#how is even possible for him to be stuck in a nightmare reality and still feel happier than a chick pecking trash?? the man is unstoppable

[tinyclowndancer]

Part 1

I've been taking readings with the limited equipment I've been able to secure. Some riveting data accumulating. Hypotheses taking shape. My struggle with this is that the way this place works makes any hypothesis immediately come back to alter and contaminate the data.

Anyway, I've been working to capture, isolate and amplify certain frequencies from the background radiation ambient noise, so... let's see what happens.

I was caught in a loop. The deeper into the dark depths I got, peeling off the layers of the Dark Place, like the ocean zones, from twilight to midnight, to abyssal to the deepest trenches, the closer I felt to going mad.

This voice, the narration... It keeps going forever. This leads me to believe it's what's holding this place together, it's making it real. Is this the voice of the dreamer?

What's strange is that it sounds a bit like my voice.

[cornfieldsrambles]

YOU HAVE PERMISSION TO INFODUMP PLEASE TELL ME ABOUT WIGGLY'S SIBLINGS???? THAT HE APPARENTLY HAS????

omg ok SO

Meet the Lords in Black. Charming, aren't they?

Yes, Wiggly does indeed have four brothers who all do different things, so I'll cover them one by one, in order of introduction (since we've already met each of them in Nightmare Time at least once). BTW Nightmare Time has a fuckton of lore in it that I won't go into here, so even though I am about to spoil significant parts of it for you, I do recommend watching it, it's really good and if there's enough interest they might make a third one!

(Also you might notice they're all in doll form in this picture. This is how we knew them up until NPMD introduced us to what I call their Tumblr sexyman forms. Which are rad as hell by the way.)

So you already know Wiggly. That little green fucker, Wiggog Y'Wrath, the Capitalist Cthulu who does uwu-speak and starts a cult by invading people's minds. This will become a bit of a reoccurring theme with these guys. He's also the only one to successfully start an apocalypse, and the only one to have attempted to birth himself into our reality. (Or is he? We'll get to that...) He does seem to have some kind of dominion over the other LiB, as whenever all five of them show up there's always emphasis placed on him, like in NPMD where he does most of the talking while his siblings occasionally butt in.

Now for Bliklotep. Blinky seems to have slightly lower-scale ambitions than Wiggly, but don't let that fool you. Eyeball Boi is still incredibly dangerous. He runs an amusement park, WatcherWorld, deep within the Hatchetfield Witchwood. But it's not for the amusement of the patrons. Oh no. It's for Blinky's own amusement. Once you step inside, every insecurity, every shred of potential conflict will be ripped to the forefront, turning people against each other to the point of trying to kill each other until he's fully infected their minds. It's implied that, if not all, but a significant chunk of the workers at WatcherWorld were once patrons before having their minds taken over by Blinky. He's also implied to be the thing in Trail To Oregon that Jack Bauer sees during his venom-induced hallucination, as Blinky is referred to as "The Watcher With 1,000 Eyes", which is exactly what JB says he sees? Making Blinky the only LiB to induce a Starkid crossover. My headcanon is that the Dikrats founded Hatchetfield. But regardless.

Next up on the roster is Tinky. T'noy Karaxis, the Time Bastard. You may be wondering about that one line in NPMD where he recognised Pete as a Spankoffski, and said he "could have the whole set in his toybox". Has Tinky gone after Pete's relatives?

Well. Um. You know Ted, right? Yeah, his name is Spankoffski. He's Pete's big brother. We actually got the surname reveal before the brother reveal, lol. And that's not the only reveal we got about Ted. Our boy Teddy Bear has this whole entire tragic backstory and it turns out he gets fucked over in literally every timeline! Isn't that fun?

So, to summarise an entire episode: Tinky makes travel fuckery happen, Ted wants to go back in time to fix his life, accidentally goes back to before the time machine was created and gets stuck in the past, literally. Tinky is watching and laughing at the whole thing, then shows up to blow Ted's brain to smithereens with his weird little magic box, the Bastard's Box, where he stores all the people he toys with. Anyway Ted eventually catches up with the present by aging, except now no one knows who he is, he's... actually I won't spoil that. But once he dies he ends up eternally trapped and tortured in the Bastard's Box. Yaaay.

Fast forward to Nightmare Time 2 and we get introduced to Nibbly, in possibly the most unexpected way imaginable. He's revealed to have been behind a whole episode literally right at the end of said episode, and even though it was kind of foreshadowed, it hits you like a freight train in the best way. Remember when I said Wiggly was the only one who tried to birth himself into reality? That was kind of a lie. Nibblenephim can sort of do that anyway. Every year, he can possess a bunch of carcasses and create a living form to walk the earth for one night. He also has a cult of followers who provide him with the carcasses, as well as a sacrifice to feed on. There's a little more to it, specifically with how the sacrifice is chosen, but again, I'm trying to spoil as little as possible. Go watch Nightmare Time. Nibbly also seems to have a "pig" motif, and his theme song, The Nibbly Ditty, is a banger, easily my favourite of the three LiB theme songs we've heard so far.

And finally, we are introduced to Pokotho, in the very last episode of NMT2.

Except no. We were formally introduced to Pokey there, yes, but we've seen his apocalypse already. Long before NPMD, before Nightmare Time, even before Black Friday.

Yeah, remember me saying that Wiggly was the only one to successfully start an apocalypse? That was also a lie! Pokey already did that, and he did it without ever showing his masked face. Remember The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals? The blue spores that came down in a meteor and turned everyone into singing zombies? That was Pokey's doing! That's his blue spores! That's his apocalypse!

This also provides an explanation for why blowing up the meteor didn't work. Emma and Hidgens were right about the hivemind thing, but wrong about the location of the central brain. It wasn't the meteor - the meteor was just the vessel which carried the spores to Earth. The central brain was sitting safely up in the Black and White, laughing as Paul blew himself to smithereens. The central brain was Pokey, the Singular Voice, the most uncompromising of his brothers. The one who hates every voice that is not his own, hence the hivemind and making all of his zombies speak in HIS voice.

Anyway in NMT2 he's happily collecting musical zombies by taking on a human form and infiltrating a fighting ring of superpowered children until he has enough to kickstart another apocalypse. (Don't question it, we're almost done). He also calls himself Otho, not Pokey, making him the only LiB to have two different abbreviations of his name. Hannah is also there (remember her? Lex's little sister?) and she is like incredibly important to this whole thing, she has a super powerful mind, but that's a whole other thing.

But I did mention Hannah for a reason. Because you said "Wiggly's SIBLINGS". And while the Lords in Black are always referred to as brothers, they do have one more sibling. A sister. A Queen in White. And her name is Webby.

Yep, Hannah's imaginary friend isn't imaginary, who could have guessed? She's benevolent, always trying her best to combat her brothers' antics, but given that there's one of her and five of them, this is a bit of an uphill battle. Webby doesn't have a full name that we know of, nor does she have a doll. We don't know much about her. And she may not be all-powerful - but then again, neither are her brothers.

Infodump concluded. Hope this helps, it was very fun to write.

[leighsartworks216]

Sleepy Kitty

Sylus x gn!Reader

What if you became the cat and also got that sleepy cat feature with the service?? Think about it

Warnings: fluff, silly, cat ears and tail, cuddling, panic, some sort of a relationship going on, Xavier cameo

Word Count: 1,672

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Your heart can’t sit still, torn between aching and frantically racing in a frenzied panic. Every time you look into the mirror, you start freaking out. You had to call in sick this morning with a poor excuse, cancel all your plans for today and tomorrow, and try to figure out a solution to your problem:

You are a cat.

Well, you have the ears and tail, at least. At first, you can’t believe it. But sure enough, they’re real. Real and not disappearing.

You tug desperately at the fluffy ears, yanking on them, praying they’ll just disappear in a poof of smoke like it never happened. Instead, all you get is pain that has you scrunching up your face as you keep pulling on them, begging for this nightmare to end.

“Oh, sweetie.”

You yelp, diving into the blankets of your bed. “Go away! Don’t look at me!” You hide in the warm darkness, keeping the blankets held down tight over your head so they can’t be pulled off.

Sylus’s sigh is muffled as he crosses from your bedroom’s doorway to your bed. The mattress sinks down with his weight. “This is why you cancelled our plans today?”

You stubbornly don’t answer.

“Sweetie, ignoring me isn’t going to make me leave faster. Talk to me.”

“I’m fine, just go away,” you insist.

“You really need to get better at lying.”

He grabs your tail as it flicks out from under the blanket. You have to release the blankets to grab it back from him, and he uses that opportunity to uncover you entirely. The jig is up, but you refuse to turn and face him. Your new cat ears lay flat on your head. Even in your hold, your tail is flicking with irritation.

He reaches out to touch the cute ears you despise so much, but you swat his hand away at the first brush. He can’t help his amusement - you really are a kitten.

“Stop laughing! It’s not funny!”

“Of course not,” he agrees, but the sincerity is obscured by his chuckle petering out. “Now, are you going to tell me what happened?”

You heave a long sigh. It hitches at the end as reality starts to crash down on you once more. “I don’t know. I mean, I just woke up this morning and,” you release your tail in favor of grabbing the fluffy tips of the cat ears, drawing them down on your head painfully, “these were here. And now they won’t go away!”

“Stop that,” he chastises you. He takes your hands, freeing the ears from your cruelty. His long fingers intertwine with yours as he wraps his arms around you, making you hug yourself at the same time, and drawing you into his lap. “We’ll figure it out.”

You give in, slowly relaxing back into his broad chest and the warmth he radiates. Your tail taps rhythmically against his leg as it swishes back and forth over your bedsheets.“What if we don’t? What if I’m stuck like this forever?”

He kisses your head. Your ears stand up and brush his cheeks. He tries not to chuckle at how plainly your emotions have been laid bare. “We can worry about that later, after we’ve exhausted all possibilities. Deal?”

“... Deal.”

-

It is now mid-day. The sun is shining bright, the rest of the day is still to come, and you are sleepy. The kind of sleepy that makes you feel heavy and sluggish; that makes a big blanket sound like utter heaven.

Sylus is tired, too. His exhaustion, however, comes from staying up far past his usual bedtime. He’s much better at hiding it. Meanwhile, you’re yawning every other minute, rubbing your eyes, leaning against him whenever you’re at a standstill. For those last several minutes, he’s been leading you back to his car. You don’t realize what’s going on until he’s already driving.

“Mm, where are we going?” You frown out of the passenger side window. It doesn’t take long before your head is resting against the glass, cushioned by the beanie from your closet meant to hide the cat ears.

“Back to your place.”

“What for?”

He shoots you an amused grin. “It’s bedtime, kitten. We both need a nap.”

“Huh? No, wait, I’m fine!” You sit up straighter, crossing your arms and staring determinedly out the windshield. “I’m up, see? We can keep going.”

“Fine. I’ll take a nap and you can watch.”

The drive is quiet. The expensive car blocks out most of the noise outside. The radio is off, but the AC hums as it blows warm air. Sylus glances over frequently, watching as you slowly, slowly sink deeper into the heated leather seat. Your head rests awkwardly on your shoulder as you blearily glare at the passing buildings. The next time he looks over, your eyes are closed.

He pulls into the parking lot with ease. You don’t show any signs of waking up as he kills the ignition. Honestly, he’s glad for it. The entire time you’ve been trying to piece together the mystery, you kept working yourself up into a panic. Any more of that, you would make yourself sick from stress.

He rounds the car and carefully opens your door. In between unbuckling you and lifting you into his arms, he can’t help admiring you. The beanie is crooked, there’s bags under your eyes, and he’s never seen anything more beautiful than you right now.

The apartment building is very nice, especially with your finances. He nudges the elevator call button with his elbow and waits for it to come down. The silver doors open to reveal a blonde man in a white hoodie. Instead of getting out, the man keeps the doors from closing, watching him with sharp blue eyes as he steps in.

“What happened to them?”

Sylus puts on an easygoing grin. “They aren’t feeling well today. Don’t worry, they’re in good hands.” He nudges the button for your floor and quirks a brow at the man. “This not your stop?”

The man lets go of the doors, standing opposite from Sylus with his arms crossed and staring him down. “I’m just making sure they get home okay.”

With the slightest of shrugs, Sylus looks straight ahead, seemingly ignoring the man as the doors close and the elevator starts to move. The tension in the small space is heavy; it extends to every corner and between the little numbered buttons. Neither of them do anything to dissipate it.

When the door opens again, it’s like the pressure it released. The air in the hall completely overwhelms the distrust in the tiny elevator. It doesn’t disappear entirely, but it’s easier to breathe out here than in there.

The blonde man follows behind as Sylus carries you to your apartment door. He thinks you’ve told him about this coworker of yours before; you go out on missions together often. Funny - of all the times you’ve mentioned him, you never said anything about him behaving like this.

Sylus slides your legs further up his arm to free his hand. The man stares at the knob as he places his thumb on the lock. When it beeps and lights up green, he seems to relax a little, so slight that it’s only due to Sylus’s lifestyle that he was able to pick it out.

He pushes open the door and turns back to the man. “Will that be all?”

Blue eyes stare down appraisingly. Sylus can’t shake the way it unsettles him deeply, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and his body preparing to fight if the need arises. Some background checks into this guy are now a necessity with how close he works and lives to you.

But the man nods. “Tell them I hope they feel better soon.”

“Of course.”

And just like that, the man is heading back to the elevator with a lazy yawn. Sylus shuts the door. He sighs heavily, looking down at your peaceful face. “You’re lucky I had the liberty of putting my print in your system,” he says. “I don’t think he’d have reacted well if I teleported in here.”

Your apartment is exactly how you both left it this morning. He follows the familiar path to your bedroom, bedsheets rumpled and covered in clothes from when you tried finding an outfit that could hide your tail. He gestures vaguely with his hand. Red and black tendrils of energy gather the clothes and stack them elsewhere to deal with later. Another tendril pulls down the blankets for him.

Being careful not to disturb you, he lays you down on your bed. You look soft, delicate. Completely vulnerable, and yet sleeping undisturbed even as he looms over you. He pulls the blankets up over your body and slides the hat off your head. Your fluffy cat ears shift and twitch slightly from being exposed to the open air once more, before they relax.

He stands up to go to the couch, but something holds onto his arm. When he looks, your tail has slipped from under the covers and the clothing you used to hide it, just to hold onto him. It was soft. It really would only take the slightest effort to slip free from its grasp, but when he started to step away, you started to frown. With an amused chuckle, he opens the blankets again and nudges you aside, before climbing into the bed.

You reposition yourself to use his chest as your pillow, arms wrapped around him and legs tangling with his. Your tail slips from his arm to curl around his waist.

And then you start purring. He smiles. Tentatively, he pets your ear. It twitches at first, before relaxing into his touch. You nuzzle your face over his heart.

“Sleep tight, kitten,” he whispers. His hand continues to lazily pet you as he closes his eyes. Your purrs act like a soothing balm to his soul as sleep slowly takes hold.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc

[legobiwan]

This is such a telling page for Ford. Not only does he detail his social missteps and admit to being lonely in Gravity Falls, despite the scientific wonder of the place, but he also uses what I call "Fordese 2," a scrambled version of the "Fordese 1" code we were first introduced to in Journal 3 to label himself a "six-fingered freak" and to state that "Stanley would have made her laugh." (Her, being the waitress Ford tries out his nerdy science joke on, which goes down like a lead balloon despite the fact that it is legitimately funny, given the right audience).

