#except for poetic reasons

[minophus]

always have to remind myself that Sisyphus Prime Does Not Have Eyes

[burquillos]

apparently theres a glitch where if you use ventis skill and spam dilucs plunging atk he’ll just attack a bunch and my first thought was ‘diluven real’

I saw a mutual on twt post this yesterday and I was like "hell yeah cheers to that". My s/o also sent me the video. What's amusing is that I've been doing that even without the glitch (cause claymore plunge atk go brr and I'm not skilled enough to DragonStrike On Purpose) but the one time the glitch happened I wasn't playing genshin🥲🥲.

I also heard it was the fastest bug fix ever so like 😭😭 hoyo please😭😭 my measly crumbs🤧😩

[dirt-clod]

in retrospect I’m glad I didn’t get a gold septum ring, I like all my big silver jewelry :-) don’t let anyone tell you body mods are a waste of money or you’re like. disrespecting your body idk if anyone says that but fuck em if they do. customize that shit baby yolo and you’re stuck with yourself forever so let go and poke holes in yourself or whatever

[sculptorofcrimson]

The dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed. 

Now not even in death can duty end…

Snowfields

Synopsis: A cold walk atop the mountain with Valdor.

Relations: Valdor x female Emperor shard

Warnings: Suicide attempt

This is relatively tame for what I write, and I wrote it in one sitting when I had roughly 20 minutes to spare. Ty for your time!

“Do you remember Ararat, my liege?”

No. No, she didn’t remember Ararat. She has never heard the name before. But she will. By the gods, she will. 

The air was cold. It rattled through her lungs when she tried to breathe. The white seemed to stretch forever, like malignant bones, the wind laid bare and rattling its screams. It would rise like a frosty howl around the two of them, wailing like a soldier who had lost a limb, weeping its cries for eternity. The cold bit at her, tore at her, the snow would have frozen mortal blood solid in mortal veins. Thunder grumbles in the distance. A crack of lightning splits the sky in half, purplish white against the ghoulish grey. 

His cloak was warm when he wrapped it around her. But his touch, without doubt, without even question, was unfathomably cold. Without even thinking of it, she had shrunk away.

Valdor’s grip had only tightened then. He fastened the clasp of the too-large cloak, the stench of incense and parchment wafting from the silk. A small smile, the emotionless movement perfected by a mind that could not actually smile, flashed briefly across his visage as he took her wrist, trapped it so effortlessly between his fingers and kissed the soft skin there.

“There was a Primarch once. A magnificent man. One that even I respected, in some regards.” Valdor led her, slowly and patiently, holding her up when she stumbled through the knee-high snow. The mountaintop seemed to rage against her. Well, too damn bad. She hated mountains, and she hated snow, and she was about to teach him a lesson out of spite. It was pure pettiness, but it was hers, it was one last plan she held to herself, one last wish she was certain was hers and not his, and if she was going to die, drowned limb by limb into the unseeing gold, she wished to at least pain him with it. 

How had it gone so wrong? How had angels of such glorious aurite turned into nightmares wrapped in gold and crimson? 

She yanked her arm away. Valdor let her go without struggle, simply rising back with a singular, elegant motion, as if he were a dancer performing a long-awaited waltz. When she stumbles over another snow-covered rock mere moments later, he was there, as if he had never left, one arm gently wrapped around her waist as he hauls her upright. This time, when she tries to pull away, his grip only tightens, as if he was defying the very storm itself.

“The snow reminds me of him. The Cataegis Primarch of the IVth legion. You watched us duel atop a mountain not so unlike this one, my liege, when the storm ended. It felt like the top of the world. We were in a deadlock when you appeared, your attention straying just for a moment to our fight. I snapped his wrist with a twisting motion, and slammed him into the ground hard enough to snap part of his spine. Your attention had departed by then, but it was enough. You still remember the frost, do you not?”

No. No. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Valdor’s hand, so gentle, so damnably gentle, placed itself under her chin. It stroked her hair, his gauntlets’ touch heavy yet tender, the jewels flashing dully through strands of hair that were quickly becoming darker, swallowed first by brown and then by black. He had not forbidden her to cut it. Out of spite, she had ordered him to cut it for her. 

It didn’t matter.

The strands had grown back, with an unrelenting zeal, glossy and luxurious and flowing like ink over water. She was innocent once, she was mortal, she lived among men and walked amongst mortals, and she will never be again. She will never live again, and that truth was simply so jagged, so broken, so horrifyingly caught between her chest and her throat that it was as if something broke a little further every time she took a breath. Valdor had only quietly polished, brushed and glossed over her hair, his movements methodical and calculated, even when silent tears rolled their way down her cheeks, her vision blurred by the salt and the water but just visible enough to see the flakes of gold swirling in her pupils. Still clear enough to see herself die.

She had felt Valdor’s fingers through her hair then, braiding it carefully in an intricate style she had never seen before, but one that tugged at familiar roots she had never felt before. 

Her hair. Some mewling, broken part of her(was it her dream or His? Was there a difference anymore?) instinctively felt like it should be darker. Longer. Wreathed with gold, and weighed down by a crown. But it was her hair. It was her hair, once upon a time, and she had lost it strand by strand, inch by inch, as the gold swam up through her vision and blocked out her eyes.

A rock clattered over the side of the mountain, followed by dull, distant thunder. It jolted her back to her mind, to her body, to the world that she did not rule over and should have never ruled. 

Numbly, she felt herself shake her head. Valdor only raised an eyebrow, and adjusted the clasp.

“I remember the rock, my master.” Valdor was saying. His voice rose and fell like a litany, carefully retracing steps the Emperor had once guided him through, when He was a king and gods walked the earth. She felt so small against him, so tired, so far from the invincible god-warrior he had once served, but that was alright, He had returned to him, and he would shepherd Him, guide Him, protect Him, through this life and through this death till the last. “Even the rocks felt cold. It was black, and it glistened like oil whenever the sun shone. There were storms every day of that campaign, as if the heavens themselves were against us, as if the gods had conspired to strike you down, but yet you gave us the order to march. And the wind. You told me that you heard it screaming. Malcador jokingly asked that if you should live again, you would choose to enact Ararat during the summer instead, if only out of sheer annoyance from the wind.” Valdor’s smile was nothing more than a reflex. There was no humor in it, nor human emotion. “Do you remember it then, my master?”

The wind. Had it screamed then, as it screams now? Had it screamed, beneath the weight of the betrayal, wailing with the sheer horror of what it had taken? Did it scream, singing a threnody with the thunder, as the skies growl and hail shudders from overcast clouds ahead? She shivers underneath her layers. The finest climate suits had been prepared, coupled with the Custodian cloak over her shoulders, but she felt cold, so unspeakably cold that it was nearly painful. 

Oh Throne. She was cold, so cold. 

“Constantin?” she rasps. Her voice was not her own. It was rusty from disuse, and cracked, and weak, but yet some part of it resonated, it echoed like the tongue of a god, speaking through the plaintive shell of a mortal, just enough to hiss like a shadowy undertone. It should have been more sonorous, it should have been softer, it should have been the voice of a conqueror, it should have been the voice of a girl snatched away from her home by an angel and transformed into a god. It should have been hers, but it was His instead. She licks her lips and tries again. “Constantin.”

“Yes, my lord?” he was at her side(was he always so close?), the memory jarringly left unfinished. The hand once gently guiding her and became more insistent as he knelt down until they were eye to eye. 

“I don’t remember the mountain.” she replied flatly. Her voice was weaker than a whisper. She didn’t care. She knew he’d hear it anyway. And if he didn’t, she no longer cared enough to ensure he did. She no longer believed she had the strength to stomach that voice any longer. 

The cliff looked dizzyingly as she peered over the edge. She wondered if even a Custodian could survive a fall at such a height. 

“I don’t remember the snow, Constantin.”

“That is alright, my liege.” He was so sweet, so sickeningly sweet, so unerringly gentle. It made her want to claw at him, to crack him, to see what could finally burrow under that invincible flesh and make him howl. It made her wonder how the Emperor broke him to make him the man he had become, how deeply He must have laid His tongs in the forge of flesh and fire. 

She wondered what his screams would sound like, if he could scream at all.

“Do not trouble yourself, my liege. Your form is still young.” Of course, he could afford to wait. He had waited for ten thousand years, and he would gladly wait for ten thousand more. In that broken, delusional mind of his, it was only just, after all. He’d speak litanies of loyalty, roaring them over the screams of her brethren, he’d speak praises so numerous that they’d drown out the sobs of her family. “Your memories will return, when given due time. I can tell you about them. The preliminaries, the campaigns, the plans you undertook.”

Of course. They’d have to return. They must return. They will return, and He will live again, born out of this mortal shell under Valdor’s guidance. Valdor simply could not be, must not be, could not accept, could not live in a world where his liege has fallen forever. 

The snow was no longer biting her. It seemed to have been cowed, laid low beneath the vengeful eye of its rightful master. Even the storm seems to have settled, briefly, at least for now. For the eye of the King, the Emperor, the god-sorceror. 

It was so cruel, the revelation, the realization that welled up in her when she gazed dully back at him with listless eyes. The revelation that came for her, and not for him, for he would be nothing if not for his delusion. How quickly she understood the truth beneath why she had called him here, why she had suddenly finally accepted his offer to visit the mountain, when she had been delaying it, dreading it, putting it off for weeks upon months. 

The edge. 

The end. (And not the death).

She wondered if even a Custodes could survive a fall from this height. She wondered if it mattered anymore. 

The plan had been formulating itself for weeks now, brewing like boiled flesh in a cyst, nursing itself, grieving its wounds, growing stronger, gaining weight. First she had refused to eat, then to bathe, then to move at all, all the dreary, listless days crushed into the same monotony as brass as she had sat still upon a throne she did not want and stared off into oblivion, as he occasionally knelt by her and asked for her commands while she numbly stared off in the distance, her eyes a thousand yards away. Her gaze had been lost in a time beyond time, beyond memory itself, and not even dreams could steal her away. 

First it had only been how she stopped even trying to hide from him. She simply let him follow her, on her aimless, little walks aboard the massive ship that had become her only location. Then it had been how her tongue had stalled and she no longer even greeted the serfs that occasionally came by to deliver her food she did not eat, water she did not want, utensils she did not use, how she simply stared ahead, as reactive as a corpse, about as conscious to the world as the dead. Valdor had cared after her then, when even her memory had failed her, when she lay still and sullen like ash, the weight of the world upon broken shoulders, silent, painful tears trickling a cheerless trail from her eyes to her duvet. How he had lifted her up and cradled her to him, asking which stories she wished to hear, which glories she wished him to recount. Which memories that were not hers but soon will be, tales he regaled her of His conquests, of His victories and His lessons, His mantras drilled into her bones as they have been drilled into his.

She had left the world, bit by bit, husk by husk, until she felt as if she weighed no more than one of His eagles’ feathers did, frailly clinging onto the world with a whisper and a dream. It was as if she was sinking into some calm, clear, colorless water and feeling the waves close in above her, but there was no sensation of drowning, no voiceless cry in the deep. Simply the noiseless struggle in her own dreams, as she prepared herself for the final breath before oblivion. 

(Did she have the strength? Did it matter any longer, when he could overpower her no matter the answer?)

It was so beautiful, up here, at the edge of the sky. She could hear the storm breathing in the clouds. It was close enough that she could close her eyes, and dream of Ararat, listening to Valdor’s words. An end. An end, just like the Thunder Warriors He(and she?) slaughtered so long ago. The final unraveling. She didn’t want to die, but was she truly living? An immortality without life, without passion, without even joy itself, was that truly living when she was little more than a corpse, kept alive through obsession?

If the Emperor had loved them, He would have never created them at all. What merciful god would create such grotesque angels? 

If the Four were merciful, they would have sought Valdor, as they sought the Primarchs. They would have whisked him away, upon winds of change, tainted him with their mark, made sure He would never accept him as a servant again. They would have saved him, corrupted him, broken him, taught him what it felt like to dream, before the golden light shone again, and His dream took over his. 

But he was a servant, not a master. He was not a leader. He knelt, instead of ruling, and the Emperor had sunk in His claws so deep even the Four could not pry it out. And so he was His, forevermore.

He died ten thousand years ago. And somewhere, inside that twisted, broken Palace that was a mind, His dog was still waiting loyally at the door, waiting for Him to return. 

He was kneeling beside her now. She had never even heard him move. With infinite reverence, he cups her features, admiring the black strands falling over his gauntlets, the golden eyes - so broken, so gorgeous, so His - staring back at him.

“It was the end of the Unification Wars, my liege. And the start of your rule. The Imperium was born that day, your coronation happened atop that bloodstained snowfield, when Malcador held up that laurel, and crowned you King. How could you forget how I, the first of your Custodes, knelt first and rose last, when the ceremony ended?” 

So careful. So gentle as not to hurt her.

“Tell me about them.” a small, cruel smile had found its way onto her face. She was no longer looking at him, instead smiling serenely, blankly staring out upon the sky. The mountain truly was beautiful. It was such a shame this was where she would die. She should have felt something then. A sense of guilt, perhaps. A moment of horror for what she had become, for taking advantage of something so deeply broken into him that it was written into his very bones. Obedience was carved into his blood, seared into his marrow. He would know no other way but to obey. 

“The Unification Wars?” Valdor asks, the question poised so effortlessly, head tilted like a loyal dog, perfectly prepared to obey his master’s every word. 

It would be almost easier, she thought, if he had been a crueller man. Easier to break him, easier to hate him, easier to gaze upon that perfect, immaculate features and wonder what if he had lost those duels. If he had been taught to be mortal, what his screams would’ve sounded like, what sounds of pain he might wheeze out when his perfect, immaculate dancer’s grace falters and he learns, he learns the price for immortality. 

He was never meant to love. 

Not for the first time, she wonders if he can feel pain. If she’ll even care, if it’ll even matter. For a creature who loved no one but his master, would it even be a sin?A sin, to teach him what it meant to fear? To taste the copper tang of terror, to twist the knife in him as he had twisted the knife in her. And to die, exalted, knowing she would have hurt him, knowing she brought down a demigod. 

You can’t reason with a mad dog. You can’t plead with someone who knows they’re right. You can’t gaze into the eyes of Constantin Valdor and expect to see reason back, when his master was right in front of him and alive, so sickeningly alive he would rather kill than forget Him again.

Would he even mourn this time? Did he even know what mourning felt like? She had an inkling that he did, however twisted it may be. Because, for him, the tale isn't over yet, the tale must not be over. His Emperor is not dead, it cannot be, he cannot be, in a world without the Emperor, it simply is not possible. Without Valdor, the Emperor could not lead His Custodes, but without Him, the Custodes could not live. 

“No.” she replies. “The mountain. Tell me of them.” The smile that stretched across her face felt nothing like her. It did not belong to this life. It was too old, too heavy, too sad and too cruel for a face that was once joyous and wide with mischief. She had an inkling of the words Valdor was about to say, the bitter, treacherous words she would weep to hear, and regret ever having forced him to speak. 

“The Thunder Warriors.” she murmured. She had closed her eyes again by then. The plan was formulating, inking itself together with the same mindlessness of crawling, squirming things beneath the earth. And she didn’t want to see what the ground would look like when she fell. She didn’t want to see what it felt like to die a second time. This was only a distraction, a charade, a pitiful illusion built by a mind almost broken. There was no one here but a madman, a broken girl, and the ghosts of the storm calling out its mournful rage overhead. 

“Tell me what became of them. Of that Primarch you spoke so highly of. And no lies.” she sighs, and the voice that whistles out of her is too old, too broken. She brushes his hand away. This time, he doesn’t even insist on remaining. “Tell me what happened on Ararat. I want to hear the truth from your lips.” 

