terrible person to himself.

he is not a lovely person. you are the embodiment of ‘lovely’ itself. he couldn’t possibly deserve to be with you, lest his filth and sinful hands taint your pure being. it would simply be unconscionable for someone like him; damaged past, wreck and ruin, an empty soulless shell, to be close to your brightness. no one, not even himself, would forgive him if he were to ruin who you are: sumeru’s loveliest, the one who loves sumeru, and the one whom sumeru loves.

it is yet another night of watching you enter your house safely, staring at your front door for a few moments more before heading back to his residence (nevermind that he was the one to clear all the enemies in your path ahead, while you weren’t seeing). if nahida ever pointed out the lingering fond look in his eyes, or if the traveler teased him about having a possible crush on someone, there would be no need to blush madly and scamper away like a schoolgirl, for he knows that there is zero chance of “us” with him and you.

-

there are many fairy tales that are popular in morepesok village, most of which ajax have heard in his childhood many times. his distant memories include his mother, still youthful and full of smiles, reading him one of such fairy tales to lull him to sleep. he remembers her warm caress, the pulling of a quilt over his tiny body, and the soft flicker of the candle beside his mother, waiting to be blown out for the night. he also remembers you, his childhood best friend, his sleepover buddy, his other half, tucked into bed right next to him. if he searched hard enough, he might find some candid pictures of you and him, cuddled next to each other in the bed, in his childhood home.

“so then, the prince and the princess ended up happily ever after again?” 8 year-old ajax yawned, a sleepy smile on his face.

“they did, again,” his mother’s warm chuckle resonates throughout the room, through his ears, into his heart. he stores her laugh like a cassette tape in his memory, wanting to play it over and over again in the future.

“i can’t imagine a fairy tale where the prince and princess don’t end up together,” you murmured beside ajax, as his mother tucked the two of you in.

“that should be us, then,” ajax turned to face you and grinned, “so we’ll never be apart. let’s pinky promise that you’ll always be the princess and i’ll always be the prince!”

“why do i have to be your princess?” you complained, only to be shushed by ajax’s mother before she blew the candle out, signalling the end of pillow talk and the start of dreamland.

(all three of you knew it was impossible for you and ajax to be completely silent after lights out. the giggles that progressively get louder and harder after his mother leaves the room are testament to that.

this time, however, ajax is deadly silent, and you reach out to cup his face to ask what’s wrong.)

“sorry,” ajax holds the hand you cupped his cheek with. “you don’t have to be the princess, it’s okay. but i want to be your prince. i want to rescue you from the bad guys and defeat bad guys in your name. i’ll even do a pinky promise to prove it.”

even though you don’t give him a verbal answer, you hold his hand as he sleeps. it brings enough reassurance to 8 year-old ajax.

such peaceful times are unreachable now, ever since he fell.

ajax has not seen you for ten years. you have seen tartaglia for none.

when he returns, his familiar fluff of ginger hair in front of your doorstep, you have to do a double take. gone is the scrawny boy you knew, that got sick after every ice fishing trip, and cried over the smallest of scratches; in front of you now stands a fearsome harbinger, the tsaritsa’s vanguard, a killing machine with no life in his eyes.

(that is not ajax, any longer. that is tartaglia. that is a fatui harbinger. where is your ajax?)

you cannot bring yourself to smile when he presents you with a bouquet of pink roses, despite how beautifully preserved and fragrant they are. your heart doesn’t soften even when he greets your parents politely, plays with your siblings, cooks your family dinner, and helps with the dishes. that is not ajax whom you’ve let into your home, in contrast to what the rest of your family believes. that is a stranger who has intruded your safe space.

it hurts childe more than it hurts you to be on the receiving end of haunted eyes and hostile stares. he knows that he is vastly different from the childhood best friend he was to you ten years ago, and no matter what he does now, you will always see him as tartaglia, childe, the vanguard. you love ajax, but ajax is who he once was. ajax had been forced to throw himself away to survive. it wasn’t his fault that ajax is dead, but he cannot blame you for defiantly wanting your ajax back.

so when he kneels in front of you, the snowy wind feeling a lot more colder than usual, he ignores the way your hands tense when he holds it. he wants to cry when you attempt to pull your hand away even though he kisses it as gently as gentle can be. if an outsider were to witness this, they’d call this a romantic scene, between a prince and his beloved. but both you and ajax know that the fairy tale you yearned for in your childhood is completely unreachable now.