It's like Bill says. "Ego of a king. The insecurity of a circus freak. And totally isolated..." (Funny enough, Bill could probably turn those exact words on himself, as well.)

Ford so wanted Gravity Falls to be the place where he'd finally fit in, the puzzle to his misshapen puzzle piece.

And as we see in the missing Journal pages from BoB, that was not to be the case. And worst of all? Ford blames it on his hands at first, but the reality is that he says that "Stanley could make her laugh," meaning Ford's "freakishness" (as he would put it) has less to do with his six fingers and much more to do with Ford's personality and the way he interacts with others.

This is actually worse. Fingers, you can fix, if you want to. By the time you're an adult, most people probably wouldn't care. But to Ford, his fingers seem to be more a manifestation of something internal, something he feels is fundamentally broken about him and that's just the absolute worst hell to be stuck in.

So yeah, it's hardly surprising Ford fell so hard for Bill's shenanigans (and you can define "fell so hard" however you want, although that karaoke page in BoB is especially damning). Here's an interdimensional being who not only can guide you to unlocking the secrets of the universe and propel you towards scientific fame and glory (and thus shoving every taunt, invective, side-eye, and eye roll ever hurled at you over the decades down your tormentors' throats) - but he's (on the surface) completely glib about being a freak himself.

For Ford, this must have been like finding a shady, sparkling oasis after thirty years of trawling through the desert (especially after Stanley's "betrayal" - Stanley, who along with Fiddleford, being the only person Ford felt like he could be himself around and still be accepted as a human being).

Now, is Bill trying way too hard to show how much he doesn't care? Uhhh, yeah. Bill has almost the same hangups as Ford. Labeled a freak for a genetic mutation and ostracized by his peers. Has a rare gift in that he can see not only into the third dimension but can see even past that, into possible dimensions and futures, which is a wild skill to have. Compare this with Ford's gigantic science brain and academic overachievement. Same deal. And not only this! Bill, in an attempt to prove what he can do with his "freakishness," to prove his worth and place in the universe - he tries to show off something to the denizens of his dimension (we don't know yet what Bill did), only to end up slaughtering his entire dimension. Ford was a hair's breath away from doing the exact same thing with the portal. Because we know from Journal 3 that part of his motivation is to be famous and get accolades for his work, and that maybe "girls will finally talk to me." (Which, Fordsy, let's be real here - I don't think you're actually into these "girls" for real, but you want the acceptance that comes with fitting in with societal standards, and getting a state-sanctioned girlfriend is exactly the type of thing Ford would want to make himself feel "normal.")

Anyway, the point being that if Ford had succeeded with his initial portal attempt, he would have basically wiped out his own dimension. Just. Like. Bill. And it makes you wonder - yeah, yeah, Bill wanted to party, Bill needed out of the Nightmare Realm, Bill's a psychopath who enjoys destruction.

But honestly? I think part it all was that Bill wanted someone like him. His own puzzle piece. Another monster. A being whose collateral damage in the quest to justify their existence in this universe ends in wholesale slaughter.

And Ford had the capacity to easily fit that mould.

[danny-doodles]

Steve’s Hobby

This is a short 2k blurb about one of my Steve hcs, I am only really good at critical analysis writing so I’m sorry if this is bad!! Creative writing isn’t my strong suit but I felt like I couldn’t really explain this hc in a drawing as well as writing it could.

Growing up Steve was often taught the importance of words from his father, thinking it would be useful for his son’s future in the business. Steve was never the best reader, letters jumping around the page made it too difficult, so instead he listened to everyone around him. Teachers, his parent’s coworkers, older kids, all of them taught him the importance of the meaning of words.

How certain words would make someone a town pariah yet others a god among men. Steve was a more quiet kid but as he grew up he also grew confident in his words. He could tear someone down with one sentence, ensuring they knew he was not to be messed with. That’s why he was so confused when he struggled in his english class, he knew the power of words and the many meanings, but his teacher never understood. Sure he made grammar errors, how no one else struggled with the dancing letters he didn’t get, but how could the teachers not understand his connections? Steve shouldn’t have to explain why the red of the handmaid’s cloaks represented the ripping of humanity from the women, it was so clear to him. Obviously the boar head could be comparable to the church, how could his teachers not make the connection?

Even Nancy didn’t understand, someone he considered smarter than him. He knew she was trying to be nice when she critiqued his college paper but it still left him in the fog. Basketball was war to him, a fight that was pointless with one but possible with many. A challenge that called for leadership and a strict order. Everyone had the roles, knew where and when to shoot, needed the ability to think quickly on their feet and not struggle under the pressure. Uniforms to not only separate from the enemy but to show they are a unit reaching for a common goal. It was so clear leaving no need to explain, especially to Nancy.

But she didn’t get it, no one got it.

Maybe he wasn’t as good with words as he thought.

Steve from then on fumbled his words when he got nervous, scared he would say something that made him sound dumb and point out his weakness with words. The concussions didn’t help either, making him take longer to grasp concepts. Reading felt nearly impossible, the headaches were unbearable. Not to mention the kids' comments, judgmental and brutal as if Steve didn’t have a reason to struggle in the first place.

Everyone around him loved to put him in a sudden spotlight and when he didn’t say the right line he was booed off stage and dealt with the looks of disappointment from his co stars for messing up. So Steve stuck to what he knew, his quick remarks. Were they bitchy? Yes, but not coated in malice like they used to be. Piggybacking off others points with sarcastic comments so the other person kept talking, anything to get the attention off him.

But Steve had a secret hobby that he shared with no one, not even with his platonic soulmate with a capital P Robin.

Steve wrote poetry.

Years of horrors that by law he couldn’t share that caused vicious nightmares and a clammy grasp on reality at times tended to keep Steve up. Another gift bestowed by his father though was a feeling of shame when sharing his emotions. Didn’t help that those emotions were typically down played or outright ignored by others. Therefore a bottle filled with his emotions rested in Steve’s chest, which after Vecna he really realized probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do. So Steve took to writing them down, but he did it for himself.

No need to explain everything, he knew what he meant, he knew every context of every word. He wrote on his experiences, his emotions. He wrote when he was happy, he wrote when he was sad. Steve wrote and wrote and found his love for words again. And god did it feel good, it felt like taking back his voice from a world that underappreciated it. In a weird way it felt like revisiting a relative he had last seen as a child, that sense of freedom and the loss of expectation because in their eyes he was still that little kid. All they wanted was to see someone they loved and to Steve the words welcomed him back with a hug that rivaled his Nonna Maria’s.

Steve would ponder over lines at random intervals of the day, biting his pencil between his teeth during the quiet hours at work or simply jotting down a line right before picking the kids up. Steve wrote so often he kept his small little notebook on him at all times, usually accompanied by a pencil bound to it with a rubber band. (Turns out having hearing aids and glasses made it really difficult to put pencils behind one's ears). At this point everyone had seen his notebook, pale blue with some star stickers because he never had a shortage of them. Everyone assumed it was for something different. Some thought it was grocery lists, to-do lists, something productive. Others thought it was like a pocket calendar with all his plans listed so he didn’t forget. Dustin insisted it was meant to hold the definitions of anything D&D related so Steve never forgot, meanwhile Robin argued it was to hold all the wonderfully obscure movie recommendations she loved to give. All of them were wrong though and Steve kind of adored it that way. He didn’t have to explain himself that way, he could continue to hide under the blankets. Steve no longer held his tongue out of fear of others but because he had an outlet he much rather prefer.

Listening now felt less like a pop quiz, waiting for him to mess up his response, it felt like an actual conversation. Steve may not speak up as much as he would have before the Upside Down but he fell back in love with his own voice and maybe one day he would feel confident enough to share it with the Party, but for now it was all his.

No matter how much they wanted to prove who was right, the kids and older teenagers never touched the book when it was rarely separated from Steve. Well...after someone tried to grab it and they learned they really shouldn’t touch it.

While at the Harrington house the Party were preparing for a campaign session when the argument about the pale binded pages was brought up again. Steve had left it on the kitchen counter while he went to the bathroom, and Mike decided he was done with the bickering. He shot up and went to retrieve and open the book but before he could grab it the book flew through the air.

All the heads turned and landed on El holding it in her hand, “We are not Steve, this is his. It is rude to invade his privacy, would you like me to watch you without telling you,” everyone quietly shook their heads, “Then we do not watch Steve without him knowing.”

That’s exactly when Steve walked back in, it takes one look across the room at all the embarrassed faces and El holding his book with frustration painting her eyes to know what had occurred while he was gone. He walks up, kisses El on her head and softly thanks her while taking back his little literature.

After that incident no one dared touch the book or face the wrath of their favorite mage. They would find out when Steve was ready for them to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That damn little book haunted Eddie’s thoughts. He knew Steve was not what he assumed him to be so anything was on the table, he had been wrong about the guy before who's to say he won’t be this time?

Of course Eddie wanted to respect Steve’s privacy because Eddie personally would be mortified if Steve had seen any of his notebooks, mainly because of the pages of lyrics that not so subtly hinted at an itsy bitsy affection for the badass babysitter. If that didn’t give Eddie away the random ‘Eddie Harrington’ and ‘Steve Munson’ with hearts all over would finish the job. So yeah, Eddie was not crazy to offer up any of his notebooks to venture into Steve’s book. He just had no idea the universe would present him with a much more favorable offer.

Steve and Eddie started hanging out a lot more after Vecna, no shocker considering they shared a hospital room, and soon the bat buddies would spend their time together outside of the hospital. That’s why it wasn’t surprising for Steve to let Eddie venture into Steve’s room while he went to pick up their lunch.

Eddie was somewhat of a curious cat, so when he spotted the notebook and some papers scattered on Steve’s desk he was like a moth to a flame. He softly glided his fingers over the blue cover and exhaled some breath in a soft laugh over the star stickers Steve oh so loved. It was the paper though that caught his eye when he finished observing the book. It looked like lyrics at first but then he realized some of the lines were too short to be lines, if anything they looked more like stanzas from a poem. Steve had poetry on his desk, did Steve read poetry? Thee Steve Harrington likes poetry? God his whole doctrine was garbage huh. Eddie moved the paper towards him and started to read.

Watchful gaze

Setules on the glass.

Wishful gaze

Silent pleas of escaping rolling in the mouth

Fingertips slipping through the veil,

Grasping for warm hands,

Receiving lukewarm.

Hesitant to grab.

Dependency clasping the palms

Such a feverish feeling

Poking at the appendages,

A coldness that numbs.

Gently gripping for the heat,

The balmy yields.

Smoke and simmers,

Arms rushing to sides

Frozen.

Yearning for ardor,

Turn not yet given,

Waiting for the impossible,

Waiting for the unobtainable,

So understanding.

So relieving.

So desperate.

So alone.

Standing for the calling.

So patient.

So pathetic.

Empty Hands by Steve H.

Eddie was staring at the very last line on the paper, utterly flabbergasted. Steve wrote this? Steve writes poetry?! Is that what resides in the little book? Before Eddie could even find the power to turn to the book to look, Steve walked into his room. Again a quick look is all Steve needed to take before he knew what happened in his absence.

“Oh! Uh..I’m guessing you read it.”

Eddie slowly looked back up while caressing the paper, “Yeah, you..um..you really wrote this? Is that…uh..what’s in your notebook? Cause I will admit I never would have guessed that.”

Steve started scratching his neck, “I don’t blame you,” he huffs, “But yeah I write poetry, helps to let some of the thoughts out considering our lives y'know?”

“I totally get it dude! Lord knows my lyrics are infected with the whole spring break bullhonkey. So..totally cool if you don’t want to tell me but, why is this one out of the book? Were you gonna write it into the book?” Eddie picked up the paper to place it next to the notebook and turned to face Steve.

“Actually I copied it from the notebook, I’m gonna, okay wait, you can’t tell anyone this-”

“Even Robin?” Eddie exaggerated his smile to look wild.

“Even Robin.” Steve nodded with his eyes shut.

Eddie put his hands together and swayed while standing, “Wowww look at me, lil old Eddie Munson getting to learn the secrets of the mysterious writer Steve Harrington.”

“Eddie, you want to know or not?” Steve sighed as he put his hands on his hips.

“Yes. Yes please,” Eddie eagerly replied, barely letting Steve finish his sentence.

“The last time I went to Indy with Robin to go shopping at their mall we went to a cafe. The bulletin board had a flier for a poetry night and I got curious I guess.”

“You gonna perform the poem there?”

“That’s the plan.”

Eddie could understand wanting a fresh slate when it came to having a reputation. “Craving anonymity? Must be tough considering you are Hawkin’s golden boy.”

Steve smiles brightly and Eddie sees his shoulders lose tension, tension Eddie didn’t even notice because he was so distracted by the fact that holy shit Steve is a poet. “Exactly.”

Honestly Eddie would give anything to hear more of Steve's hidden works, he grabs some of his hair and brings it to cover his mouth, “I know you don’t intend to tell the rest of the bunch, but uh..would you allow a humble bard to observe your lyrical performance?”

Eddie looks at Steve’s face for any hint of annoyance and finds none, instead he finds a look that he could hope to be correct in his guess is excitement.

“Really? You’d want to hear more, it's not confusing or stupid to you?” Steve softly smiled at Eddie, making him swoon inside.

“It's art! It doesn’t need to make sense, it just needs to make you feel good, who cares if others are confused. And for what its worth even if I’m not right on the money that poem made me feel Steve, I mean as the expert in self-expression it felt real and vulnerable, y’know.” Eddie had to shut himself up before he himself waxed poetry about just how much he is dying to hear more from Steve to learn more about him.

“Thanks Eddie.” Steve gazed at Eddie as if no one had ever told him that before. Which now that hes thinking about it that’s probably the truth. Guess Eddie needed to constantly remind him then.

Eddie smiled, mirroring Steves while bending at his waist, “Oh but of course my liege.”

“Oh my god okay Eddie cmon the food’s gonna get cold.”

Steve started to leave his room and Eddie rushed to follow him, “Now that I know what the book is filled with may I pretty please read it?” Rapidly blinking his eyelashes in an attempt to look innocent and pure but instead looking like a piece of dust got in his eyes.

“Nope.”

“Ugghhh c'mon Steve! Just imagine the look on the little hellions when they see me opening the book! God the jealousy! The feeling of betrayal when they see me reading Steve Harringtons’s treasure trove of text and they are none the wiser to what is inside. And the best part, I have permission! The power I would hold Steve! The possibility, I could use them like little puppets to do my bidding while they crave information I alone hold!”

“Eddie that sounds like a headache for me waiting to happen, they’re just gonna badger me to tell them because they would claim it’s unfair you know and they don’t.”

“Eh, their egos could take a little hit don’t you think?” Eddie was now resting his head on Steve’s shoulder as the younger started to bring the food out of the carry out bag.

“Can I read your lyric notebook?”

Eddie’s eyes went wide as his brain proceeded to remind him of every lyric he had written around his devotion to Steve. Red in the face Eddie responded quickly, “Nope! Mmm you smell that Stevie I’m so hungry, aren’t you?”

“Subtle Munson.”

“Tis my middle name.”

Steve fondly rolled his eyes, “Sure.”

As they settled down on the couch Eddie tracked Steve grabbing the remote, “So I can really watch you?”

Steve turned and looked at Eddie with a calmness on his face. “Yeah Eddie.”

Eddie grabbed his hair as Steve stared at him, “Cool, cool, it’s a date.” Eddie froze about to panic silently as he tried to fix his slip up.