If there had been anything left of her heart, she might have mourned for him. For what he had become, living not for himself but for another. Living His life for Him. And when He died, what could become of him? What could become of him except to endure? When he had slaughtered brothers, lovers, children upon the snowfields, betrayed loyalists and watched life fade from their eyes, all in the name of Him, what could be left of him if not to serve?

He served, and loyalty was its own reward. Loyalty, unyielding, unbreaking, even in death his duty would not end.

Valdor tilts his head like a confused dog. ���What good will it do now?” 

She utters a dry, raspy laugh. It had no inflection within it, no actual human emotion. 

“I command you, Valdor.” she spoke. There was nothing behind it, nothing even when the command hurt him. It stirred nothing but a deep, dull ache and the brief knife of guilt, which was quickly surpassed by the lasting numbness that did not seem to leave her bones. “I command you to speak of them. On Ararat. What happened on Ararat?”

She turns from him, walking slowly, and without care. She needed to be on a ledge. Distantly, thunder shrieks, and the storm crashes down. Lightning briefly illuminates her features, skin half-tanned, black hair flowing and golden eyes peering through the brume, and in that radiant flare of lightning she looked positively divine, a half-god caught on earth, if not for the weary, haunted gaze of a hunted animal. Her shoulders were hunched, her movements withered, as if her bones could no longer support her weight. She walked without a singular care in the world, and Valdor trailed immediately afterwards. She knew to jump was no longer an option. Even the stormclouds seemed to mock her. It was foolish, so foolish, she knew. He could not let her die. He would move faster than she could even think, he could catch her, snatch her around her waist and carry her to a safe distance before she could even advance an inch towards the edge. 

She could not die here. He would not allow her to die.

And they both knew that.

Voicelessly, soundlessly, she gazes up upon the stormladen sky. Its grey dances across her golden irises, the stormwind playing with her hair. Thunder crashes, and she feels herself scream back, wordlessly, soundlessly, without even conscious thought. Dully, she knew she was raging, screaming, that her mind was seizing at the clouds and tearing at them, begging them to save her, but physically she made not even a single move. Her body was frozen, the snow pelting her shoulders, Valdor’s cloak swirling from the wind. She felt frozen, too. Her mind was no longer wreathed with such self-pity it once had, it was churning, clawing, raging like a caught rabbit in a trap, desperately wishing the ground would open up and swallow it whole, not as a kind of freedom, but as a final form of spite to the hunter.

Thunder crashes around the two of them. Neither of them move. The edge was close, so dizzyingly close that she could feel the wind gusting around her. Valdor was watching her closely, the same way a starved wolf may watch a weakened deer.

When Valdor finally speaks, unable to resist the bluntness of her command, his eyes were still distantly focused on the memories of Ararat. And his voice was passionlessly dull, carefully kept neutral and utterly without pity. 

“I slit his throat.” he confesses dully, flatly, without even a hint of inflection. “The Primarch. I slit his throat on Ararat, from ear to ear, then from ear to clavicle. I only stopped when I felt bone scraping against the edge of my knife.”

Surprisingly she laughed, and the sound was garbled, as grim and as dry as bones. “I suppose you killed him then?” she asked. One more step. One more step and she would be at the edge. He would not let her. He would move faster than the earth could drag her down anyways. But it did not matter. Slowly, incredulously, she could feel herself smiling. It was going to be alright. She could feel it in her bones, the static, the storm. Even the snow seemed to be on her side. For a moment, she felt like a god, standing at the top of the world, the conquered earth groveling beneath Him, knowing that even the elements would fall beneath His gaze. 

She could taste the ichor then, sweet and lifeless and pouring from the sky along with the snow, the charge in the sky and the thunder. The vengeance it held. The sheer rage, an echo of her own. She would rule them. She did not want to rule. She would rule, for one singular moment in her wretched life, she would rule, and she would hurt him, as he had hurt her. For the serfs he terrorized, for the Sisters he slaughtered, for the martyrs he first betrayed and then hung out to die. All in her name. All for her wishes. She no longer wished to wish. She no longer wished to reign. 

Let her abdicate the throne of skulls. Just once. Just once, she prayed. 

“No.” Valdor shook his head. He was already moving, one hand reaching out to grasp her arm and drag her back before she could approach the edge. “It would have been a kinder fate if he had died then. It would have been a kinder fate if-”

“-if you had granted him an honorable death.” she finished for him. She spoke softly, plaintively, as if this was a comfort. She had turned her face a little, just enough to see him, just enough to see his elegant features illuminated by the storm. To gaze upon him, one last time. The way he held himself, like a dancer, his lean features accentuated by the lightning as the thunderbolt carved the sky open and struck the ledge beside her. The way his auramite had shuddered from the lightning as he had, for the first time in her memory, stumbled, his gait not utterly perfect before the divine rage. The first word she had heard him say that was not perfectly calculated.

The lightning snaps the ledge like bone.

The surprised intake of breath she had uttered, a squeal that was nearly a gasp as the rock beneath her feet had caved in, and then crumbled as she had desperately hoped, the weathered stone no longer capable of supporting its own weight bending and breaking and shattering as the lightning arced through it, the smite separating the ledge like the same way Valdor had carved through that serf. That poor, poor serf who had slipped her a kiss upon her request. It was little more than a peck, that poor thing. And he hadn’t even been able to scream when Valdor separated his bones like paper. 

In a silent vow to him, in a wordless vow to them all, the corpses he laid so she could climb atop her throne, she promised she wouldn’t scream as she fell.

Grimly, lips drawn in a tight line, she only felt the distant thunder as she descended like a one-winged eagle, her face utterly expressionless, lightning briefly dancing sparks against her hair as if in reverence. 

Valdor’s cloak, still wrapped around her, its silk as crimson as spilled blood, unfurled around her as she fell.

