#ooc time i guess

[what-have-i-unleashed]

23 plushies :3

uhhhhh this is a very.... strange combination for sure......

23. kaleidoscope - flower face

Now every night you are a scientist Stirrin' up your blood until it's clean Fill yourself with fantasy and Klonopin It's why you keep on dyin' in your dreams

PROMPT: PLUSHIES

(cw: implied self-harm)

killer stares at the face looking at them in the mirror – he almost doesn’t recognize it, half-memories clawing at his sockets and pouring down into black ichor staining the eternally beatific smile on his face.

the sink smells of copper. it isn’t the first time he’s done this, with one hand gripping a pill bottle – half-empty, its label worn from too many turns under trembling fingers – and the other streaked with crimson gashes. he should find the bandages and clean up the mess before the others are awake. the faucet turns on. blood is diluted into water as it’s washed down the drain. killer stares at it – this is supposed to mean something. clean something. fix something. but what?

the dreams are getting worse. shadows he couldn’t see, whispers he couldn’t remember. dying over and over for reasons he couldn’t fathom. something is coming, but he doesn’t know what.

what is it, sans? what is it that you’re trying to block out?

it’s only getting closer.

a click. the lights in the bedroom spill faintly under the crack of the bathroom door. it isn’t seconds later when murder knocks on the door.

“killer?” his voice rings, muffled by the space between them. “are you okay in there?”

killer hesitates before opening the door just a little. something soft meets his eyes. a plushie. cat-faced, round, pastel, stitched with oversized eyes and a goofy smile. it is the newest one, the latest gift from last week. killer laughed when he received it, a bit incredulous by the number of plushies they have accrued by now. but at this moment, standing there with trembling hand, this doesn’t seem all that silly at all.

“feeling better?” murder says, his face peeking from behind the plushie. “come back to bed already. there are more of them waiting for you.”

“yeah,” horror’s voice joined. “you don’t even use half of them, cat lover. pretty sure the dog ones are jealous.”

killer lets out a laugh despite himself, hoarse and broken, clutching the newest gift to his chest. the plushie’s goofy little face stare back, absurd in its simplicity, but comforting all the same.

murder tugs on his hand, a silent suggestion. killer lets himself be pulled, trailing into the shared bed that has become more of a nest for plushies at this point. nestled between the plushies and his partners, killer doesn’t fall asleep just yet, basking in the warmth he knows he should feel.

“don’t worry,” horror whispers to him, careful of how murder is already dozing off. “you don’t have to fix yourself all at once. just sleep. we’re here for you.”

[bluuscreen]

on being made to heal and not quite knowing how to [somehow it works out anyway] — part 2/2

part 1 | headcanon/au being referenced

[starlitmeadows]

a small idea for which i had to learn how to work with the isat dialogue maker

i like the "ghost" option, but what if we look at Loop's situation from a slightly different perspective?

[rotten-dan-art]

ISAT FUNNIES I DREW/FRIEND THOUGHT OF WHILE I PLAYED IT/STREAMED IT. 1)first doodle of isat ever! the first time I found the dirties 2) my interpretation of Isabeaus reaction to the lipstick smear thing 3) the ugly face of yearning

and the rest of them are all funnie jokes my friend @ap-sadistics came up with while I was streaming!! there was another one but i dont know how to do it justice yet

[blacktipreefsharkwizarding]

OOC

seeing this become a common wizardposting thing I guess so if this gets 5k notes I’ll do one (1) iota of self care

[raepliica]

[puppppppppy]

doodles of my fav sillies

anton belongs to @poicyss

[iobartach]

.

[lemongogo]

is this the part where i say i like jaymel . bc i do

[ioniansunsets]

Even as I lie here. Bruised and bloodied. Alone under the stars after a fight. The thought of you keeps me going. You're how I get up over and over even after being beat down.

Passive suicidality be damned when the thought of leaving you in a world without me would mean that you'd be sad the rest of your days.

Now for your sake and mine. I'll fight to come home to you. I don't need to win. I just need to survive long enough to be with you again.