“Yeah, it's a date.” The two looked at each other, neither wanting to look away. After a minute or so Steve turned on the TV and if the two fell asleep together it was their business.

[suns-pott]

A caged bird.

Word count: 808

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

"Ah, you're already awake, my dear."

He greeted you with that same infuriating smile, as he did every morning. His hand slithered around your shoulder as you sat by the window, your only way of seeing the outside.

"Why am I here?"

He flinched at your question, a slight twitch of anger, his wings fluttering slightly. "Angel, I have told you why."

"That's not good enough, you have to give me a real reason. I don't want to hear any more excuses about 'love' or 'safety'." You retorted back, turning around to face him. He ran a hand through his silvery hair, the locks still perfectly framing his face as usual. His voice sounded restrained, a small frown forming in his expression. "Darling, I have told you before, I don't want you going out there, it's far too dangerous."

"But you never elaborate on that any further, give me the real reason, Sunday." You turned away from the window to face him with a determined expression, his eye twitching in annoyance. "Drop it, Y/N."

He hasn't called you by your name in months, your words must have struck a chord with him, his stern expression stilling any words that could have formed on your tongue. You look down, gazing at his shoes instead, though he soon grabbed your chin with his thumb and index finger, pulling your head up, his expression softening once your eyes met his. "There is no need to worry, angel. I have been blessed with less work to do today, so I will return early this evening." He planted a small peck on your cheek, his heels tapping on the carpeted floor as the door closed with a click.

Three months, two weeks, three days, thirteen hours and nine minutes. That is how long you have been stuck in this room. Now that he is gone, you started your daily routine of looking for a way out, starting with the front door. Your hand pressed on the handle, and it surprisingly clicked open, revealing the rest of the Reverie hotel to your sight.

Your legs moved before your mind could, quickly walking out to see an odd sight. Though it looked like the hotel at first, the one in reality, it appeared to be quite the contrary. Dream bubbles floated around, furniture hung in the air, and no one was around. But, you thought he took you back to reality, the room certainly looked like it, but he kept you in the dream after all?

You ran through the hall, looking for any possible exit, a way out of this nightmare. Trying any door you came across, almost all of them were locked. Except for one, a door that led you out into what appeared closest to the lobby of the hotel, with more doors on the sides. You approached one, opening it and walking inside. The room appeared closest to the lobby of the- wait, the same room? You tried a different door, the one to the left of you, that one leading right back to the same room. You tried yet another door, that one leading right back to the same room, again. You felt tears welling in your eyes, continuing to run, you sprinted past each door you opened, though the result was always the same.

Your lungs felt as though they were on fire, your legs were sore and heavy as lead; though you persisted, looking for an exit at any cost. Eventually your body collapsed out of exhaustion, panting heavily as you lay on the ground. The only thing you had energy to do was cry. Pulling your knees into your chest as you buried your face in them, tears spilling from your eyes, until you felt a hand on your shoulder. You looked up, sniffling as you spotted the man who was the cause of your tears.

"Sunday..." You said in a meek voice, slowly sitting up to meet his sorrowful yet angered gaze. He pulled you into his embrace, lifting you up in his arms.

"Darling, what were you thinking? Running off on your own, you could have come across serious danger. Thankfully I had some precautions in place, to ensure you didn't wander too far." He released an exasperated sigh, his brows slightly furrowed, beginning to walk back towards the room you had previously been trapped in. "How did you know?" Your voice was barely a whisper, never daring to look in his eyes, though in the bleak silence of the room, he could still hear you perfectly. "Do you really think I wouldn't notice your absence? Come now, you are my pride and joy, I don't know what I would do without you. You're my angel, I must protect you to keep your presence at my side, even if it means clipping your beloved wings."

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Based on this fanart it's so fucking good omg

[patriotictf]

"Oh my god, this can't be real," John muttered to himself as he stepped into his new apartment. The space was adorned with distinctly MAGA-themed items - red hats, banners with "Make America Great Again" slogans, and a couple of Trump-Pence signs, all immaculately arranged.

John, a staunch liberal and openly gay, felt a pang of disgust. How had he ended up here?

"This is a nightmare," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

John stood motionless for a moment, taking in the room's overpowering display of conservative regalia. Then, a thought struck him. Maybe he could just remove all this stuff. After all, it was his apartment now.

But as soon as he attempted to take down one of the MAGA banners, he realized something strange was happening. The banner refused to budge. It seemed to cling to the wall, as if the very paint was glue.

Frustrated, John tried again, putting more force into the pull. But the result was still the same. The banner seemed stuck in place, mocking him with its stubborn resistance.

He tried another item, attempting to remove a small MAGA badge from the dresser. But just like the banner, the badge defied movement. It felt glued to the surface, no matter how hard he tugged.

John's heart began to race, a mix of confusion and panic setting in. These items were immovable. Why? How was this possible? And more importantly, what was their purpose here?

He sank down onto the bed, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. This had to be a prank. Someone had planted these items here as a cruel joke, or some weird form of psychological experiment. There was no other reasonable explanation. Or... was there?

John scanned the room again, his gaze falling on more Trump-themed items - a red "Make America Great Again" mug, a framed photo of the former president, and even a small American flag with the slogan "Keep America Great" stitched onto it.

Each item seemed to stare back at him, its presence like a slap in the face. As if the room was mocking his own political beliefs and identity.

John felt a wave of anger wash over him, but it was swiftly followed by a pang of fear. Was he trapped here? Stuck in this MAGA-themed prison, with no escape?

He stood up and began pacing, the room feeling smaller with each step. He needed to think, to figure out what the hell was going on.

Frustration grew within John as he attempted to leave the apartment, only to discover the door was impossibly stuck. No matter how much force he applied, it remained sealed, as if it had been fused to the frame.

Panic set in as he tried to use his phone to call for help, but no signal could be found. He was completely cut off from the outside world.

He turned on the TV it was on Fox News. As John frantically flicked through the television channels, he was met with an unsettling sight. Every channel was broadcasting Fox News, without exception.

No matter how many times he clicked the buttons on the remote, the channel stubbornly remained on Fox News. It was as if the TV itself had been calibrated to play only this particular station.

Frustrated and bewildered, John tossed the remote onto the coffee table, the clatter echoing through the room. He couldn't escape the barrage of conservative news and commentary, no matter what he tried.

He plopped onto the couch, a sense of helplessness washing over him. How was this happening? What strange reality had he stumbled into where every electronic item seemed hell-bent on playing Fox News on repeat?

John clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. He loathed Fox News with a passion, every segment feeling like a personal affront to his liberal beliefs. The thought of being forced to watch this drivel on a constant loop was enough to drive him insane.

He considered unplugging the TV entirely, but a sense of unease held him back. What if this was all part of some twisted plan? Unplugging the TV could have unintended consequences. He couldn't risk it.

The hours passed slowly, the TV's constant barrage of conservative news and opinion pieces wearing down John's sanity. The words "Trump" and "MAGA" seemed to be chanted over and over, a maddening chorus that filled the room.

He tried to distract himself with other activities - pacing around the room, flipping through books, even going on his laptop - but nothing could drown out the endless stream of right-wing rhetoric.

By nightfall, John was beginning to waver. He argued with himself internally, trying to hold onto his liberal principles, but the constant exposure to right-wing talking points had begun to chip away at his resolve.

He found himself agreeing with some of the opinions being broadcast, nodding in approval at times, and occasionally even finding himself agreeing with the hosts. This realization terrified him.

As he sat on the couch, John clutched his head, the internal struggle raging within him. He could feel his core beliefs being shaken to the core. Who was he? What did he truly believe?

The TV continued to blast, the host's voice droning on about the virtues of conservative values and the importance of preserving "true American" principles. Each word seemed to sink into his brain, implanting seeds of conservatism that began to take root.

John found himself agreeing more and more with what he was hearing. He started to understand the conservative way of thinking, nodding along to the rhetoric, and even feeling a pang of disappointment when they switched topics.

The liberal ideology that he had always held so dear was slowly fading away, replaced by a growing appreciation for the values being espoused by Fox News.

As the night continued, John could feel his core beliefs crumbling under the onslaught of right-wing propaganda. He was becoming increasingly receptive to the conservative narrative, no longer able to recognize the liberal values he had held for so long.

His mind was changing, slowly but surely. Fox News was rewiring his very identity, molding him into a supporter of the MAGA cause.

As John finally succumbed to exhaustion and dropped off into a fitful sleep, the room around him began to change.

Unseen forces began to take hold, slowly altering his physical form. His features sharpened, his body becoming more toned and muscular. The remnants of his once-liberal appearance faded into memory, replaced by a more rugged, conservative look.

John's hair too changed, falling out leaving him bald as a dark beard begins to grow out of his face.. His skin tone darkened subtly, taking on a more sun-kissed, masculine hue. tattoos form on his neck? thoat, arms. and hands.

As he slept, the physical transformation continued, shaping him into the epitome of a conservative man.

John's wardrobe transformed as well, even in his sleep. The liberal attire he once wore was replaced by more conservative clothing. Jeans became camo pants, his shirt became black with Make Men Men again writen across it, and boots took the place of loafers. Tattoos emerged on his body, each one reflecting a traditional, patriotic image.

He wasn't merely changing; he was being sculpted into a new person entirely.

The physical changes were drastic, but so were the mental ones. As John slept, his mind was being indoctrinated. His liberal beliefs and values were slowly being overwritten by conservative ones. He was dreaming now, visions of a strong America, traditional values, and unyielding patriotism filling his subconscious.

By the time John began to stir, he was a changed man. The physical transformation was complete; he looked every inch the conservative he was now.

His beliefs, too, had undergone a complete metamorphosis. He no longer held onto liberal ideals. In fact, he despised them.

As he sat up, groggy and disoriented, he found himself staring down at the tattoos on his arm, each one a testament to his new persona.

John's eyes flicked up towards a mirror hanging on the wall. The sight of his reflection sent a jolt of surprise through him. He couldn't believe the person staring back at him.

His appearance was that of a stereotypical conservative man. His bald head, the beard, the tattoos, the clothing - everything screamed "MAGA." He looked like a completely different person.

As he stood there, staring at his reflection in disbelief, John struggled to come to terms with his dramatic transformation.

He touched his bald head, feeling the roughness of his shaved skin. He ran his hand over his beard, tracing the thick strands that grew from his once-smooth face. He looked down at his clothing, seeing the MAGA shirt and camo pants that clung to his newly-toned body.

It was a nightmare come true. John tried to deny it, telling himself this was all just a dream. But as he pinched himself and felt the pain, he realized the horrifying truth: this was all too real. He was trapped in a body and mind he no longer recognized.

His heart raced, panic starting to kick in. He had to get out of here, find a way to reverse this nightmare. But when he moved towards the door, he found it still sealed shut.

John froze as a thought suddenly appeared in his mind, seemingly out of nowhere. It was like a strange inner voice, a thought that wasn't his own. It told him to "accept this."

He fought against it at first, resisting the idea of surrendering to the changes. But as the thought echoed in his head, it grew louder and more insistent.

For a long moment, he stood there, wrestling with his inner thoughts. The voice demanded his compliance, and it was becoming harder to resist.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of struggle, John's resistance broke. He couldn't fight the inner command any longer. He had to "accept this."

He took a deep breath, the realization sinking in. This was his reality now. He was no longer the liberal man he once was. He was a conservative, down to his bones.

With a mixture of resignation and acceptance, he stood a little straighter, embracing his new identity.

But as he made the mental shift, John felt another, more subtle change taking place. His emotions began to reshape themselves, shifting towards the conservative values now ingrained in him.

The panic and disbelief that consumed him moments ago faded away, replaced by a sense of conviction. He no longer felt the need to fight against his new identity. In fact, he felt a growing sense of comfort and even satisfaction with it.

The voice in his head grew louder, reinforcing the new emotional landscape within him. The liberal ideals he once held dear were replaced by a staunch conservatism, fueled by inner feelings of patriotism, tradition, and strength.

John began to understand that his transformation wasn't limited to the physical. It was a full-blown mental and emotional restructuring, shaping him into the perfect American conservative.

The more he delved into this new mindset, the more a sense of calmness washed over John. His past as a liberal seemed distant and almost alien.

Now, he had a deep understanding of conservative values and beliefs. He felt a strong connection to America, its heritage, and its future.

Most strikingly, John felt a growing dislike towards liberals and progressive ideals. He had become the very thing he once despised.

John opened the no longer locked door, stepping into the blistering Florida sun, squinting against the bright light. He slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses. As he felt the heat on his skin, his new conservative beliefs began to solidify further.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the humid air. It felt like a homecoming, as if this new persona of his had been waiting to emerge.

With a determined stride, John walked down the street, a sense of comfort and certainty guiding his every step.

As he walked, the city seemed to come to life around him. He passed by people of all ages - some young, some old - but what struck him was the sense of unity that pervaded the air.

He saw American flags flying proudly, MAGA hats on people's heads, and bumper stickers supporting conservative values on cars.

This was his world now. A world where patriotism was celebrated and liberal ideas were left behind.

[signanothername]

If Nightmare was 6 years old when he turned corrupted, what do you think of little Nightmare traveling in the multiverse? Also, what if he heard voices from the souls he killed and now he's schizophrenic? I also read some of your theories and that made me think he's bipolar or borderline!

6 y/o corrupted Nightmare has my heart ugh 😭❤️🌷✨

The thing is, I believe traveling the multiverse didn’t even occur to Nightmare at first, mostly out of ignorance about the existence of it, so you can imagine Nightmare being stuck in his dead Au with his dead mother and his now statue of a twin

Not to mention, he was too high in his madness for a bit of time before he actually connected back to reality

But even when he realized he could travel, he resisted the idea at first, mostly out of fear, anxiety, and not wanting to leave his dead home cause it’s the only place he ever knew

Change was really scary to an already very traumatized little Nightmare, cause what if he went out there and there were people who were even worse than the villagers? What if people saw him and chased him with forks and demanded a “demon” like him be killed?

