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selfless-solipsist · 21 days ago

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°˖✧ The Taste Of Love ✧˖° [Wander]

「 ✦ “It’s okay, darlin’. I’ll take care of ya, just like always.” ✦ 」

╰┈➤ Wander x Reader ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

> WARNING: YANDERE WANDER (Wandere? lol), which means- GORE. Like if you don't like blood then sorry. > Kinda a way to promote my long-fic "Honeyed Confessions" for this little cinnamon roll. Not entirely though, it's not connected that much. Just a little... taste of what it's like :)

The first time you met Wander, you thought this is what Lord Hater was losing his mind over?

Hater had ranted for hours—no, days—about a "fuzzy orange nightmare," so when a tangerine, wide-eyed little nomad showed up on your newly conquered moon, strumming his banjo with all the unbothered confidence of someone walking into a garden party, you honestly expected more. Maybe a hulking, indestructible titan of positivity. Instead, you got a pocket-sized annoyance with a hat that looked like it had seen better centuries.

Of course, he immediately began pestering you. "Hey there, darlin'! Heard you were takin' over galaxies a̷̢̖̭̲͝ǵ̵̪̠͆̑à̵̟͇̻̂i̴̧̧̺͋͘ͅn̵̡͖͍̝̎͗! Thought I'd pop in and see how you were doin'!"

The audacity. You were in the middle of declaring yourself Supreme Sovereign of the Triangulum Cluster when he waltzed up and interrupted you, offering you a handmade bracelet made of daisies like you weren’t actively overthrowing governments. The nerve. But he was cheerful, determined, and so wildly undeterred by your threats of planetary obliteration that you couldn’t help but be intrigued. Lord Hater’s whining made sense now—this little nomad wasn’t just annoying; he was relentless.

Over the next year, Wander became your shadow.

Every invasion, every diabolical plan, every dramatic monologue—there he was, a pint-sized pest armed with relentless optimism, singing, and a knack for undoing months of careful scheming with a smile. At first, you dismissed him as a thorn in your side. Then you started looking forward to the chaos he brought.

And then… he started flirting.

Not subtle, charming flirting either—Wander-style flirting. The kind where he held your hand mid-battle and asked if you would like to share a Blorpberry pie. Which ended up with you not being able to conquer a planet. The kind where he stared into your eyes and said, "You’re prettier than a triple rainbow over a Blubble-bird migration, and those are real rare!" He did it with so much sincerity, it was almost disarming. Almost. But what got to you most wasn’t his shamelessness—it was his earnestness. He didn’t just like you; he was enchanted. Like you were the best thing he had ever seen, even when you were cackling over some evil plan that involved blowing up half a moon. He didn’t see you as the villain everyone else did.

He saw you—and that was infuriating.

And, embarrassingly, flattering.

By the time you gave in, you had convinced yourself it was purely out of curiosity. How bad could it be, really? You would spend a few weeks entertaining his ridiculous crush, get bored, and move on. You were wrong. So, so wrong.

The moment you agreed to "try this thing out," Wander’s enthusiasm skyrocketed. He wasn’t just cheerful; he was radiant. He sang serenades outside your ship (beautifully), cooked you meals (decently), and knitted you scarves you absolutely didn’t need (weirdly well). It was adorable. It was overwhelming. It was also the beginning of your downfall. Because somewhere along the way, Wander’s kindness started… shifting. At first, it was little things. He began showing up before you even thought about needing him, handing you solutions to problems you didn’t know you had. Then it was the way he had gently steer you away from battles that got too messy, insisting you "take a breather" while he cleaned up the aftermath on your body.

When you asked him why he was doing so much, he just smiled that wide, too-bright smile and said, "Well, you take care of conquerin’, so I take care of you! That’s how love works, right?"

At first, it was sweet. Then it became unnerving. Wander wasn’t jealous or violent—no, no, no, that would have been too normal in a weird sense. He was just… too much. He didn’t stop at helping; he took over. The very independence that made you a successful villain was slowly being replaced by a safety net of his making. He didn’t see it as control, though—oh no. In Wander’s mind, he was doing what he did best: helping.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that, somewhere deep down, the selfless little nomad had finally found something he wanted—and he had no idea how to handle it.