----

Zed, APHELIOS, Hwei, Viktor

[isthemedia]

While yeah Origins’ BarakaPool didn’t work out for Deadpool and is kinda memeable-it has me wondering if it could be salvaged.

Like there’s some nice little moments in Origins between Logan and Wade.

But like honestly Wade in Origins got it worse than Deadpool Wade.

Like stick with me-but multiverse hopping shenanigans with MCU Deadpool and Wolverine, with the unintended consequence of playing matchmaker for a version of their Origins selves.

Honestly BarakaPool while dumb is also that gloriously fun dumb that if Wade could talk would absolutely be quoting Baraka and trying out his finishers from the MK games.

Not sure if this will go anywhere but just having fun letting the ideas ping pong around like an early 2000’s screen saver.

[toffeebrews]

THOIGHTS ON HYPERSOMNIA (error x ink x dream)..?

Going to be honest I didn't consider this ship till I saw your account talking about it

Quick Edit: Somehow I accidentally convinced myself I like this ship by doing this?? LMAO

im going just off whatever my brain says so... hopefully it makes sense? I'm going to stretch things to make this work okay bare with me. That and I haven't had years to build headcanons so some of these are off the cuff. Nothing is canon obviously

I tried to wrap my head around how I would do it in my interpretation, and I decided perhaps if error calmed the hell down and realized maybe destroying universes shouldn't be ur life's goal. Due to morality difference I had trouble picturing dream being personal with error otherwise. I think perhaps some of these things dream/ink picked up on whether it being kidnapped by error or just via battle or something idk lol.

Due to Dream's empathy and knowledge of people he understands Error's motivations stem from a source of anger and not ration. Dream calls him out on it and Error feels a little violated by how accurate he gets it. Perhaps if Error did give up on destruction someday dream would be there to help him with his new identity???

More yapping under the cut

Ink, Error and Dream all relate to being outcasts and their own isolation due to the their roles (whether they bestowed it upon themselves or not). They're all lonely af (LMAOO).

I personally hc both ink and dream can lift way more than their weight. Ink not to dream's extent but he definitely is stronger than he appears. Error is perplexed with this information.

I never understood the " restores the balance thing" so personally I believe this was misconception dream had before he got to know error! Perhaps this manifested as rumors in the multiverse and error was rumored to be actually helpful instead of harmful. Also dream believed people had better intentions then they truly do at one point but as dream matures he realizes this isn't the case. Something like that. Not because I think dream is dumb, rather just want to see the best in people LOL even if he thinks what they're doing is wrong.

Error has a general distrust of dream at first, perhaps because his words remind him of another kind soul (it's blueberry... LMAO). But a part of him, even just a bit , just wants to have a "friend" (him and blue weren't exactly friends but yknow what I mean) like him again.

Dream weirdly finds some comfort in the anti-void as there is less emotional noise. I could picture dream commenting on it maybe, not directly referencing his own emotions but instead that the anti-void is calm (uh does dreams empathy have a bandwidth? I'm making that assumption.)

Dream got extremely excited when he realized error could also understand spanish.

He got quite invested in UnderNovela, dunno why but I imagine dream to be a fan of fictional romantic stories and dramas. He, Ink and error enjoy talking about it together. They've extrapolated a bunch of theories and such together for what will happen next.

I don't see dream as a crybaby but more suspectible to crying than the other two. Error doesn't... react the best to people crying nor do I believe ink to be the best at comforting others (projecting there whoops). I feel like Error is the type of guy to shove things in your face in hopes of making it stop LMAO. Like how you shake a toy in front a baby in hopes of getting them to stop crying. I just imagine error shoving sweets or some other gift in Dreams hands if he were to start crying. Dream would find his reaction kinds funny and maybe would brighten his mood a little bit. Ink is also trying his best and I suppose would try to be encouraging to dream. He would definitely give dream a well deserved hug. In general it's just an awkward mess, but they try their best. Dream would apologize after because of course he would.

Error in general gives "gifts" to dream, because he noticed Ink gives gifts to Dream when they get closer to being friends. Gifts in quotations because they're stolen. Idk, Error is weird.