But as time went on, Nightmare became on the verge of falling into madness again, the silence of his dead home getting to him, so he runs away, runs as far as he could

Everything got too much for him and he just wanted to move on from what he experienced, but he’s just a child that doesn’t know any better, and all he could do is hop from Au to Au in search for a new place to call home

Which took a while, Nightmare would simply stop to stay in Aus for a few days and then leave to another one, he’d sleep under trees or between their branches if he felt unsafe (which was most of the time)

I also like to believe Nightmare struggled to control his powers a lot as a child, not knowing how to control his tentacles or even his power to hop between Aus, which sometimes got him into trouble

But Nightmare also couldn’t seem to resist the temptation to get as much negativity as he can, he looks at a person who’s hurt and he’s unable to stop the twisted smile from forming on his face, which to a 6 y/o was a horrifying thought at first, the thought of finding joy in the suffering of others

A horrifying thought that gets muddied every time he sees someone suffering and feel the high of power after he absorbs their negativity, eventually turning from simple observation to a single (not so) innocent try at hurting others himself, and that turns into his new regular as he hurts more and more people and as any true sympathy he has just slowly slips away

He eventually finds an abandoned Au without life and decides that it’s his new home, staying there without a roof above his head for a while before he’s able to have enough control over his powers to build his castle

And tbh I can’t really see Nightmare as schizophrenic, as I don’t think he feels much guilt for killing off his abusers, but I definitely think he feels a lot of guilt for killing his mother while having complicated feelings about his twin’s fate, but I definitely think Nightmare has C-PTSD and experiences a lot of nightmares /night terrors

As for the possibility of him having BPD or Bipolar then you’re on point, i’ve yet to truly decide which he has, but I’m leaning more towards BPD, but until i make a final decision (after i do a lot of research on both disorders) it’s still undecided

[fivelasanctum]

Dark Fivela hints are canon

Recently their was a slight leak over a dark scene where five dreams of Lila losing her mind. Looks like something straight from a horror film. Rather disturbing but adds new insight into their relationship. Being stuck in their limbo of being a hell on one side but heaven in terms of freedom and having their own world to grow closer in. The original poster said their were darker takes. Could see them putting emphasis on their shared madness. Skeletons from their closet haunting them (Mostly due to malnutrition and repeating the same actions of survival. That pushed their minds to the edge) Five has been paranoid and incredibly suspicious in the past. This dream most likely terrified him over his darker fears manifesting. Relying on Lila, being vulnerable, protecting her and making her his purpose to get her back home. What happens if he couldn't protect her mind from being broken? His did and that's originally how he created Dolores. Over the years he would attack, shoot first in his original apocalypse. Which was odd since nobody but him existed there. Not like in the case of the subway stops, where they never knew what they would be getting. Think his first inclination towards violence was a testament to the madness of being alone with no true escape. The extended cut of the leaked footage could have been Lila trying to choke him or seeing him as an enemy. Forgetting the present in favor of the past. Or Five being forced to kill her in defense. Being met with that reality would push him to insanity most likely. He has grown close to her by this point. They were family and friends with hints to the growing tension between them. Five burying his own feelings before the subway. Knowing how he tried to kill her in season 2, only for it to catch up to them again despite the years and time spent growing closer. In gamer speak this would have been an alternate 'bad end' 'for them. Killing each other or one being left surviving from the attack. Could also be an insight into Five's own darkness he is struggling to keep at bay. He succumbed to it the first time around in his timeline and with lila, felt it wouldn't happen again. Yet they had become each others rock. If one cracks then they both do. She is wearing the same outfit, has the same length of hair and similar lighting was used in the quick scene from the montage below. It's my theory that he woke up from that nightmare. Obviously troubled. Think lila comforted him or made one of her more blunt jokes, laughing loudly. That infectious laughter made five smile and do the same. Showing that she is still herself and able to be content with his company. Not to say she doesn't miss her old life but it's not seen as a third ring of hell given their was affection between them before all this had happened. I would say this takes place in year three. Their madness and break downs.

In the end, think the dark edge brought them closer. Both fighting back and embracing their darkness. Seeing each other at their worse. Possibly around that same time they helped each other more. Five removing the glass from her foot. Her in turn, doing the intimate task of shaving him and no doubt cutting his hair. The love and trust growing with those actions given the more than likely, brief breakdowns that occurred and the fear of madness tearing them down. Their relationship looks to be quite strong even before it became official. Lol or I might be overthinking by being so excited over something new from the subway storyline xD Perfect timing for Halloween~! Apparently Lila and Five can be the face of Spooktober coming up lol

[ideas-scattered-dreams]

/ / REVENGE.

fandoms: Genshin impact AU!: imposter creator

imagine that... "kill them!", "this filthy sinner cannot be forgiven!", "how dare u impersonate our grace!" yells of hatred sparked from the mortals of teyvat. why did this happen to you. you were innocent, a mere player that loved genshin. You were shaking on your knees, bound to a damn statue that was similar to you, you had read hundreds of these imposter stories au type. laughed at some, angry at some, but in the true reality you were scared of this possibility to happen. When you first woke up in teyvat you just wanted to adventure and find out the true nature of your fav game, but alas that is what every imposter chasing begins... you ran from all of the different nations each and every minute u get the chance... but unfortunately for you. you have finally been captured by the damn anemo archon. A pair of shoes were Infront of you. the Geo archon... rex lapis stand Infront of you, he had the face of disgust. Ei the electro archon was besides him aswell as the anemo archon Barbatos. they were giving a speech on what will happen to you.. you were... gonna die. No... NO! you weren't gonna die! not yet! you still have a future, a goal, a dream! u cant die not now.. no no no no!! tears swell in your eyes, you cant... but you are now absolutely weak. You are just a mere mortal in the end of the day. "as the punishment by stealing our graces face you shall be beheaded!" venti announced loudly making the mortals and adepti cheer in excitement. didn't you fucking steal your friends face because u were to weak to protect them? and being fucking beheaded! you don't wanna be len kagamin every wednesday!

The shogun stood behind you, her Musou no Hitotachi ready to strike you down. "what are your final words imposter.." fuck fuck, you were really gonna die by dumbasses. you knew u were the creator really, but u didn't know how to control ur powers as u never had time to even relax and find out. but you knew... your child. teyvat was always by your side... they.. were always by your side!

You laughed startling everyone, they were silent as u continue to laugh louder and louder, "y-you" The shogun was shaking with rage how dare you laugh in this damn situation, are u... mocking the creator? tch. As the shogun striked down you shouted. "I WILL NEVER FORGIVE U ALL, I MAY BE FORGOTTEN AND FORGET, BUT NO MATTER WHAT MY CHILD WILL TAKE REVENGE FOR ME! MARK MY-" sliced. splat. thud. golden and starry blood splattered everywhere, to the statue, near some citizens and adepti, the two archons and most especially... the shogun.

Silence. your head rolled infront of the two archons, the archons had a shocked and terrified expression. "a..." screams arised from everyone, they just killed their creator! the archons were stuck in their place... then chaos.

Teyvat began to shake , the ground cracks and thunder struck on the place where u died. the statue of you glowed and came to life, gripping and taking the archons and throwing them all over the place, all elemental regisvine grew in the borders, monsters, hilichurls, abyss mages has began to run rampage and killing people.

all the dead Archons has arised and is taken to battle. Guizhong, the 4 yakshas, nameless bard... and all the dead characters has risen to torment and fight to avange your death.. their dear creator.. screams of terror, cries of sorrow and yelling of apologies, it was just pure chaos.

but.. in the spot on where you were killed, the statue of you was embracing two children.. a boy and a girl, they were sobbing as the statue of you began to crumble and turn to dust... "parent.... dont go..." you children sobbed, they embraced eachother as the chaos continued, you were sleeping in your bed. a dream? u were having a nightmare (name) but it is ok.. so dream away to not worry no more.

a/n: im still new to genshin and the imposter creator au, so sorry if some dont make sense

[chaoticdelinqueerwithglitter]

This drabble is born from a really angsty brain riot with Bonten's origins, that happened to me after reading this words from @just-sp-in-inginthevoid :

"Bonten is a memorial for Izana, its symbol, its members’ tattoo come from Izana’s earrings and the (天) ten of Bonten 梵天 from Tenjiku 天竺, the (梵) bon of Bonten 梵天 comes from Brahman 梵. (...) There’s no need for Senju to have the same role as Izana in Bonten if she’s not dead."

(I always pictured Senju being death in that timeline, but the reality of the kanjis being literally THAT... ajfshgsjgejgrjg, the pain of this. Wakui, you know how to break us every timeline! 😭)

Bonten was born from pain.

(drabble of the day that Bonten was created)

Warnings: I'm so sorry, this is just angst and hurt/no comfort. I wrote it as an attempt of coping with canon and how painful is Bonten timeline when you actually look closer to it. It's from Koko's POV and everyone is just broke and devastated in their own way. Again, I'm so sorry :(

(English is not my first language, so be nice please 🙈)

Most people think Bonten is synonymous with fear.

But they are all wrong. Kokonoi knows better.

Bonten is synonymous with pain, it was born in it.

He still remembers the day that Bonten was created, even if it wasn't the official date, any of the executives would pinpoint the exact same moment.

Probably, only Koko could actually offer a coherent narrative of that night. The only outsider of all the chaos unraveling in front of him.

He still has nightmares of what he saw. But is not what happened what haunts him, no. Is the voices, the faces surrounding him.

Wakasa covered in blood, his eyes looking completely empty. His blank stare, like he couldn't believe who this blood belonged to. Benkei's hand on his friend shoulder, tearing up like a baby.

Takeomi curled up in the floor, sobbing next to his sister's body. Saying “it should've been me” over and over, the older man stuck in a loop of guilt and denial.

The former members of Tenjiku looking shocked, not moving a finger for what was supposed to be their gang, their leader. Koko spent enough time with them to know that, even if they were ruthless, seeing the leader of another gang being shot like that... Was too familiar.

Anyone who looked at them could see they never agreed with that. The ghost of Izana Kurokawa still lingered over them.

Kakucho was shaking, his lips trembling. The rain and the blood mixing with red snow in the scarred boy's mind.

The Haitani brothers unconsciously getting closer to each other. Ran pulling his arm around Rindou in a protective way, the younger one allowing it without complains. Both of them staring at Sanzu, terrified with the possibility of being on the pinkette boy place.

Sanzu's screams were the worst of it. The excruciating pain in his voice while he was holding Senju's body. His little sister's body. How he looked at Takeomi, tears rolling down his cheeks, his gaze filled with hate when he spoke to his older brother “I agree, it should've been you.”

Mikey standing there, the void in his eyes while his knuckles kept dripping with South blood. The man's body at his feet.

That gaze, dark and lacking of any emotion. Pure void that swallowed everything around.

(That swallowed them, trapped them like moths that flied too close to the sun)

Bonten was born from pain.

Bonten grew in pain, thrived with it.

And, Kokonoi is sure that whatever destiny awaits for them...

Bonten will die in pain.

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Strawberries and Cream - (Nesta x Reader)

Hiiii! @greeneyedivy and I collaborated and wrote this piece for @azsazz's and @writingsbychlo's Starfall Week! This was SO much fun to write and we really hope you enjoy it!

The prompt we used was "Character A and Character B meet at Starfall"

Summary: Nesta doesn't care for Starfall and just wants to get away from the Inner Circle...which subsequently leads to an encounter that changes her life.

Word count: 5006

Warnings: SMUT! 🌶️

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *

Starfall. 

It was all anyone had been talking about for weeks, and Nesta was sick of it.

There was no escaping it. If she wasn’t being subjected to the Inner Circle’s excited preparations, then walking the streets of Velaris was a sure way of reminding her of the occasion. She couldn’t turn a corner without seeing posters of businesses offering promotional offers, or catching a glimpse of the storefront decorations that had been hung. The entire thing was giving her a headache.

No, she didn’t care to watch the stars crash into each other, and no, she didn’t care what everyone would be wearing while they did. Even Elain had been sucked into the allure of the whole thing, but Nesta — Nesta saw it for what it was.

Unnatural. Just as unnatural as going from human to fae. She felt such a visceral hatred for the entire situation that it ached her bones.

She may have had no choice but to live on the other side of the Wall, now, but that didn’t mean she had to partake in the foolish traditions that existed there.

You’re still welcome to join us, Feyre had said, dressed up to the nines alongside the others. They were all heading to the House of Wind — the best place, apparently, to witness what was about to happen.

No, was all Nesta had responded, and they didn’t push any further, even as her sisters left with disappointment on their faces.

Nesta would create her own plans, she’d decided. And that was how she’d ended up in quite possibly the seediest tavern she’d ever seen, far across the other side of Velaris.

Her shoes had stuck to the floor as she’d traipsed in, and the groups of punters dotted about the place all looked up, drinking in her appearance, the chatter lowering a little. She lifted her chin, ignoring them as she took a seat at the bar, aware of hungry gazes that studied the outline of her figure in her dress. She could just as easily leave and find somewhere more upbeat and alive, but this…this was what she wanted. A place that could be any dingy, old tavern in the human lands, if she ignored the fae features around her. A place where she could pretend, at least for one night, that her new life was just one big nightmare.

So she ordered herself a drink and focused on the sensuous strum of a lute across the room. 

The notes were charming and beautiful, soon transporting her to another life, another world, entirely. Nesta loved music — it was one of the very few things she still could love, and the setting didn’t matter as the tune climbed and fell, one song trailing off into the next. Her plans to down drink after drink seemed to fall to the wayside as she instead became distracted by the music.

Time ran away with her like that. She found herself able to push her thoughts away for the first time in a long while, and she nursed her drink and focused on anything but reality, and the dull sounds of soaring stars outside. Perhaps that was why she didn’t catch the sound of approaching footsteps, nor the fact that the music had come to a stop. The male voice that spoke to her was an unwanted obtrusion.

“Can I buy you another drink?”

She glanced up, finding a mildly handsome face smiling at her. The mess of blonde hair on his head and the piercing blue eyes did nothing for her. She stared back at him blankly, forcing herself to be polite.

“No,” she responded. “Thank you.”

“Come on.” The male persisted, sidling up to her. “There’s no sense in sitting there with an empty glass. Same again?”

“She said no, Mallas. Piss off.”

Both Nesta and Mallas looked up upon the third voice that was injected into the conversation. A female voice, slightly smoky and raspy. The sound seemed to skitter over Nesta’s skin like chills.

Her eyes took in the female that stood there, holding a lute as she stared down the male. In the dim faelights that lit the tavern, she looked…ethereal. Like the music she’d been playing moments before. Nesta couldn’t help staring. 

“I was only offering.” Mallas mumbled, pushing past her. “Bitch.”

“Kiss my ass.” Her eyes watched him closely, tracking him as he returned to the group of deadbeats he mingled with. Only once he was sat back down did she turn back to Nesta. “You shouldn’t be here, Nesta Archeron.”

Nesta blinked, caught off guard for once. And then frowned at her. “Do I know you?”

“No.” She leaned against the bar. “But everyone here knows you. The sister of our High Lady should not be keeping company such as the dregs of society that loiter in this dive. And I would know — my uncle owns the place.”

Nesta lifted her chin. “I’m not some silly little girl. I can choose, for myself, whose company I keep, thank you very much.”

The female’s lips twitched into what appeared to be amusement. “Well, then.” She said. “Have a good night. And happy Starfall to you.”

With that, she turned, sidling around the bar. Nesta couldn’t help watching every tiny movement as the female hung her lute over her shoulder, whistling a merry little tune as she headed towards the door at the back.

“Wait.” She found herself blurting, and the female turned curiously. “I—you play the lute.”

The musician stared back at her, that same look of teetering amusement seeming to pass across her face. Nesta thought she might die from humiliation — beg the ground to swallow her up, or something. You play the lute. As if that wasn’t already obvious.

She just…she felt intrigued. Maybe even a little awed. Her body and mind felt more alert than it had in months — and that was just from a few seconds of conversation. She…she wanted more of it.

“I do.” The female answered. She angled herself back around, studying the oldest Archeron. “…you like music?”

“I love it.”

Chewing her lip, the female seemed to consider that for a moment. What, exactly, she was thinking, Nesta wasn’t sure. But she liked the way she looked at her…assessing and curious. Not the contempt she’d become used to. It made her body feel hot and cold.

“…Okay.” The female eventually said. “Then I have something you might like — if you care to see it.”

Nesta didn’t even hesitate. She shrugged, forcing nonchalance that she didn’t feel. “Why not?”

“Indeed.” The female’s hand shot out in offering. “My name is Y/N.”

Nesta shook that hand, entirely aware of the lightning strike that, in that moment, seemed to bring her back to life.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“This is my home.” Y/N held a chipped, dented door open, stepping aside. 

Nesta tried to school her expression as she wandered in. Not that she wasn’t used to small, modest houses, of course, but after months in Rhysand’s luxury, this place was…definitely not that.

