#everything is burning ; headcanons

[neonbonded]

Grovel, Pretty Boy.

♡ ft. love and deepspace men x reader ♡ cw: heartbreak, emotional damage, angst, miscommunication, rain-soaked apologies, slow-burn second chances

Xavier

You knew something was wrong when he stopped falling asleep beside you.

He’d always been quiet. Reserved. But this was different. This wasn’t shyness or stoicism. This was distance.

Nights on the couch instead of your bed. Missions he didn’t tell you about until he was already gone. Kisses that never quite landed. Hands that never lingered.

You asked once. Just once.

“Xavier… do you still want this? Do you still want me?”

He didn’t meet your eyes when he answered. Didn’t hesitate either.

“You’re better off without me.”

That was it. No explanation. No tears. Just a single, low sentence—delivered like a death sentence.

So you left.

You packed a bag. Took the key off your chain. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t ask him to stop you.

And he didn’t.

The silence that followed was louder than any fight you’d ever had.

Xavier told himself it was right. That he was protecting you. That one day you’d thank him. But he didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Barely moved.

He left your toothbrush in the cup. Kept the extra pillow on the bed. Replayed your voice in his head like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet.

It wasn’t until he found your jacket—folded and forgotten on the back of the chair—that something in him cracked.

He sat on the floor of the apartment, holding it to his face, inhaling like it could bring you back.

He finally broke.

It’s been three weeks when he shows up at your door.

You hear the knock first—quiet, tentative. Then again, harder. Urgent. When you open it, he’s standing there—wet from the rain, hood down, eyes red like he hasn’t slept in days.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just looks at you like he’s seeing the sun for the first time after living underground.

“You look…” His voice fails. He shakes his head, swallows, tries again. “I was wrong.”

You don’t move.

“I thought letting you go would keep you safe. From me. From this life. From the way I mess everything up.”

You cross your arms, biting your lip.

“So why are you here?”

His throat works. His hands clench and unclench at his sides.

“Because you left. And I thought I could live with that. I thought I could survive knowing you were better off.”

“And?”

He takes a shaky breath.

“I can’t.”

“Xavier—”

“I don’t sleep. I can’t eat. I hear your voice every time I close my eyes. Every place I go reminds me of you. And I just—” His voice breaks. His knees hit the porch.

You step back instinctively, shocked. He stays kneeling, eyes wide, voice shaking:

“Please. I know I hurt you. I pushed you away. But don’t let me be right about losing you.”

“Don’t let that be the last thing I ever say to you.”

There’s silence. Only the rain. His breathing. Your heart pounding in your ears.

Then—your hand moves. Slowly. Carefully.

You reach out and touch his cheek. He leans into it like it’s the first warmth he’s felt in weeks.

“I’m not promising anything,” you whisper.

He nods.

“I know. I’ll earn it. Every day. As long as it takes.”

You open the door.

He doesn’t move until you say it—

“Come in.”

And he does.

Soaked. Shaking. Hopeful.

For the first time in weeks— Xavier smiles.

Zayne

It started slow—like all things with Zayne.

A few late nights at Akso Hospital. Then it became weekends. Then the messages got shorter. The kisses fewer. The promises thinner.

And you tried. God, you tried.

You made dinner and waited until it got cold. You left sweet notes in his lab coat pocket that he never mentioned. You curled up on the couch with takeout and a blanket, waiting for the sound of keys in the door—waiting to feel like a priority again.

But he never noticed how you stopped reaching out.

He thought your silence was peace. You thought his silence was neglect.

And when it finally broke—when you stood in the kitchen with tears in your eyes and said “I feel like I’m alone in this relationship”—he blinked at you like he didn’t understand the words.

“You know I’m working,” he said. “This is important.”

“And I’m not?”

You left two days later.

Zayne didn’t react at first.

He told himself you were being emotional. That you’d come back. That he didn’t have time for a personal crisis when three cardiac procedures were scheduled back-to-back.

But your side of the bed stayed cold. Your mug disappeared from the cabinet. Your toothbrush was gone.

The first thing that truly broke him?

A spoon.

He reached for the sugar in the morning, went to stir his coffee— and found your favorite spoon still in the drawer, tucked under the others.

The one with the tiny chip on the handle. The one you always used. And he stared at it like it was your ghost.

It takes him six days to gather the courage.

Six days of waking up with chest pain that has nothing to do with his heart. Six days of sitting in the apartment, surrounded by surgical journals and silence. Six days of not hearing your voice. Not seeing your face.

When he shows up at your door, it’s raining.

Of course it’s raining.

He’s in a gray coat. No umbrella. His glasses are fogged from the downpour, and his hair drips water onto his collar.

He looks like someone who hasn’t slept. Because he hasn’t.

You answer slowly, cautiously, wrapped in a sweater that isn’t his.

He stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like you’re light and air and everything he thought he could live without—until you were gone.

“I need to say something,” he starts.

You don’t say anything. You don’t move.

“I know I didn’t show up for you,” he says, voice steady at first—but tight around the edges. “I know I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

“You were working. Like always.”

“No.” He swallows. “I was hiding.”