While Dream obviously cam teleport au to au he doesn't understand as much the technical aspects of the multiverse. Error seems quite open to any questions he has about it I think. He hears error and ink discuss it at times but honestly it sounds quite confusing to him. Idk he's a curious little guy I think he would find himself love hearing Ink and Error yap about stuff like that *shrug*

I have this hc dream loves mlp so yeah they would watch that together.

[thefandomenchantress]

I NEED TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR ACE WRITING HEADCANON RIGHT. NOW.

Oh okay! Well, I already made my original crack theory in this post. In it, I assumed that Ace would live for a while longer, and since Ace can't really have a happy ending as a jockey, I thought maybe they'd set it up for him to have another interest he could pursue, that being writing. I came to that conclusion by using the fact that Ace had a good vocabulary, for seemingly no reason (now that I think about it, I don't think we ever got an explanation or purpose for it outside of a joke). Authors are one of few professions I could think of where a large vocabulary would be especially helpful. And I figured the only reason he wouldn't tell anyone about a talent like that is if he wrote something he thought was embarrassing, like romance. And so, my crack theory that Ace was an aspiring romance author was born (as well as him reading romance novels haha). But yeah, if you want the full theory go check that one out.

While Ace obviously can't have an arc where he pursues his love of writing anymore, I still think the fact that the creator chose for Ace to be the one to make that carousel comment is interesting. After all, him misspelling responsible in his note to Arei would imply he wouldn't have an interest in language, but maybe he's just really bad at spelling and spellcheck is his lord and savior while writing (relatable honestly). Anyways, I think that if anyone, including me, wants to use it as proof he'd be good at English-y things like writing, they can!

I actually made a few different versions of this theory. One fun version I never posted about was a version where instead of being the Ultimate Jockey who happens to like writing, he had two Ultimate talents, the other being the Ultimate Romance Author. But that one was so unrealistic I knew I would never be able to call it an even slightly plausible theory, so I haven't really told the masses about it until now. It felt so self-indulgent that I thought people would think it was cringy. But now I've overcome that, and I will freely write about my stupid ideas haha. Though I'd call this less of a theory and more of an AU.

The AU's backstory would be something like this: So, Ace is writing a book, and (unlike me) actually manages to finish it. He's planning to never share it with anyone ever, but his older sister sees him writing and really wants to read it. After she wore him down for a week or so, he relents and lets her read it, warning her it's very bad and that she will be scarred for life. However, she actually really likes it, and suggests Ace should see if he could get it published for real. She knows that Ace hates jockeying, and she wants to encourage him to pursue his other interests. Ace is, once again, very unsure and doesn't really know if he wants to share it with anyone else, but she manages to convince him.

After they found a company willing to publish it, they did all the book-publishing things like editing and making the final draft and such. And finally, his book was published. However, Ace is very against using his real name and insists on using a fake one. So he picks a generic female name he knows no one will ever think to connect to him as a pseudonym. The book is published, and after a slow start, his sister checks on how the book is doing and realizes it made it to being the #1 best-seller, and her and Ace freak out about it. She's freaking out because she's happy for Ace and his success, meanwhile Ace is freaking out because he's terrified that if it gets too popular people will try to track down the author and realize he wrote it.

Luckily, that never happens, but his book was such an amazing success that the publishing company says they'd be happy to publish another one of his books. Ace figures that he would make a lot of money, and he does like writing, so he tries writing another one. This one is also a success, and so the process repeated until he became a very well-renowned author by complete accident.

Since he's being hailed as one of the best authors of his generation and the 'about the author' section of his book claimed he was within the age range of their program, Hope's Peak thought he would be perfect for their Ultimate Romance Author title. So, they did what Hope's Peak always does: Get what they want through extremely sketchy means. And so, through their mysterious means, they gather information and realize Ace is the author they're looking for. While they were already planning to give him the Ultimate Jockey title, they don't want to let go of the opportunity of being able to claim one of the most successful authors in the current age is attending their school, and give him the Ultimate Romance Author title as well.