"Y’know," he said one night, handing you a mug of cocoa you didn’t ask for, "I used to think wanderin’ was the best thing ever. But now I think you’re the best thing ever. So, I figured… maybe I could just stay here! Forever! Doesn’t that sound nice?"

You stared at him, the cocoa in your hands growing cold. "Forever?"

"Yup!" He beamed. "That way I can make sure you’re always happy! Always safe!"

Safe? You were a galactic tyrant! You didn’t need safe; you needed a challenge, some chaos, a little bit of—

But before you could protest, Wander leaned in, his wide eyes practically sparkling. "Don’t worry, sugarplum. I’ll take care of everything. You just keep bein’ you."

You weren’t sure whether to be flattered, terrified, or both. Probably both.

Wander moving into your spaceship was equal parts baffling, adorable, and downright concerning. He hadn’t even asked. One day, he was pestering you during a routine planetary takeover, the next he was strumming his banjo in your quarters, wearing a pink apron with the words "Kiss The Fuzzball" embroidered in loopy cursive. Something about it seemed familiar, but you couldn't quite place it. The apron itself was spotless, except for a small, hand-stitched note in the corner that read, "Don’t forget me."

It was a harmless enough addition at first glance, but something about it gnawed at the back of your mind. Wander never mentioned it, of course, preferring to fuss over you like a housewife straight out of an unhinged sitcom. Breakfast? He made it. Coffee? Ready before you asked. Galactic maps? Organized by "Most Conquerable" and "Most In Need of Love." He claimed he was still helping people across the universe, but… you had your doubts. Every time you suggested he take a break and go do some of his famed do-gooding, his grin would stretch just a little too wide. "Oh, I’ll get around to it, sugarplum! But right now, I gotta take care of you!"

The way he said it made your skin crawl—and not in the fun, adrenaline-fueled way you liked.

The day you dislocated your shoulder was one for the books. The plan had been simple: infiltrate an enemy’s stronghold, sow chaos, and leave before they realized their defense systems were hacked. Of course, things never stayed simple when Wander was around. You were mid-escape, sprinting through a narrow corridor with explosions blooming behind you like the universe’s most violent fireworks display, when a blast threw you against the wall. The impact popped your shoulder out of its socket with a sickening crunch.

"Aw, shoot," you hissed as you got back onto the spaceship, cradling your limp arm as Wander skidded to your side when you slid against the wall of the corridor, his ever-present smile plastered across his face.

"Oh no! Are you okay?!" His concern sounded genuine, but that damn grin didn’t falter, even as he knelt beside you. "Let me take a look!"

"Wander, it’s—" Before you could finish, his small, furry hands gripped your arm with a gentleness that belied the iron strength beneath them. He hummed softly, like he was tuning his banjo, then—

SNAP!

You screamed as he shoved the joint back into place with a horrifying crack. The pain was blinding, white-hot, and sharp enough to make your vision blur. Through it all, Wander just smiled, his eyes sparkling like he had just handed you a bouquet of daisies instead of realigning your bones with his bare hands.

"All better!" he chirped, wiping his hands on his apron like he had just finished baking a pie.

"Are you insane?!" you snarled, clutching your now-functional arm. "You could’ve—"

And then he noticed the blood.

It was a trickle, barely more than a smear running down your forearm from a shallow scrape. But to him, it might as well have been a geyser. His gaze locked onto the crimson trail, pupils dilating as he leaned in closer. "Oh no, you’re bleedin’! That’s no good…" Before you could stop him, he swiped a finger through the injury, bringing the substance to his lips with the curiosity of someone sampling jam at a farmer’s market. The moment it touched his tongue, his expression shifted. For a split second, the smile dropped. His eyes fluttered shut, his body shuddering as though he had just tasted the most decadent dessert in the galaxy. Then, the smile returned—wider, brighter, and infinitely more unsettling.

"It tastes like… love," he murmured, almost dreamily, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stared at him, your pulse pounding in your ears. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Wander’s eyes snapped back open, glowing with an intensity that made your stomach c̴̛̻̳͕͋̐͋̕͝h̶̻̫̪̟̃̂͂̏͒̐́̈́ú̵̻̜̂̒̂̀̕̕͜͠r̷̬̗̤̐n̷͙͎̭̫̼̈́́. "Nothing! Don’t you worry your pretty little head, sweetheart!" He sprang to his feet, practically vibrating with energy. "Let’s get ya patched up!"