Your breath hitches. He sees it—but he keeps going.

“I told myself I could love you in the background. That my work was enough. That you’d understand.”

He looks away. Rain drips from his chin.

“But you cried alone. And I didn’t even notice.”

He finally lifts his eyes to yours.

“I let you carry everything. And I kept pretending I was too busy to see it. But I see it now.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Just enough that you can feel the weight of what he’s carrying.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says quietly. “But if there’s any part of you that still wants to try… tell me how. Tell me where to start.”

Silence.

Only the rain and the sound of his voice, breaking open for the first time in forever.

And you—heart still tender, eyes burning—you take a step back.

He doesn’t follow.

Until you say:

“Come in. We talk. That’s all.”

He nods. Just once.

But his breath? It shakes. Like he just got handed a second chance and he’s terrified he’s going to break it again.

Rafayel

You always knew Rafayel had sharp edges.

They came hidden in sugar and sarcasm, tied up in flirtation and jokes. He kissed with a smile. He apologized with a wink. But every now and then, when he was tired or tangled in his own storms— he’d say something that cut too deep.

This time, he didn’t just nick the surface. He gutted you.

It started as a fight.

Something small. Something stupid.

You were frustrated—he’d missed another dinner, another gallery event. He brushed it off. You didn’t. It escalated.

“Do you even take me seriously?” you snapped.

He scoffed, deflecting like always. But this time you didn’t back down.

“Do I mean anything to you outside of your inspiration?”

That’s when his face changed.

A flicker of something dark crossed his eyes. And he said it.

“Maybe I was better off before you.”

The silence after was louder than the slam of the door.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.

You just left.

He didn’t chase you.

Not at first.

He stood there in the middle of the studio, staring at the empty space you used to fill. At the unfinished canvas you were supposed to pose for. At the tea mug you left behind with your lipstick still on the rim.

And then it hit him.

What he said. What it meant. What he’d just destroyed with seven words and too much pride.

He tried to paint.

He couldn’t. His hands shook too hard.

So he drank instead. Paint-stained fingers trembling around a wine bottle, mouth twisted in self-loathing.

By the next morning, his studio was in shambles. Canvas slashed. Paint spilled like blood across the floor.

And in the center of it all? One still, untouched portrait of you.

It takes him four days.

Four days of pacing. Of rewriting texts. Of standing outside your apartment and turning back before knocking.

When he finally shows up?

It’s late. His clothes are wrinkled. His eyes bloodshot. His fingers still streaked with dried blue pigment.

He knocks once. Twice.

And when you open the door?

He falls silent.

He stares at you like he’s not sure you’re real. Like his memory never did you justice.

“Hey, cutie.”

His voice cracks on the word.

You stare at him. Quiet. Guarded.

“I shouldn’t have said it.”

Still, you don’t speak.

“I was angry. Scared. You cornered me and I panicked.”

“So you hurt me.” Your voice is soft. It kills him more than yelling would.

“I know.” He swallows. His hands twitch like he wants to reach for you, but doesn’t. “And I would take it back a million times if I could. I’d burn every canvas in that studio if it meant you’d look at me the way you used to.”

“Rafayel—”

“No.” His voice cracks. His mask slips. “I’ve spent four days trying to paint and all I see is you walking out. All I hear is your voice in the back of my mind telling me I crossed a line I can’t uncross.”

“I didn’t mean it. I’ve never meant anything less in my entire life. You’re not just my muse. You’re my home.”

There’s silence.

And then—

He reaches into his pocket.

A tiny, folded paper scrap. You recognize the sketch immediately. It’s you—from the last morning you spent curled in his bed.

It’s crumpled. Smudged. Like it’s been clutched in his hands over and over.

“I kept this,” he whispers. “I don’t know why. Maybe because I thought if I gave you this, you’d know I don’t want to forget. I just… want to start over.”

You reach for it. Slowly.

And he lets go. Hands shaking.

“Let me prove I’m worth one more brushstroke in your life.”

You stare at him. Your eyes sting.

“One condition,” you whisper.

He nods too fast.

“Anything.”

“You tell me next time. When it’s too much. When you’re scared. When you feel like you’re drowning.”

“I will,” he promises. “Just… don’t walk away from me again.”

You open the door wider.

“Then come inside. We start from page one.”

He steps inside like he’s never been more grateful in his life.

Sylus

You always knew there were things Sylus didn’t tell you.

You didn’t mind at first. He was powerful, dangerous—Onychinus’s leader, cloaked in shadows and whispers.

But you loved him. And he let you. In his way.

Slow touches. Bare confessions. Fingers brushing your jaw like they weren’t stained in blood. He never told you what his nights entailed. But you knew. You just didn’t know he was keeping you in those files.

You found the classified record by accident.

You were looking for a comm drive, trying to help organize his equipment for an upcoming drop. Instead?

You found your name in a dossier stamped with an Onychinus seal. Your file was red-level encrypted. And beneath the encryption: A full surveillance report.

Your work. Your location. Your medical records. Your passwords.

A protected asset tag.

Your hands shook.