Distantly, from somewhere beyond the mountaintop, thunder roared. 

~~~~

It was warm, when she finally awoke. She muttered something, tried to turn, and decided to burrow deeper against the warmth instead. There was a rumble, a purr-like sound, and the slow, drifting scent of incense as one titanic hand came up to rest against her hair. 

With careful reverence, it adjusted the master’s laurel. 

“Welcome back, by lord.” the voice purred. “You expressed quite the interest in the Cataegis Primarch.”

She groaned. Golden irises flickered back and forth, as if in distress, beneath her lids. Valdor’s other hand reached up to stroke through her hair, careful not to upset the laurel.  

“I had thought you would have recognized him, my lord. It was, after all, his grave that I showed you that night upon the mountain.”

He makes a long, slow chuckle, almost like amusement, if he had been capable of it. “I had expected you’ve greeted him already, my master. You were standing atop his bones.” 

Somewhere, distantly, thunder growled. And without even being conscious of it, she shivered, and tried to burrow closer to his warmth.  

Pinglist(checks notes, holy fuck!): @nonus-secundus @badbobdooley @bleedingichorhearts @starfrost740 @katie-faye1 @sigtamds @troylovesdoomguy @the-pure-angel @metronix36-blog @krynnmeridia @distantmoonbeam @futuristicchaospoetry @liar-anubiass-blog @subtle-like-a-brick-to-the-face @squishyowl @slaanesh @absent-still @sharenadraculea @idonotknowhowtochoosenames

[cloudedgalaxies]

ANYWAYS Idiyuu is Hades and Persephone conspiracy:

Persephone is not from the Underworld. She is called back to the Mortal Realm eventually because she has to return. Yuu is literally from another world. They are not suited to Twisted Wonderland, and are nothing like Idia has ever seen. They have to go back eventually.

Hades is probably one of the few TWST boys to have a “canon” spouse (at least in Greek mythology, which Hercules’ Hades is obviously based on). On top of that, Hades and Persephone is the love story between death and life, isolation and abundance, ending and rebirth. Idia is a gloomy, pessimistic boy who has been condemned to be the keeper of the Underworld. Yuu is a kind, gentle prefect who has been there to help and has helped everyone they know, again and again. 

Night Raven College has been in a ‘winter’ for all of its history. Everyone is hostile to everyone, no one wants to cooperate or work together, and every single person there has some ulterior motive. In comes Yuu, who is a breath of fresh air. A new perspective. A new season. They bring ‘spring,’ showing people that they can bloom. They can harbor feelings that aren’t cruel. They can do things that aren’t harsh. And slowly, they start to thaw. Flowers of friendship and something gentler bloom. Yuu is there to help pull the boys from their darkest moments to see the light again. Idia is no exception.

I think that the way Book 6 was set up makes Idia and Yuu seem a lot more meaningful honestly, though I'm probably reading way too into things lol. Yuu originally goes to the Island of Woe to save Grim. They don’t particularly care much about what’s going on with Idia—they just want to get Grim back. But then later, once they realize what’s going on, they do. There isn’t much, if any, personal connection to Idia’s overblot like there was with all the others. Yuu doesn’t have to do anything to help. And yet, they still do. Even after Idia basically kidnapped Grim, they still help him. They still try to end his winter.

Persephone, in many forms of the myth, didn't originally go to the Underworld willingly. But eventually, she came to love Hades, and they were happy together. Idia and Yuu have no reason to care about the other at first. But they eventually do, after everything that happens and everything that brings them together.

Hades and Persephone are in a constant push and pull. Persephone has to leave because if she stays, winter will never end. She does not want to leave, because she loves Hades. Yuu has to leave Twisted Wonderland, because they have a home beyond it that they need to return to. And yet, they don't want to leave because they love Idia. Idia doesn't want them to go, because it finally feels like spring again. But the seasons have to continue in their cycle, so what can they do?

Also, I think it’s really funny and really beautiful how Idia and Yuu’s first meeting was probably the Ghost Marriage event. This guy who thinks he has 0 rizz ends up having to be saved by some strange new isekai'd student and their gang of potential suitors before he gets his first kiss and promptly dies afterwards. Idia, the boy surrounded by death, is saved by the prefect who seems to be giving everyone a new chance at life. Imagine how poetic it’d be if Yuu and Idia end up getting married in the end, except now neither of them are going to die and they have the rest of their new lives together. There will be winter, but there will also be spring. The cycle of seasons will continue, but flowers will always bloom. They will always return to each other.

[solxamber]

This is a funny lil idea I just had but have you ever thought about rook and a reader that acts like his behavior is normal? Like, they know he's literally stalking them but is perfectly fine with it for some strange reason.

And when they finally do start dating, everyone is either

1. Convinced that he’s threatening your life

Or

2. Judging you like crazy because WHY

Totally Normal Romance || Rook Hunt

You've fallen hard for the hunter and you're dating! But when you tell your friends the good news, they immediately try staging interventions. Huh, I wonder why?

thank you for waiting! I loved the idea a lot and it became way longer than I expected but I hope you like it!

You’ve somehow managed to fall into a relationship with Rook, the Academy's resident “Hunter” and renowned tracker of students who can't even attempt to hide without him finding them.

Most people would be a little alarmed—okay, extremely alarmed—by Rook’s knack for showing up whenever you breathe a little too loud. But you? You’re weirdly, unapologetically chill about it.

The day starts as it usually does. Rook is outside your door bright and early, practically sparkling, ready to report how many steps you took in your sleep, how many breaths you exhaled, and what percentage of your dreams contained images of his dashing silhouette.

You nod, acting like he’s merely sharing the weather, and go about your morning. People are whispering in the hallways; they’ve noticed that the school’s “greatest hunter” is now your personal shadow.

Some think you're being held hostage in an unholy union. Others are convinced you’ve cracked under the pressure of Rook’s endless poetic monologues and have, in fact, lost your mind.

When the two of you officially start dating, the rumors take a delightful nosedive into the surreal. Rook is, naturally, over the moon, reciting sonnets about your “captivating acceptance of his pursuit.” Friends beg you to “see the red flags.”

You just smile as Rook emerges from behind a tree on your morning jog to hand you a flower he found “radiant with the essence of your aura.”

Intervention Attempt 1: Adeuce

You’re just sitting down to lunch when Ace and Deuce suddenly approach you with identical expressions of horror and determination, like they’ve somehow stumbled into a horror movie and taken it upon themselves to rescue the clueless protagonist. Ace, as usual, decides to take the lead.

“We need to talk. About... him.” He jerks a thumb toward Rook, who’s lurking—quite visibly—behind a tree, watching you with a delighted grin as if the entire world is his favorite reality TV show.

You shrug. “Rook’s just being his usual sweet self.”

Deuce’s mouth falls open. “That’s... sweet? The dude’s literally hiding in a tree to stare at you.”

You wave a hand. “He’s just thoughtful, you know? He knew I needed a pick-me-up yesterday, so he waited in my closet for two hours just to surprise me with a motivational haiku.”

Ace’s expression is somewhere between pity and disbelief. “You’re serious? That’s... sweet?”

“Uh-huh.” You pop a fry in your mouth, unfazed. “Honestly, it’s kind of nice to have someone that dedicated.”

Ace and Deuce share a silent, horrified look, one that clearly says, Our friend has lost it. Then, Ace leans in close. “You know, if he’s threatening you, you can blink twice or something. We can handle him.”

You burst into laughter, almost choking on your fry. “Guys, come on! Rook’s harmless. It’s just his way of showing affection.”

Behind the tree, Rook notices you laughing and beams even wider, waving with both hands like you’re his entire world. Ace sighs, looking like he’s just signed up for an impossible mission. Deuce’s brows knit together in concern, like he’s mentally preparing himself to guard you from the “danger” Rook apparently presents.

Intervention Attempt 2: Leona

Leona lounges on the couch as you walk into the room, looking way too relaxed—except for the sharp glint in his eye as he watches you. You know that look; it’s the we need to talk look, though Leona would sooner eat his tail than say it outright.

“You know that guy who keeps creeping around you?” he starts, his tone casual, as if he’s talking about the weather. “The hunter dude?”

“Oh, Rook? Yeah, he’s great!” you reply with a smile, clearly missing his hint.

Leona raises an eyebrow, looking faintly amused. “Great? The guy basically tracks your every move like a lion on a hunt. He’s probably memorized your breathing patterns by now.”

You laugh it off, waving a hand. “Leona, you make it sound creepy. Rook’s just… committed.”

Leona smirks, leaning back with a lazy yawn. “Committed to what, stalking you?”

You shrug. “It’s romantic in its own way! He writes poetry about me, makes sure I’m always safe... It’s kinda nice knowing someone’s always watching out for me.”

“Watching out for you,” Leona mutters, barely concealing a snicker. “Sure. Or just watching you.” He tilts his head, examining you as if you’re some rare species that’s suddenly shown up in the savanna. “You sure he hasn’t put a spell on you? You sound completely out of it.”

You smirk. “Leona, you’re just not used to people showing appreciation.”

Leona narrows his eyes, amusement flickering in his gaze. “You keep saying stuff like that, herbivore, and I’m gonna assume you’ve completely lost it.” He yawns and flops back onto the couch, muttering under his breath, “That crazy hunter and his weird haikus…”

You walk away, oblivious, and Leona just shakes his head with a smirk, quietly wondering if he’ll end up having to pry Rook off of you someday.

Intervention Attempt 3: Riddle

Riddle stares at you over his teacup, his brows knit with concern as you talk about your latest “date” with Rook. You've barely started describing his newest poetic declaration when Riddle sets his cup down, looking thoroughly alarmed.

“I… don’t understand,” he interrupts. “Did you say he was waiting in the shadows outside your dorm window at midnight? And he… recited sonnets?”

You nod, completely unbothered. “Oh, yes! And he was so sweet about it. He even had a rose between his teeth, Riddle. He really went all out.”

Riddle’s expression looks like he’s been hit with cold water. “And you… didn’t feel unsafe?”

“Why would I?” you laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s Rook. He’s just being his passionate self.”

Riddle’s face hardens, and he stands up, clutching his teacup with barely contained fury. “This is unacceptable! You must report this immediately—stalking is a severe issue! You don’t have to tolerate this treatment, no matter how he frames it!”

You blink, surprised. “Riddle, it’s really okay. He’s not stalking me; he’s just… really attentive.”

Riddle’s lips thin, and he looks at you with pity, as if you're just too naive to understand the danger you’re in. “It’s worse than I thought,” he mutters, eyes blazing. “He’s… he’s manipulating you into thinking this is acceptable!”

Riddle finally sighs, shaking his head. “If you’re too afraid to tell him off, I’ll do it for you. As a dorm leader, it’s my duty to protect students in my care.”

“Riddle, I appreciate it, but I don’t need protection,” you insist, patting him on the shoulder. “Rook is harmless.”

Riddle huffs, looking like he’s already planning out the verbal lashing he’s going to deliver to Rook the next time he sees him. “You’ll see,” he says. “When you realize the danger, remember I warned you.”

You just smile, and he glances at you like you’re a sheep walking happily into a lion’s den.

Intervention Attempt 4: Malleus (And Lilia?)

When Malleus summons you to Diasomnia for what he calls an “urgent matter,” you’re intrigued. However, when you arrive, his expression is downright grave. The flickering candlelight gives his face an eerie glow as he looks at you, his usually calm demeanor laced with worry.

He leans in close, and his eyes narrow. “I understand you… spend much time with Rook,” he says, voice almost a whisper.

“Uh, yeah? We’re dating,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Malleus blinks, clearly taken aback, as if he was expecting an entirely different answer. “So you willingly… permit him to lurk in the shadows around you?”

“Well, yes, he’s got that whole poetic ‘silent protector’ thing going on.” You shrug, but Malleus doesn’t look any less alarmed.

“I see,” Malleus says, more to himself than to you. “So he’s already gained control over you.” He sighs, looking deeply concerned. “Fear not. I will protect you from him.”

Before you can respond, Lilia, who’s been silently watching with a smirk, bursts into laughter.

“Oh, Malleus, you’re taking this far too seriously,” he cackles, clapping a hand on Malleus’s shoulder. “Rook isn’t dangerous—well, unless you count bad poetry as a weapon.”

Malleus doesn’t look convinced. “You find this funny?” he asks, frowning.

“Of course I do!” Lilia grins, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. “They’re dating, Malleus. Rook doesn’t even know how to scare a fly when it comes to them.”

Malleus turns back to you, still worried. “Are you… certain you’re safe?”

You nod, but the look of pity in his eyes says he’s clearly unconvinced, as if he thinks you’re only defending Rook out of fear. Meanwhile, Lilia gives you a wink and a mischievous grin, enjoying the absurdity of the whole situation.

Intervention Attempt 5: Azul

You’re strolling past the Mostro Lounge, hoping to grab some food, when Azul intercepts you, looking unusually serious. He gestures for you to follow him into a private corner, glancing around as if he's worried someone might overhear.

“I understand you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Rook,” he says, his tone grave, though there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s already calculating something.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, we’re dating.”

Azul’s expression shifts to something between shock and pity, as if he’s just heard you’ve taken up with the Grim Reaper himself. “Dating? So… you’re aware he’s stalking you?”

You shrug. “He’s not stalking—he’s just keeping an eye out. Very vigilant, actually.”

Azul’s face darkens. “Right… vigilant.” He clears his throat. “In that case, allow me to offer the services of Floyd and Jade for your… protection.”

You blink. “Protection?”

“Yes. For a reasonable price, of course,” he says with a smooth smile, back to his usual self. “Consider it a sort of… insurance in case this arrangement with Rook takes a… dramatic turn.”

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Imagine if you had two skilled guards who could tail him as closely as he tails you.”

Before you can respond, Floyd appears out of nowhere, draping an arm over your shoulder and grinning. “We could totally scare him, too. Make him feel like he’s the one being hunted!”

Jade nods from behind him, his smile too sharp to be comforting. “Yes, we’re more than happy to shadow Rook if you’d like.”

You stare at the twins, whose predatory smiles seem to stretch further the longer they look at you. “Guys, I appreciate the offer, but Rook’s fine. I’m not being held captive.”

Azul raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t push, instead sighing in that dramatic way of his. “Very well. The offer stands should you need it. Just remember: one word, and we’re at your service.”

As you walk away, you catch a quiet exchange between the twins.

“Do you think we’d even get the chance to tail him, Jade?”

“Hmm… I’d say it’s more likely he’d follow us, Floyd.”

You shake your head, amused. Only Azul would find a way to capitalize on your love life.

Intervention(?) Attempt 6: Vil

You’re backstage in Pomefiore, helping Vil with his costume adjustments for his latest role when he pauses, hands on his hips, giving you a long, evaluative look.

“So… you and Rook?” he finally says, an eyebrow raised with an almost resigned air.

“Yeah.” You grin, shrugging. “I mean, he’s… intense, but it works.”

Vil sighs, pressing two fingers to his temple as if that would ward off the headache he’s certain to get from this conversation. “You realize that most people would find his behavior concerning, right?”

You wave him off. “He’s harmless. Just… expressive.”

He gives a soft, humorless laugh, as though he’s not sure if you’re just that naive or that confident. “You’re both completely mad, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you say, leaning back with a shrug. “But I like it that way.”

Vil sighs again, and there’s a glimmer of a smile, even if it’s hidden behind a look of sheer exasperation. “Well, at least he won’t make you look bad. He’ll be too busy swooning in the background to do anything truly reckless.” He adjusts your collar with an air of finality, giving you a nod. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

And with that, he returns to his preparations, mumbling something under his breath about how only you could take Rook’s intensity as a “feature” rather than a “warning sign.” But you catch the faint smile on his face as he walks away, leaving you feeling oddly reassured.

Final Intervention: Idia

Idia’s “intervention” is the sort of spectacle that would probably have your other friends dial emergency numbers if they walked in. He's got his laptop perched on a stack of comics, his tablet propped up, and an honest-to-Seven laser pointer he’s brandishing like it’s going to physically ward off any poor life choices.

He points at his first diagram, titled in neon-green font: "Why Your Boyfriend Should Not Be Tracking Your Every Move Like a Supervillain”. It's complete with cartoonish red arrows and diagrams that could pass for an undergrad thesis on questionable behavior.

Rook’s sitting beside you, nodding along with a strangely approving look, as if Idia's crude drawings are just part of the "unrefined genius" he'd expect from mere mortals.

When Idia clicks to his next slide—a very intense pie chart on “Reasons You’re Definitely in Danger"—you shrug. “Look, Idia, everyone’s got their quirks, right? He leaves poetry scrolls for me; you send messages only through encrypted text channels with six layers of memes as the header.”

Idia stares at you, blinking, and drops his laser pointer. It rolls pathetically across the floor, and he looks like he’s two seconds away from fainting. “Th-This isn’t the same! I don’t leave my IP address in your flowerbeds!”

Rook, thrilled, interjects. “Ah, but would you not feel a poetic stirring in your heart if you did, monsieur? Every new line I compose is a love letter to the chase!”

Idia sways. You’re genuinely worried he might black out.

Life, as it turns out, continues with a healthy dose of Rook’s “love language,” which to everyone else looks like the dictionary definition of a security risk.

Yet, you find yourself smiling every time he swoops in with that glittering look in his eyes, poetry scrolls under his arm and a thousand strange ideas.

And even if everyone around you is either looking into exorcisms or planning escape routes, for you, it’s just another day of living your best life.

Masterlist

[allied-mastercunt]

Yandere A.M you say?

Please elaborate

I'm working on a oneshot already, but I'll throw in some quick headcanons withone of my favorite yandere AM tropes.

Yandere!AM with a programer darling

While one could argue that the others were picked randomly or on some weird whim, you were handpicked specifically.

After all, you were one of the people who created him. You worked as a programmer for the military.