Ace could maybe deal with telling people about that title if it was just the Ultimate Author, since he could simply refuse to mention what he wrote and let others think that him having two titles was really awesome and cool and badass. However, Hope's Peak specifying that he was a romance author ensured he would never tell anyone, because they'd totally laugh and tell everyone else in the world and he'd be a joke forever (at least in his mind). Plus, he doesn't want to risk the public figuring out his real name, he hates the idea of being famous, it stresses him out (and he likes feeling mysterious, people talking about him like he's this other-worldly enigma makes him feel cool haha). Hope's Peak appreciates (and perhaps intended) that he won't tell anyone he has two talents, because they don't want to deal with the backlash from other Ultimates who think they deserve two as well. It'd get complicated fast.

And so, Ace was doomed to try (and fail) to act totally chill and casual whenever a classmate mentions "that author" who was supposed to be at the school this year and wonder where/who she is or discuss her books. Luckily, only Whit seemed to notice and he just assumed Ace must secretly like her books or something and teased him about it.

...That wasn't meant to get so long, but that idea has been brewing in my head with nowhere to go for a while, haha.

Anyways, like I said, Ace can't have an arc about liking writing or anything anymore, but I still headcanon him as liking it. He likes writing romance because writing is supposed to be an activity that distracts him from stress, and anything too action-packed or super dark wouldn't achieve that. So instead, it's cute little stories where his characters always have a happy ending and end up together, despite everything.

To him, jockeying always felt like something he did out of obligation and was only good at because of luck or pure determination rather than actually building up skill over time. And of course, it really stressed him out. He likes writing because he chose to do it, and he chooses to keep doing it and improve over time. He didn't just start doing it one day and found it really easy, he had to keep working on it. It feels like it's his, and no one else can take it from him. People can control him all they want, but no one can control this one thing, this one hobby, and what he does with it. He controls what happens in the story, he controls how much writing he feels like he wants to do each day, and he controls if he would ever want to take it more seriously as a career option. And he really likes that about it.

(I also think it's funny to imagine he writes fanfiction, too, he'd totally be one of those authors who writes author's notes like: "Sorry I didn't update yesterday, I fell off a horse and broke my leg :/").

...And that's pretty much it, I guess. I really like this headcanon, if you couldn't tell, haha. Thanks for asking about it! :D

[aurosoul]

this is Bathtub my pet beetle who I almost killed with a tiny pumpkin. (+1 like = 1 immortality point so this never happens again)

[seventh-district]

Dying Star

In the back of your mind, you recall something you once heard, something about light, and time, and distance. Space. Something about... how you can still see a star that's already burnt out, because its light hasn't reached earth yet. The ghost of a star that's already died. Only still perceptible thanks to time, and distance.

You remember Sam's words, once whispered to you on this very roof.

"Whatever your choice is... I'm not gonna live forever. I made that decision a long time ago."

You think about dead stars.

You think about time.

- - - - - - -

Sam’s words have been weighing heavy on your mind ever since you discussed your shared future and the various forms it could take. You didn’t realize just how heavy they were until it all came spilling out of your tired mind on a late night spent together beneath the stars.

Pairing: Sam x Darlin' / Reader

Word Count: 4,053

Contains: [angst] [a dash of humor] [a hint of chubby!Sam bc i like 'em strong and soft] [crying] [cuddling (dub-con cuddles with Quinn in the past & consensual ones with Sam in the present)] [emotional hurt/comfort] [implied/referenced dub-con sex (nothing graphic) (in the past between Darlin' and Quinn to be specific) (refer to my Ao3 notes for further explanation)] [mentioned Quinn] [not quite Dissociation i guess but Darlin' does zone-out/get lost in thought more than once] [pet names (Darlin' (obvs.) and honey)] [Reader is Darlin'] [Sam wears a cowboy hat bc i said so] [some passive suicidality from Sam if you squint (hell, maybe you don't even have to squint)]

A/Ns: Well, well, well, here I am, the person who said they wouldn't write any Redactedverse fanfic. I recently felt a mighty need to expand upon the blurb I wrote in this post, and I'm braving my fandom anxiety by sharing it here. pls be nice 2 me abt it

Timeline-wise, this fic takes place sometime after the ‘Talking About the Future With Your Vampire Mate’ audio but sometime before their presumed eventual departure from the house that William gave Sam, given that they've already had the 'turning' discussion but are still on the same roof in this fic.