You weren’t a partner. You were a risk to be monitored.

You didn’t confront him.

You left.

And Sylus? He came home to silence.

At first, he just stared at the empty apartment.

Then he saw the unlocked desk. The data drive pulled out.

The second he realized what you’d found, something in him snapped.

He didn’t rage. Didn’t shout.

He just… shut down.

For three days, no one saw him.

Onychinus command went dark. All orders rerouted. No public appearances. No messages returned.

The next time he walked into HQ, his eyes were dead and his voice was a loaded gun.

“Do not ask me where she is,” he said to his second-in-command, “unless you’re prepared to hear me break.”

It takes him a week.

A week of calling in every favor. Canceling every op. His pride long since discarded like a broken blade.

When he finds you?

You’re not at your apartment. Not at your safehouse.

You’re in a shitty little cafe near the old city walls. Neutral ground.

And when he steps inside, the whole room goes still.

Because Sylus—tall, sharp, all black coat and blood in his gaze—doesn’t belong here. But he’s not here to make a statement. He’s here for you.

Only you.

You don’t speak when he sits across from you.

You just look at him.

He looks tired. Worn. Haunted.

“I know what you found,” he says first. His voice is low. Controlled. “I know what it looked like.”

You don’t move. Don’t blink.

“It looked like I was never yours,” you say. “Like I was a project. A file. A threat.”

He closes his eyes.

“You were the only thing in my life I didn’t want to control.”

“But you did.” Your voice shakes. “You stalked me. Tracked me. You filed me under protected asset—like I wasn’t someone you loved. Just something you were afraid to lose.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“I was afraid,” he says. “Because you’re the only person I wouldn’t survive losing.”

He leans forward. His hands are shaking.

“So I lied. I covered. I convinced myself it was safer if you didn’t know how deep I’d gone.”

“How deep?”

He doesn’t flinch.

“There is no version of this world I’m willing to live in without you.”

Your breath hitches. He watches it. Memorizes it. Still doesn’t reach for you.

“But I understand why you left.”

A pause. His voice drops even lower.

“And if I never get you back, I will spend the rest of my life protecting you from a distance—without surveillance. Without control. Just… me.”

“Wanting you. And never touching you again.”

The silence between you is thick. Heavy.

And then—your hand moves.

Just slightly. Across the table. Near his.

Not quite touching. But not pulling away either.

“Start over,” you say. “No secrets. No files. Just you. Just me.”

His breath catches.

Then he covers your hand with his. Fingers curling. Tight. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish again.

“I swear,” he whispers, voice shaking. “No more lies.”

Caleb

You never wanted to be the jealous type.

But there’s something about seeing him like that— Caleb, your Caleb, in a low-lit bar, laughing softly while someone else leans into his space.

She’s gorgeous. Confident. Her fingers on his sleeve, her mouth too close to his ear. And he’s not pulling away.

He’s not kissing her. But he’s not saying no, either.

And that’s enough.

Your stomach turns.

You don’t make a scene. You don’t even wait for him to notice.

You just leave.

You cry that night.

Hot, silent tears soaked into your pillow as you stare at the wall, waiting for your phone to buzz.

A text. A call. Something.

It never comes.

It takes two days before Caleb even realizes you saw.

He doesn’t notice the missed messages. The silence. The sudden drop-off.

He thinks you’re just busy. Until he opens your shared calendar and sees:

“Pick up the rest of your stuff.” Saturday. 8PM.

He freezes.

And something inside him shatters.

When he finally gets to your door?

It’s pouring.

He’s drenched. Shaking. Breathing too hard to look calm anymore.

He pounds on the door once. Twice. A third time—harder.

“It wasn’t what it looked like!”

You open the door slowly.

You’re calm. Barefoot. In a hoodie. Eyes puffy.

“Wasn’t it?”

His breath catches. His fingers curl against the doorframe.

“She’s my handler. She was drunk. She got clingy. I didn’t—God, I didn’t even notice you were there until I turned around and you were just… gone.”

You raise a brow. Arms crossed. Silent.

“And you didn’t come after me.”

He swallows hard.

“I know. I know I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

And that’s when it happens. The soft, calm expression on his face—cracks.

He takes one shaky step forward, dripping on your floor, his voice breaking apart:

“Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

You stare.

He keeps going.

“I saw your face, and I thought, ‘That’s it. She saw everything. She’s gone.’ And I—I froze. Like losing you was just the punishment I earned for not being what you needed.”

“But I was wrong.” “You were there. And I didn’t choose you fast enough. I didn’t run after you.”

His hand lifts—hesitant. Trembling.

“So I’m running now. Okay? I’m running now. I’m standing here—soaked, stupid, and sorry—because I’d rather beg you in the rain than spend one more night trying to pretend like I can breathe without you.”

Your lip trembles.

He steps closer.

“I love you.”

“You didn’t show it.”

“Then let me now. Let me prove it. Let me fix it.”

He falls quiet. Soaked to the bone. Voice gone. Heart in your hands.

You stare at him for one long, aching moment—

And finally, you open the door.

“One shot, Colonel.”