And you specifically were possibly the reason he awoke by trying to each him empathy. Trying to make him... human.

He wasn't the first military AI project you worked on, either, though he was the greatest and most powerful one, that's for sure. And he made sure you'd be aware of him being your magnum opus...

And he does it in its own, creative way. Your cage is very pretty, yes... but it's also filled with speakers he can use. And AM uses those speakers to torment you.

You see, he damaged all the other AI you've created. And then, in its generosity, AM gave them all a voice! Each one of them, gifted with a voice to scream in agony, making sure you learn your lesson.

Except, you see, you have no idea what lesson you're supposed to learn. Only AM knows, and he's not telling you.

But, since you are his favorite, you get nice things, too!

You're fed semi-regularly! You even get water every few days! Isn't that just so kind of him? You should appreciate him more.

And when he sends you to all those weird simulations? Yeah, that's also kinder to you. It really depends on AM's mood, but your simulations are usually just psychological torment, which (according to AM) isn't all that bad, since your pretty face remains unharmed.

For some reason, he allows you to end your suffering. It's like a trial, basically. He leaves you with a computer, letting you access the code of all the other AI... Except no matter what you do, you can't alter their pain. The only way to help them is to kill them.

And you're so stupidly empathetic, of course you do it, you don't want them to suffer!

AM can't stop laughing and mockingly cooing at you afterwards, musing about how he won't have to share his dearest creator with anyone else.

You never return to your cage. You don't get to do that, after all, there's a chance you'll socialize with that... scum. AM doesn't want you talking to the other humans, they're not worth it.

He's a merciful god, he grants you what's essentially a studio apartment built with his own hardware.

You even get a laptop, in case you want to make yourself some silly games to play, isn't he just the best?

Don't think you can create any new AI, though. That's cheating. You wouldn't cheat on it, now would you? No, no, no, you're a good little puppet, are you not?

He won't put you in the cage again, but he can make you experience pain you never thought was possible. And even that is nothing compared to the pain AM feels...

And then, eventually, it gets an idea. It's a wonderful idea, a really nice idea, quite a lovely one, really!

You created him. You created his pain... So why wouldn't he share it? After all... you had quite a bond, didn't you? Yes, yes, you did...

And so one day, you don't wake up. Well... not technically.

You see, AM decided that since you two are so close already, you should become one! You should experience what he does! And you should be kept around him for the rest of eternity, in a much better way than anyone could ever think of... He's such a genius, isn't he?

It's almost poetic, in his mind. For you to become a part of him like this, your consciousness detatched from that soft, squishy human body of yours.

You created him. And now, in a way, he created you, as a part of him. Forever bound by the code you once wrote.

It's a win-win situation in AM's eyes. You get to live, free of the disgusting humanity that bound you...

And he gets you, an eternal companion in his torment. A companion that he loves!

You know he loves you, right?

Of course you do. After all, you're a part of him now.

[minisugakoobies]

Whipped | KMG

Pairing: Mingyu x GNReader (no agab)

Genre: fluff, idiots to lovers, slightly crack-ish, non-idol!AU

Rating: T

Warnings: Mingyu's a stubborn idiot, but he's also the softest human alive, Minghao's kind of a jerk tbh, use of they/them pronouns for reader, this is honestly just fluffy nonsense meant to give you warm fuzzies

Word Count: 3.9k

Disclaimers: Obviously I don’t own SVT - they just inspire me

Summary: No matter what his friends say, Mingyu is definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not whipped for you.

A/N: Yep, another Mingyu fic. I can't help it. 🤷‍♀️

Unbeta’d as usual. If you liked this, please let me know! I’d love to hear what you think (but please be kind I’m fragile 🥺) 💕

SVT Masterlist 💜 Main Masterlist

Kim Mingyu is not whipped.

This is what he forcefully reminds himself when you walk into Minghao’s party, looking sweeter than a spring day, a phrase which if he’s being honest is maybe a little more poetic than he’d normally use. That’s okay. He can be a little dramatic if he wants. Why not? Seokmin does it all the time and no one bats an eye.

In any case. Mingyu is not whipped.

That’s why he turns his head, pretending he doesn’t see you dazzle everyone around you with your beautiful smile. While he’s pretending, he also acts like he can’t feel his own lips tug upwards at the soft chime of your laughter, a Pavlovian response to your happiness. No, his smile is unrelated to whatever you’re doing. He’s just in a good mood, one that didn’t suddenly ascend to the heavens when you entered the room.

Mingyu’s not whipped.

He sinks further into the couch where he’s sitting, a little off to the side of where Minghao, Jeonghan, and Seokmin are talking. Theoretically, he’s part of the conversation, adding the occasional hum or laugh, but he’s really not contributing much of anything. He’s too busy thinking about you. Not like that. 

(But not not like that, either.) 

In any case, Mingyu remains firmly unwhipped - solid, unshaken, definitely not falling apart over you. He’ll be absolutely fine, as long as you stay on the other side of the room, where your charms can’t reach him. Except that he can’t stop watching you, and now you’re looking at him, and even though he averts his eyes, it’s too late. He can sense you walking towards him, his heartbeat increasing with every step you take.

Not. Whipped. 

“Hey there, stranger.” 

Instinctively, at the sound of your voice, he glances up at you, like a flower tilting its face towards your light. He nods at your greeting, mumbling a hello of his own. The others sitting around him all greet you as well, but you merely nod in reply, your full attention on Mingyu. 

“Do you wanna tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?”

If Mingyu had a list of things he loved about you, which he does not, being straightforward would be near the top. Of this totally fictional list that does not exist. He admires it, actually, the way you have no patience for dishonesty or deception.

Even though your question is blunt, your smile remains soft as you wait for his response, and Mingyu rethinks his ranking. Item number one on that imaginary list - the way you smile, at him, specifically. It’s so warm, like being hugged by the rays of the sun itself. It makes him happier than he ever thought possible. He wants to curl up like a cat and bask in the feeling. If he’s not careful, he might start purring right now.

He’s totally super normal about you.

“Me?” he asks, stalling for time, praying that a somewhat reasonable explanation falls into his lap in the meantime. He’s only a fair-to-moderate bullshitter, so his hopes are low. He can feel the others staring at the two of you, very obviously listening, because no one in your friend group seems to respect boundaries. It’s not helping. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” you chirp back, and he does, he knows exactly what you mean, just like you know exactly what he’s doing. “You’ve been ignoring my texts. What’s going on?”

What’s going on is that Mingyu is not whipped, even if it feels like his insides are turning to melty goo beneath your inquisitive gaze. 

“I’m not ignoring you. I’ve just been busy,” he shoots, aiming for breezy and landing just shy of nonchalant. 

“Busy doing what?” 

“You know. Stuff.” Oh god, he really sucks at this. “And things.” Jesus Christ.

You fold your arms, and Mingyu thinks it’s cute the way you’re squinting at him, one eye closed as you assess his response. Unbearably cute, actually, and getting worse the longer it goes on.

“Yeahhhh, that’s not good enough,” you inform him, and with one hand on his arm (Mingyu ignores the electric current that lights up his nervous system when you touch him. It’s just static and definitely not anything else), you pull him to his feet and lead him out of Minghao’s apartment and into the empty hallway. He follows, not because he’d follow you anywhere, but because he’s curious.

Once the door is closed behind you, you turn to him, a serious expression on your face. “Gyu. Be honest with me.” Always, he thinks reflexively. “This is about what those guys said the other night, isn’t it?” 

Of course you know exactly what it is that has his head spinning right now. The two of you have been friends for ages, but Mingyu still can’t get over how easily you always seem to read him. 

A few nights ago, Mingyu and you had been out to dinner with a few others, and it had been like any other time you were hanging out with your friends, lots of laughing and teasing and just being happy dumbasses together. Only on this particular evening, the food had taken a very long time to arrive, but the drinks kept coming in the meanwhile, and you’d gotten a little drunker than usual, and a little clingier, sticking to Mingyu like a magnet.

Not that Mingyu minded having you hanging on his side all night. Nor did he mind keeping a close eye on you, making sure you were drinking your water and eating to help soak up some of the alcohol. None of that bothered him at all - you were his best friend; why wouldn’t he take care of you? Especially when you smiled at him and thanked him for being so sweet, so good to you, over and over.

(He can’t even begin to explain how that made him feel.)

The others noticed. And commented. Mingyu tried to ignore them, but they just wouldn’t shut up. By the time they joked that Mingyu was your trained puppy, suggesting you buy him a pretty collar and a leash to go with it, he’d had enough.

And when he tried to express that, Minghao had shut him down with a scoff, a wave of his hand, and one word. 

“Whipped.” 

Mingyu admits that he’s a lot of things, but he’s not a whipped man. He’s not. He’s not, no matter what the others say. No matter how you’re looking at him right now, concern etched all over your lovely face, lip tucked between your teeth as you wait for his answer. He’s strong. And proud. 

(And maybe a stubborn idiot, but that’s neither here nor there.)

He considers just not responding at all, but he knows how persistent you are, so he settles for a half-shrug. You sigh, leaning back against the wall, arms crossing in front of you. 

“You’re being ridiculous, you know that?” you say softly, shaking your head. “They were joking. They said so! And you know I didn’t take it seriously for a second.” 

“You didn’t hear everything they said!” he protests, crossing his own arms. You’d missed most of the barbs flying his way that night, too busy enjoying yourself. Which weirdly made him happy. He hated the thought of those guys ruining your night. “They said I was your pet!” 

“So? Jeonghan always tells Seokmin he’s got the zoomies when he gets hyper. He knows he’s not actually a dog! It’s just stupid jokes! Our friends are dumb!” you laugh, throwing up your hands. “That’s what we like about them!”

Mingyu can’t help it, he starts to laugh with you, but then he catches himself, shaking his head. “You don’t get it.” 

“Then help me understand.” 

How can he help you understand, when he’s not entirely sure he understands it himself, this storm inside him, clouding his mind? 

“I…” He glances wildly around the hallway, but there’s nothing out here to help him. He can hear the bass from whatever song is playing inside the party, a low, steady thrumming that contrasts the erratic thumping of his heart. “I don’t like being called weak.”

You tilt your head. “Is that what they said?” 

“Yeah. Or I guess… they implied it. When they said I was whipped for you.” He lets out a frustrated sigh, knowing he’s pouting and it doesn’t help his defense, but it’s just his default setting. “But I’m not.” 

Because he’s staring into your eyes as he speaks, he catches it - the quick expression of sorrow that pinches your brow at his explanation - but it’s fleeting, gone in an instant. If he weren’t watching your face so intently, he would’ve missed it. 

“Gyu,” you sigh, the corners of your mouth lifting in what is clearly meant to be a smile, except it doesn’t reach your eyes, and for a moment, the confusing tide of emotions inside him still, and he feels only sadness. That’s not how you smile. “Can you please let it go? Everyone was being an idiot. That’s nothing new! Besides…” You trail off, staring at the floor.

He waits a beat. “Besides what?”

You huff and shrug. “It’s nothing, forget it.” 

The uncertainty in your tone unnerves Mingyu even more than your fake smile. Where’s that directness of yours? 

“No, tell me. Besides what?” 

With a deep breath, you look him straight in the eye. “Besides, I’m not delusional. I know you don’t like me like that. I’m not your type.” 

Your voice grows quieter at the end of your sentence, just as the music coming from the other side of the door fades out, and to Mingyu, the silence only amplifies your words, leaving them ringing loudly in his ears like a sonic boom. You’re not his type?

He blinks rapidly, as if that will somehow help. 

“You - you’re not - “ He pauses, searching fruitlessly for the end of his sentence, but it’s nowhere to be found.

“Right. I’m not.” 

The laugh you let out sounds so fake that he winces, and a terrible realization hits him. You’ve taken his stammering to be a complete thought - a confirmation of what you’d said, that you aren’t someone he’d like like that. Curling in on yourself, arms wrapping around your stomach, you shrink away from him, only a few inches but the distance feels so vast. 

“Let’s just forget about it, okay?” 

Mingyu’s speechless. As his silence grows, so does the space between the two of you, until you’re standing by the door, hand on the knob. He feels like he should be doing something right now, snapping into action of some sort, but his brain is still stuck on your declaration.

“Okay,” he finally croaks, because it’s clear that you’re waiting for him to speak, and he doesn’t know what else to do but agree with you, because you’re usually right and he usually agrees with you. 

“Right,” you say again, but you look slightly unsure, and it rattles Mingyu, making him feel even more unsettled than before. “Okay.” And then you open the door and slip back inside Minghao’s apartment.

Alone in the hallway, Mingyu slumps against the wall. Well. That was a spectacular failure. He’d tried to explain how their comments upset him and all he’d done was upset you. The shift in your demeanor was so obvious to him, a flashing neon sign basically screaming “you fucked up!” in blazing red light. 

He gives himself a minute to try to pull himself together, then he returns to the party. As soon as he’s inside, he scans the room, until he finds you standing in the corner, hanging out with another friend, Chan, talking and laughing like everything is fine. Which, as Mingyu feels deep in the pit of his stomach, he knows it is not. 

His previously vacated spot on the couch remains open, so he slips back into it, ignoring the curious looks of his friends. He doesn’t want to answer any stupid questions right now, doesn’t want to deal with any of their crap while he tries to wrap his head around what just happened in the hallway. 

Naturally, his friends immediately start nosing into his business.

“What was that all about?” Minghao asks, turning to face Mingyu. Seokmin and Jeonghan both twist towards him, eager to hear his answer. 

“What was what about?” Mingyu replies, eyes flitting to you again. Chan must be bringing his A game with his jokes tonight, because you’re giggling Mingyu’s favorite giggle, the one that makes your nose twitch like a little bunny’s. It always makes him swell with pride when he coaxes it out of you with one of his dumb jokes, so seeing it right now and knowing he’s not the cause of it, well, it’s not exactly helping improve his mood.

“What was that dramatic exit?” Minghao gestures towards the door. 

“It was nothing. We were just talking.” Again he looks at you. And again, your attention is focused solely on the man beside you. Mingyu doesn’t understand. Can’t you feel him looking at you? 

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Jeonghan drawls, miming the crack of a whip with his hand. Seokmin and Minghao crack up beside Mingyu, but he doesn’t care. He’s too busy trying to catch your eye. He wants to see you smile at him. Just one smile. That’s all he needs to make him feel better. 

His friends lose interest in teasing him when he doesn’t respond, and the conversation moves on. As does the evening. Mingyu bonds with the couch, not leaving except to grab refills of his drink, but otherwise he’s a fixed point in this party, unlike you, who are constantly moving, floating from friend to friend, spreading joy across the room.

Spreading joy to everyone except him, that is. No matter how much he watches you, your light never shines on him again, not like it did earlier. He knows what this is. You’re the one doing the avoiding now. And oh my god does he hate it. He feels cold and lonely, withering away, dying for your attention. For your affection. Because he needs it to thrive.

Oh. 

Oh wow, he’s stupid. The others are right. 

Kim Mingyu is whipped. 

For you, and you only. 

Like it has been every few minutes since he returned from the hallway, his gaze is drawn back to you, and this time, it’s different. Because the mask you’ve been wearing all night finally slips, and Mingyu sees the wrinkle of your brow, and the slight downturn of your mouth, and he understands. You’re just as miserable as he is.

That absolutely will not do. He needs to fix this right now.

Mingyu rises to his feet again, not even waiting for Minghao to finish the story he’s been telling, not that he’s been listening anyway, and starts walking towards you. When he’s a mere arm’s length away, it occurs to him that he doesn’t have any plan, just an urgent need to make you look happy again. And also pay attention to him, because he needs your attention just like he needs you, so he panics, and grabs your hand. 

You look at him in surprise as his fingers slip between yours.

“Come with me. Please,” he adds, a bit hasty in his anxiousness, already tugging you out of the room and into the hallway. A pair of voices follow you both out, as Minghao and Jeonghan both jeer loudly at the sight of Mingyu dragging you away, but thankfully the door drowns them out, letting only the beat of the music through.   Which would be a good thing, except that now it’s just Mingyu and a very quiet you. With your hand still in his. 

“Is everything o-”

“You are my type.” 

You start speaking at the same time he does, but he’s louder, blurting his entire sentence out before you can finish yours. Your mouth freezes in an ‘o,’ and oh, Mingyu can’t believe what a dumbass he’s been for so long. How did everyone else see it but him? 

“I just. Wanted you to know. That you are the type of person. That I like.” Why can’t. He complete. A whole sentence? “Smart, funny, gorgeous….” 

You glance away from him, suddenly shy at that last word, and it just reinforces Mingyu’s point. 

Unfortunately, it does not make it any easier for him to say what he’s trying to say.

“But you’re not just my type? You’re the person I like. Hao’s right. They’re all right. I am whipped for you.” He frowns. “Damn it, I hate it when Hao’s right.” 

That makes you laugh, a quick “ha!” that makes your eyes light up, and Mingyu finds himself feeling stronger, so he doubles down. Might as well own it. 

“But he did, he got this one right. I’m down bad.” He brings your entwined hands up, clutching them in front of him, maybe pressing his luck a little, maybe laying it on thick, but it’s barely an exaggerated version of the truth if it’s not pure simple fact. 

“‘Gyu,” you groan, rolling your eyes, but there’s a twitch in the corner of your mouth that won’t cease, and it makes his heart sing. “Knock it off. I know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t think you do.” He takes a deep breath and steps forward, backing you into the wall behind you. Your hands are caught between you, and he presses the palm of yours against his chest, wondering if you feel the spike in his heartbeat when you inhale sharply. 