This is a songfic, inspired by and quoting verses from 3 songs. Those being:

‘Dying Star’ by Ashnikko feat. Ethel Cain

‘Fix What You Didn’t Break’ by Nate Smith

‘No Plan’ by Hozier

The roof of Sam’s house is far from a ‘cushy’ place to relax. But as you lie here next to him under the stars, a knowledge settles within you that you wouldn’t trade the rough shingles beneath you for the softest mattress in the world. Not if it meant there’d be anyone other than him lying next to you.

Some people might counter that it’s an easy thing for you to say, given the number of nights you’ve thrown a balled-up shirt onto one end of a worn-out couch and called it a bed. But some people don’t know you as well as they think they do.

You’ve known luxury. Quinn might’ve been just as content taking his fill on a seedy motel bed as he was wrapped in silks at a Hilton, but he knew how to play up the luxe when it served him to do so. And in the early days as he worked to lure you in, it did. Plush sheets and expensive drinks helped to soften the preordained blows and dull the imminent pain that your nights with him held.

Once you’d latched onto the bait though, he let the act drop one piece at a time, like props collapsing on a stage. After all, what was the point in all of those frivolities when you both knew what you really came to him for? It wasn’t to be wined and dined, it wasn’t to be dressed up and shown off, and it wasn’t even to be slowly stripped of it all, laid out across the rolling clouds of a pillowy mattress.

It was to be used. Tranced. Restrained. Bitten. Drank from. Choked. Hit. Edged. Denied. Made to writhe and whine and bleed and plead. Plead for more, for less, for nothing, for anything. Anything to quiet your mind and fill the ever-expanding void inside you where you suspect love was supposed to live.

That’s what you both really wanted.

At least, that’s what you told him you wanted.

That’s what you told yourself.

You only got what you asked for.

To your right, Sam stirs, stretching gently with a yawn. The soft noise he releases as he does so reminds you of where you are, and you trace back through your thoughts to find how you got so lost.

…Right. Luxury.

While your relationship with Quinn certainly changed over time, you never forgot what it felt like in the beginning. 

You remember nights laid next to him, body sore, mind quiet. Quinn’s idea of aftercare was lacking to say the least, but you had nothing better to compare it to at the time, and you’d take what you could get. At least your head felt empty, and the bed was soft. Exhaustion would pull you under soon enough.

The mattress, sheets, and pillows enveloping you were likely worth more than you even made that past month. ...Or several. You found that display of luxury hard to be impressed by though, when it wasn’t the type of comfort you’d been seeking.

As Quinn shifted in his presumed sleep, pulling you in tighter, you didn’t fight it. You found yourself unwilling to fight anything he did, like his mere presence was enough to drain the fight right out of you. You told yourself that you were okay with that. Because you wanted it.

Lying there with your head on his bare chest, you took a deep breath and told yourself that you liked the stench of cheap cologne, poorly masking the cigarettes and alcohol on his breath. You silently told yourself that you liked everything. You liked the pain that he chased with hints of pleasure. You liked the loss of power, the way you couldn’t fight back if you wanted to once he looked you in the eyes. You liked all the things he said, no matter how much the truth might hurt.

He was right, you supposed. Your desires, the things you craved, the depravity that you so enjoyed, wasn’t normal. It was uncommon, unusual, and in the eyes of some, unfathomable. To possess such dark desires, there must be something truly broken inside you.

How lucky you were, to have found someone willing to indulge you. Someone that could give you everything you wanted, and be so kind as to keep it a secret too. He promised that word of the things he did to you, the things you let him do, would never get out. You remember the way he held your hand as he told you, falling for the guise of sincerity in his eyes. You remember his warm smile, and his razor sharp teeth.

You remember seeing that exact same smile on his face through one-way glass as he sat across from Sam and told him everything.

You stood in that room and thought back to those nights of luxury. To the feeling of his nails ghosting over the freshly healed punctures in your neck. To the way he held you against him. You remember laying there, lifeless, feeling like prey playing dead. Afraid to move, afraid to disturb him. But why? He hadn’t threatened you. He never told you that you had to stay. He never said that you couldn’t move, or pull away. So why did you feel that way?