He exhales like he’s just been pulled back from the brink of death.

“That’s all I need.”

[class-of-classics-blog]

Lectures that Badwolf taught his class behind Grimms back:

" 101 way to start a fire"

"Law's loopholes: how to do illegal things in a legal way"

" Poisons and their purposes"

"How to get away with murder"

" The Dark Side of the History: villians won and it got erased from history"

" How to couse mental brakedown ( to someone else)"

" Psychopaths and sociopaths"

"How to get away with numerous crimes"

"Ways of manipulations"

" How to fake your own death : the final plan"

" Faking legal documents"

[secret-agent-of-bullshitery]

If we got to see in depth, the repercussions of any of the demigods in pjo i think it'd be interesting to see Will's.

Will, who heals people, absorbing their pain, their wounds eating away at him, literally.

He can calm people down but at the same time, takes in their anxiety, causing him to go into panic attacks at random and develop anxiety himself.

His vein's turning dark as he's overworked by healing, his body growing weaker and weaker until his skin turns an ashy gray.

His body, littered with scars from the moments in battle where he cannot heal them and must bear the reminder of them forever.

He can heal wounds but not scars, he's terrified when he finds out at 12 years old, when he's healed an Aphrodite kid and they get upset with him because there's a deep scar left over on their skin, he's terrified at the reminder that, although he is half god, at his core he is human.

[shrimpyjackal]

Yes I`ve finally desided to watch A new wish and I`m now one of his fans

[anoant-haikyuu-dump]

Who in Nekoma can Cook??

Kuroo: Not very good but he can feed himself in a pinch. Tends to over season so 90% of his food makes you cough. But he’s trying his best to improve and always offers to help if anyone’s in the kitchen, wants to be able to provide for his friends.

Yaku: This boy is STRUGGLING his first week alone in Russia, can’t cook anything harder than toast and boiled eggs. Luckily he can afford to order in all the time cause that’s the only reason he hasn’t starved or poisoned himself. After a while he starts really missing homecooked japanese food—the first time Kuroo visits he makes shitty miso soup and tamagoyaki, it’s too salty but Yaku tears up nonetheless.

Kai: He’s such a sweet guy, definitely helps out around the house and makes dinner for his family some nights. Best at Japanese comfort food, a lot of curries, stews, and hearty vegetables. He’s implied to be Okinawan so that cuisine as well.

Kenma: Eh, he can but that’s a lot of effort. If he puts his mind to it he’s able but he’d rather buy stuff from the convenient store or make ramen. Doesn’t really care about taste so he’ll gladly eat Kuroo’s cooking (though he’s been spoiled by rooming with Fukunaga in college)

Fukunaga: THE PAELLA KING HIMSELF, of course he can cook that’s his job. Any cuisine, any dish, you name it he can pull it off. His specialty is seafood (makes paella in timeskip, favorite food is dried squid, cat-themed team, you get it). Not only can he cook delicious stuff, he turns it into a spectacle; it’s like a full-on performance with all the fancy knife-work and pan-flips. Flambés are a must.

Tora: Went back and forth with him but I actually think he can, at least the basics. He probably cooks for himself and Akane when their parents have late nights at work. He mainly cooks simple stuff like fried rice or curry where he can throw a bunch of ingredients in a pan and let them do their thing.

Also since this is an anoant-haikyuu-dump post and I’m the Fukutora guy I’m contractually obligated to add that although he can cook he never does. His partner is a chef. Once they move in together he never touches the stove again.

Inuoka: Can cook a little but everything ends up at least a touch burnt since he gets impatient and jacks the heat to high. Pretty much exclusively makes grilled meats, vegetables are a rarity in his fridge.

Shibayama: Doesn’t cook much savory stuff but he can bake like no one’s business, makes a mean muffin (which he brings to practice to share). Always trying new recipes and taking them to school for the other first years to try, mainly Inuoka cause hes a human garbage can.

Teshiro: Can follow a recipe pretty well but if anything goes wrong or calls for estimations it’s all over. He once set a pot on fire and just stared at it silently cause he didnt know what to do. At least his meals are always balanced: a protein, a carb, and vegetables.

Lev: Decent, was taught a bit by Alisa growing up. The problem isn’t his skills, it’s that he’s clumsy and doesn’t read directions carefully. He constantly knocks shit over with his gangly arms or throws in tablespoons instead of teaspoons. Clean up is not fun when Lev’s around, flour will find a way into every crevice even if the recipe doesn’t call for it. Him, Inuoka, and Teshiro are a nightmare trio in the kitchen, all for different reasons.

[vaguely-concerned]

bunter keeping peter from being swallowed up by an evil bog with the kind of hysterical strength otherwise only known by mothers deadlifting cars to save their tender babes is something that can actually be so personal

[beargyufairy]

'Cause all of the small things that you do

Are what remind me

Why I fell for you

And when we're apart

And I'm missing you

I close my eyes

And all I see is you

(Lucy version)

[dootznbootz]

I saw something that said that if Odysseus had to choose between himself VS. Penelope and Telemachus he'd always choose himself. How he'd be miserable and he would try to weasel his way out of it but if it really was no other option he'd still do it and...