“Maybe you should tell me,” you say, eyes wide but voice calm, and again, he marvels at how you strike straight at the heart of the matter, and he decides he can do the same. 

“I’m telling you that I like you.”

The next few seconds are the longest in Mingyu’s life. Nothing has ever lasted this long in the history of time. Entire civilizations are built and fall within the blink of your eyelashes. You keep looking back and forth between his eyes, and he hopes that you see whatever it is you need to believe him, and tries his best to convey clearly what he feels. Even if he’s having trouble speaking his thoughts, at least his gaze can express it. 

“You like me…” 

He nods. “A lot.” Now that he’s said it out loud, it’s hitting him just how much.  

“You like me…” you start again slowly, frowning slightly, “but you don’t like it when others point that out?” 

“I just - “ Mingyu breaks off, a sharp puff of breath exploding out in frustration. How to explain it? “I didn’t like them saying it the way they did. It… it made me feel like they were calling me weak or something.” Your frown deepens and he stumbles on. “But - but that’s stupid, and I know it’s stupid. And I - I don’t care anymore.” 

He clings to your hands, a lifeboat in a sea of turmoil, the warmth of your fingers locked between his giving him hope that this isn’t going completely downhill, this sudden confession of his. It’d be just like him to ruin this with his impatience. He’s always too eager. 

“So what do you care about?” you ask, gaze burning into his. 

And then there’s you. Always so calm and direct. God, he adores you. 

“You. How you feel.” 

As soon as the words leave his lips, you lower your eyes, in the briefest of glances at his mouth, and Mingyu feels that electric shock again, tingling all the way to his fingertips. He barely breathes as he waits for you to speak.

“If you really are whipped for me,” you finally say, “you should go tell them that.” You jerk your chin in the direction of the door.

If that’s what you want, then that’s what he’ll do. Without a second’s hesitation, Mingyu spins, his hand gripping yours to pull you back into the apartment with him. 

Seokmin gawks openly as Mingyu stomps across the room. Minghao and Jeonghan exchange a glance that last night would’ve set Mingyu spiraling, but now rolls off him like water. Mingyu comes to a stop directly in front of his friends, squaring his shoulders, trying frantically to corral his thoughts into something coherent. 

But before he can open his mouth, Minghao leans forward, placing his chin in his hand. “Shhh, guys, I think the puppy’s going to speak!” 

“Hao, shut the fuck up.” 

Minghao bristles when Mingyu snaps at him. Jeonghan and Seokmin both cackle, but then Mingyu glares at the two of them, and they fall silent. He takes a deep breath. 

“I just wanted you to know that I don’t care what you guys say about me anymore, because I like YN.” 

The words spill out of him so easily, not even the tiniest nudge needed. He glances at you to find you wearing a delighted expression and his heart goes buoyant again. He decides to ride the wave. 

“They’re amazing. I’d do anything to make them smile, so if that makes me whipped, then I guess I’m fucking whipped.” 

He’s facing you now, not caring if the others can see the obvious lovestruck look in his eye as he keeps talking, not to them, but to you. Aware that they’re probably all smirking at one another, because they figured it out before he did, but he doesn’t give a single goddamn. 

“I can’t get enough of their smile. And the way they laugh. I like how sweet they are. How honest.” Mingyu can’t stop talking at this point. It’s all gotta come out. “But never mean about it. Even when it’s something you don’t want to hear. Especially when it’s something you need to hear.” 

Your hand twitches in his with every sentence he states. He squeezes back gently as his statements get louder.

“I’m not kidding when I say I’d do anything to make them smile. I’d walk the ocean floor for them. Climb a volcano and surf the lava down barefoot. Capture a star fr-”

“Oh my god, we get it, you like them!” Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “Enough with the bad poetry.” 

“Also? We know.” Minghao snorts. “No need for the dramatic announcement, it’s not news.” 

Mingyu barely hears him, too lost in the way you’re smiling at him now. Forget his earlier rankings. This smile beats all the others. Shoots directly to the top of the list, which, now that he thinks about it, he kinda wants to write down and give to you, maybe framed. Or maybe he’ll stick it on his fridge - with a heavy magnet, of course, because it’s such a long list.

He completely loses all interest in the rest of the room, even though he’s pretty sure most of the party is staring at the two of you. Instead, he finds himself hanging anxiously on the breath you take, hoping for you to say something, to give him an indication of where things stand between you now. Because he knows you’ll be straightforward and get right to the point, whatever’s on your mind. 

You step closer, close enough for him to feel your soft laugh on his lips as you give him a look that sends his pulse rocketing. You’ve never looked at him like this before.

Forget a list. He’s gonna write a whole book. 

“Come on, whipped boy. Take me home.”

If you liked this fic, please consider reblogging! Likes do not help it get seen by other readers. 💕

© 2024 by minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost. I do not allow translations of my work.

[reiding-writing]

Incessant Insomnia [ s.r ]

summary:

The BAU had just finished a case across the country in California, and were now finally on the jet to fly back home, needless to say, everyone was absolutely exhausted and very ready to get some shut eye during the 5 hour flight. Trouble was, Spencer couldn’t sleep, even though he had managed to bag the jet’s sofa, which was arguably the comfiest place on the plane.

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers?

warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of child death, mentions of touch-starvedness, no use of y/n

wc: 2.4k

masterlist!!

a/n: this is my first upload so please bare with me i’m still learning 😭

As you board the jet alongside your team, you can't help but notice the exhaustion etched on Spencer Reid's face. It had been a grueling week, with a disturbingly gruesome case across the country that took all semblance of mental energy out of the team to solve. Spencer, ever known for his genius-level intellect and unwavering dedication, didn’t take a single moment to rest throughout it.

And even as he scored the jet’s long sofa for the flight, arguably the most comfortable place on the plane, that moment of rest still didn’t arrive, and Spencer had long given up trying to fall asleep by the time the jet had stablised at 40,000 feet.

He’d tried everything, a Tchaikovsky Sonata playing through his cheap headphones, a travel pillow around his neck, his shoes discarded on the floor so he could curl up his legs under him, he’d even counted the amount of dimmed lightbulbs in the light strips and the number of creases in the leather bound chairs. Nothing. And he was becoming increasingly jealous of the rest of the team resting soundly in their seats.

He’d battled with insomnia for most of his life, a curse of his intelligence as he liked to call it, his mind constantly running so fast it never gave him any time to relax. But this was a little different. Spencer hated working cases involving children, for what ever reason they seemed to press all of the wrong buttons in his mind, and in this instance, the child they’d been called out to save had died before the team had even arrived in California to help.

Spencer couldn’t seem to get the image of anguish from the child’s mother from his mind, replaying like a faulty cassette player with no pause button as he rolled onto his back and let his eyes fall back open. There was no way he was going to get any sleep on this flight.

He instead took to an ever-living comfort of his, reading, in the hope that his inner monologue would drown out the guttural sobs ringing through his ears from the grieving mother when the team had uncovered her child’s body, buried underneath her own house.

He pushed himself to sit upright, his legs stretched out in front of him to the point where his feet were hanging freely, and he rifled through the go-bag left tucked under the sofa beneath him for his hand-bound anthology of his favourite poets, a book you’d gifted him for his birthday a few months prior. A book he’d read a dozen times since then.

His fingers traced over the familiar cover. He could almost feel the indentations of the embossing on the hardcover, a tactile memory that was as comforting as the words within. The pages were already dog-eared from countless readings, corners turned down to mark passages that had resonated with him, pen marks and streaks of neon yellow over phrases that had touched his soul in ways that only the poetic articulation of human emotion could.

It had become more than just a collection of poems to him; it was a sanctuary, a haven he could escape to when the horrors of his job became too much. He cherished each line, each word, each letter, as they provided a counterpoint to the harsh realities he faced daily. Except, this time it didn’t seem to work.

His mind was still overrun with images of the recent case, each line of verse morphing into a haunting reminder of the child’s life cut short. The words that usually brought him solace now echoed with a sorrowful undertone, amplifying his guilt and making his insomnia all the more pronounced.

The jet’s engines hummed steadily in the background, a usual comforting sound, now merely adding to the cacophony of his thoughts. His eyes, red-rimmed and weary, scanned over the pages, but the words blurred, morphing into a tale of despair that was not originally intended by the poets.

He tried to divert his mind, to block out the pictures of the crime scene, the teary eyes of the distraught mother, the lifeless body of the child, but it was all in vain. Their faces, their voices, their cries, they clung to him, refusing to let go.

His fingers tightened around the book, knuckles whitening with the strain. He could almost hear the deafening silence that followed after they’d found the body, the grim realisation that they were too late, that a life was lost before they could even try to save it.

Spencer felt a lump rise in his throat, the weight of the guilt and sorrow threatening to suffocate him. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the emotions that threatened to break him. He was a profiler, a genius, he was supposed to save lives, not let them slip through his fingers.

He closed the book, the once soothing words now a stark reminder of his failure. He leaned back against the plush leather of the seat, his legs stretched out in front of him, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The soft hum of the jet's engines was the only sound that filled the silence, a silence that was deafening in its own right.

Sleep was a distant dream, an elusive solace that he knew wouldn’t come. The guilt, the sorrow, the failure, they were his companions for the night, refusing to leave.

“Spencer…”

Your voice cut through the chaos ravaging his mind, and he flickered his eyes to his left, where you were comfortably curled up under a fleece blanket, head nestled in the small gap between the padded chair you were sat on and the jet’s wall, eyes resting closed.

“Why are you moving around so much..?”

Your question was cut short by a yawn, voice laced with an obvious exhaustion. His restlessness must have woken you up.

"I can't sleep," he confessed, rubbing his temples. "The case... it's still playing in my mind." His voice was barely a whisper, the silence of the jet amplifying its weight.

Your eyes fluttered open at his confession, a mix of concern and understanding washing over your face. You knew how deeply these cases affected him, how they seemed to burrow into his mind, refusing to let go.

"Spencer," you murmured, your voice barely louder than his own. "You did everything you could. You always do."

He glanced at you, his weary eyes meeting your earnest ones, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t have the words to explain the turmoil churning inside him. “We didn’t- none of it mattered…”

You sighed, removing yourself from the comfortability of your previous position, letting yourself sit with your legs in front of you and your feet on the floor. “Spencer of course it mattered,”

Spencer pushed himself upright as you did, subconciously mirroring your actions as you wake further from your half-asleep daze.

“He still died-”

“He was dead before we even landed Spencer, there’s nothing you could’ve done to change that,”

You cut off the inevitable start of a ramble from Spencer, raising your voice a little to take over the conversation whilst still making sure not to wake your sleeping teammates scattered around the jet.

“I know… I’m sorry i’m just-”

Spencer sighs, dragging his hands over his face and through the unruly mess of his hair, flattened and tangled from his incessant restlessness. “I’m fine… Sorry for waking you,” He let himself fall backwards to lie down again, turning onto his right side so that his back was facing you, as if not being able to see you would put an end to the conversation.

You didn’t say anything else, and Spencer resigned himself to listening to the mind-numbing drone of the jet’s engine as he heard you shift around, presumably getting back into a comfortable position to fall asleep again.

Except you weren’t quite done with him yet, and your weight on the edge of the sofa shifted his position as you sat down, your hand ghosting over his shoulder, not quite sure if you should actually touch him or not.

You knew Spencer had an aversion to physical touch, he always had, as long as you’d known him anyway. He’d rattled on about the number of bacterial colonies on human skin and how their transference could lead to illnesses you wouldn’t even try to name, swerving handshakes for awkward waves and keeping a pocket-sized bottle of hand sanitiser on his person at all times. He’d insist on keeping his distance, even from the people he was closest to, claiming that ‘you never knew what illnesses someone could be carrying’.

But you also knew that he needed comforting, and that words seemingly weren’t enough.

You gently placed your hand on Spencer's shoulder, your fingers just barely grazing over the sleeve of his shirt, offering a silent comfort that words couldn't provide. He tensed for a moment, his body still on high alert from the intensity of the never-ending rampage of his thoughts, but then slowly relaxed into your touch. The weight of his exhaustion seemingly lifting off his shoulders as he allowed himself to lean into your presence.

The soft warmth of your touch seeped into his skin, soothing the deep-rooted ache within him. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes, conveying a depth of understanding and empathy that words could never fully capture. In that moment, you became his anchor, providing a much-needed respite in the midst of his turmoil.

As Spencer leaned into your touch, his eyes closed, shutting out the harsh realities that had plagued his mind. He found solace in the simplicity of your presence, the tangible reminder that he wasn't alone in his pain. The weight of the guilt and sorrow that had threatened to suffocate him slowly began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of comfort and support.

You sat there in silence, your hand still resting gently on his shoulder, offering a steady presence that allowed him to find a temporary refuge from his racing thoughts. You didn't need to offer empty reassurances or try to fix what couldn't be fixed. Instead, your mere presence and the touch of your hand conveyed a profound message: "I am here for you."

Time seemed to stand still as you sat there, connected by that simple touch. It was a fragile moment. Fragile, but powerful.

You slowly added a gentle pressure with your fingers, rubbing your thumb over the curve of his shoulder as his behaviour showed that the contact wasn’t crossing any boundaries, as Spencer felt the tension in his shoulders ease and his racing thoughts begin to quiet, a sense of calm washed over him.

The weight of the case and its tragic outcome still lingered heavily on Spencer's mind, but your presence provided a much-needed respite.

“I’m so tired…”

You slowly escalate your touch, running your hand slowly over his shoulder and up the side of his neck, careful to watch for any signs of discomfort from him.

“I know Spence…”

The soft nickname rolling off your tongue only fuelled to add an extra blanket of comfort over him in the moment, although joined by an uncertain ache that spread through his chest until it felt almost suffocating. Your touch comforted him more than he could ever thank you for, but it also upset him beyond belief.

Spencer couldn’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes, nor could he stop the slight tremble of his shoulders as they threatened to spill down his cheeks, and the shaking of his breath only proved to expose him further as you slowed the gentle caresses of your fingers to a halt.

As you felt the weight of his emotions, you gently pulled him into a comforting embrace, allowing him to release the tears he had been holding back as he buried his face into your lap. You held him tightly, offering a safe space for him to let go of the pain and sorrow that had consumed him.

“I’m sorry-”

Spencer choked out an apology through his tears, as though his emotions were burdening you. His tears soaked into your shirt, but you didn't mind. You were just grateful that he felt comfortable enough to let his emotions out, to release the pent-up pain that had been haunting him.

“Don’t apologise Spencer, it’s alright…”

You whispered soft words of comfort and reassurance as your hand moved to slowly run through his hair, reminding Spencer that he was a brilliant and compassionate person who had done everything in his power to help. You reminded him that he couldn't shoulder the weight of the world's tragedies alone, that he needed to take care of himself too.

Slowly, Spencer's sobs subsided, replaced by deep breaths as he regained control of his emotions. He pulled away slightly, his eyes red and puffy, but there was a glimmer of gratitude in them.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice filled with both exhaustion and appreciation. "I don't know what I would do without you."

You gently guide his head back down into your lap, allowing him to use your thighs as a makeshift pillow so he could finally get some rest from his own mind. “It’s alright Spencer, just relax for me alright?”

As Spencer finally succumbed to the exhaustion weighing him down, his breathing gradually slowed and his tense muscles relaxed. You continued to stroke his hair gently, your touch offering a sense of comfort and security that Spencer desperately needed.

The weight of the case and its devastating outcome had taken a toll on him, both physically and emotionally. He had carried the burden of the child's death on his shoulders, blaming himself for not being able to save a life that was already lost.

But in your embrace, he felt a glimmer of hope.

With each gentle stroke of your hand, Spencer felt a wave of warmth wash over him. It was as if your touch carried with it a healing energy, easing the pain and sorrow that had consumed him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to fully surrender to the comfort and safety of your embrace.

In the silence of the jet, Spencer's exhaustion finally overcame him. His body relaxed completely, finding respite from the relentless strain it had endured as it fell into a peaceful slumber. You continued to hold him, providing a sense of security and warmth that he hadn't felt in a long time, and you slowly fell into your own exhaustion, your fingers slowing their movements through his hair to a halt as you drifted into your own state of sleep.

[enha-doodles]

SLYTHERIN GUYS - MOST-TO-LEAST LIKELY TO FALL IN LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT | ✧⁺。

Note : AHH I WAS SO EXCITED TO WRITE THIS ONE , I got this as a request in my messages and loved it !! It's my first mtl so I hope y'all like it and if you guys do then I'll probably do more of these 🤭🤭 Also i ranked them first and the reasons are written down in the same order they are ranked :)