That night, he was different. He still hummed as he worked, still brought you tea, still clung to you like the universe itself might crumble if he let go. But there was something sharper about him now, something that buzzed just beneath the surface. His smile hadn’t dimmed, but it felt… hungrier. And when you caught him glancing at your bandaged arm with a faraway look in his eyes, you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever line had been crossed today, there was no going back.

The days after the "blood-tasting incident," as you had dubbed it in your mind, were… unnervingly peaceful. Wander didn’t bring it up again, and aside from his usual overzealous doting, everything seemed normal. Almost too normal, like the eerie calm before a star implodes.

He still wore that pink apron and still filled your quarters with affection so saccharine it could melt steel beams. But sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, his expression would slip. It was quick, like a crack in a porcelain mask, but you noticed. His smile would falter, his eyes would darken, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of something else. Something raw. Something broken. You chalked it up to Wander being… well, Wander. He was eccentric on the best of days, after all. But there was something about that apron—specifically the stitched don’t forget me—that kept gnawing at you.

It wasn’t until a few nights later, when you woke to find him gone, that things really started spiraling. Normally, Wander wouldn’t leave your side for more than a few minutes, not without cheerfully announcing his every move. But this time? Silence.

You found him in the corner of the common area, sitting cross-legged with his banjo resting on his lap. The room was dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of a nearby control panel. Wander wasn’t playing; he was just… staring. At first, you thought he was lost in thought. Then you realized he wasn’t staring at the banjo—he was staring through it, like it wasn’t really there.

"Hey," you called softly, stepping closer. "You okay?"

He didn’t move.

"Didja know," he murmured, voice low and almost shaky, "that every star’s got a lifespan? They burn bright and beautiful for so long, and then… they just fade away."

You stopped in your tracks, an uneasy chill creeping up your spine. "Wander… what’s this about?"

Finally, he looked at you, and the smile he gave you wasn’t his usual sunshine-and-rainbows grin. It was small, fragile, like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. "It’s just… sometimes, I think about how lucky I am to have you. To still have you. And I get scared, ‘cause… what if this all just… goes away?"

"Why would it go away?" you asked, frowning. "You’re being weird."

He laughed, but it was hollow. "I guess I’m just a lil’ overthinker, huh?" He strummed his banjo absently, the discordant note echoing in the quiet room. "But… y’ever get that feelin’, like somethin’s missin’? Or like you’re missin’ somethin’ you didn’t even know you had?"

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. The nomad had always been strange, but this… this was different. "Wander, if you’re trying to tell me something, just say it."

His eyes met yours again, and for a moment, the weight behind them was almost unbearable. Then, like flipping a switch, his usual grin returned, blinding and overly bright. "Nah, it’s nothin’! Just me bein’ silly, that’s all. Now c’mon, darlin', let’s get you back to bed!"

But as the days turned into weeks, the cracks in Wander’s cheerful facade only grew deeper. You started noticing little things. The way his hands trembled when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his gaze lingered on you, not with adoration, but with a quiet desperation. And then there were the whispers.

Sometimes, late at night, you would wake to the sound of him muttering to himself. His words were barely audible, but you caught fragments. "̶N̷o̷t̷ ̵a̴g̷a̶i̶n̵…̸ ̸c̶a̵n̷’̷t̵ ̴l̶o̸s̴e̸ ̴‘̸e̵m̴…̶ ̴n̵o̷t̶ ̴f̵a̶i̵r̷…̷"̴

It wasn’t until you found the sketches that you realized just how far down the rabbit hole he had gone.

You had stumbled across them accidentally, tucked away in a hidden compartment of his banjo case. Dozens of drawings, each one meticulously detailed, depicting… you. You smiling. You laughing. You crying. You standing beside him, holding his hand. But then, the later sketches—ones where you were with someone else. Lord Hater. Commander Peepers. Even Sylvia. And in every one of those later sketches, Wander was in the background, watching. Always watching.