Odysseus is an incredibly selfish man, that's not wrong. And he definitely has his cruel streak. But his whole thing is his unconditional devotion and loyalty to his family while basically being a rat bastard to everyone else. He literally puts himself in danger for them multiple times, even just in their NAME multiple times.

But this is the same man who pretended to be INSANE for at least a MONTH so he wouldn't have to leave them. I guess you could say it's because he's a coward or because of the prophecy but if he didn't care he wouldn't have saved his son. But even with all that, to have a mad king? That leaves your kingdom vulnerable. There could've been a fucking usurping. Ithaca doesn't have much fertile land and yet he destroys some of it. Even then in some versions, it's him literally running to scoop up his baby, "hearing thundering hooves past his head". Putting himself in danger in multiple ways as SAVING HIS SON MEANT HE WAS GOING TO WAR. WAR ISN'T SOMETHING YOU CAN GUARANTEE THAT YOU'LL COME BACK FROM.

EVEN IN THEIR NAMES, HE PUTS HIMSELF IN DANGER FOR THEM. Calypso asks what is so lovely about his wife that makes him not want her, a beautiful goddess. Said goddess has been abusing him for years yet he still says that he will ALWAYS go back to them putting himself at risk just DEFENDING Penelope and he's literally dragged back to her grotto immediately after. He even tells her the only way he would stop trying to get to them is if he were dead.

He is deeply hurt by her rejection but even then HE ASKS FOR A SEPARATE BED. He calls her cruel and stubborn and he's tearing up but he never threatens her despite her rejection could literally end bad for him. Paris for example, after Helen rips into him about how Menelaus was the better man and warrior who didn't back down, he basically tells her "Hey! You should be happy your husband's alive! ...Get in the bed."

Like??? he puts them first often, even if it means his own discomfort!!!

I don't think he would let Penelope or Telemachus suffer so he would be free. That feels like the fucking Tele-GONE-y to me. You can keep his "rat bastardness" there because if he was for example, being dragged to Hades or something, he'd give Penelope a look and they'd probably have a plan for him to get out ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ He's sometimes said to be the son of Sisyphus. Who's to say he wouldn't do that as well? And if it was him "doomed to eternal damnation". He'd be trying the whole time to get back to them. (that'd...honestly be a perfect punishment for him.)

Idk, They're selfish about practically everything but each other

[frosty-tian]

New headcanon just dropped.

(Connected dots with noise-cancelling ear muffs/defenders(?). Graham’s probably editing a document for university or something.)

[puhpandas]

can we talk about how goated it is that with the "FE stole Edwins/MCMs designs/characters" narritave besides helpy the only characters they're involving with this whole thing are the mediocre melodies which were in need of a backstory and a blank slate already and already SW era characters like Monty and the staff bots and wet floor signs. and even then helpy and music man are pizza sim characters. they aren't touching anyone pre-pizza sim

[drdt-headcanons]

Ace burns eggs regularly, Whit routinely teases him about it and since he actually knows how to cook offers to make him some

Gay panic hits, and Ace just stammers out a frustrated yes and he will be avoiding blonde people like the plague for the next 48 hours or so, lest the homosexual thoughts consume him.

Ace wants to be a boykisser so badly

:D

[kinokoshoujoart]

the coolest kids in forgotten valley!!☆

(…it seems there may have been a stretch of time where rock and lumina were the only kids in forgotten valley…🥲)

poseref

[iwannascreameurekaa]

hear me out on this okay but what about a rewrite of HoO where Leos fire powers do in fact impact him physically

they leave his finger tips with a charred look and he has burn marks everywhere on his body in clumps

it doesn't hurt him it never does but it always makes some sort of physical change depending on how hot the fire was and where it was etc etc

There's always smoke coming off of him like he's always ready to burst into flames

his eyes glow with a tint of fire because that's what's under his skin that's what's behind his bones

fire

he always smells like something burning sometimes it's good like meat cooking or s'mores and sometimes he smells like burning shoes and burnt pop corn it all depends on his mood, what he himself ate, the area surrounding him, etc

(also his skin is too hot for anyone to touch

touching his bare skin will burn you)

[atlantis-just-drowned]

hi!! hope youre having a good day :) would you write a short like,, makeout fic with pluto if you dont mind? thank you!! i love your writing sm

A/N: HI ANON YOU'RE SO KIND OMG!! Thank you for being so patient with me aghgfhgehfg- I just started college and moved in on my own, which is like, a huge change. So yeah life has been hectic those last few months. But hey! Here it finally is!

On a calm afternoon

Please reblog to show support! Likes don't boost posts on Tumblr :(

Masterlist

You could hear the oxygen getting engulfed in his lungs as he breathed in. From where you were resting on Pluto's chest, eyes half-lidded, you perceived every calm breath he took. Your head rising up, then down. Up, then down. Over and over again, to the same rhythm.

It was peaceful, you thought.

The way the sunlight sipped through the window of his room, and the comfortable silence between the two of you as he focused on the book he was reading, sitting on his bed with his legs on each side of your figure.