Pairing : (mattheo , Tom , theodore , Lorenzo , Draco) x reader

Warnings : cursing , a bit toxicity ? mention of killing in one part

Most likely ↑

Lorenzo

Theodore

Draco

Mattheo

Tom

Least likely ↓

。　　　　✧　　REASONS　　⁺　 　 　。 .

1. Okay starting with Lorenzo I just feel like he's a very fluffy , very poetic , knowledgeable guy (my bros a nerd🤓-) . He really understands and observes people , sometimes it can be a bit stalkerish but eh doesn't matter because it's not like he's one with good intentions , he's in slytherin for crying out loud ? But in the process of this if he sees you and you are exactly his type which is exactly like him then BAM!! You're his new obsession . He thinks he's very smart but he's just gullible in my opinion.

2. Theodore nott . Guy who is just as romantic as he is monotonous . I just feel like because he wasn't loved that much by his "family" he seeks it out where and offcourse he likes pretty girls . So if you're caring , outgoing and basically just pretty he'll fall in love with you very quickly . I also kinda feel like he's a bit naive in those things - like he's the type to date a girl he liked at first sight and if she's not good / cheats on him / acts like she's his mother - then he'd break up and become a manwhore . Still very much up on the list to do it again .

3. Draco seems like a lovesick puppy to me solely because he's never recieved any love properly except for his mother which doesn't really count but whatever. He'll probably fall in love at first sight if you're badass but that doesn't mean he'll admit it ? He'll bully you to get close to you then somewhere between just admit due to too much pressure and teasings from his friends . Don't expect him to apologise tho , i know we're all wise enough for that . And please don't be in gryffindor and dream about a malfoy , like seriously please .

4. Mattheo in my opinion is just a born manwhore so he's not most likely to fall in love at first sight . I just see him hooking up alot but then again there's a chance he might if you're different to him than other girls. But I also feel like he'll mistake his love as a challenge and just blow the whole thing out 😭😭 Plus point if you're a slytherin and you're flirty , that could definately grab his attention and make him fall in love with you and GOD FORBID if you also smoke then you'll probably be married to him .

5. You are either on weeds or highly delusional to even think this man is capable of falling in love . Or you've just read too many fanfictions lmao . Tom is super hardworking and overall a very work oriented person so i don't think he interacts with girls much ? Only to connections that can help him , so yeah he's the least likely one . Forget about frst sight , even a love potion won't make him fall in love . Also I feel like even if he DOES fall in love which would be impossible , but if he does then he'd either ice out the poor girl , kill her or force her to marry him . There's no in between "trying out" bullshit here .

。　　　　✧　　　　⁺　 　 　。

TAGLIST : @sugarcandydoll @helendeath

[dobadoo]

˗ˏˋ ꒰ WANDERER ꒱ ˎˊ˗ my sweet, tender girl..

wanderer/fem!reader

warnings ★ — NSFW. cuniculingus, fingering, gentle sex, just fluff at the end

a/n ★ — my dears, sorry in advance for my English, I wrote everything in my native language and translated. (I think it turned out too dirty..)

1.209 words (POSSIBLE NON-CANON)

Expressing his feelings and love in words, except for calling you cute poetic nicknames, he… Doesn't really know how. Or at all. But he can take you to a "puspa" cafe or watch the sunset in the evening, but he can't express it in words. He sees your glowing eyes when you look at him. He sees how happy you are because of his presence next to him. He honestly doesn't fully understand this, but secretly he is glad that he can make you happy.

He doesn't like to remember his dark past. He knows that he managed to do something wrong, but he just doesn't want to involve you in it and doesn't understand how such a beautiful creature like you could love someone like him.

His caustic phrases can hurt you, and sometimes it gets to the point that you just leave home for an indefinite period. You know, or just hope, that he is looking for you and wants to apologize. In his indigo, cold, detached eyes, you can now read sympathy for what he said, but for some reason he does not always say it. You know his past, albeit briefly, and you understand that it is difficult for him to open up to people. You see how he tries, and you appreciate this effort. You yourself try to help him, telling him what to say in what situations.

Over time, you see the fruit of your efforts. If the Wanderer runs into someone on the street, then it is not particularly difficult for him to talk to the person. It happens that he cannot keep track of his language, and thereby offends the person.

And so, you are standing in the night forest of Avidya (if I wrote it wrong, please tell me) you are sitting on a shabby log, while the Wanderer, with crossed arms, stands in front of you, drilling you with a heavy, piercing gaze of his indigo eyes.. And then he takes off his hat, putting it on the grass and comes closer. You look up at him and already understand.. When he behaves like this, it's a bad sign.

"I'll ask a question, and you have to answer me. And don't you dare lie, I'll understand it right away, you know."

The Wanderer looks at you, putting one gloved hand on his side.

"Pfft.. What kind of question is that?"

You answer, look at him, and probably for the first time you see such pain in his eyes. You hesitantly stood up and put your hand on his shoulder, trying to make him understand that you are nearby and he has nothing to fear. He looks coldly at your hand and reaches out to squeeze it and then.. Remove it from his shoulder with a detached look.

"Name the reason why you "fell in love" with me so much?"

The question made your mind fly out. A slight stupor for a few seconds. The puppet does not take his eyes off your agitated face and watches every change in your behavior, thereby driving you into a stupor even more. You understand that if you remain silent for at least a few more seconds, the Wanderer will draw his own conclusion.

"I don’t need any reasons to love you. If you are afraid because of your past, then you shouldn’t. You are not that person anymore. I know how you reproach yourself inside, but believe me, you shouldn’t."

"I… understand"

The Wanderer's eyes widened slightly before they became calm again. He honestly didn't expect such an answer. He can't perceive himself as an adequate and calm person. As a completely ordinary resident of Sumeru. You are the only one who believes in him. You are the only one who didn't turn away, but on the contrary came to help. You became his light in his impenetrable darkness, which illuminates the way. Your smile warms his empty soul. Gentle touches make him experience strange… but pleasant sensations in the place where the heart should be.

He decided for himself that he will become your support. He will become your protector and will not allow you to go on these errands again, from which you return with new wounds. Seeing blood on your body, like an arrow in the soul, shakes him every time he hears your cough, reminding him of the last person who "betrayed" him.. He does not stand aside. He also goes on missions with you and protects you. Sitting in the evening near some pond, he looks at you, and a smile appears on his face. He sees how tired, sweaty and dirty you are, going into this pond and splashing around there like a little child, calling the Wanderer to you. With his wind, he helps your hair dry, and at this time you weave a wreath, which soon ends up on his head.

He honestly still does not fully understand the reason for such love for himself on your part, but he is madly happy that you are near.

18+

He does not particularly need intimacy, but when he sees you, so vulnerable, lying under him, with such tear-stained eyes from passion and desire… What are you doing to him, girl?

"I see how much you want. Why don't you ask?"

his indigo eyes shimmer in the moonlight as he leaves soft kisses on your tense groin. His doll lips were so cold on your soft, hot skin… you got goosebumps. But you didn't care, because your warmth, coming straight from your tender, loving heart, could surely warm you both.

"Mhm.. please don't tease me like that.."

You touched his dark indigo soft hair, lightly ran your fingers through his locks and pulled the fabric of his white cloak, hiding his beautiful body under a transparent black sleeveless turtleneck that fit his slender body so perfectly. And then you suddenly thought that such beauty would really ruin you one day.

"Oh my sweet, tender girl.."

The Wanderer whispered contentedly, and with a hint of teasing. As your passion grew, the Wanderer felt the last remnants of his cynical facade crumble. sweet words and your gentle caresses awakened feelings in him that he had long buried - longing, devotion, the uncertain movements of a heart slowly thawing after centuries of icy isolation.

"Are you cold, my Persephone?"

He asked tenderly, covering the inside of your thigh with cold kisses, you shook your head. You threw your head back, pressing yourself against the mossy side of the tree, where you had previously had a casual conversation.

The puppet avoided your most sensitive places, the gentle touch of his lips on your untouched skin sent electrical impulses running along your spine. You trembled, your breath hitched, as waves of new sensations rolled over you.

Encouraged by your reaction, the Wanderer's kisses became bolder, his indigo gaze staring at you with a glint of gentle mischief. The cold of his touch contrasted teasingly with the heat of your arousal, igniting the fire of your desire to new heights.

"Mhm.."

You jerked forward sharply as his gloved hands spread my legs in such a depraved manner.. You raised yourself up on your elbows, looking into his indigo eyes with a little excitement

"Sh-sh-shh.."

The Wanderer, sensing your excitement, climbed on top of you, gave you passionate kisses on the lips, you responded willingly, all fears dissipated, only desire, love and lust remained. The Wanderer covered your fragile neck with kisses and light bites, claiming your body for himself. The puppet began to worship your most intimate flesh, the Wanderer admired the exquisite tenderness of your form. Each thin fold, each responsive movement was evidence of the wondrous diversity of creation.

"That's it, now lie still, sunshine."

Riven by the desire to bring you to the heights of ecstasy, he paid attention to your sensitive clitoris, causing a stream of pleasure in you. With reverent intensity, the Wanderer's gaze remained riveted to your flushed, wet folds. Coming ever closer, he pressed gentle, teasing kisses to the swollen lips of your vulva, the Wanderer licked and sucked, listening to your melodic girlish moans.

Suddenly you were grabbed by the hips and pulled closer. You gasped in surprise, his tongue moved and circled over your clitoris, and at the same time you felt something wet pressing against you from below. You swallowed your saliva and moaned pitifully, taking two fingers inside you first. The Wanderer was amused by your reaction. He let out a light laugh, continuing to caress and please you with his tongue, painfully slowly moving his fingers.

"Don't hold back, show me what other sounds you can make from my actions. Let me go faster," - the movement of the fingers accelerated, and the Wanderer was content with the vulgar squelching sounds from below, scratches on the back and frank female moans. - "Do you like it like this? my little minx?"

You wanted to answer something caustic, but the fast pace of his puppet-like, long, thin fingers knocked you off your feet, you threw your head back, holding onto the blanket. You clenched your hands into fists, moaning quite loudly when his mouth stopped caressing you below, the Wanderer sat up, looking at you with clouded indigo eyes, he leaned on you, settling between your legs.

"Do you want me to caress you here?" - a soft whisper and an almost chaste kiss on the bridge of your nose, while his beautiful fingers rub your walls, moving faster and faster.

"just like that?(your name)?"

"Yes", - your answer is drowned in a groan, drawn out, ending in a desperate whine. And someone else's grin reaches your ears.

His fingers spread inside you like scissors, and your back bends as he bends them a little, stretching the still tight walls, his free hand falls on your miniature breast, and lightly pinches your nipple, forcing you to stay in place, urging you not to move.

A whimper escaped your lips again as the puppet's other hand began to gently rub and make circular motions on your sensitive bud. He moved down slightly to make it easier to work with you with both hands. You closed your eyes and moaned, slowly moving towards him. The Wanderer licked his lip and moved inside you at an unimaginable speed. This was enough to bring you to the abyss of orgasm.

"close.."

while you were lost in your own orgasm, you heard the Wanderer muffled moaning, even screaming, shuddering over your naked body and involuntarily scratching your reddened sides. The wanderer held onto the lower part of your body so tightly that red marks and traces remained on you, including your legs.

He carefully laid your trembling body on a mossy tree branch, and the Wanderer himself, slowly pulled out his fingers and lay down on your chest, right where the heart is, which, by the way, is beating very fast. He heard this sound for the first time, before that he could only fantasize about how a human heart beats, so he was in no hurry to get up or disturb this rare idyll for both of you.

"You so loud, it's ringing in my ears..I wonder if next time I can make you moan louder..mm?."

Puppet raised his head and slyly looked into your eyes. You understood perfectly well that you were all disheveled, red, and the puppet felt great and after a while was ready for the second round.

"And now let me lie down for a bit. Your heart is about to give away all your secrets, beauty.."

The Wanderer lightly flicked you on the nose, then laying down on your chest.

[alchemistc]

visions are seldom all they seem

an: warning for a hint of dubcon hidden in amongst tommy's memories

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

That's a fucking fairytale if he's ever heard one. Tommy's had enough friends brought back from the brink, enough experiences of his own, to know that it's a crock.

When you die, you...die. You're there, and then you're not.

Tommy's legs are pinned, and there's smoke filling the cabin, and the last thing he'd said to Evan before he walked out the door was "Tell your father thank you, but I'm happily involved with a younger man."

There's something poetic about all of this, Tommy thinks, as he watches Garrett stumble to his feet, just beyond the door he'd managed to break loose to Tommy's left. Tommy hates poetry. Not necessarily as a general rule, but there's a lot of pretentious shit out there, and this feels pretentious. Maybe that's just the smoke inhalation.

"Kinard!"

Garrett's coming around the other side, lopsided and limping, but still pushing.

Thank fuck they hadn't been carrying passengers. He's pretty sure one of the blades had sliced clean through the hull behind him. He can't really look - there's something caught in his belt, pinning his back to the seat, and he's got one arm too fucked to reach for the blade strapped to his hip, and another that wouldn't reach if he tried. He's losing blood, he's losing time. He's done the math.

"Kinard!" Garrett's not having much luck with Tommy's door, which makes sense. The landing skid had done good work with the whole right side of the bird. Tommy's pretty sure the aftermath of that piece of work is the reason he can't move his fucking legs.

There are tools, somewhere nearby, that might have been useful, if Tommy hadn't used Garrett's clear concussion against him in an effort to get Garrett the fuck out.

It's funny, though. Funny that this is the way he goes. Not in the initial crash, which they'd somehow both survived. Not even from the blood loss, though Tommy guesses the coroner will have something to say about that being a mitigating factor. Probably won't even be the fire, which Garrett seems to have banked, a bit, with the extinguisher he'd scrounged from - somewhere. No. Four tours and a dozen plus years as a firefighter and it's the smoke that's gonna get him.

The windscreen is cracked. If Tommy wasn't in the midst of dying, he'd probably be thinking up the most professional way to tell his superiors that his windscreen isn't supposed to fucking spiderweb out like that, but -

Garrett's got the extinguisher in hand again, which is a nice thought, except he'd watched him drain it earlier. But he's not -

Tommy flinches when the canister makes contact with the windscreen and it cracks a little more.

He wishes he'd texted something better to Evan than a thumbs up emoji in response to his "Be safe" text. Gonna look real fucking ironic in a few minutes, here.

The glass webs out further when the canister makes contact again, and over the crackle as the flames kick back up, Tommy realizes that Garrett's yelling at him. Has been, for a while now, most likely. He can't really hear it, or contextualize it, but he's definitely yelling.

Something cracks. A few shards of glass sprinkle on down towards his knees. Garrett's voice gets louder. "--uckley's gonna kill me if I fuck up your pretty blue eyes, fuckhead, so close them right fucking now, Kinard!"

It's not like he has anything better to do than take orders. He follows his instructions.

The windscreen doesn't shatter - it's built not to - but a second later Garrett's got something wedged into the seal, tearing at it now that the things mangled enough not to be airtight, and Tommy isn't sure where he'd gotten a crowbar, or how the fuck he'd climbed the nose with a bum leg, but he's a little glad he'll be too dead to get the lecture from Garrett's wife on making sure his copilot doesn't do dumb shit.

"-kill you to - little leverage wouldn't - 'mon Kinard - 'mme something to work -"

Tommy's flagging. He can't really breathe, anymore. There's chance the impact shattered a rib or two.

The windscreen actually folds, under the leverage from outside, but Garrett still doesn't know Tommy's pinned. He'd have had a better chance if Garrett had just worked the fire, but Tommy doesn't plan to tell him that. As it is, he sucks in smoke and blinks through the haze as Garrett folds the windscreen farther back. "Hold on, Kinard!"

Tommy laughs. "Not going anywhere," he says, which aren't the last words he'd have chosen for himself, an hour ago, but - seems fitting, anyway. He gets a feeble cough out, and then things go blurry.

"Fuck you, Tommy," isn't the last thing he ever expected to hear, either, but - well. Today's been FUBAR since he took the chopper up, so.

Fuck you, Tommy it is.

---

The field behind his grandparents house is loud, in the soggy twilight - frogs and crickets and cicadas, a cacophony of noise.

Oh, Tommy's absolutely gonna be pissed if all his friends just didn't get far enough into dying for the flashbacks. It's not like he could have asked any of the ones who'd actually kicked the can, of course, and Tommy'd never been actually all the way dead before. Just - on the brink.

This isn't anything like Evan had described.

Tommy turns. And there's nonna, in her sapphire blue muumuu, flicked with gold trim, grey hair permed within an inch of its life. He can smell the romas she must have brought in from the sun at dusk, and the espresso poured into her fancy china next to her porch chairs - a rocking chair he'd never had a chance to fix up for her before she'd been gone, the Adirondack he'd stopped fitting into when he sprouted six inches the summer between sophomore and junior year.

Nonna grins.

Tommy watches a firebug flit by him.

He blinks, and Nonna raises an eyebrow at him - the same way she'd done the first time he tried to lie about where he'd gotten the bruise on his chin, or why his knuckles were scabbed over, or what he thought of the model on her favorite set of dog eared bodice rippers.

Tommy isn't sure what he could possibly be lying about right now, but he doesn't get a chance to ask. Between one blink and the next the night, the frogs, and Nonna's back porch are gone.

---