A soft snort came from behind her, and Nesta glanced over her shoulder, kicking her shoes off. “What?”

“It’s no High Lord’s house, I grant you.” Y/N said, throwing her keys into a bowl beside the door. “But it’s home — my space.”

“I like it.” Nesta said, and she realised she was telling the truth.

With a smile, Y/N led her through to a small sitting room. The place was…colourful. Vibrant wall hangings and beaded curtains in doorways that led off to other places. Patchwork throws were draped over the sofas, and there were piles of books — titles that Nesta recognised, some she didn’t — and plants hanging from the ceiling and perched on shelves and standing in pots on the floor.

“You live here alone?” Nesta found herself asking, drinking in every detail. 

“I do. My family is…complicated. I’d genuinely go insane if I didn’t have my own space.” Y/N hung her jacket up, and Nesta glimpsed the pretty, dark peplum blouse and tight breeches she wore. “Drink?”

She tore her gaze away. “Yes. Thank you.”

Y/N pushed through one of those beaded curtains, drifting into what Nesta assumed was a small kitchen. The sounds of cupboards opening and glasses clinking travelled through as Nesta slowly approached one of the sofas and perched down. She studied the coffee table before her — covered in pages and pages of parchment. And on them, she realised, music. Compositions. 

The beads rustled again, and Y/N sat next to her, handing her a small glass of amber liquid. “I write it all myself — the music.”

“That’s incredible.” Nesta reached out, her fingers brushing over the indentations of ink on the pages. She couldn’t read any of it for the life of her, but…there was something beautiful about just studying the notes. Words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them. “Music is…an escape for me.”

“I get that.”

The two females had known each other barely an hour, and yet Nesta just knew — knew that Y/N did get it. That there was some sadness in the confession that she could relate to. 

“Do you write just for yourself?” She asked, sipping her drink.

“For now.” Y/N nodded. “But I’d like to perform in the Rainbow one day — or at least hear my compositions being performed there. That’s my goal. To…to be different to what my family are. To break from that mould.”

“And what are they? Your family?”

With a soft laugh, Y/N placed her drink down and rose once more. “Well…that actually brings me to what I was going to show you.”

Nesta waited patiently, watching as the female strode over to a cabinet and rifled through. She was…beautiful, her hair flowing down her back, the cut of her figure through her clothes. For a moment, Nesta found her thoughts emptying, her mouth drying. She quickly looked away.

“This,” Y/N said, slumping back down with a small box in her palm, “is a Symphonia. Go ahead — take a look.”

Nesta stared at her for a moment, their gazes meeting. She cautiously outreached a hand, opening the box and peering inside. Her brow furrowed at the small, silver ball that sat within. 

“You can take it out. I promise you’ll like it.”

Nesta’s long, slender fingers dipped into the box, carefully pulling the ball out. She set it down in her palm, realising that while the top was curved, the bottom had a smoother surface — to be set down without rolling, she supposed.

“What does it do?” She asked.

Y/N reached out, and Nesta jolted as she gently took her free hand. The two females stared at each other again, gazes not once faltering as Y/N guided her fingers to the top of the Symphonia. 

“Just tap it.” She murmured, giving a light press. “Like this.”

Nesta jumped, her lips parting in pure astonishment as music suddenly filled the room, the small object breathing notes and symphonies into the air. She knew there was a whole wealth of magic that she was yet to encounter in Prythian — and had been hesitant to ever do so. But this…she never would have considered anything like this.

“How does it do that?” She breathed.

Y/N smiled. “It uses magic to trap the music inside so that it can be played back to you. Everything you hear is being played by me. I use it for music composition. It’s…a very rare object.

“Where did you get it?”

“…that’s where my family comes into it.” Y/N shifted a little uncomfortably, pulling her hand away. “I come from a family full to the brim with criminals. One of the things they deal in is rare magical objects. Usually, I try to distance myself from them and have nothing to do with them. I’d like to get away from them completely. But this…the Symphonia…it was the last thing my father gave me before he was killed.”

It was an effort for Nesta not to flinch, not to return to those harrowing thoughts of her own father. She swallowed, forcing herself to focus on the music.

“Stolen or not, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.” Y/N said. “Even if that makes me a terrible person.”

Nesta glanced up through her lashes, meeting her gaze. “It doesn’t.”

Again, the two females found themselves locked in their staring, the music floating around them. Unsaid words seemed to intertwine with it. Words that Nesta thought she might never have the courage to speak, but that made her skin tingle.

Eventually, Y/N smiled, prising the Symphonia from Nesta’s palm and placing it onto the coffee table. She held out a hand once more.

“Would you like to dance, Nesta Archeron?”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

They did dance. And danced and danced and danced until their feet hurt. Until Nesta felt like a different person. And even as the stars completed their journeys across the skies, the two females showed no signs of tiring. 

Nesta was drunk – not really on alcohol, no, even with the glasses they’d knocked back. She was drunk on elation. On…happiness. She’d never felt so on top of the world. 

The Symphonia had given them three run-throughs of every piece of music before they were slumping back onto the sofa side-by-side, their heads swimming and eyes smiling, lips laughing. Their arms brushed, that zipping energy that had been sparking between them all evening still very much present. 

It was enough to slow the pace down, to ground Nesta.

Her head still tilted back against the sofa, she angled it to find Y/N already gazing at her. Studying her. There had been a lot of glances like that as the night had wore on, only seeming to grow more heated and honeyed with every passing touch and word. 

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Nesta asked, not minding at all. 

Y/N’s eyes traced the sharp, flawless lines of her face. A face that so many would deem cold and unfeeling, albeit beautiful. But there was more behind that facade…layers that Y/N wanted to peel back.

“I’m seeing you.” She replied. 

The response wasn’t exactly what Nesta had been expecting; an odd, puzzling answer. She stared back at her, feeling strangely naked as she asked, “what are you seeing?”

“I’m seeing,” the female shifted, somehow inching closer. Their faces were mere centimetres apart, breaths mingling, ���someone who is scared.” 

Nesta didn’t react. Right – she was so damn right, it was painful. Nesta hated it, how vulnerable it made her. Still, Y/N went on. 

“I’m seeing,” she continued, “someone who feels a huge volume of things, all at once. Someone who doesn’t know what the fuck to do with those feelings, but is expected to have it all figured out. Someone who desperately wants to let go and lose control, but is equally scared of doing so.” 

The words were so accurate, hitting so close to home, that they robbed Nesta of breath. She’d spent months feeling isolated and alone and misunderstood, angry and hurt and like nobody fucking saw her.

And yet, she’d met a complete stranger who had managed to sum her up perfectly within hours of their first words.

It made her…made her want to keep feeling. No matter how terrifying that was. 

She didn’t know what to say, how to respond. It seemed a bit strange to thank someone for accurately reading her, seeing her. There weren’t really any words–

So she gave in to the urge that had been building in her all night, as their bodies had danced closer and closer until they were moving in one, fluid unit. As their scents had mingled, and Nesta had got drunk on it. 

She leaned forward, cupping Y/N’s cheek, and slanted her lips over hers. 

It was like two puzzle pieces locking into place. Y/N didn’t hesitate to lean in to the kiss, reciprocating with as much enthusiasm. Her own hand moved up, tangling in Nesta’s hair. 

They both tasted like the honey wine they’d been drinking, their tongues sweet as they began to explore each other. It was the first time Nesta had ever kissed another female, and it was different. Exciting. Right.

Their lips didn’t separate, even as their bodies began to move. Y/N was inching closer, angling herself over Nesta, and Nesta tentatively placed her hands on her waist, hoping it was the right thing to do, wondering if she was allowed to explore further.

Realising she wanted to.

Y/N nipped her lip gently, and then pulled back just slightly to study her face, their breaths hot and fast. 

“I think that you’re probably used to being dominant, Nesta Archeron.” Her smoky voice caressed Nesta’s ears, her skin. “And I think you want to give up that control for once. That you’d like to know what it feels like to submit.”

A quick, short breath escaped Nesta’s lips. “Oh yeah?” 

“Mhmm.” Lips coasted over her lips, her jaw, down to her neck. “Do you want to let go, Nesta?”

“Yes. Yes.” 

Y/N smiled against her skin, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “Very well.” 

Nesta didn’t know what to expect, but she knew her skin was deliciously on fire. Wetness was already pooling between her thighs, and the sure musk of arousal began to mingle with the sweeter scents in the air. Not just Nesta’s arousal, but Y/N’s too – and it only made Nesta wetter to know she was the cause. 

“Relax.” Y/N whispered against the shell of her ear. “I’ll take care of you.”

It was only then that Nesta realised how rigid her body was – how she naturally tensed and threw her guard up to ward people off. But she didn’t want to do that. She wanted…wanted to let go, and experience everything that accompanied that bravery. To feel.

She forced her limbs to loosen into the sofa, the feeling in itself strangely pleasurable. Was this what it was like to experience pleasure for pleasure’s sake? Y/N was right – Nesta was used to being dominant. Every sexual encounter she’d engaged in had been about exacting control, feeling powerful. Having the command of things, as she did so rarely these days, in this new life. 

But that didn’t mean she didn’t want to let go. And letting go was…euphoric.

“That’s it,” Y/N encouraged, as Nesta’s limbs loosened more. Her fingers began to skim over the buttons at the bodice of her dress. “Can I undo these?” 

Nesta nodded once, quick. “Yes – please.” 

If Nesta’s skin was fire, Y/N’s fingers were contrasting, delicious ice, as though one offset the other. Y/N didn’t fumble with the buttons like males always did. She undid them one by one, torturously slow, until the two halves of the dress were parting and exposing Nesta’s full, generous breasts to the cool air, her nipples immediately hardening. 

And then Y/N was rocking back on her legs, hungrily drinking in the sight. She swallowed, glancing up to meet Nesta’s eyes. “You’re fucking exquisite.” 

Nesta found herself blushing. But there was no time to feel coy as Y/N leaned in, capturing her lips once more. 

The kiss was hungry, fierce, and even as Nesta’s body tried to take control, she gave over to the need to stop and feel. She cupped Y/N’s face in her hands, her thumbs stroking her cheeks as they kissed and kissed and kissed until they were both breathless. An ache was already building between her legs, and she pressed them together, moaning softly. 

Y/N smiled, lips pulling away from hers to trail down and down, just as they had before. But they continued on further, brushing over the swells of Nesta’s breasts. One of her hands came up to knead one breast while her lips fastened on the nipple of the other. 

The sensation was…unreal. Nothing like anything Nesta had felt before. Males had paid plenty of attention to her breasts, kissing and sucking and touching, but none of that came close to the feeling of Y/N’s tongue flicking over her nipple, her teeth grazing just slightly. Another, louder moan fell from Nesta’s lips, and her head fell back, her eyes screwing shut. 

“Look at me.” Y/N hummed, moving to pay the same attention to the other breast. “I want to know that you’re enjoying this.” 

Nesta’s chest heaved as her breath hitched. “I am. Gods, I am.” 

Y/N smiled, and Nesta began to wonder if it was possible to come from the treatment her breasts were receiving alone. The sensations…every lick and suck, the bites and the subsequent kisses to the hurts they left behind…it was possible she might combust. 

But then Y/N lips coasted further down, still. As far as they could go with Nesta’s gown still on. She pressed quick, gentle kisses to Nesta’s stomach, glancing up at her. “Can I take your dress off?” 

“I think I may rip it off myself if you don’t.” 

Y/N’s breathy laugh was music to her ears. A strange thought popped into her head that she’d happily trap the sound of that laugh within the Symphonia and listen to it over and over again. But all thoughts emptied from her mind as she lifted her body from the sofa, and deft hands and fingers were pulling the fabric away from her body, leaving her utterly exposed. 

Nesta was a confident woman, well aware that she was beautiful, that her body was the envy of many. But as she slumped back down, her underwear the only thing left covering her, she found herself…worried. Worried that she wouldn’t be to Y/N’s liking.

She’d never once cared nor considered that with anyone before. 

But the way Y/N stared at her put all those worries promptly to bed. That was fierce hunger in her eyes, her tongue swiping at her lip as her gaze trailed down and down, over Nesta’s breasts, her toned stomach, her sensuous hips and slender legs. And between those legs, the pulsing wet heat beneath her underwear. Her arousal drifted up to smother Y/N in its essence, and her eyes almost rolled back into her head. 

“I repeat,” she said tightly, as though she was trying to hold herself back from devouring Nesta whole, “You’re fucking exquisite.” 

Nesta swallowed, studying her just as fiercely. “Why don’t you show me what you look like under those clothes?”

“There’s plenty of time for that. But this is about you. All you.” 

And Nesta couldn’t deny that she loved the sound of that. Even though she found herself strangely nervous, her body trembling slightly, her arousal only built and built as Y/N stepped closer again.

And dropped to her knees before her. 

“Anything you don’t like,” Y/N said, her hands gently trailing up Nesta’s legs, “you tell me, okay?” 

Nesta nodded. Swallowed. “Yes.” 

“Good.” She leaned in, pressing a kiss to one of those long, luscious legs. Her lips coasted over the skin, smiling as Nesta seemed to gasp at the sensation. “Pretty as this underwear is, I’d much prefer it off.” 

Nesta would much prefer it thrown out of the window, far out of sight. It was nothing but torturous friction rubbing against her. She gladly lifted her hips as Y/N’s hands climbed up, gripping the fabric with nothing but gentleness. 

And then she was tugging them down, down until they were gone, discarded somewhere behind her. 

The heady scent of Nesta’s arousal hit her like a wave; a wave she’d happily drown in. The scent was mouthwatering, and she had to steel herself, gather her thoughts before she unleashed herself on her entirely and drank in that wetness she so badly wanted a taste of. 

“You smell incredible.” Y/N breathed, swallowing at the sight of her exposed, dripping centre. “I bet you taste even better.” 

Nesta tracked every movement. “Are you going to find out?”

“Would you like me to?” 

“Yes. Gods above, yes.” 

“Then I will.” 

The confirmation in itself had Nesta moaning – or perhaps it was the way Y/N hoisted one of those legs over her shoulder, her fingers gently dancing over her calf as her lips pressed small, quick kisses over the skin. Nobody had ever paid such attention to her like this. She wasn’t sure she’d ever let anyone do so. 

But as Y/N lifted the other leg, allowing them both to rest on her shoulders, Nesta felt nothing but a potent mix of excitement and anticipation and bliss. She sank into the sofa, lifting her hips as Y/N kissed and nipped her way up to her thighs. 

“You have such pretty thighs.” Y/N hummed, kissing the inside of one, and then the other. “Your skin reminds me of cream.” 

Nesta released a breath, head falling back.

“And with every little mark I leave,” She nipped, nibbled, leaving trails of faint red marks that weaved a path right up to her centre. “It’s like strawberries and cream. Beautiful.” 

Her lips, her tongue, were so close to where Nesta wanted them. To where Nesta wanted all of her. She was filled with new, frenzied thoughts, wondering what it might be like for them both to be naked, skin to skin, bodies moving in tandem with each other, Nesta’s sex rubbing against hers. She moaned, instinctively dragging a hand down her body, desperate for some sort of release.

“Pretty, pretty Nesta.” Y/N gently grasped that hand. Laced their fingers together. “Let me make you feel good.”

“Please,” Nesta begged softly, and Y/N struck. 