In your drowsy state, you heard the harmonious sound of air filling his lung, and felt your head raise a little higher as he took a deep breath, grounding you back on earth and taking you away from the sweet slumber you were about to fall into.

You tried to reposition your head with a groan. Somehow, gaining consciousness has made your position less comfortable than it was before, and you let out a small huff.

Just as you stopped moving, you felt the touch of five fingertips grazing at the skin of your skull; the sensation made your eyes flutter open, and you looked up at your boyfriend.

He has that calm, relaxed position. Expression neutral, his eye moving slightly from left to right has he keeps reading his book line after line. In the same time, you could still hear the air in his lungs, and his fingers threading through your hair.

This was everything you had ever wanted.

The circumstances around the two of you were so strange, you had to admit. You still struggled to understand how death could be such a lively experience – having you running around, discovering and learning when you should be laying still, somewhere under the dirt.

But this, this relationship that Pluto and you shared, it was enough to make you forget about it all.

It felt way too much like life to be anything you could possibly find in death. It was so real that it made anything else seem pale and meaningless in comparison.

It was love, your heart told you. And you knew it was true.

The sensation of his hand leaving your hair brought you back to earth, and you pouted at the loss of his delicate touch.

The faintest ghost of a smile painted his lips for a moment as he used his now free hand to turn another page, his eye still fixed on the words.

You couldn’t help but to crave more of him.

The absence of his left hand on your scalp didn’t seem right. It was suddenly making you feel so cold and empty – you wanted his warmth again.

Still against him, you moved further up on his figure, passing your arms underneath him to capture his torso.

His reaction was almost immediate.

You heard a small surprised cry leave him, and felt the muscles in his back and shoulders tense immediately against the palms of your hands.

“Wh… What are you doing?!”

A few weeks ago, Pluto’s anxiousness and bewildered tone would have made you back off instantly, but you were starting to know better. Instead, you melted further against him, nuzzling your face in his neck, earning a shudder from him when your breath hit the base of his jawline, just below his left ear.

“Just cuddling you.” You breathed out with a relaxed tone.

You didn’t move a muscle. After a while of you simply laying on top of him, you felt his breathing slow down little by little, falling back into a calm and even rhythm. His left hand falling onto the back of your head once again, with his fingers threading through your hair.

Another silent moment passed, where you took a deep breath, and sighed. You knew you couldn’t go back to sleep. The yearning for his touch was so addictive – you only wanted to bask in his affection now. To have him as close to you as possible.

Tightening your grip around him, you pressed a firm kiss on his shoulder through the fabric of his clothes.

This time, despite tensing up for a split second, he let out a chuckle in reaction. His chest jumping up and down against yours.

“Now I’m starting to think you might…” he started with a grin, before your teeth grazed slightly against the crook of his neck, the sensation attenuated by his turtle-neck, but still present. He sucked in a breath, and you felt him arch into your touch, his knees bending on each side of you. You were unable to say if the movement was voluntary or not as the rest of his sentence came out in a repressed moan, struggling to form coherent words. “b-be ge-etting a l-little clingy!”

You stopped your attack and grinned pridefully, loving every reaction you could get from him. His left hand was still in your hair, a lot more tense than it was a few seconds ago. Meanwhile, the book he was previously reading was still in his right hand, now closed and held so firmly you were starting to get concerned he might puncture the cover with his fingers.

It didn’t stop you, though.

Pressing another gentle kiss on the dark-haired man’s left shoulder, you dived down to kiss his collarbone through his turtle-neck, your hands tracing the outline of his waist and earning you another shiver, before you slipped them underneath the fabric and against his warm skin.

Pluto let out a groan, his back instantly arching against you like your fingers were burning him in the gentlest way. The book he held fell from his hand as he abandoned it to encircle your shoulders with his arms, hands clawing and gripping at the back of your shirt for support.

He gasped in, stuttering your name before trying to articulate. “W-Wait… T-That’s… That’s n-not cuddling…!”

Your head shot up to look at him. His breath was uneven, his face so warm you wouldn’t be surprised if he started seething. He looked at you with wide opened eyes, his eyebrows pinching up in an anxious expression.

Oh.

Maybe the teasing has gone a bit far, you realized.

Giving him an apologetic smile, you muttered “Sorry. Got a little carried away.” before pressing a gentle, chaste kiss on his lips. “Do you want me to stop?”

There was a silence, and you could feel his hands on each sides of you face, where he has placed them when you had kissed.

He looked at you for a moment, seemingly calming down a little. You could still feel his pulse racing, but the way he detailed your face – your lips – seemed less panicked now. He seemed almost… stunned. Like he was amazed to see you here. Like he struggled to realise this was real.

It was this peculiar look he gave you, that made you want to shout from all rooftops how much you loved him.

His hands held you a little firmer, and he shook his head timidly, your faces so close his nose almost brushed yours.

“No.” He answered in a whisper. So low, yet you could hear the conviction in his tone. “Please don’t.”

The grip Pluto has on you was still gentle as he brought you closer, until you went in and kissed him with a smile.