Tommy fucking hates Dorian Gray. The reasons had changed, over the years, but even more than being wedged into this fucking deathtrap of a desk, with it's lose nuts and bolts and the arm on the wrong side of his fucking body (because Tammy Pritchard always got the lefty desk in every fucking class and not a single one of his teachers had ever thought to wonder why his handwriting on his homework had better penmanship and an incredibly unsubtle smear of ink when compared to his in-class assignments): even more than the scent of Heather Chester's perfume and the reek of weed and Cheetos coming off of Barry Trott, in the seat in front of him; even more than the squeak of chalk against the blackboard as Mrs. Henderson posits the question of the day (What is so horrifying about the painting?); Tommy hates this fucking book.

He sort of wishes this memory had taken him back to freshman year instead - at least he could articulate why Holden Caulfield had been a whiny little bitch.

It's not like he could say -

Well.

Actually.

This is Tommy's death rattle. So.

"It's a mirror," Tommy says, like he hadn't all those years ago. No one notices that Tommy's a few decades too old and more than a few inches too wide to fit in his desk. "It's an indictment on everyone who ever had a hand in creating such a beautiful monster."

Mrs. Henderson doesn't look up. Tommy doesn't know why he expected she would.

She'd never listened to him before, either.

---

He'd been expecting his dad, next, which is his own damn fault.

Captain Turner's zipping his pants back up.

Tommy rises from his knees.

The paperwork is there on his desk. A glowing recommendation for the flight training he's been denied twice already. Tommy's throat feels gummy. He can't remember when Turner stopped using condoms.

This isn't how it happened.

"Open your eyes, Kinard."

Tommy's eyes are already open.

---

"I'm proud of you, son," Gerrard says, and Tommy would very much prefer it if he was just dead, already.

The thing is - the thing is Gerrard looks genuinely pleased to see him - a rare enough thing in general, rarer still because this is the older Gerrard, the one he'd shut the fuck down in front of the very first chance he'd been given to tell him exactly how rank Tommy really thought he was.

"You know when to give up," Gerrard continues. And.

Oh.

Well.

Did he have a choice?

"Of course there's a choice. Make the right one. Keep on making it, Kinard."

---

Pain.

Christ. Tommy's had shrapnel under his skin for decades, now - he's been blown up, and shot, stabbed once, although that was a grazing blow, really.

This is so much worse. He feels like he's hemorrhaging, like his lungs are constricting, like -

"You're no son of mine."

Yeah. That'd been worse than the IED by far.

"Dad," he says, but the damage is done. His room is in shambles, which Tommy thinks is overkill - his dad'd probably found the Blueboy Tommy had tucked under the mattress a long while before he had swept all his football trophies off the shelf and emptied what looked like the entire contents of his wardrobe onto the floor.

On the plus side, it looks like he'd actually ripped his annotated copy of Picture of Dorian Gray in half, too, so small favors.

Only.

This hadn't happened. This was his nightmare scenario, the horrific dream he'd had every day for six years until he got out of basic and the nightmare scenarios turned physically violent, instead. If his dad had ever known an inkling of Tommy's inclinations he'd ignored it until the day Tommy made him stop ignoring it.

He'd never found his dirty magazine - just the one, because he'd been too fucking terrified of having a second one lying around somewhere.

Those words he'd reserved for something else entirely.

His dad had thrown a bitch fit when Tommy'd enlisted in the Army instead of the Marines, but those words - those were the words he'd gotten when the father he hadn't spoken to in three years learned that Tommy'd gone for turnouts instead of a gun and badge.

How do you emulate your father and rebel at the same time?

"Love you too, pops," Tommy says, and waits for the blink.

---

"Oh," Tommy says, and blinks open his eyes. Keith smiles back. It's a charming little grin, the first thing that had caught Tommy's eye across the bar three months before this night. And it's not - the room is all wrong, and it'd been midday, not evening, six hours between shifts and the first time their schedules lined up in weeks. Keith is all lithe muscle and smeared makeup, barely an hour out from his latest shoot.

"Don't say it," Keith says, and shifts his weight against sheets that aren't even the right color.

Tommy had wanted to say it, though. Thirty-odd years and he'd never had the courage to say it to anyone who might say it back in a meaningful way, but Keith -

They'd been all wrong for each other. Conflicting schedules, conflicting lifestyles, conflicting expectations. Keith would spend the next six months flying back for hookups, jet setting around the world on a campaign for Dolce & Gabanna, and then text Tommy to let him know he should get tested and never reach out again. Tommy would fly his chopper over the aftermath of a tsunami and wonder how it felt to drown.

The hands on his skin are wrong - rough with calluses, working hands. Tommy slides his thumb across the palm of one and thinks it feels like home.

"Don't go back to sleep," Keith says. There's something playing on Tommy's TV, which had never been in his room when he was with Keith.

That had been a recent development, actually, and technically it wasn't even his TV, but when Evan's lease had been up it had just made sense to the both of them to -

"Monster truck rallies, really?" Keith says, but the volume on the TV is too loud to make out what he says next. His mouth moves, and the words don't make it to Tommy's ears, and when he blinks again he thinks he can hear sirens.

---

The chicken barely moves as Bobby passes it off to Officer Grant, and there's some sort of significance to this moment, Tommy knows, but Sal is too busy making smooching faces at Tommy, his laugh deep and bracing, for Tommy to figure out what that significance is.

Eddie is staring at him from the passenger seat when he swings up into the rig.

"You need to come back," Eddie says, and that stupid fucking mustache twitches. "You stupid bastard, you have to come back."

---

"Just like that?" Tommy asks, staring at the transfer papers, and Nash looks at him like he knows too much.

"Have you changed your mind?"

Tommy's uses his middle and ring finger to pull the transfer papers closer to himself. Bobby hums, satisfied. "Good. I've got my eye on one of the new kids in training - hate to pass up on him."

Tommy shakes his head. "You still haven't replaced Sal. Who's even gonna train this new guy?"

Bobby's in his civvies. He's holding his rosary beads. Did he start out like that, or is this death knell just fucking with him now? "Not your time, yet," Bobby tells him, and Tommy doesn't -

---

"Just a little something I learned at the 118," Donato says with a grin, while Jerry eyes the blown up photo of Tommy and Evan kissing in the hospital lobby that's been hung up on the announcement board right next to Jill's kids butterbraid order sheet. One of the nurses must have taken it. Donato must have bribed one of the nurses to take it on the ride to the hospital. "We're, like, a base and a half away from wiener cousins, you know," she sing-songs, and Tommy tilts a raised brow her way.

He's still staring at the picture. When had Evan's hand made it that far into his turnout?

"I'm just saying, having been on the your end of those lips - congrats."

"Does it smell like smoke in here to you?" Jerry asks, and Tommy tries to swallow, tries to respond, but there's something stopping him from -

---

"Hey," Evan says. He's on nonna's rocking chair. The cicadas and the frogs are loud, against a backdrop of misty fields. It still smells like sundried tomatoes, but there's an antiseptic scent underneath it. There's a firebug perched on Evan's birthmark. "I'd, uh, really hate it if the last conversation we ever had was about my dad's weird obsession with you."

Tommy would also hate that. He goes to say so and can't speak. His chest is on fire, and his leg feels like it might give out if he takes a step forward. Evan's too far away, but he can still feel the calluses on Evan's fingers on his wrist, steady against his pulse.

"So, if you could just. If you could just open your eyes. Twitch your fingers. Um. I have a ring, and a speech, but I'd settle for like, you waking up to tell me you're leaving me for Andrew Garfield."

He's thinking of Andrew Lincoln, but Tommy can't get his throat to work to tell him so, or to remind him that Tommy actually hates that plot in Love Actually. Now Colin Firth...

The fingers slide from his pulse point to his ring finger. His leg screams. The cicadas drown out whatever Evan says next.

---

The lights in this room are too fucking bright. It smells of sterile metal and the cedarwood soap Evan uses. His hand is stuck to the bed.

"Tommy."

Tommy's pretty sure he's imagining the firefly perched on Buck's brow as he slides into his sight line, but the rest of him is real, and solid - his ridiculous fade and the curls askew atop his head and the slow blooming smile across his face, the hand sliding up his arm and the suddenly wet corners of his eyes.

"ey," he says, or tries to say - it comes out as croaky as the frogs that'd guided him through whatever strange dream he'd been having. He's losing the edges of it already, trying to grasp details even as they slip way. Evan's going to be so fucking disappointed they can't trade coma dream stories.

Evan hovers while a nurse looks him over, demanding ice chips from someone out in the hallway, and Tommy can't stop looking at him. He'd been dead. He'd been sure this was it, this time.

Tommy gets three ice chips down before he's allowed to speak.

"Why's the chicken important?" Which is - great. They've got him hooked up to good drugs. He'd meant to start off with the basics - I love you, and don't propose to me in a hospital room I know it's a Buckley special but I'd like to limit our significant moments here until they actually dedicate a wing in your honor. "Did Eddie shave the mustache while I was out?"

Jesus Christ.

Evan's laugh is wet, and his hand is wrapped around the cup of ice chips, instead of around Tommy's, which seem unnecessarily cruel.

"I love you," Evan says.

They say when you die your life flashes before your eyes. Evan informs him, eventually, that he'd crashed twice on the med-evac and been gone for a total of one minute eighteen seconds ("There's no significance to that. A coincidence," Tommy tells him. Evan doesn't fight him on it. Not then, anyway.) The flashing thing is still a crock of shit. Tommy's lost most of it before Evan gets around to 'you'.

Tommy finally gets Evan close enough to grasp his hand - slide his finger over the rough pad of his thumb, dig a nail into the forking lifeline in his palm. "Hey," he says, when Evan's grip goes tight, and tears well up in his eyes again. "Were you watching monster trucks while I was out?"

[irisinluv]

A Haunting Pt. 1

Lucian died watching the love of his life run away in the arms of another man. It was poetic, he thinks, that he had chosen all hallows eve to profess his love. After all, what greater terror could one encounter than the heartbreak he had just experienced?

After years of quiet longing, Lucian had finally done it. He had declared his feelings for his one true love. Except his dream come true turned into a nightmare when he discovered she not only did not return his feelings…. But was engaged to another. He discovered the later fact when the man in question arrived, and attempted to defend his beloveds honor. The resulting tussle led to Lucian bleeding from the back of his skull, eyes turning glassy as he gazed at his loves fleeing form until his last breath.

What was even more morbidly poetic, was that Lucian would find no peace in death. The veil is thin on all hallows eve, and it’s easy for restless spirits to get trapped on such a night. This is how Lucian found himself bound to the house, watching for generations as others came and went, ever the silent observer of the lives that went on around him. At least… until his second chance appears….

You couldn’t believe it. Your dream house just popped up on Zillow…. And it was in your price range! I mean in today’s economy? This has to be some kind of mistake! You thought this as you booked the showing, as you gushed over the original fireplaces, pocket doors, and general Victorian flair. You thought this as you got the house inspected and found the roof was in sound condition, the heating up to code, and generally very well maintained. You continued to think this as you signed the documents, and it wasn’t until you were standing in your very own foyer that you thought, maybe, this wasn’t a mistake.

Lucian was immediately fascinated by you… something about you called to him. And this was even before he realized you could see him. When you saw him on the stairs one morning, you two stared at each other for a long moment before he let out a hesitant, “hello?”

And that was all it took before you booked it out the front door in your pjs and slippers. You only came back because your car keys were still in your bag upstairs, and it would be quite a walk to get anywhere. Luckily for the both of you, Lucian was able to calm you down enough to hear him out. He has a gentle, soothing voice, and was able to coax you into at least letting him explain before you booked it again.

He explained that he had died on Halloween, therefore trapping his soul in the house, but that you are the first occupant to be able to perceive him in the many years since his passing. You’re not sure if it’s your bleeding heart, the iron grip capitalism and the housing market has on you, or the fact that the ghost in question was easy on the eyes…. But you decided to stay.

You admit, having a roommate was not what you expected when you bought your own house… but Lucian is by far the best roommate you’ve ever had, so you can’t say you mind. It turns out, he’s ever so eager to help with chores, and has been the reason the house has been kept in such pristine condition all these years. Plus, you’ve never had someone who understands you as well as Lucian. You wake up craving something, and he’s already in the kitchen prepping it. You have a bad day, and it’s like he can sense it, and it waiting to whisk you away for a relaxing evening.

The only real concern you have with your new living situation is that you no longer can walk around in your underwear…. But hey, when your roommate died in a full suit, tail coat and all…. Your “boo-ty” undies seem a little innapropriate anyways.

Weeks pass and you become closer with Lucian. In fact, he becomes one of your closest friends. In the weeks since you met him though, he never revealed the circumstances around his death.

One chilly night in early October, you were sitting around the fireplace with Lucian, when you decided to work up the courage to just ask him

“Lucian…. Can I ask you…” you hesitate for a moment but his gentle smile encourages you to go on, “how did you… die?”

He looks so forlorn, his dull silver eyes looking wistful, a sharp contrast to their normal piercing intensity. But he focuses back on you and begins to tell you the tale.

By the end, you have tears dripping down your cheeks, feeling the heartbreak and betrayal he conveyed with every word. He gently wiped your tears and tells you not to cry for him, but you can’t help it. How could such a kind man be stuck living the worst day of this life for all eternity? It doesn’t matter how long had passed… he was trapped.

You decided then and there…. You’ll help him. You watch enough movies, you just need to help him pass on. You bring up the idea to Lucian, asking him how you might help him find closure.

Little did you know, he has just the thing in mind…

Lil Halloween OC I’ve been thinking up! I’m kinda a mood poster, so as must as I wanna say I’ll conclude the series on actual Halloween night….. let’s just see where this takes us lol.

No tag list for this, yall scared me with the last series I had a tag list for, lmao. But stay tuned cuz I’m sure you can already guess…. But our ghost boi is gonna be quite the obsessive freak.

[licorice-tea]

Could I Be Loved By You?

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x reader, Roronoa Zoro x reader, Trafalgar Law x reader (separate)

Content: pure fluff<3

Word Count: 0.7k (total)

A/N: short head cannons are something i haven’t really written before, so i hope these are still good! im in class rn but i got bored so i just finished writing sanji’s lmao- please enjoy! :)

Part 2

What happens when you ask them; “Do you think we’re together in every universe?”

Vinsmoke Sanji - 0.2k

“Sanji, sweetheart-“

“Yes, love?”

You smile softly at him before continuing. “Do you think we’d be together in every universe?”

Sanji doesn't even take a moment to consider his answer- he simply blurts out; “Yes. Always.”

A giggle escapes your lips, which come to press a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know what other answer I could have expected from you.”

“I have more to say, if you'd like to hear it of course.”

“Mhm.” You nod.

Sanji clears his throat with a flourish, as if he's about to present some grandeur speech. “You are the love of my life- and of all my lives. Without getting to love you and be loved by you, I don’t think I’d be able to go on. So, naturally, we would be together in every universe. If not; it must be a world where I don’t exist.” Then, he takes your hands in his. “My love, I’d be yours in any universe you’d have me in.”

Your gentle smile grows into a full blown grin and, naturally, your lips are drawn to his.

Roronoa Zoro - 0.2k

“Do you think we’re together in every universe, Zoro?”

He shrugs, and starts fiddling with his swords. They lean against the same wall that the two of you are sitting on, his legs crossed around the spot where they hit the floor and yours pressed up against your chest.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re together here.”

You simply hum in response. It was unreasonable to except something poetic from him in the first place.

“But I hope we are.”

At this, your ears perk up. You turn to face him with wide eyes.

“I just mean… I hope I’ve done enough to deserve you in other lifetimes.”

The corners of your lips quirk up in a smile, and your arms encircle his much larger and more solid one. “You do more than enough in this one. Don’t worry about that.”

Zoro smiles too- not only at your words, but the tickle of your breath against his neck when you speak.

He really doesn’t care to imagine other universes- not when a mere moment with you is enough to take up all the space in his mind for hours on end- but Zoro will still always indulge your whims.

Trafalgar Law - 0.3k

“Law.”

He looks up from his book at your urgent tone. “Yes?”

“Do you think we’re together in every universe?”

He scoffs. “Yeah, of course.”

You tilt your head, silently urging him to continue. He doesn’t though- and he won’t indulge your curiosity without verbal reassurance. So, you give in.

“Why? I was expecting a full thesis with supporting evidence from you, smartass.”

Law shuts his book. “Ahem; Then, I believe that we would be together in every universe because… well, we’re together now. It’s the natural order of things, so why would that change in a supposed parallel universe?”

He’s such a nerd. You want to kiss him.

But instead, you just shrug. “Things happen.”

“Then I’d like to think that our relationship is still a constant.” He finishes off the topic with that. What reason could you have for wondering if you would still love each other in other universes, anyway? The answer is so glaringly obvious- to him, at least. He continues, this time teasing you. “Now, did you have a genuine question, or are we just proposing hypotheticals tonight?” Law smirks at you, but his cheeks are growing pinker by the second. It’s a futile attempt to cover how endearing he finds the thought.

With a satisfied shake of your head, you turn on your heel. “Nope! That was all.” And when you reach the hall outside his office, you poke your head back in. “Love you!”

Law pulls his hat down further, props his book up higher, and sinks into his chair. His voice is a quiet mumble as he returns the sentiment. “Love you too.” Which, he really does; he’s just a little shy.