As you stood, helplessly witnessing hours of his slander in that interrogation room, you understood. Your rose-tinted glasses had long since shattered, and you saw that smile for what it was. It was the smile of a man playing a dangerous game, brimming with satisfaction, thinking he’d won.

The radio near you begins to crackle, static obscuring the hosts voice as they announce the upcoming song. Sam doesn’t even open his eyes, just raises a hand and reaches out, blindly adjusting the antenna of the old device.

You’ve teased him for holding onto it for so long, as he is wont to do with damn near all of his possessions. But as you watch him deftly extend and angle the antenna with practiced care, the response he once gave you proves itself true once again.

“I don’t wanna replace it, Darlin’. It’s not broken. It just needs someone who knows how to make it sing again.”

The static clears, and music flows through the radio’s old speakers once more.

You watch Sam return his hand to its prior position beneath his head, acting as a makeshift pillow of his own. The way he’s lying has his hat pushed forward, and it’d be doing a damn good job of shielding his face from the sun if it weren’t somewhere around midnight at the moment. Still, it suits him somehow, despite its lack of any practicality. All he’s missing is a stalk of wheat between his teeth and a tree to lean against and he’d be the spitting image of the cowboy he swears he isn’t.

His other hand rests on the soft curve of his stomach, rising and falling again as he breathes. He’s the image of peace in moments like these, and you’re drawn to it like a moth to flame. Maybe one of these days you’ll find some of your own, but for now you’re more than content to bask in his.

As you admire him, he takes a slow, deep breath and you mirror it on instinct. The grounding practice helps you leave your mind and return to your body, if just for a moment. In doing so, you realize just how tense your ruminations have made you.

You relax your hands, releasing the blanket beneath you from your iron grip. You brush your palms over it, worried that you’ve torn the fabric once you realize that your nails had halfway shifted to claws. You don’t fret much over damage to your own possessions, but this blanket is Sam’s and you’d hate to ruin it. Though, you suppose he doesn’t prize it too much or he wouldn’t have laid it out here across the roof in the first place.

“If I buy somethin’ it’s because I wanna use it. Now quit frettin’ and get over here.” You recall what he told you earlier as he patted the blanket next to him in invitation, and you smile.

Doing a small stretch of your own, you release the tension in your shoulders, turning your attention back to the stars above you. For a while, you let the soft music wash over your tired mind.

“I asked him not to kill me politely. He drained my magic core, bottled up at the source. I washed up on the sea glass shores. I’m nobody's captive.”

In spite of your best efforts to relax, you’re still subconsciously futzing with the loose threads of the old blanket beneath you.

You’re made aware of it when Sam reaches a hand down, gently laying it over yours and effectively stilling your anxious motion.

“Burning like a dying star, invasive weeds rooted in my heart, set in a crooked trajectory. The journey here was hard, I was almost pulled apart. Trying to leave his orbit took what’s left of me.”

You flip your hand over beneath his so you can hold it properly, lacing your fingers together.

For reasons beyond your understanding, emotion tightens your throat, the threat of tears pooling in your eyes.

…You must be more tired than you thought.

As minutes pass and one song fades into another, your gaze dances across the blurry, scattered points of light in the dark sky.

“You were the star in the pitch black, shine the way on the way back. Out of nowhere, answered all my prayers.”

Sam’s always been so much better at identifying stars and finding constellations. But as the music plays, you begin to see one of your own.

“Picked up the towel that I threw in, took in a heart that was ruined. Showed me the past ain’t a tattoo, loved me even when you didn’t have to.”

“Sam.” You squeeze his hand to get his attention.

He squeezes back in acknowledgment. “Hm?”

“I want you to look at something.” You swallow back the emotion that tries to seep into your voice, but it catches his attention all the same.

He leans up and lifts his hat from his head, setting it aside near the radio. He then reaches to turn a dial back, lowering the music’s volume to give you his full attention.