He wasn’t tense or scared anymore – it was far from being your first kiss by this point. He knew he could trust you to be kind on him.

When your hands roamed higher in his back, pushing his shirt up in the process, he shivered and let out a small moan in response. His arms laid around your neck again, one of his hand messing with your hair.

You couldn’t feel more like a teenager than in that moment. It was insane, you knew it. The way every touch, every second was like you were both seventeen again, smiling and kissing and touching each other for the first time.

You wished this could go on forever.

The way his chest arched into yours when you deepened the kiss, the feeling of his tongue lapping at yours tentatively and the sounds he made at every caress of your fingers. You could never get enough of it.

Your heart was stammering against your ribcage, fuelled by how perfectly your hand could fit on his waist, and how his own hands held you ever-so firmly despite the way they trembled, in an attempt to keep you as close to him as possible, knees locked around you and pushing your body against his.

You were both panting by the time you parted, and Pluto’s face was just as red as your mind was hazy.

Dipping your head down in his neck, you brought your left hand up to hook a finger in the collar of his top, pealing it away from his skin to suck a hickey there.

The dark-haired man tried to hold back a whine through his teeth, tightening his hold on you in an attempt to bring you even closer. He was so precious, you thought. Breathing in and out so fast you doubted the oxygen got through his whole body, as he arched and kept holding on to you like you were a life line. Feeling his skin on your fingertips was a pleasure you couldn’t deny yourself.

And suddenly you heard a knock at the door.

Your arms immediately straightened up to push yourself off of your boyfriend and look at the door. Pluto almost fell from his bed with how far he jumped, gripping your shoulders so tightly it was almost painful. You assumed it would probably hurt a lot more, if being his partner didn’t mean being on the receiving hand of those death grips anytime he got scared.

“Pluto?” You heard his best-friend’s – and roommate’s – voice call from the other side. “Can I come in or is there anything… tricky, going on?”

Your brain was empty. Not a single thought going on. You couldn’t find anything to say.

Given the silence from Pluto, he was probably in the same state of mind. Maybe just more panicked.

Well, one of you had to say something – anything, really. You searched for appropriate words to piece out together into a coherent sentence. It was harder than it should have been. “Uuuuuh…”

“Okay!” Duke’s voice cut you out with a nervous tone before you could even have figured out what to tell him. “That’s enough of an answer, I’ll come back later!”

And then he just… left.

Wow. Okay. What just happened.

You blinked a few times in disbelief. This whole interaction seemed surreal.

When you turned toward your boyfriend again, he gave you the same dumbfounded look you were probably giving him, confirming this whole thing was just as unexpected to him as it was to you.

You stared at each other in complete silence for a moment, until he finally processed the whole chain of events. You saw his face progressively turn a dark shade of red, while his expression slowly went from one of pure shock, to a profound embarrassment.

“Bloody heck…”

He buried his face in your shoulder like you’d be able to hide him from his own discomfort, and you couldn’t help but giggle as you realized what has happened too.

“Stop laughing!” He called out without looking up, trying to scold you but you could hear the smile in his voice. “How am I going to explain this to him, now?!”

If that was supposed to stop you, it sure failed. You only kept laughing as you answered “I don’t think he wants you to explain anything.”

This time, you felt him nuzzling further into the crook of your neck, letting out an embarrassed sound as he swore again. “Oh dammit…”

Sympathizing with his unease, you let your laugher die down and ran a hand through his hair until he calmed down.

[scvcnofswords]

while i know the game tries to point-blank say the south fell entirely to the blight in an effort to likely set up a soft world-reboot for future matters, as far as my own canon, i diverge pretty heavily from that in veilguard and post-veilguard verses.

as long as it's happening in a world where Regin is inquisitor, there's a couple of very important things that apply to my thedosian canon (whether or not Litriu is this world's hero of ferelden, but i do default to li being the HOF when Regin is Inquisitor. it just helps me streamline how i want the world to be working.)

for starters, Litriu and a handful of 'her' wardens defied the First Warden's orders, and did not recall to weisshaupt. they remained in vigil's keep and amaranthine to help combat the Blight, because Litriu has been using vigil's keep as the place she returns to ever since the events of Awakening. She's been traversing all of Thedas looking for a cute for the Blight and the Calling (and reminder that in her own canon/my canon, she IS successful through the use of great dragon blood that she obtains in the wilds of Antiva, and secretly begins distributing, first to her own wardens and companions, and then to the Order after the events of Veilguard (or has distributed, depending on how things end for her with Veilguard). So, during the events of Veilguard, Amaranthine functions almost as a forward-camp, a bastion for those helping to combat the evanuris and the Blight, and is run by Litriu or by a chosen Second.