Her face lowered to Nesta’s soaked sex, the grip on her hand immediately tightening as she breathed in her scent, her nose nudging her clit. She glanced up, drinking in the sight of flushed cheeks and parted lips and the firm, furrowed brow. And then she dipped, licking a stripe up the centre of her. 

Nesta immediately gasped, her hips lifting off the couch. Again – that contrast of ice and fire. Y/N’s tongue was an inviting trail of coolness as she lapped at the damp heat of Nesta’s cunt. Nesta’s hand was clenching around hers, and her nails dug slightly in as Y/N’s tongue reached the apex of her thighs, swirling around the sensitive bud of her clit. 

“Oh, gods,” Nesta moaned, throwing her head back. Every little lick and lap was like being touched for the first time. Attentive and giving and raw. Her heart moved at a thudding gallop inside her chest, seeming to jerk at every sensation. 

“Is that good?” Y/N hummed against her, her teeth lightly grazing her clit.

“Yes. Fuck, Y/N, yes.”

Nesta could feel Y/N’s lips smiling against her. Her body trembled, fighting with the urges to both give and take as Y/N licked and nipped and sucked. But this was about giving over control – about taking. And as Y/N used her free hand to slowly slide a finger into her, she was happy to do just that. 

“Doing so well for me.” Y/N breathed, pumping her finger in and out as Nesta’s juices coated her tongue. The taste had every one of her nerves alert and craving, and the moans she let out were certainly not for show as she fucking devoured. “Gods, you taste like sunlight.” 

Never would Nesta have believed that anyone would describe her as sunlight. The praise felt just as pleasurable as the sensations as she reached out, threading her empty hand within Y/N’s hair. She gave a gentle tug, and Y/N grinned, sliding another finger into her. 

She curled those two fingers inside of her, and the delicious ache that was beginning to build and pique, the feeling of those fingers and her tongue working inside her and against her–

“Fuck, I can’t–” Nesta’s hips lifted off the seat again, her head thrown back.

“You can let go.” Y/N lapped against her, pumping her fingers faster, harder. “Let go, Nesta. I’ve got you.”

Nesta did just that, a shout breaking from her throat as release overtook her body. She was nothing but pure, shaking, feverish pleasure as she came, hips bucking and legs trembling. She gripped onto Y/N’s hair, riding her release against her face. 

Incredible, really, that Y/N didn’t falter once. Even as Nesta’s centre was grinding against her, practically smothering her, she seemed hungry for the whole thing, continuing the expert strokes of her fingers and tongue. And as Nesta’s trembling legs buckled and had her tumbling back onto the sofa, Y/N held her, kissing her thighs and stroking her hand still intertwined with hers. 

Seconds or minutes or hours could have passed, and Nesta’s heart was still thudding, her ears ringing. When she’d regained enough sense to speak, she was weakly pulling on Y/N’s hand, tugging her up, up towards her. As soon as their faces were close enough, Nesta captured Y/N’s lips in a kiss, moaning at the taste of herself that lingered there. 

“I want you.” Nesta breathed, pulling back just slightly. She stared at Y/N, swallowing, wondering – and knowing, deep down – what the fire was that had been lit inside of her. “I want — more.” 

Y/N studied her face, the flushed cheeks and glazed eyes. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Nesta’s mouth, and then she was tugging her to her feet. “So stay.” She said. 

Nesta didn’t need to respond – not as Y/N pulled her from the room on shaking legs. 

She felt more alive than she had in months. Than she thought she might ever feel again.

And for the first time in years – perhaps for the first time in her life – she felt like she’d found home.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *

general tags: @angrymilfs @lunaralaraspace @maddithefangirl @brekkershadowsinger @wandas-dream @his-sweet-nightmare @kennedy-brooke @chocolatecakelargeshake @daily-dose-of-sass @missaddamsworld @reiincarnatiion @linduzmunna @leeknows-wife @nightcourtwritings @ann-writes-universes @cosmic-whispers @simplefan-638 @lucyysthings @judig92 @shannonsaid @azriels-mate123 @a-frog-with-a-laptop @iangelofmusic @baybay123455 @poisonousgirlie @kuraikei @sweetandsourwrites @clarkie-carmody-blog @myheartsalwayswithyou @lavenderdreams22 @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @sadiebluewin @comfortpotato @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @acourtofchaosandmess @marina468 @123345566 @gmey11 @nyctophiliiiiaaa @starrynights-frostbites @eos-princess @cloverrover @millsxthrills @humanpersonlasttimeichecked @gamarancianne @rachelnicolee @bruhhvv @a-court-of-milkandhoney @poshestpigeon @dxjaaaa @icey--stars

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Hello, Mr. Monster (Six. Somnolence)

Summary: Eros and Psyche inspired Soulmate!AU, Morpheus x female OC/reader

Masterlist

Chapter warnings: trauma, A/N: This is literally half of what I planned on for this chapter. Soooo. Yeah. One of the teasers for this chapter applies to chapter seven, lol. But the wait will be worth it! Thank all of you who've stuck around. <3 You are all dears and deserve big cups of tea and cuddles. Dream’s creations brought him stories.

6: Somnolence

They groveled before his throne by the dozen, sharing tales of the child Aisling – in need, protected by his arcana as she moved through the mortal plane, jetsam in the wake of a better life she should’ve lived. Hundreds more, many of them nightmares, told epics of the woman Aisling – tearing their anchors from the dreams of innocent mortals, protecting the most fragile dreams from harsh reality in quiet corners of the world where fantasy still thrived.

His creations brought these stories to trade for forgiveness the subject of their tales had already secured. Only a few shared their memories because they cared for her. They wanted their lord to see her as they’d found her, and how could the Prince of Stories not love a timely hero in a grand tale?

Some told him what they thought he needed to know. Facts about the mortal with his name and power etched in her soul.

He had his own story, one of a cage and a strange woman with true sight and curious magic. A woman who looked too hard at all the wrong things and freed him without promise or threat.

When he first saw her from his prison, when his restraints shattered and he could see properly for the first time in over a century, hope and loss nearly consumed him. He’d been aware of the place in his essence where a mark might grow before Earth gathered into a planet. Every time he fell in love, he waited for the name to appear. Trapped in his glass prison, cut off from anything that made him more than a fragile facsimile of a human shape, he hadn’t felt anything fill the empty space. He lacked the awareness.

How had he imagined meeting a soulmate? Not like that. Not as that – a nameless monster in a cage. She fled the moment she found him, and he imagined he could see Nada’s footprints in the sand as his true soulmate’s steps echoed over stone.

Perhaps it was for the best. The quaint hell of Burgess’s basement was no place for introductions, and he brought all his bereaved fury to bear in his escape. Even as he found his freedom, he found yet another treasure the magus and his son had stolen from him.

She had been hurt. Badly. And he had not been there. If Alexander Burgess hadn’t already earned his punishment, seeing the crude letters cut into Aisling Hunt’s heart over her own mark clinched his doom.

When she finally slept, he showed himself as everything he was not upon their first meeting. Her clever eyes, blinded by fear and expectation, did not see him. Did not know him.

Though he ached to be with her since the moment he truly saw her, though he yearned to repay her for ending his captivity, a hundred years of helplessness festered like a dark canker in the depths of his passion.

When she did not recognize him in that first dream, he did not rush to correct her ignorance. He welcomed it, and with her oblivious naivety, he took control. In the second dream, it was even intentional. So long as she did not know him, he was… safe. So was she. Or he liked to believe so. Safe from fear and confusion at the clear weft of their wyrds knotting them together through actions she believed entirely her own.

But now she knew him.

She’d seen his face, and the budding trust he’d savored as she came apart under his hands and tongue shattered like the finest glass. He imagined it like shards coursing through her blood. He’d seen as much in her eyes as she looked up from the hand of her captors, brought in silken chains to her monster, the entity she’d readily freed from Fawney Rig. Her growing faith, possibly even affection, cut her from the inside out, glittering in her eyes as she fought against the pain his face brought her.

Once again, he was shown to her as a monster, as a frightful king who might accept such a gift from the unseelie court. His lip curled at the thought.

He could not bear it. Though the two parts of him stood at war – the lover and the wounded king – neither exalted in her fear. Deep within, the mark cut him, too. Soothing her pain when she fell into his hands in their first dream together was far from selfless.

He wanted to chart her, like a star-filled sky, or an endless ocean reflecting those stars. He could sense the elements in her, the base reality of every living thing bound up in her tattered mortality. Wildfires and oceans. Sweeping winds and green fields.

And beyond that? She’d done more with the powers the fae cursed her with than he would’ve thought to ask. A touch of eternity beyond anything human tangled so deep in her soul he could never take it back, not without killing her.

He wanted to do terrible things. To pluck out her heart and wear it in a locket, sundering her from the waking world forever. To wrap her up in splendid charms and spells to make her forget anything she might miss outside the bounds of the Dreaming. To pull her deeper and deeper into himself until they were truly one, until she became a part of every aspect, even if it would destroy her. His desire ached to maul her in some way, to sate his hunger and leave a mark even mortal eyes could see.

At the same time, he’d gladly hand his nightmares the broken remains of any other – mortal, god, or angel – who threatened so much as the ease of her smile.

He yearned for her entirely, and he was not all light.

She felt so right in his grasp when he caught her up in the throne room. safe at last in the circle of his arms. But he was not free to hold her. He required her permission, her clear consent, a reciprocal yearning in word and deed, and until he had that, he must prove himself. He could not fail her again.

And so Lord Morpheus, dread King of Nightmares and ruler of the Dreaming slouched low in his seat, watching Aisling Hunt breathe, at rest in the perfect silence of oblivion as he waited at her side.

He hadn’t brought her to the rooms he began crafting as he rebuilt his kingdom from ruins. The bed was no less grand, the space fit for a goddess, but it was a thoughtless grandeur. Perhaps it was selfish, but he did not want her fear to spoil the joy he’d hoped she’d find… in her home. He did not want her first memories there to echo with terror and doubt.

“My lord?”

Lucienne hesitated in the doorway, hands clasped behind her back and brow furrowed with care. Though he wanted to close the doors and keep these quiet moments entirely for his own, his librarian had been the one to remind him of his soulmate’s fragility, and although she often provided insights he did not like, they were all the more invaluable for his distaste.

“I do not know what to do.” He looked from his love to his librarian, nearly as lost as he’d been when he first returned from his imprisonment, sitting below a throne governing nothing but broken glass and crumbled stone. Then he’d had a course to follow, a realm to repair, even if he hadn’t known where to begin. “There is no quest to fulfill. No correction to make. She is not even mine to repair, even where I am at fault.”

His former raven watched, shifting in place, but never taking her eyes from her master and the mortal he would love.

“Perhaps…” She paused, and Morpheus looked to her searchingly, grasping for hope in the wake of this latest failure. Taking it permission, she continued delicately, handling her ruler like the delicate pages of the library’s oldest tomes. “Perhaps a king is not what she needs at this time.”

He already knew that, but he could not accept it.

“Is my name not carved on her heart?”

“Morpheus, my lord.” Lucienne offered the correction like a balm to a blistered wound. “Not Dream of the Endless. You assume you know what her reaction will be when she wakes, but how can you predict someone you barely know? She knows even less of you, and I’m sure she has plenty of assumptions.”

He bristled. He already knew her, as he knew all dreamers. The facts of her life flowed through the Dreaming, but he only understood them as a mortal would know printed words on a page. They’d shared precious little time. Three dreams.

Would she ever trust him like that again, or had he lost her entirely in his carelessness?

He didn’t wish to agree with his librarian’s suggestion, but he had no ideas of his own, and he would not fail his little hero once again. Could not.

“What do you suggest, then?”

Drawing herself up, Lucienne unclasped her hands and folded them anew in the front, clearly itching for a book or ledger to occupy herself. “I don’t know her any better than you do, sire, but there are some who do. Why not… invite them to share their insights?”

Morpheus closed his eyes, calling to mind the many subjects who flocked to offer pieces of Aisling’s story. Most clasped nothing but small gems, scattered fragments of a grander jewel. But the ones she called friend, that walked the Waking world beside her…

He opened his eyes and looked through the Dreaming, reaching to the shores of Nightmare, where a beast with pretty manners turned at his call.

“Fine Gentleman. I summon you. Come to me.”

The nightmare followed his order, appearing in the room at the foot of Aisling’s bed as the shape of the realm bent to accommodate Dream’s will. Despite his decades in the Waking world, the nightmare had taken up his old duties admirably, and Dream expected Fin, as so many called him, would return the loyalty Aisling had shown him. She risked her freedom to safeguard the nightmare’s path home, after all.

Fin knelt, bowing to his king, but his eyes flicked to the bed, and Dream dismissed his respects. “Rise. You have leave to speak. There are answers I would have of you.”

The nightmare didn’t need to be told twice. Back on his feet, he gingerly touched the edge of the blue coverlet, and asked, “It’s true? The unseelie, they – Is she alright?”

“In body, yes.” Lucienne approached the far side of the bed, closing a semicircle around the sleeping mortal who’d caused so much concern. “But she had an attack of some kind, and none of us are sure what to expect when she wakes. Perhaps you have some experience with similar episodes?”

“I do.” The nightmare kept his attention on Lucienne and his hand a few inches from Aisling’s feet. History and affection bound them closer than oaths and debts. Rot green ghosted through Dream’s thoughts, and he wrestled the specter away as the nightmare explained. “She hasn’t had one in a long time, but she used to have panic attacks when she was younger. Bad ones.”

“And how did she treat them?” Morpheus demanded his creation’s attention. It would do the nightmare well to remember whose soulmate he’d been called to aid. It would do him well to remember his king.

Nothing of the beast faced the King of Dreams, only the gentleman, and though he kept his head down, his gaze fixed on Morpheus with iron determination.

“My lord, I have a suggestion you won’t like.”

There was much in the past hours Morpheus had not liked. He’d cut his throat to ease her thirst if need be or burn every star in the Dreaming’s sky to keep her warm. Sitting up in his chair, he prepared himself to bleed.

“What is it? What does she need of me?”

The nightmare didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch.

“Your distance, sire.”

Morpheus recalled the scene in the great hall. His destined soulmate. Alone, collapsing on his throne room floor, shaking and afraid. He wouldn’t have it.

“I will not leave her. She will not be alone.”

Her friend, the nightmare, shook his head. “She wouldn’t be alone. Any of us she knows could stay and mind her, but…”

Ah. Morpheus sat back in his seat, expression cooling as he realized they had only just reached the part of the suggestion he would not like.

“Speak.”

The nightmare took a deep breath, set his shoulders, and forged ahead like a soldier facing down a dragon.

“She was never afraid of you because you were powerful. She lived in fear that you’d take her choice.”

He gave his king a moment to consider the revelation, though even in his brief acquaintance, Morpheus had learned that much. But it was only a reminder, and he spooled out deeper knowledge like a bandage he could pull his friend together with.

“When she wakes up,” he said, “she’ll need to feel in control. Even in the Waking she took space for herself – to find the truth, redraw the borders around what she’d chosen and what she’d been told to choose. The greatest gifts you can give her are time and space.”

Drawing his hand back, letting his fingers drag over the covers, the nightmare bowed. Morpheus read more than respect in his creation’s bent spine. This was the obeisance of a supplicant, one begging for grace rather than offering fealty.

“She’s resilient, but give her a chance to find her feet before you ask her to be brave again.”

Dream of the Endless did not smile down on his creation. The nightmare had been right. He did not like this plan at all, but he had asked, and the nightmare spoke truly. As a true friend.