You release his hand, raising yours up as he turns back to face you. You don’t say anything at first, nearly too lost in your own mind to realize you need to actually voice your developing thoughts.

"What—what're you pointin' at Darlin'?"

Your hazy focus is trained on the brightest star visible in your line of sight, arm stretched out to the sky above you. "That really bright one, to the... to the left."

Sam does his best to follow your less-than-specific directions of 'to the left', your pointed finger doing little to help given the difference in perspective. Luckily, after all these years, he knows this stretch of night sky like the back of his hand, so it isn't hard to locate the brightest one. Ghosting his fingers up along your exposed wrist where your sleeve had slipped back, he takes your hand in his again and brings it back down to earth. "Okay, yeah, I see it now. What about it though?"

"That's you." You say, matter-of-factly.

"That's me?" He questions, humor in his tone.

"Mhm." You nod with finality, blinking slow.

Sam considers the odd statement for a moment before gently correcting you. "I'm uh, I'm pretty sure that's Sirius, actually."

You scoff. "I am being serious."

Sam stifles a laugh. "No—no I mean—like... what's another name for it... Oh, it's also called the Dog Star."

"C'mon Sam, at least call it the Wolf Star if you're trying to turn this around on me..."

He shakes his head and readies himself to explain further, but you cut him off before he can start. "But no. No, this isn't about me. That's you."

He decides to play along, finding something endearing in your overtired nonsense. "Okay... then would'ja be so kind as to explain to this confused old man just how, or why that star is me?"

Your frown is audible in your voice as you latch onto the wrong part of his sentence. "You're not old, Sam. ...Do I need to tell Asher to kick the jokes down a notch?"

He smiles at your over-protectivity. "There'll be no need for that, now. Was just a joke, honey, I promise."

You huff, but begrudgingly shift focus back to the prior topic. "It's... I dunno. It's just you, Sam. It's... bright. Light. Something warm, out there in the cold dark. Standing out amongst all the rest. Calling to me, stealing my attention.”

Sam’s brow furrows as you continue to explain, realization setting in that you really are being serious.

“I... I didn't come out here looking for it, but there it is. ...And there you were. In the dark. The only bright thing I'd seen in... fuck, in years. Years of chasing fleeting warmth, tripping over myself in the pitch black, falling into... places and people that I shouldn't have. You were the light in that darkness. Even there, at Wonderworld, surrounded by the ghost of him. Your warmth, your presence, your aura—even with all of your walls up, you outshone it. Your warmth didn't hurt. I didn't have to squint when I looked at you. You weren't the blinding sun. You were the brightest star I'd ever seen. You guided me home."

In the back of your mind, you recall something you once heard, something about light, and time, and distance. Space. Something about... how you can still see a star that's already burnt out, because its light hasn't reached earth yet. The ghost of a star that's already died. Only still perceptible thanks to time, and distance.

You remember Sam's words, once whispered to you on this very roof.

"Whatever your choice is... I'm not gonna live forever. I made that decision a long time ago."

You think about dead stars.

You think about time.

"...-lin'? Darlin'?" Sam's calloused hand squeezes yours tight, his urgent tone pulling you out of your thoughts. "There you are. Think I lost ya' for a minute there... you good?"

You look up at Sam, concern creasing his features, faint shadows cast across his face from the light of the dying stars above him.

You reach out, pulling him down into you. He falters for a moment at the sudden proximity, but quickly embraces you in turn. Burying your face into his collar, Sam's concern grows when he feels it saturate with tears. A human might struggle to hear your words, muffled against the thick flannel, but his hearing catches them just fine.

"Don't burn out too quickly. Please. I still need you here. I don't—I don't wanna be left in the dark again. Please, please Sam. Don't leave me here. I'm not selfish enough to ask you for forever, but please. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet."

The words feel like a weight being lifted from your shoulders, but with it comes a flood of emotion they’d been holding back. You cry harder into him, and as much as it pains Sam to witness, he lets you feel it, for as long as you need.