(“give me back my ajax.”)

(“i’m sorry.”)

-

to say that the great magician lyney is fully authentic in his shows would be a bit of a stretch, for he is an actor on the stage before he is a magician, however hard or long he may rehearse the day before the show. every smile had been sculpted and practised for hours until it was deemed perfect enough to be seen by his audience. needless to say, ‘the great magician lyney’ is merely a farce, an identity of its own. he wishes not to confuse that lyney with ‘fatui lyney’ and just ‘lyney’.

you were just supposed to be another face in the audience, an unsuspecting fellow he was meant to charm, attract, and never remember the face of. but you show up to a show once, then twice, then thrice, and soon you become a familiar face that lyney notices in the audience every now and then.

(that’s what lyney says, at least. lynette knows that he secretly seeks out your face behind the curtains, and the moment he finds you, his smile widens a tad bit, and his voice is a little cheerier as he steps out on stage.

by the way, since when did he start using rainbow roses in his performances? ugh, darn charlotte.)

but it is not easy to always be just ‘lyney’ with you, for he is called to be the great magician by day, and fatui by night. rarely is there time given to him to be his true self in front of you, to let the curtains fall and the farce fade. you can’t remember the last time he was allowed to let his shoulders slump, his face be bare of makeup, and his head rest under your chin as you kissed his tears.

and it seems you won’t be seeing those ever again.

lyney feels his blood run cold the moment father mentions your name in a mission, so casually, almost as if she had let your name slip out of her lips innocently and accidentally, if he hadn’t known any better. but lyney has been her loyal servant, her ‘favourite child’ for years, and he knows that the mere mention of your name is but a warning to him.

“i seem to be craving coffee recently. no one brews it quite as well as [name] does, i fear,” is what the knave says.

that person seems to be distracting you. i will eliminate them soon, is what she means.

lyney cannot afford to let anymore people close to him get hurt. his parents, who passed when he was very young… lynette, whose life had been endangered too many times to count… cesar, who taught him everything and treated him with love even in just ten days…

you shouldn’t need to fall into the same trend as well. your life is peaceful, precious, and untainted unlike his. so, it should remain untouched. and lyney decides that this is when he does what he has to do.

on the day that you return home and see lumidouce bells on your doorstep instead of lyney, you feel your heart plummet to your stomach. your gut turns and folds nastily, and stars increasingly flood your vision while a silent plea rings in your head, but there is nothing logical that refutes the contents of the letter that lyney had left you. that is all you have left of him.

the rest is to be expected. feeling betrayed and abandoned, you lose all feelings for lyney, not wanting to be associated with him again. his gifted trinkets left in your house are all thrown out. you can’t look at a magic show advertisement for more than two seconds. it takes only a little while to get over this heartbreak, but once you are fully free of all emotional attachment to lyney, you never think about him and his rainbow roses ever again.

lyney’s plan goes exceptionally well. of course it does; it was as meticulously planned as all his performances are. he returns to the house later that night to report back to father, submitting his response to her threats weeks ago: [name] is nothing to me now. hence, you cannot hurt them.

(however successful his plan was, he cannot bring himself to smile in response to the knave’s satisfied one.)

later, on the same night, when he slips out of the house, he finds himself wandering towards the place where he usually picks his rainbow roses from. a gentle pluck, a flick of his hand; a lumidouce bell takes its place instead. he smiles at his own trick bitterly, before pressing his lips to the blue flower and intertwining another rainbow rose with it. 

a moment of hesitation comes, followed by a few minutes of uneasy pacing, until lyney makes the decision to squeeze the petals with his gloved hand. the crumpled pink and blue petals fall to the ground. lyney only gazes as they do so.