À̵̞̦̮̘͕̭̞̾ͅl̶̨̪̦̯͂͘ẃ̶̡̃̊͂̿̎̕ͅa̶̫͔̫͔͒͊y̸̢̖̺̰͓͈̑͋̈̋̽͛̋͝ͅs̸̜̬͍̊̍̚ͅ ̴̢̩̎͌͛͋͠ẅ̸̖̇͊̆̃͐̈͜ͅͅa̶̗̗̹̘̤̔̃̉í̸̳̺̰͕̻̓̐́̓̐̚ţ̶͚̝͉͕̳̎̔͠i̵͖̳̺͎̮͗ṉ̶̝̥͂̈́͆g̷͇͚̞̎.̶͕́͂͆͗̕̚̕

The final page wasn’t a drawing—it was words. Scrawled over and over again in shaky handwriting:

̶͎̪͉̈͒̑̒"̸͖̩̺̪́̄͝D̵̛̤͍͈̒͘o̸̡͕͐̒̽̌ň̴̩’̷͓̗̇̐͝t̶̢̤̋͘ ̷̛̘̗̜̭̑͂f̷̮̻͌̓̾ȍ̶͚̅̏̈́ṟ̵̭̭̼͂̔͂͠ǵ̵̹͔e̶͎̩̍ţ̷̦͆̇́ ̸̪̣͈̒ͅm̴̨͍̼̌̓é̴͔̖͛͜͝.̵̪̈́̔̐ ̴̖̉̈̈́̈́D̴̬͉̝̎ơ̵̯̈́͠n̷̜͍̈́̾͘’̴̯̹̠̦͐́ṱ̴̳̺̖́̉͊ ̵̲̝̆̀f̶͖͎͍̞̈̃͝͝o̵̺͚̳͠r̸̠̳͌͊͒̾ĝ̸̘̃͠e̵͕͖̎ţ̶͖̕ ̷̯̩͗̾̇̾m̴̘̮̻̮̏́e̷̟͐̑.̸͇̤̓̒̋ ̷̧͇̇̏̍͆Ḑ̷͎̝̺͘õ̷̼̳n̷͉͊́’̶̦͕͐͛t̸̺̯̜͝ ̶̥̜̳̺͘f̸̤̗̟̲͂̒͠͝o̷̡̧̫͕̒r̶͈̒g̸͎̿̿̿ë̷̼͍́̔̓͝t̷̲̮͙̀ ̴̲̬͆͠ṃ̷̄̓ͅê̵͍͈͂͘͝.̶̳̺̗͎̈͗͘"̸͖̝̲͋̓̑͐͜

That night, as Wander brought you dinner with his usual too-wide smile, you couldn’t stop staring at him. At his bright eyes, his cheerful demeanor, his pink apron. At the way his hand lingered on your shoulder just a little too long.

And for the first time, you wondered what it was like inside his head. If, maybe, the Wander you thought you knew wasn’t the one who looked at you now.

One day, it had been… intense. His usual tender enthusiasm had taken on a fevered edge, as if he was trying to etch every moment into his memory. He had clung to you like you were a lifeline, whispering sweet nothings between kisses, hands wandering with a desperation that was almost palpable. It wasn’t unusual for him to be affectionate, but tonight? Tonight felt different. You had fallen asleep wrapped in his arms, lulled by his soft humming. For a brief, fleeting moment, everything felt perfect.

And then you woke up to the sharp, searing pain of a knife plunging into your stomach.

Your eyes shot open, a scream tearing from your throat as your body spasmed. Wander sat atop you, his face bathed in shadows but still illuminated by that unyielding smile. His hat was askew, his eyes wide with an unsettling mix of adoration and mania.

“Oh, darlin',” he cooed, voice soft and syrupy as he twisted the blade slightly. The pain was indescribable, radiating through your entire body like fire. “You woke up! I was hopin’ you wouldn’t just yet, but I guess this makes it more special, huh?”

“What—what the hell are you doing?!” you choked out, blood bubbling up your throat as you tried to move. His free hand pressed firmly on your chest, pinning you down with surprising strength.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay! It’s all okay,” he assured, his tone dripping with sweetness as if he were comforting a child. “I just… I needed this. Needed you.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against your face. “This is the only time I get to keep you all to myself, y’know? Gotta make it count.” You tried to fight, to shove him off, but your strength was waning fast. Blood pooled around you, soaking into the sheets, the metallic scent thick in the air. Wander’s fingers brushed over your face, wiping away the tears you hadn’t realized were falling. “It’s okay, darlin’. I’ll take care of ya, just like always,” he whispered, his smile unwavering as he pulled the knife out with a sickeningschlick. Blood gushed from the wound, and you cried out, the pain nearly blinding.