Loathe as he was to banish himself, he would abide by the counsel of one who knew his soulmate well in the hope that he, too, may someday be allowed to know her.

“Very well.” He rose, and the chair crumbled to sand. “You and those of your choosing will serve as companions, guides, aides. The One Beneath will guard her.”

The nightmare took his orders and departed to gather his fellows. Lucienne waited for her lord, offering him silent company and support as he pulled himself from his little hero’s side.

He craved her faith. Her willing trust and all that would follow. It seemed, however, that he must first give her his own.

“When she is ready, she will come to me.”

.O.O.O.

She roused from the dreamless ocean to meet a crush of memories.

The fae delivered her. Morpheus took her. And now she woke in a bed she didn’t recognize.

He’d watched as the fae threatened to strip her of her own mind. And he’d – he’d always been –

She ripped the sheets back and fought her way off the plush mattress. Not awake enough to land on her feet, she fell to all fours, and the impact jarred her knees, sparked little agonies up her wrists. She dropped flat, belly-down beside the impossibly soft sheets and a blanket that looked like rolling waves caught the threads. She looked at the wonderous bedding with dull eyes. Then closed them, so she wouldn’t have to.

Everything here was his. Even… even she was. Now. Maybe.

She hated every beautiful thing in the room, but she hated herself more.

It was her fault. She let herself believe she was safe, and she paid in flesh and scars.

How many years of her life would she voluntarily trade to the fae to erase the past… however long they kept her, from the moment she passed through the mirror til now? And how long was that? Did she sleep for a few hours? Days? Had the Waking world seen a hundred years as her monster bundled her up in his castle?

Her breath caught like a sleeve on a doorknob, sudden and jarring.

It hadn’t really happened.

It had.

He’d promised her he wouldn’t steal her away or exploit what she offered. He helped with her pain and brought her pleasure, and she’d –

A cold hand with scabby skin and broken nails wrapped around her fingers.

She didn’t need to open her eyes to recognize Jeff.

She rubbed her thumb along an exposed tendon to assure him she was alive, and he squeezed back to prove he was listening, that he had her, that he would stay. That everything was alright and nothing truly terrible had happened as she slept.

That all was still as she remembered.

Despite what she’d seen.

Maybe it meant something that her monster let her oldest friend comfort her instead of demanding the burden of care himself.

But if the first promises had been lies, and his excuses for the mask must’ve been, then she couldn’t trust any peace offerings, either.

The nightmare held her hand, but he couldn’t ground her. She refused to settle in her skin. She knew what would happen when she did. Whole people wore skin – filled with pain, and regret, and longing. Nothing hurt more than that.

She’d been here before. Not on this floor, in this plane, within her monster’s domain. But a floor, and in the end, polished marble or scratchy, threadbare carpet, it didn’t matter once she landed. A floor was a floor. She became hollow enough to forget she was alive, bleeding from a war no one else could see or save her from.

She had to get up. Had to move. Had to save herself. No one else could, not even Jeff, or Fin, or Gault, or

– Morpheus.

The floor had warmed under her cheek, proof of a beating heart she didn’t want to feel, and she turned to press the other side of her face to a new, cooler patch of marble. Maybe the stone floor could leach enough heat to freeze her mind. Numb it. So she could forget.

Forget his face. His expression when she broke the seal in the basement of Fawney Rig and the way he looked down from his throne as the pansy swung above her eyes.

Forget his careful, beautiful hands, and how it felt to dissolve with him between the stars.

Forget the smell of earth. The feel of claws. Of spider silk… The dress. She was still wearing the damn dress.

Inspiration couldn’t lift her from the floor, but fear and disgust launched her upright as she sank her fingernails into the delicate lace and pulled.

The left sleeve tore from her shoulder like tissue paper. Just as it was meant to. A pretty thing for her soulmate to rip off her body. Titillating scraps of fabric that wouldn’t impede a lover. That offered even less protection than she’d thought.

She froze again. Her breath caught on a lump in her throat as visions of another destiny crept like a snake through her thoughts. One where the graceful fingers she was coming to adore destroyed the dress. Where she’d lost herself entirely. Where her monster became everything she feared.

She blinked furiously. Her wet eyelashes stuck together. The air in her lungs turned thick with agony she wouldn’t voice, and the elegant room turned to a blur as she crashed to her knees, clutching her arms close to keep from shaking apart. To protect herself. To hide the body the fae tortured into gleaming perfection for a monster’s pleasure.

She wanted the dress off.

She couldn’t stomach the thought of baring any more skin.

She couldn’t think beyond the tearing pain in her chest.

This is what came of leaving the floor and becoming a person again.

Hands cut through the fog, urgently curling around her shoulders. She jerked back, shouting wordless protest, and a voice reached out to find her where the hands could not reach.

“Aisling, you’re safe. We’re here. Can you hear me?” The voice plucked on memories. Dust and sunshine and green stains on her skin from cheap jewelry stewing in sweat.

“Gwen?” She only realized she’d asked when she heard her own voice. It didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right.

“Yes.” A smile behind hands offered in support, palms up, begging to be accepted. “It’s just me and Jeff. Can I – Are you…” The dream looked her like she was holding a knife to her lover’s throat. “Can you tell me what you need?”

No. She really couldn’t. It wasn’t safe, and she didn’t know.

But the fucking dress…

She pulled at the fabric. Carefully. Trying to express herself as words failed to coalesce.

“I want it off. I feel…”

She felt like she needed to scrape her skin off all over again, but even in her confusion, she knew Gwen wouldn’t help that far.

But Gwen knew her, and Gwen knew how to listen, even when dreamers struggled to speak. “I’ll draw a bath and find you something to wear.”

Aisling knelt where she’d landed and swallowed down rising bile. Even she forgot, on her better days, how physically painful fear could be. Jeff took her ankle, so she knew she wasn’t alone as Gwen swept out of sight to do as she’d promised. Her most loyal nightmare.

She didn’t mean to scare him.

Her chest ached with an old burn, and she knew she couldn’t turn to the same cure that soothed it last time.

Gwen returned swiftly, before Aisling even had time to miss her, offering her soft hands again for her friend to accept.

She still couldn’t stand the idea. Jeff was different. Jeff needed the comfort as much as she did, and there was no mistaking his hand for anyone else’s.

She found her feet on her own, still hugging herself, eyes on the floor. Her stomach ached. Her skin crawled under the sticky lace. As she followed Gwen into a side chamber, she couldn’t help noticing the view outside the great, arched windows. A whole world stretched beyond the glass – worlds upon worlds, even.

Her ordeal wasn’t over.

She couldn’t just jump in her van and leave the Dreaming. Boundless as the fears and fantasies of every living thing, aware of her presence as its monarch, it would hold her until he gave her permission to leave. As she walked through her – ostensibly – private rooms, she might as well be sitting in her monster’s palm again.

Gwen showed her to a sunken tub behind a screen, an indoor pond that scented the air with clouds of lavender. An indistinct set of clothes sat on a low table beside a stack of towels, and a small collection of soaps and bottles stood within reach of the water.

Gwen wrung her hands, fighting to smile. “Would you like help? I can wait outside if you prefer.”

“I’ll be fine on my own. Thanks.” Getting the dress off would end in a fit. Big, ugly tears and hacking sobs. She just knew it. She couldn’t stomach someone sitting beside her, trying to comfort her as she came to terms with everything the fae had done.

She had to wash this new skin alone. She needed to mourn. She needed to figure out which way to swim before she drowned in aimless grief, and worrying what she looked like or how she made a loved one feel would only pull her deeper. Fortunately, Gwen understood.

Her friend left. She stood alone in the opulent ensuite, pulling apart what was meant to be her dreaded wedding gown, trembling as she tried shielding herself from eyes that simply weren’t there.

She took her bleeding heart into the bath, and the warm water tried to swallow her pain. Washing and scrubbing until she couldn’t feel the faeries’ touch under her raw flesh brought a little relief, but missed her scars. The little marks on her fingers from careless accidents in the kitchen, places she cut for spell work, and a hundred incidental bumps and nicks. It looked alien now. Too smooth. Perfect in a way even a birth-bruised baby’s wasn’t. Her true sight detected residual magic that wouldn’t fade in her lifetime from the unicorn’s horn. It made her beautiful. The kind of beauty she could use as a weapon if she wanted. If she was dealing with a lesser creature than an Endless.

When her cuticles bled, she gave up trying to erase the potion’s effects.

And she cried.

She cried so much she was surprised the water level didn’t rise. The bath stayed hot and fresh as she tried flaying herself, and she wondered if had some secret healing power. Hardly shocking, all things considered, but she wished it was plain water she could turn pink with her human blood.  

She stayed too long, cleaning her hair, her face, the spaces between her toes. Her intention worked the scrubbing into a ritual. Not all the magic would leave, but she banished the traces of her captors’ essence. She peeled away their staring eyes and casual violence.

She was her own self, and she would make it so.

At last, cleansed in body if not in mind, she climbed out and began the process of becoming a whole person again, with feelings and all. Feelings, and legs, and wet hair.

The towels were so soft she nearly cried again, but she felt ridiculous enough to sniffle down her hysterics and start getting dressed. Gwen had brought something like elegant loungewear. Better than any sweatpants or old t-shirt, they draped around her without clinging or threatening to fall off. Comfortable. Woven from some fabric she’d never touched before but maybe dreamed of, like the plush toy she slept with as a child and the silky ripple of a stream over her fingers. A shawl waited at the bottom of the stack, and she pulled the extra shield around her shoulders like armor. Everything fit. Nothing pinched, or chafed. It couldn’t be the most attractive ensemble, but it felt like a promise. Reassurance stitched into the loose fit that covered her so well.

It wasn’t for display. She wasn’t for display. It was consideration. Patience. A tender embrace offered from a safe distance.

And she was beginning to doubt Gwen had chosen these clothes at all.

She shivered, pulling the shawl tight across her chest, and returned to the bedroom. Gwen rose, uncertain but ready for anything. Aisling waved her down.

“I still… I’m going on a walk.” The world beyond the windows was all Dream’s, but she needed an open sky and a breeze on her face. The screaming child in the back of her head wailed the polished marble felt like raw slate and the close air smelled like soil and mildew. It didn’t, but she wanted to break the association before it took root.

Twisting her hands again, Gwen nodded, and Aisling didn’t wait for someone to tell her she wasn’t allowed, or that she really needed to stop and put on shoes, or that she should act like a delicate lady and keep to the garden. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.

So many of her friends told her stories about the Dreaming. She wanted to love it.

She would outrun her fear, literally if she had to.

[rogueshadow1124]

RESTLESS NIGHTS

[BATFAMILY IMAGINE SERIES]

Dick grayson x Vigilante!Reader

Summary: Ever since the reader had a run in with the scarecrow one evening, she couldnt let go of the image she got under the influence of the fear gas- her worst fear - losing her beloved.

Word count: 955

Warnings: mentions of blood/slight death.

The rain spattered against the window pane, creating a low and soft thumping sound that was almost calming. Y/N lay in bed, eyes barely open but struggling to close while her boyfriend was asleep peacefully beside her- how she envied him in this moment. She wanted to sleep, even more so needed to sleep, she was tired but restless at the same time, she didnt want to fall into the same nightmare she did everytime she closed her eyes because everything seemed too real. It was like a warning really.

A sigh escaped her throat, emitting into the silence of the room. Her head turned to the right, catching a glimpse of the digital clock beside her that lit up in an voluminous red colour. 1:30am was what shone on the small screen, she had been laying in the same position for hours. She should be thankful Dick was next to her and asleep because neither of them got to spend this kind of moment together or even remotely fall into a slumber with their daily rounds of the night patrols that were set for them.

Y/N placed her hands on eiether side of her thighs and pushed up so she was now sat against the headboard. Her Y/E/C orbs trailed around the messy room, switching between every object in her eyeline. Her mind went elsewhere, flicking back to the time where everything was supposedly easier, not normal but easier.

Then her thoughts drifted to something that wasnt so nice. The nightmares that haunted her daily and nightly. It had all started when she was on night watch with Dick one night, they ran into Scarecrow and she was put under his fear gas. Everything seemed too real in that moment, the blood that stained her hands, Dicks blood to be exact. She watched him die and she couldnt do anything about it, all she did was hold his deceased body in her arms as she sobbed and begged for him to come back.

Though it was only an image that was engraved into her mind by some mere chemicals mixed together, she couldnt shake off the thought of something like that actually happening because it was more than possible. When she finally came back to reality that night she didnt speak a word to Dick who was trying to console her broken aura, she ignored him and ran straight to the bathroom locking herself inside.

Her eyes deceived her as she continued to see the blood that covered her body in the mirror, her mind was playing games with her but at the time she had no clue. She was inconsolable. She spent what felt like hours inside the shower, scrubbing harshly at her sensitive skin making it peel and burn- that was until Dick grew worried and came to her rescue before she caused any harm to herself.

"Babe..." A hoarse voice spoke from her right, bringing her back to reality. Her head tilted down to see her boyfriend hugging her waist, his head burried in her stomach as he looked up at her with his deep blue hues.

"Hey bub." Y/N whispered tiredly, letting out a small yawn as she brought her hands up to rub at her eyes.

"Why are you still awake?" His raven locks stuck in every direction making the girl chuckle slightly and smooth it out as he started to sit up beside her against the headboard.

"Couldnt sleep." She leant over, head falling into Dicks chest. He raised a hand and ran it through her hair, humming while he yawned in response to her statement. His fingers stroked lighty on her scalp in a calm manner, running through the length of her unruly Y/H/C hair.

"Y'look tired baby." Dicks half lidded eyes peered down, taking in her sleepy for though he tell she was forcing herself to stay awake and it wasnt the first time she did, he remembers how she had done this on many occasions after the incident when everything became to much for her to handle. "Why dont you try sleep, m'here."

"I-I cant Dick, I close my eyes and all I see is the same scene infront of me only this time I cant interact I have to watch it happen over and over again." Her voice cracked slightly, head pushing further into the warmth of his chest. Her hands came to rest where his heart would be, running over he clothed skin.

"I'm not going anywhere Y/N/N-"

"You dont know that Dick. What about when were on patrol and something goes wrong, just like my nightmares? Or maybe I wont be there and you disappear, I dont want to be alone. I-I love you and you can call me selfish but I'd rather die protecting you then allow you to die at the hands of someone when I'm not there." She breathed out heavily, a single tear strolled down the perimeter of her cheek as she continued to run a hand over his chest as if she was making sure he was still there.

"I'm never going to leave you behind baby and I most certainly wont let any harm come to you. Ever." He pulled her quivering form into his bigger one, cradling her like a child as she let out another sob, sniffling. "Try and sleep. S'only a few hours before we need to be up anyway."

Y/N hummed, nodding into his shoulder. She moved so her body was practically ontop of his, her arms tucked into her chest just above his stomach where she curled up as much as she possibly could, seeking comfort.

[zealousbluebirddeer]

The dragon's heart

Endeavor x F!Reader

(Disclaimer ; My inspiration for writing this comes from somewhere but I don't remember 💀 Oh and Hawks is mean in this story, sorry not sorry)

"You have to be kidding me."

There you were, standing in front of a giant glass in a warehouse. Next to you was Burnin, laughing her ass off because of how ridiculous this whole situation was. But it wasn't, not to you. To you, it was a nightmare.

Behind the glass was your boss, the number one hero, occupying most of the space with his massive form. He had been hit by a quirk on his morning patrol, and now he's a dragon.