(he wishes he could do the same to his own heart, but that is barely a fraction of how he made you feel. he will look for more ways to punish himself, then.)

[willherundalegf]

rf kuang really needs to pay for my therapy bills. i read tpw a year back and i still haven't recovered from 'fire and water looked so lovely together. it was a pity they destroyed each other by nature' and 'ruin me, ruin us and i'll let you' and 'together? together?' andand 'it doesn’t matter that he loves her. it doesn’t matter. it’s never mattered'

''She’s the only divine thing he’s ever believed in. The only creature in this vast, cruel land who could kill him. And sometimes, in his loveliest dreams, he imagines she does''

like what the fuck rfk????????????????????????????????????/

[daenysx]

i hope you like this! my inbox is always open if you'd like to share something with me!!

era: prison

title is from cigarettes after sex' song 'apocalypse'.

my masterlist

your lips, my lips

daryl dixon loves the aftercare and spending his nights with the love of his life.

you'd never believe you could have such a lovely night during an apocalypse.

daryl is here with you, brushes his lips on your bare shoulder. faint kisses and soft words, telling you how good you are. scars on his bare chest can only be seen in light but even in the darkness of the night, you carved their places on your mind. you lean into him, your archer's broad chest.

he loves how you kiss his scars after your endless sessions of fucking each other. he knows it's such a crude word to describe what you do, you'd probably call it something like having sex. he doesn't care about words, he only cares about what you've done almost each night.

it's the aftercare he loves the most. he tries to stay awake but having sex with you helps him with his restless sleep. he can close his eyes, let himself have a deep and peaceful rest, holding you close to his chest, giving his warmth to your cold body. he knows how you feel the same, sleeping with him in the same bed, wrapped around each other naked, staying awake when you're both finished to give each other affection.

daryl rubs your sore muscles in his big hands gently, his hands cover your thighs and hips. your shoulders and neck are next until your body melts against him. sometimes you wish you could have a long bath with him, staying in warm water and falling asleep, bubbles and clean scents everywhere. that's not possible for now but maybe- just maybe. even the dream of it is so beautiful.

after a few minutes of calming down, you put your face on his chest and wrap your legs around his body in bed. he continues rubbing your back and stroking your hair. when he brushes a little kiss on your hair, you lift your head and look at him through blurry eyes.

"sleepy?" he asks, almost whispering.

"mm-hmm." you nod, lying on top of him, totally content with your current place.

a sudden tear from your big, pretty eyes scares him when he's about to fall asleep with you.

"wha' happened sunshine?"

you dry your cheek and smile at him.

"nothing. i was- just thinking about- you know, all the things we could have if it weren't for the apocalypse."

he understands but a part of him always thinks that you would never fall for each other if the apocalypse had never happened. you are from different lives and daryl dixon doesn't believe in fate.

"i could be lying here for hours," you continue. "just staying in bed after my man made me see the stars. never leaving here, never leaving your side."

daryl can't help a wave of pride rushing over him. he kisses your hair again as he listens your sleepy mumblings.

"we'd never be like this then sweetheart. ya know tha'."

"hmm, but i don't wanna believe that."

he chuckles. "fine. be a stubborn girl then, don' believe in tha'."

you kiss his chest, right under a fresh scar. "you make the apocalypse bearable."

he shakes his head slowly. "nah, that's you. you are perfect, sunshine. my perfect."

he'll hold you there until the sun rises. he'll kiss you anywhere he wants, anywhere you want him to. he'll whisper sweet promises about how he'll protect you with his life. he'll tell you how lovely you look with a shy voice.

people may think that daryl dixon is incapable of showing love.

well, people are fucking wrong.

in your shared cell, he makes this life worth living. every night, he gives you another reason to keep going. every night, he tells you the loveliest things to put a smile on your face.

the nights become the story of you finding the love of your life during an apocalypse.

[devotionconsumed]

shakespeare's been reaaaaaal quiet since rf kuang said "She’s the only divine thing he’s ever believed in. The only creature in this vast, cruel land who could kill him. And sometimes, in his loveliest dreams, he imagines she does."