And then he did something that made your stomach churn in a way that had nothing to do with the gaping hole he had just carved into it—he dipped his fingers into the wound.

You screamed again, the sensation of his hands inside you more horrifying than the pain itself. Wander hummed softly, his expression one of serene fascination as he explored, his fingers brushing against things they had no business touching. “So warm,” he murmured, his voice almost dreamy. “So real.” He pulled his hand out, slick with your blood, and licked it clean with a satisfied hum. “Tastes like love,” he said, just like he had before, but this time there was something almost reverent in his tone.

You gagged, your body convulsing weakly as you tried to push him away, but he simply grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head with one bloodied hand. “Ah-ah, none of that now,” he chided gently. “Just let me take care of you.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your lips, smearing your blood across your face in the process. His tongue darted out, licking the corner of your mouth where a trickle of blood had escaped. “Mmm. Perfect.”

“Wander,” you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please… stop…”

His smile faltered for the briefest moment, a flicker of something almost like sadness passing through his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual cheerfulness. “Oh, sweetie-pie, I wish I could. But you’ll forget me soon, won’t ya? You always do. And I can’t… I can’t let this time end without somethin’ special to remember it by.” He plunged his hands back into the wound, this time deeper, and you screamed until your throat was raw. He didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in his macabre fascination. “Every part of you is just so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice trembling with awe.

“I wanna remember all of it. Forever.”

His fuzzy hands trembled inside you, coated in warmth that was beginning to turn sticky as your blood seeped into the sheets. He hummed a familiar tune, some cheerful melody that sounded grotesquely out of place given the situation, like a lullaby sung over the screams of the damned. His fingers brushed against something deep within, and your body spasmed violently in response. “Careful there, sugarplum,” he said softly, his wide grin never faltering. “Don’t wanna hurt yourself now, do ya?”

“You’re—killing me,” you rasped, your voice weak and trembling. You weren’t sure how you were still alive. Maybe sheer spite. Maybe because he hadn’t quite hit anything vital. Yet.

“Oh, don’t say that!” Wander exclaimed, his face a mask of hurt that somehow still carried that ever-present smile. “You’re fine! See? Still talkin’, still kickin’—well, metaphorically, at least. I’m takin’ real good care of ya, promise.” You coughed, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth as he withdrew his hands. He held them up to the dim light, marveling at the way the red substance gleamed on his fur. “Y’know,” he began, licking a stray drop from his knuckle with a dreamy expression, “I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about what you’ll be next time.”

His words were like static in your brain. “W-What?” you managed to choke out, your vision blurring at the edges.

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty lil’ head about it,” he said, waving a hand dismissively before returning it to press against your wound, as if to keep you grounded. “But it’s just so excitin’, thinkin’ ‘bout all the possibilities!”

He leaned closer, his wide, glittering eyes locking onto yours with unnerving intensity. “Will you be a villain again, like now? Makin’ big ol’ speeches, conquerin’ galaxies, strikin’ fear into the hearts of everyone? Or maybe you’ll go smaller next time. A lil’ nobody who means so much to me and no one else. Isn’t that just... romantic?” Your body twitched involuntarily, and you could barely manage to breathe through the haze of pain. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he didn’t care. “Oh! Or maybe—maybe you’ll go back to bein’ that cashier at Blarpee’s! Remember that? When I was your boyfriend and we spent our days makin’ smoothies and our nights stargazin’? That was so fun!” His laughter was light and airy, like he was reminiscing about a fond childhood memory rather than recounting some twisted fantasy.

“Wander,” you croaked, your voice barely audible over his musings, “you’re… insane.”

“Aw, now don’t be like that, darlin’,” he said, tilting his head in a way that was almost childlike. “You always say that, but I think it’s just ‘cause you don’t see it yet. See, this is all part of somethin’ bigger—we’re part of somethin’ bigger.”