"How..." You weren't sure what to say, stunned by the literal dragon sleeping in front of you.

"Well, Hawks told us that after their patrol he began to transform. His skin was slowly turning red, his eyes were changing form and he became bigger by the hour."

"Why aren't you worried ? Can he even transform back ?" You asked your friend, worried.

"We...We don't know. We have absolutely no information. He didn't even catch the villain." She admitted, now taking in the seriousness of the situation.

You sighed and you both left the warehouse. For now he was sleeping, and thankfully nobody in Japan knew about this except the agency.

It was difficult for everyone to get back to work. A team of sidekicks took turns watching him until he woke up. You were stuck behind your desk, thinking about what you could possibly do to help.

Truth is, the whole reason why you had been hired was because you knew Touya. You were the same age, but he was cooler than you. You both hanged out at his place most of the time, and you couldn't deny that once or twice you tried to make his father laugh with one of your jokes, to get his attention like the fool you were.

It worked, but when Touya was left for dead you took your distances from the Todorokis. Years later you'd be that funny coffee shop worker that Endeavor knew from somewhere but couldn't put his finger on how. And you planned on keeping it that way.

But one day, you fucked up.

"There you go, on the house." You said, not as cheerfully as you usually would be.

"On the house ? What's the occasion ?" Endeavor took his drink from your hands and looked at you, confused.

"It's the five years anniversary of...something important to me. I just wanted to honor it somehow." You tried to find a sketchy explanation that would work. But you still felt his questioning gaze on you.

"Five years anniversary huh ?" He said, his eyes narrowing. He was trying to figure out what it could be. You weren't wearing any ring, and coincidentally he was having the exact same five years anniversary today. Except he did nothing for it. And then his eyes widened as he looked up to your face.

"Y/N ?"

Shit, you thought. You never wore your name tag when he came around. That means he found out by himself.

"Y-Yeah, it's me..." You looked down with a guilty expression.

Surprisingly, he invited you over for old time's sake. Fuyumi cried. A lot. Shoto forgot about you and Natsuo tried to act cool but he was secretly looking forward to seeing you again.

And seeing how you managed to make his kids happy, he hired you as his personal assistant to keep you around. On paper, you had tons of responsibilities. Organizing his schedule, helping him with paperwork and managing reports of sidekicks.

In reality, you had absolutely nothing to do. You quickly realized that he already had a secretary, leaving you with almost no daily tasks. Thankfully you still went to every meetings with him and helped when he needed assistance with something.

Oh, and your paycheck was higher than his secretary's. That's why you didn't have many friends in his agency. Burnin had been kind enough to show you around on your first day and now you're friends. You think.

"Earth to Y/N ! Are you listening to me ?"

You snapped back to reality when you heard Burnin calling you. You looked up and saw her...And Hawks.

"Sorry, I was...preoccupied." You said, looking back at the blank sheet of paper you were supposed to write on.

"Yeah, well we're all preoccupied doll." You could sense sarcasm and a hint of annoyance in Hawk's voice.

"Leave her alone, Hawks." Burnin crossed her arms as she gave him a disapproving look. Then she looked back at you.

"He woke up, and he's pissed."

(First ever post on tumblr, be prepared for a ton of parts for this story.)

[summertimemusician]

Linktober Shadow Day 8

Majora('s Mask)

*throws bouquet of roses* For the Time lovers.

Also my bias is probably coming through really strongly right now, but I'm not well rested enough to care plus I've been playing Majora's Mask a lot again this month, it's as important to me as Twilight Princess so this is kind of my love letter to it and Time and my excuse to explore the concept of Majora and the Fierce Deity and divinity in LoZ, though that's an essay for another day lol (/j)

As always can be read as romantic or platonic depending on your preferences, Reader is gender neutral and this is definitely self indulgent so it can be read in or outside of an LU context, most of the references to the LU names are for simplicity and to give a rough idea of why Reader has some stuff they do. Makes it easier to clarify lol, though as I've been hit by yet another storm the Linktober prompt will be for tomorrow, I'm basically picking a god and praying this actually posts X_X

TW(?):

Don't think there's any warnings besides MJM's typical body horror really, and very graphic descriptions and Majora in general.

Even after so, so long, so much so it feels like a lifetime ago, Termina still stuck with you and Time.

The thing about being in a timeloop that went on for who knows how long and whose failure to reset it would be total destruction to so many good different people, is that you quickly learn some habits to try and maximize as many successes as possible, how Time (Mask, then, after the living nightmare of Termina, during the War of Ages, still Link though) quickly learned the location of each enemy he could, how you learned to call out the best way to quickly assess and take down an enemy as quickly as possible, how you both learned to watch each other’s backs and to care for the people and Termina to the point Link went from just a warrior to a healer, granted the trust of holding the crystalization of the hopes and dreams of the people of Termina that, even if they couldn’t remember it, wanted the cycle to end, wanted to hunt the threat to reality itself and purge it from the world. To bite down onto it’s neck and feel the thrill and glee and cutting down such an opponent.

Most importantly, after bleeding, crying, sweating and toiling against the unrelenting flow of time and insanity all brought upon by a lonely child being left alone and manipulated to commit heinous acts as ‘pranks’. It taught you and Time the importance of contingency plans, and about always, always being prepared for any and all situations, unlikely as they could be. Of taking through note of even the smallest detail that caught your eyes at a glance.

‘To defeat an abomination, you need one of two things: A deity, or a monster.’, you think cynically to yourself, stepping over Time’s fallen form as Warriors bolted over with blizzard forged fury in his cold, calculated movements to defend him in your stead as you called Hyrule over, the young man quickly starting to heal your Hero as you glare down at the disgusting stain on reality engaging Twilight and Wild all at once, gleeful at having watched the person you adored the most fall, bringing out the ultimate contingency from your cloak, you hadn’t even told him about it, because you prayed you’d never need to resort to this, ‘… Forgive me, Link. The first option isn’t doable here.’

Time was your everything, you knew how his story ended, with so much grief until he finally met Twilight again. You tried, you really did, to not allow yourself to love him but it was impossible because he was Link, the man who longed for adventure ever since he was young, embodying the freedom of the forest of life and death that made up the whole of Faron Woods and the Lost Woods and as steady as it’s moors, voice quiet and calm like a stream in the woods and with and with a smile to rival the warm sun and so, so heartbreakingly kind. Who protected and saved and healed people while slowly healing his own soul and who attempted to soothe his descendant’s pain the second he could even from beyond the grave.

And you’d be darned if you allowed anything to take him from you or the boys before his time without a fight. You couldn’t care less if he would eventually die as he was destined to in every timeline, it didn’t matter if it was futile, because he mattered, you loved him, and you’d keep him safe and happy for as long as you could.

It didn’t matter if one day tragedy will catch up to him, it mattered that he was loved while alive.

Even if you had to step on fire to make sure of it.

“Twilight, Wild. Step away.”, the edges of the spikes of the purple and crimson mask that haunted your nightmares as much as it did Time’s, it leered at you with it’s arsenic and pus eyes, picking apart at your weaknesses as it’s spikes dug into your hand as you tightened your grip to keep if from shaking. Tone falsely confident as you called to the Hero of Twilight and Wild to retreat.

(‘To defeat an abomination, you need a deity or a monster.’

The definition is awfully interchangeable, if you look at it.

You had found it, abandoned and in a dungeon Wind’s Era, not quite awake, but not asleep either. The eldritch hunger almost chocking you with it’s voracity, the darkness assessing, stalking, prowling and starving, it prodded at you but didn’t dig yet. It knew how to play the long game in it’s quest to stop feeling empty.

Funny thing is, so did you. You were a lot harder to break than the Skull Kid, would not break.

Majora wanted to cease, like how it had ceased before the Terminan Tribe ripped it from it’s slumber, taught it hunger, taught it cruelty, taught it how to manipulate and take amusement in consuming the wishes of mortals and their very souls only to never be satisfied. Had fueled it with wrath from being ripped from a lovely, endless dream of beautiful songs and a kind soul. To be torn from it’s fantasy and then left to rot.

You offered to grant it a proper rest. And so a deal was struck. Your one contingency if the situation was truly dire, in case you couldn’t get the Fierce Deity Mask instead -because you knew how Link was, he’d burn himself out until there was naught but ash. You refused to let it ever come to that, after his excruciating screams of pain had clawed an aching, hurtful place into your very soul-, and Majora was starving and desperate, a dangerous combination for any being but something you could use.

So be it, if to protect divinity you needed to become a monstrosity, a monster was what you’d be.

You’d keep him safe. And you knew that if the Fierce Deity put him down once, he could do it again in case you slipped. Between him and Sky you weren’t afraid at all of the risk.

Even if Time never forgave you for taking it.)

You smile bitterly, tearing up in spite of yourself as you see the second Time spots you and the cursed artifact in hand, eye wide, voice ripping from his throat in desperation, “I’m quite selfish, I’m sorry.”

His haunted expression cuts you deeper than any knife, as you knew it was an image that featured in many of your nightmares and his own. But you’re insatiable for his happiness, so you take the plunge.

“NO NO NO NO DON’T-“

You put on the mask, and you scream.

It’s like stepping on fire, a twisted, desperate tune, a note of discord, a belt of harmony and fury and most importantly, the mighty need to consume the one who had tried to take the one you loved away from you.

Defy death, defy entropy, defy chaos, defy flame and voracity.

You cling to your self control with a snarl, howling in defiance. Sinking your nails into the abyss’ throat and biting, tearing, holding, tasting rot and withered flowers and the writhing of shadows and the blood of distorted gluttonousdivinity on your tongue with savagery equal to the way the demon sinks it's spikes onto you. Chew on it’s tender, rotting flesh, quaff down the lukewarm pus of it’s heart and the rust of blood as it bites off your skin, stripping your mind into chunks as it nests into your ribs like the spikes of wild, dead roses when it finds your mind tougher to break and you BURN YOU ARE LIFE YOU ARE CHAOS AND YOU ARE DROWNING AND YOU ARE FLAME-

You move, and Majora’s laugh sounds like a scream and a song as reality howls.

Your bones, sinew, muscles, nerves, veins and teeth are reformed, the being pounces, dancing, swerving, whipping, cleaving, ripping and feeding into the monsters with putrid, revolting gusto. Whenever it’s attention even tries to waver towards the Heroes you sink your hold in harder, stubborn, you’re sure there’s blood dripping from your mouth beneath the mask, your eyes, your ears, as it reaches a crescendo of glee and pain. A human body isn’t meant to hold so much divinity at once, much less as wretched and horrific as Majora’s, but you don’t care, can’t care, when you’re holding onto yourself like a vice, refusing to give it even a single inch.

It doesn’t kill Dark Link, the bastard (the one who’d hurt Time, the one who would have finished him off if not for you and Warriors). But the screech the Shadow releases as it gets ripped to shreds and the ripple of it’s retreating form is enough to make you partially agree with Majora’s vicious, amused glee that it was satisfying. Even if the feeling of you allowing it to utilize your skin temporarily felt revolting and disgusting in a way it made you wish you were actually on fire, not just in so much pain in a metaphysical level that it sure rivaled being set on fire, frost burned and lightning struck all in one go.

All is still now, all is silent.

Now comes the difficult part.

'Are you quite sure?', whispers Majora, crooning like nails on chalkboards, and it’s spikes sink into you tighter when you grip the sides of it, teeth gritted as you start prying it out of your face, amused by your defiance, but no longer as hungry. You did allow it quite the meal, you bet nothing like fellow divinity tastes better to the being, like the taste of a forbidden fruit you were going to be unfortunately acquainted given you’re sure Dark Link’s blood is on your teeth.

'Yes.' comes your faint response, as your sanity frays in fragile threads, you think someone calls your name, but you are drowning, you are burning, and you know that if you don’t focus it will break you. And you’d be fully dead before you let that happen. If you’re going to die you’re going to die as a human.

'Tou are so, so cold… So cruel.' It drawls, the demon’s voice like the gnawing of rats, like maggots under you skin, you convulse, falling to your knees with a wounded keen and pull harder, you barely noticed someone falling by your side, frantically calling your name, but the mask’s eyes dim to an outsider’s perspective, resigned as it hums dreamily, 'I suppose that’s why The Divine Hunter cares for you so, why it’s vessel’s claim is so strong.'

Good, you were banking on it being sleepy, after gorging yourself on the enemy of your boys, Hylia’s gash and Din’s assets your mouth is going to taste putrid for months isn’t it?

Majora hisses, growls, howls and screeches, a brush against your essence as it retreats. Unwinding from every single cell of your body, distorting your atoms back to their proper shape. It still hurts, buy it’s more bearable, although you quickly notice you’re chocking on a different form of Divinity, more possessive, more wild but just as old and ferocious as it snaps at the retreating heels of the twisted, chaotic thorns. Making reality remember your own shape quicker at the cost of filling every crack consumed by the demon.

You swear that thing is smiling smugly at something else, teeth bared and very entertained, taking the suffering of the people of Termina and the cold revulsion in your veins with it as it retreats with it's cacaphony of voices to the shade, 'A shame. Feasting more would be delightful, but very well. We trust that though you hurt today, tomorrow you’ll make sure we head on our way.'

You don’t have the mind or heart to say anything else to it, for it grows silent as the spikes rip from the sides of your face, you bite of a tortured yell as the spikes rip off chunks of skin and flesh, clawing at the ground with, thankfully, soothing, perfectly regular fingers and nails, albeit cracked, you feel someone take their hand in yours, and you crack open an eye, carefully aware of the blood dripping down your face from the half removal of the heart shaped mask and the thrum of thunder replacing the cold in your veins with boiling, protective warmth.

Time.

“You shouldn’t be up already.”, you rasp, looking over his wounded form, healed by Hyrule, you shakily take your left hand to keep prying at the Majora’s Mask, only for him to take it gently in yours, you taste blood, the petrichor of the Lost Woods mist and pine on the back of your mouth, chasing the rot of Majora away.

“It’s nothing, we both know I’ve had worse.” He says, firmly shaking his head. His scarred eye is open, ivory like bone, the markings more vibrant and prominent with the ferocity of a god, he looks tired, and you attempt to speak, to apologize, to voice your worry because you knew channeling the deity without a conduit was a bad idea, before coughing, shaking from the aftermath of your reckless, reckless plan.

(You unfortunately can’t say you regret it much, though, when you silently bear the combined brunt of Time and Fierce Deity’s care once you reach camp and the protective way they act towards you. Even though Majora is long gone much to your resigned exasperation, and the rest of your boys amusement, but that is for much, much later.)

Time gently hums, it rings through you like thunder as he holds you close, tapping your neck in a rhythm you could recognize in your sleep for when he was about to pull arrows, blades or shrapnel from your skin, or was ready to have it done to himself, you immediately loosen yourself as much as possible, gripping his hand tightly as he rips the rest of the Majora’s Mask off, inert and lifeless as when you’ve both woke up from a new day, he holds you close as you try to breathe, reassuring himself you’re still here, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again. Please.” He pleads, begs, prays. He can't lose you too.

And you can’t help it, you smile as you cry crimson and russet tones from your eyes, holding him back as close as you dare to. He doesn’t hate you, you’re sure you’re going to soon participate in the argument of a lifetime. But Link doesn’t hate you, doesn’t see you as a monster any more than you could ever see him as anything but the kind companion you always knew.

So you let yourself nod, helpless to say no to him for anything really. And allow yourself to breathe, you’re both going to be alright.