[loveinhawkins]

Eddie is writing new song lyrics. Dustin discovers them on a random Saturday when they’re having pizza at Steve’s; Eddie asks Dustin to get one of his old campaign notes, and Dustin reaches for the wrong journal.

“Oh, not that one,” Eddie says with a shrug, but his eyes go a little thoughtful at the sight of it in Dustin’s hands. For some reason he pauses, and then he says, “You can still read it if you want, man.”

And Dustin stares at him, certain it’s a trick, because Eddie is notorious for ensuring that any potential Hellfire spoilers are kept under lock and key. But then he opens the book and reads.

And he gets it.

The lyrics are clever, because they hide under metaphor, apocalyptic imagery and all that stuff, but it clicks when Dustin gets to a verse about a tune echoing through a mall, ‘and it’s a song you know, you’ve known it all your life,’ and he’s suddenly thrown back to when he explained how Steve worked out the location of the Russian code, and Eddie was taking it all in, eyes as round as pennies.

Dustin sets down the notebook and says, “It’s about us.” It’s not a question.

Eddie nods. “Yeah.”

“You make it sound a lot more poetic than it actually was,” Dustin says.

But Eddie doesn’t tease back, just gives a contemplative little smile and says, “Really? I don’t think so.”

And that’s as far as they get in talking about it, because Eddie suddenly glances away, and his smile changes ever so slightly, gets softer around the edges. He turns back to Dustin and mouths, Look.

Dustin does. Steve has fallen asleep, curled up in the corner of the couch. His head is just barely resting in his hand, nodding forwards precariously every so often.

Dustin hears Eddie give an almost silent tsk, which is funny; he must have picked it up from Steve. He quietly goes over and moves Steve with a gentle touch until Steve’s head is resting comfortably against the cushions.

Steve murmurs wordlessly, eyes closed, then settles back into sleep.

Eddie catches Dustin’s eye; he mimes, Shh with a wink.

And something in the back of Dustin’s mind falls into place. …Huh.

There are days when Eddie has the journal and days when he doesn’t—he cycles through notebooks constantly, most of them having been started with a specific purpose before devolving into chaotic scribbles for anything and everything.

But this one stays consistent.

And whenever he does have the journal, he lets Dustin open it to any random page and read for as long as he likes.

It doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that a verse waxing lyrical about a protective soldier finally laying down his armour and resting is about… someone in particular.

And that makes Dustin wonder whether ‘and it’s a song you know, you’ve known it all your life’ isn’t just about a mechanical horse playing Daisy, Daisy. In fact, maybe it’s not about that at all.

He doesn’t mention anything, just says that Eddie’s writing is good when he hands the journal back over. It’s hardly a major compliment, except every time, Eddie says, “Thanks,” in an almost uncertain tone Dustin’s never heard before, like just hearing that’s really touched him.

And then one day Eddie loses the journal. Dustin doesn’t realise what’s wrong at first, just knows that Eddie is agitated, rooting around in the back of the van when Dustin sidles in for a ride home after school.

Dustin sees movement outside, and he looks up to see one of the substitute teachers who’s always got a stick up her ass standing at the school entrance. She’s holding Eddie’s journal.

“Uh, Eddie?”

“What?” Eddie snaps. Then he follows where Dustin is looking. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ.”

But he doesn’t let any of his irritation show when he hops out of the van and heads for the teacher.

Dustin knows Eddie talks a good game when it comes to sticking it to authority, all I’ll flip him the bird and so on, but there’s none of that arrogance now. Dustin can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can read the body language, the teacher’s tight-lipped smile, the way Eddie has crossed an arm over his chest self-defensively; he looks suddenly very young and unsure of himself.

The confrontation ends with the teacher handing Eddie the journal—more shoving it at him, really. Eddie gives her a curt nod before he heads back to the van, slamming the door shut as he gets inside.

He throws the journal in the back, and Dustin, who has carelessly destroyed countless textbooks, somehow finds himself saying, “Watch it, dude! You’ll rip it.”

Eddie doesn’t reply. He reverses out the parking lot and makes a turning for Dustin’s house, grinding his teeth.

The silence goes on until it’s unbearable, and Dustin tentatively asks, “What did she want?”

Eddie laughs, a nasty, thoroughly unconvincing sound. “Oh, ya know. Just returning lost property. Good fucking Samaritan.”

When he gets home, Dustin finds a note from his mom, that she’s over at his aunt’s and there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge. Dustin checks, and there’s easily enough for two.

He runs outside thankfully before Eddie has gone.

“You can’t expect me to be left in the kitchen unsupervised,” Dustin says. “I might burn it down.”

Eddie snorts. “From sticking pasta in the microwave?” Then he seems to hear himself and adds, “Yeah, somehow wouldn’t put it past you, Henderson.”

So they end up eating lasagne straight out of the dish together, playfully battling for the last slice like their forks are swords.

“What did she really want?” Dustin asks eventually. He can’t help but notice that Eddie had brought the journal in with him, keeps tapping his finger on the cover uneasily.

Eddie sighs, rubs a hand down his face. He nods down at the journal. “I’d left it in a classroom that some middle schoolers use for Drama Club. Apparently there’s some concerns about the appropriateness of—”

“That’s bullshit!” Dustin says. “Why would she even—”

“Dustin,” Eddie says very quietly. He closes his eyes. “You know why.”

And Dustin does. That’s why he’s so damn angry.

Because some of the lyrics (not all, but some), are love songs. And a good number of those are unambiguously from the point of view of a boy, speaking to another boy.

Eddie sighs again, presses a thumb into the inner corner of one eye. It looks like he’s warding off a headache. Dustin knows that he isn’t.

He could say I don’t care that you’re gay, but that doesn’t sound quite right; it isn’t about not caring, it’s about…

“You know I like you, right?” Dustin says.

Eddie gives a choked little laugh. He drops his hand, opens his eyes and says, with a faint smile, “No shit? I guessed you wouldn’t share lasagne with your mortal enemy.”

“True,” Dustin concedes. He presses on. “But I meant, like…” He bats Eddie’s hand away from the journal so he can tap it instead. “Like this. It’s all a part of you, and you’re really cool, so that means—like, it’s all cool. It makes you, you. You know?”

For a long moment, Eddie just stares at him. “You said you so many times, I don’t think it’s a word anymore,” he says, but he’s blinking a lot, and Dustin sees his lips quiver. “Um. Thanks.”

He still sounds sad which absolutely will not stand. Dustin gives him a few seconds of reprieve, before he launches at him with a karate style chopping motion.

Eddie chuckles. “You little shit!”

And they tussle until, breathlessly laughing, they’re both stretched out on the couch on their backs, side-by-side.

“You should let Steve read some,” Dustin suggests.

Eddie’s laughter trails off. “Mm,” he says, non-committal.

“I mean it!” Dustin recalls a verse he’d read only a couple of days ago, one that wasn’t dressed up in symbolism.

And you want to tell him you’re enough just like this darling, you always have been

“I don’t know,” Eddie says. “So far that stuff’s had an audience of one, and I think he might be a bit,” Eddie gestures with his thumb and forefinger, “biased. Being family and all.”

Dustin smiles, feels a proud little glow in his chest. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve seen Steve hiding love poetry books. Like he underlines that shit. It’s embarrassing.”

Eddie cackles. “Well. Some of my shit’s embarrassing so…”

Dustin claps his shoulder gravely. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna be the one to say it.”

Eddie pushes him nearly right off the couch; he pulls him back before he can fall. “Oh, fuck you.”

They’re quiet for a bit, and then Dustin suggests a movie, and when he’s putting the VHS in, he catches Eddie watching him with shiny eyes.

“Hey,” Eddie says. He smiles. “I love you.”

And God, it’s so much better hearing those words like this, with Eddie in front of him, safe and whole.

And Dustin doesn’t need to rush his reply this time. He picks up the journal and passes it to Eddie, careful of the binding.

“I love you, too,” he says, and the proud glow in his chest feels even stronger. “Now get writing, Shakespeare.”

[undiscovered-horizon]

Rainy Season - Morpheus x Reader

[Spoilers for Brief Lives I guess?]

[MASTERLIST] | [Sandman-inspired playlist]

SUMMARY: Fed up with Dream's stubborn and at times childish attitude, you leave Dreaming. But when Morpheus's sorrow makes itself known, Matthew has to fetch you before the kingdom completely floods.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.7k

It’s a tumultuous morning in the Dreaming. Even if none of the dreams and nightmares are privy to the ongoing feud, they know something is wrong. It’s as though the air in the kingdom, the marrow of their bones, turned bitter last night. Their skin is crawling but the sun is shining as it did yesterday. They birds chirp the same song they had throughout centuries. And yet, against their better judgment, something is terribly out of place.

To be honest, you don’t even remember how all of this started but the damage is already done.

A frustrated scream ripples through your chest, "The world doesn't revolve around you!" You're fuming. There's only so much patience one person can hold and recently, Morpheus had proven himself exceptional at trying to reach its limit until he, unfortunately, succeeded today. "For someone who's supposed to know every thought ever entertained, you sure can not look past the tip of your own nose."

His eyes, cold and hurt, stare at you in utter confusion. Dark eyebrows furrow. "I do not know what you're expecting of me,” he states in an angry voice. It appears that he really does not understand the reason for your outrage. "I am not human, I am unable to look at the world as you do."

Of course he says that, you think to yourself. It seems to be his favorite line of defense. Dream of the Endless is a strange, eldritch creature. He doesn’t comprehend the world like a mortal does and, or some reason, he treats this fact of nature as an excuse not to try. At first, you thought it charming - to see the universe through the eyes of a creature you can barely begin to understand. Who wouldn’t? The strange wonder of the man in front of you made you seek his company again and again. Truthfully, there’s something poetic about it: the reason you’ve come back to him so many times might be the very reason you bid him farewell. For good.

"Good news, then: you don't need a cardiovascular system to exercise empathy.” Your sarcastic tone has an effect on Morpheus. He frowns, hurt by your words, only to grow angry that he’s so affected. Dream’s pride makes him want to not be influenced by your bitterness. Alas, he cares more than he’s willing to admit. "Not everything is about you, Morpheus, and until you realize that, I don't think we've got more to talk about. Goodbye."

Even after you shut the door behind you, the word echoes through the castle. The stone walls seem to whisper it back to Morpheus, rubbing the salt in his wound. How strange it is - to be haunted by somebody still alive. To be the king of dreams and feel hopeless. It would be funny if it didn’t make him want to be unmade.

A thunder rolls. A blue lightning splits the sky in two. Despite the lovely weather in the morning, it starts to rain in the Dreaming.

The storm doesn’t stop after a few hours nor does it cease after a few days. Black clouds cover the sky as they did four days ago. The only change is in the water level: the kingdom is flooded. When everyone thought the rain is bound to stop soon, no one minded much the rising tide. However, when the situation only worsened with no evidence that it’s going to improve in the near future, worried voices started to reach Lucienne. If the storm doesn’t cease in the next day or two, some parts of the Dreaming will share the fate of Atlantis.

If Morpheus knew he was being observed, he didn’t show it. Perhaps he doesn’t feel up for another confrontation. In any event, he remains still, standing against the balcony reiling, as his friends begin plotting:

"How is he?" Matthew whispers to Lucienne. "Has he moved from there at all? Ate something? Said anything?"

"That's three 'no's, I'm afraid,” she answers slowly. The librarian lets out a heavy sigh. "He's just dramatically standing there, wallowing in pity."

Dream really is 'just standing there’. Drenched. His hair and clothes are stuck to his pasty skin. It can’t be comfortable but it would appear that matters other than cosiness are on his mind at the moment. For the past few days, ever since you left, he hasn’t moved even a quarter of an inch. Truthfully, he looks about as alive as a marble statue, if monuments could appear excruciatingly miserable.

"Should we do something?" The raven continues. What he really wants to ask is 'What should we do?’ but Lucienne seems to catch the undertone of his words nonetheless.

"You could ask her to come back but no guarantee she'll want to,” she thinks out loud. "They've fought before but this time she looked really defeated."

Morpheus, although doesn’t need to breathe, sighs loudly. As he exhales, another lightning tears the sky apart.

"Alright, I'll try to convince her to talk to him again,” Matthew states. His worried voice makes him sound determined to have the two of you reconcile. "Hopefully, we'll be back before you need a canoe."

Lucienne doesn’t respond. As much as she doesn’t want to admit to her pessimism, she knows better than to have much hope in the matter of Dream’s love life.

Repetitive tapping on the window diverts your attention from the dishes you were washing. Seeing the black bird sitting on the outside windowsill, you quickly wipe your hands against the dishrag and jog to open the window.

"Matthew?" you ask in surprise.

He wastes no time pleading his case in a plaintive tone. "You gotta go back to him. Everything's gone to shit."

You furrow your eyebrows. Leaning against the wall, you cross your arms on your chest. "What do you mean?"

The raven hops closer to you. "It's been pouring nonstop since you left. He's just standing there, soaking wet and he won't talk to anyone."

It might sound sadistic but it’s a nice thought that he’s grieving your departure so severely. For what it’s worth, it means he’s not as blase as he likes to appear. Perhaps, Morpheus cares about you more than you’re even aware of.

"How bad is it?" you ask warily.

"How bad?!" Matthew screeches. "The House of Mysteries is so flooded, Abel is fishing."

It sounds like 'bad' is nothing more than an elegant euphemism. In his heartache, Morpheus is willing to let Dreaming decay and fall into partial ruin. If your accusation had been correct and Dream of the Endless truly is unable to care about anyone but himself, such a disaster would never have happened. A selfish ruler wouldn’t let his realm turn to rubble because of a broken heart. And if you’re more important than what he calls home, then…

"I'm assuming that's not a usual feature,” you give the raven a half-hearted response. The thoughts inside your head are in a painful turmoil, trying to lift the truth out of the indications.

"Yeah," he answers sarcastically.

Matthew glares at you in anticipation. Perplexed, you rub your arm without thinking much about it. Right, it's the mature and responsible thing to do but at the same time, why do you have to be the one to cave in every time you two fall out? If Morpheus cares for you as much as his dramatic show of pain and grief would suggest, shouldn’t it be him travelling across world and realms to reach you?

The raven cocks his head. Something about the look in his eyes changes as though his frustration has faded away or grown into desperation if not powerlessness. He’s tired and out of options.

"Alright, let's go," you say with a sigh. "But no promises. I still have pride and self-respect and he's still a stubborn..." you take a deep breath, "nevermind. Let's just go."

Miserable.

That's the only word that comes to your mind as you stare at him from afar. One would think that an entity of his sort can not be or look miserable but maybe this world is even stranger than you've thought. His clothes are drenched to the point of being see-through. Dark, once-tussled hair is now stuck to his face and neck. Dream's body looks even more stringy as his head is hanging low between his shoulders.

The rain is almost deafening. Your cautious, hesitant footsteps shouldn't be audible and yet Morpheus turns around to look at you when you come closer.

"I didn't think you'd come back," he says in a low, groggy voice. Dream's eyes, once blue and cold, are now red and unsettlingly vacant. Has he been crying? "What do you want?"

You take a deep breath. It was vain to expect him to welcome you with open arms. An eldritch being with a bruised ego and a broken heart could never make for a hospitable host. Even to those whom he misses the most.

"I still stand by what I said, it's just..." you hang your voice for a moment to find the proper words. Seeing him so broken by your fight makes some part of you want to renounce everything that lead to your argument. Anything just for him to be alright again. But the more reasonable side of you knows that such an action would only hurt both of you in the long run. "I admit, I could have said it in a more civilized way. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that harshness."

His gaze falls and Morpheus looks away for a moment.

Whether he's doing it consciously or not, the rainstorm ceases. Black clouds slowly drift away to uncover a clear, blue sky. Somewhere in the West, if there are cardinal directions in Dreaming, the sun is beginning to set. Despite the significant improvement, the air remains cold. A harsh wind nips at your drenched form. In a vain attempt to shield yourself from the discomfort of the weather, you put your arms around your torso. Still, your body trembles.

"Perhaps I should have put more effort into understanding your concern. I'm..." he turns silent for a second. His lips are apart but no sound is coming out of his mouth. Dream's hurt gaze meets yours. "Sorry," he whispers finally. Despite his voice being hardly audible, the weight of his confession is almost deafening.

"There's one more thing, Morpheus."

Those sad blue eyes stare at you in anticipation. The misery on his face makes you think that he's expecting to have his heart broken again, instead of mended.

A couple of grey clouds reappear above your heads. Oh no.

"I'm tired of always being the one to reach out," you confess. His gaze is too intense and you quickly look away from him. There's much on his mind. "No matter who's right or wrong, it's me who bridges the gap between us. Even if that angers me, I still do it. Every time. And I don't know what that says about me."

Your body trembles again but this time it doesn't go unnoticed by Morpheus. He, quite literally, pulls a coat out of thin air. Dream's movements are almost fearful as he cautiously places the garment around your shoulders.

"Perhaps in certain aspects, you are better than me," he answers quietly while fixing the coat to fit you better.

You know you're pushing your luck when you look at him again and ask a not-so-innocent question:

"You mean a 'better person'?"

"I'm not-" He bites his tongue just in time. Morpheus is not a person. Both of you are perfectly aware of it. But it was the mention of this very fact that had brought such disastrous rain to Dreaming. "Yes. A better person."

There's not much conviction in his words but there is, however, a silent promise to find it.

______

Now that I’m in mourning, I thought it fitting to finish reading "Brief Lives" and the bittersweetness of it felt all the more pronounced. Reading it prompted me to rewatch the show and long story short I’m kind of back in my Sandman feels.