His hand returned to your stomach, fingers probing the wound with a gentleness that somehow made it worse. You tried to scream, but your voice was barely more than a whimper now. “And it’s okay if you don’t understand right now,” he continued, his tone soothing, like he was consoling a child. “You’ll figure it out eventually. You always do.” Blood loss was making you delirious, and his words were beginning to blur together in your mind. “You’ll see,” he said, leaning down to press a soft, blood-stained kiss to your forehead. “Next time, I’ll make sure you remember. I’ll make sure you don’t forget me. After all, I'm still waitin' for ya, sugar.”

Wander’s smile never wavered, even as his actions became increasingly grotesque. His bloodstained fingers glided over your exposed skin, smearing red trails in patterns that looked almost deliberate, as though he were painting a masterpiece. You could feel him drawing a number. W̷a̴s̵ ̷t̸h̸a̵t̵.̸.̶.̵ ̶4̵2̴4̷.̶.̴.̵ ̷p̸l̴u̸s̸ ̵o̷n̸e̵?̸ ̵W̴h̴y̴?̵ ̵The pressure in your stomach grew unbearable as he pressed down gently on the edges of the wound, cooing soft reassurances. “You’re doin’ so good, sugarplum,” he whispered, his voice warm and syrupy, a stark contrast to the horrifying reality of what he was doing. “So strong, so brave. I’m so proud of ya.”

You gasped, your breath hitching as the pain flared white-hot. Blood bubbled up from your lips, and you coughed weakly, the taste thick and metallic. His eyes lit up at the sight, and he leaned closer, almost brushing your nose.

“There it is,” he murmured, his grin stretching impossibly wide. “That’s the part of you I love the most. All that fire, all that strength… even now, you’re just so amazin’.”

You couldn’t respond, your voice drowned by the blood filling your throat. You could barely even move, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. Every breath was a struggle, a battle against the darkness creeping in at the edges of your vision.

And then he did something you didn’t think even he was capable of. Something that shattered whatever sliver of hope you still clung to.

With one hand still pressed to your stomach, Wander reached into your wound, his fingers sliding inside with a sickening squelch. You felt every agonizing moment as he explored deeper, his touch both horrifying and oddly gentle. His expression was one of awe, like he was touching something sacred. “Y’know,” he said, his tone almost conversational, “I never thought I’d get to know you like this. It’s… it’s somethin’ special, don’tcha think? Somethin’ no one else gets to see.”

Your body convulsed, another choked scream tearing from your throat as he withdrew his hand, now slick with blood and… something else. A̵ ̷g̸o̶l̷d̴e̴n̶ ̷f̴l̷o̶w̴e̷r̴.̶ ̸He stared at it for a moment, his smile softening into something almost tender.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

His lips were warm, his kiss slow and deliberate, as though he were pouring every ounce of affection he had into it. You could taste the copper tang of your own blood on his mouth, feel the sticky warmth of it smeared between you. And yet, beneath all the horror, all the pain, there was an undeniable sense of love. Twisted and dark, but love nonetheless. Tears streamed down your face as you struggled to breathe, each ragged gasp accompanied by the sickening rattle of blood in your throat. Wander pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression one of pure adoration.

“See?” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “You can feel it, can’t ya? All the love I got for you. It’s real. It’s always been real.”

You wanted to scream at him, to curse him, to tell him how wrong this all was. But you couldn’t. Your words were swallowed by the blood filling your mouth, your protests reduced to weak gurgles. So Wander pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm and steady as yours faltered. “It’s okay,” he said softly, stroking your hair with his hand. “I gotcha. You don’t have to say a thing. I know you love me too. You always do.”

Your vision blurred, darkness creeping closer with every passing second. But through it all, his smile remained, a beacon of twisted devotion that burned brighter than any star.

And as your strength waned, as the world around you faded, you realized that he was right.

You did feel it.

You felt the love.

And it tasted like ̵͓̰̤͗̊͌̽́̈h̴͚͍̣̥̗̀͊̐̆͛́͜o̸͇̰̽ͅñ̵̥͈͙̕e̶̤̖̻̘̯̓͋͋͌ý̷̰̄.

"You'd be surprised," the flower whispered, its voice warm and full of wonder, "what you can grow from a little bit of kindness."

And then, the others continued to hum, their melodies swirling around you as you followed Wander deeper into the mystery of the show, the weight of the words hanging in the air like an unfinished symphony, waiting for the next chapter to unfold.

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