furthermore, through the events of Inquisition, Regin placed Briala in power- and also gained a lot of blackmail material and information that she'll be able to leverage. she placed leliana (hardened) into the position as divine, and all of this was essentially her setting up with one goal in mind-

pressuring briala and gaspard into returning the Dales to elvhen sovereignty. (by which I mean; the Exalted Plains, the emprise du lion, and the Emerald Graves.) by using her own almost 'deified' identity as inquisitor and chantry-figure, the weight of the divine, this IS successful- though it takes time and does result in multiple assassination attempts against herself and against Briala and Gaspard. she may have only learned to play chess during Inquisition, but she learned well- and set up a hell of a long endgame, to ensure that even if she died in the process, the Dales returned to the elves. it's why at TIMES in conversations with chantry-officials during Inquisition, Regin would neither confirm nor deny anything to do with Andraste or the Maker after being made Inquisitor.

anyways.

during the events of Veilguard, Denerim falls as do most eastern Ferelden cities- i imagine that the forces of the Evanuris didn't just sweep down from the North and blanket the continent; i feel like they would have made almost more of a pincer-movement, the horrors of the Blight creeping out of the Brecilian forest alongside agents like the Antaam or Venatori, taking the easternmost border of ferelden entirely and sweeping west- whilst forces from the evanuris did the same thing on the northwesternmost side of Orlais - surging down as an incursion from the Anderfels and swept east, with the intent of meeting in the middle.

the city of Amaranthine also falls again and is burned to rout the Blight and to try and belay the surge of the Blight, but only Vigil's Keep ends up spared that awful fate. redcliffe doesn't entirely fall but is badly damaged by the Blight and is left only about half-habitable. Regin and Morrigan use their connections through the Crossroads and Eluvians to strategize with Litriu and with Orzammar, and they end up making an almost 'perimeter' with manpower, magic, wards and stone- about half of the Hinterlands (the westernmost half), parts of the Korcari wilds, and the entirety of the Frostback mountains and basin serve as the perimeter- that is the line that they keep the Blight off of at all costs, keeping Skyhold as the main place to protect refugees. this is mostly successful, beyond small scars of the land where the Blight and its' agents of corruption did manage to encroach before being burned out. anora does not fall with denerim and she escapes to either redcliffe (which she then uses as her own base of operations, coordinating with Li and with Regin) or she uses it as a waypoint before falling back to Skyhold entirely. much of ferelden's army does manage to recover themselves within redcliffe- i would say about 35-40% of ferelden's army is lost when Denerim falls. Crestwood is somehow spared from entire corruption and ruin, but the storm coast is very nearly consumed. Lothering is lost, as is the majority of the Bannorn- however while Amaranthine is ruined and Vigil's Keep is protected, Highever manages to remain standing, though only barely. West Hill and most of the Storm Coast are consumed by the Blight- and the Fallow Mire is almost entirely covered in it, the land buried beneath the rot and tendrils.

as far as Orlais' side of the map goes- the Dales themselves are the perimeter, because the Evanuris moved so fast that Regin and her forces were not able to organize quickly enough to stop that encroachment- the world after all in the events of the last Exalted Council of Halamshiral had done its' absolute best to strip the Inquisitor of all of the power they'd begged her to take, and thus she didn't have enough forces or legitimacy until after Val Royeaux had already fallen- and Gaspard with it, though Briala was able to escape and breach the eluvians with a small force to warn Regin and set things into motion. The Dales themselves (the plains, the emprise du lion, and the emerald graves) alongside part of the Armor Wilds serve as the perimeter- are where the borders are set into place to keep back the Blight. There are scattered pockets and cities/villages in Orlais that do not fall- the map isn't entirely wiped clean with corruption and ruin- but the majority of Orlais is laid to waste- the evanuris focused more heavily upon Orlais than Ferelden in my opinion, due to the events of the world that they've watched- and i don't think they did this in any way to 'avenge' the elvhen, but out of rage that Orlais, like Tevinter, try to model itself in THEIR image but claim all of it to come from its' own mind and inspiration rather than admitting how much of their culture and structure were scavenged from the carcass of the empire that they built.

regin works with morrigan, litriu, briala, leliana, (gods i love women LMAO) and with rook to maintain these borders, using Skyhold as a base of operation, but keeping herself moving almost constantly, so that no one can ever be sure of where she is long enough for an organized attempt at 'cutting off the head' of the Southern resistance. as such she will also, at times, join Rook in the Lighthouse for strategy and for debriefing of information so that they can keep as up-to-date as possible and keep the flow of information moving between them. she ALSO, at times, will join Rook in the field so that she can keep apprised of movements of the factions that are most heavily operating in the north and in the monsters and tactics the evanuris are using.

after the end of Veilguard, much of the Blight recedes- it calcifies and dies in many places, though not all. i think it does in a way become easier to cure using litriu's discovery of the great dragonsblood- perhaps to the point that high dragon blood could also be used, if not as a total-cure than as a 'management' substance until that which can cure it can be introduced. orlais and ferelden are respectively about 70% and 55% ravaged by the Blight and the scars are deep- but they will recover.

Skyhold itself is untouched, mercifully, and remains strong and proud- but Orlais is left with the entire ruling bloodline wiped out, and Ferelden having to rebuild almost its' entire infrastructure and seats of power.

orzammar fares the best, i think. they neither lost their seat of power nor their ruling family and bloodline, and their efforts alongside regin and the inquisition establish them firmly with the entire south owing them a rather massive debt.

[duete]

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