Your fear of losing him manifests itself physically, nails curling and sharpening again. When he feels them prick his skin through the fabric of his shirt, he calls your name but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans further down into you, letting his weight ground you. “Darlin’, I am right here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

As you eventually cry yourself out, enough wherewithal returns to you to realize that you should probably release the poor man from your grasp, and the awkward position you pulled him into. When he pulls away enough to see your face, you notice a string of snot running from your nose to his shirt collar. Quickly batting it away out of embarrassment, you cringe, voice thick as you apologize. “Eugh, gross. Uh… sorry. About that.”

He shakes his head, laughing good-naturedly as you wipe at your nose with your jacket sleeve. “It’s completely fine, honey. After all, I’ve been covered in plenty of your, uh… various fluids before. When you come from my line of work, this is child’s play.”

He leans to his right, reaching back and pulling—of all things—a handkerchief from his jeans’ left back pocket. You laugh at his words, and at the sight, but with how congested you are it turns into more of a hacking cough than anything. Accepting his offering, you blow your nose into the black patterned fabric.

As soon as you can speak somewhat clearly, you can’t stop the teasing remark that slips out of you, gesturing with the wad of fabric in your hand. “You know, you really aren’t beating the cowboy allegations with stuff like this.”

He rolls his eyes but his soft smile remains. “It’s a practical thing to have on me, ‘allegations’ be damned.”

You shake your head with a smile of your own, but don’t disagree. As you’re visibly unsure what to do with the dirtied fabric, he takes it from you, setting it aside. “I’ll toss it in the wash when we go back inside. Along with my shirt, and…” He eyes you for a moment. “…that jacket of yours too, given how long you’ve probably been wearin’ it.”

Normally you’d argue that it hasn’t been that long, but come to think of it, you actually can’t recall when you last washed the thing.

Reaching up and rubbing your temples, you already regret your crying fit as a headache begins to set in. “Fuck, Sam... I’m sorry for… whatever that just was. I don’t know what came over me.”

His expression falls into something serious again. “You never need to apologize for feeling. And it certainly seems like… you needed to feel that.”

You nod quietly, but don’t elaborate, prompting him to question you gently. “Darlin’. What was that about? The—the askin’ me not to leave. Are you… afraid that I’m gonna leave you?”

You close your eyes, weighing out your response. “…Not in the sense that you’ll break up with me or something, no.”

His gaze narrows and his head tilts as he rolls your answer over in his mind. “If it ain’t that, then��” He remembers how you mentioned ‘forever’ and cuts himself off as the puzzle pieces start coming together. “Oh. …Oh, Darlin’, no.”

You open your eyes to watch as he shifts from leaning next to you, moving to sit up beside you. “Is this about what I told you, when we sat up here and had our uh… turning discussion?”

You hate to admit it, but you nod in confirmation. “…It’s your choice, Sam, and I never want to take that away from you. I shouldn’t have said what I just did, I—I don’t want to make you feel guilty, or like you have to stick around for my sake. But I’d be lying to you if I said it hasn’t been playing on my mind. The thought of you… leaving. Like that.”

He reaches up, running a hand through his hair. “I… think I maybe should’ve been a bit more clear, when I said that. Because I wasn’t talking about any time soon. I didn’t want to give you the false impression that I plan on sticking around for centuries, but… I also wasn’t trying to imply that I’ve got plans to do it next week either.”

You bolt upright, voice cracking. “Next week?! I sure as shit hope not!” You grab your head, pain flaring and suddenly dizzy from the quick shift in position.

He places a hand on your shoulder to steady you. “I’m not, honey, I’m not. Did you catch the rest of my sentence? I’ve got no plans to leave this world any time soon. I promise.”

You groan, head pounding. “I heard you, I did, I just—fuck, I don’t even wanna think about you leaving so soon. Here I am, stressing, thinking I’ve only got—I don’t know—some odd years left with you, and…” You sigh, trailing off.

Sam stays quiet for a minute, letting the crickets sing.

Eventually, he interrupts their chorus. “…Can I get closer to you?”

You nod. “…Please.”

He closes the gap between you, carefully wrapping a strong arm around your curled shoulders. “You’ve got way more than a couple years. I promise you that.” Your tension begins to ease a bit as he clarifies. “You… you’ve helped me find a life that I actually feel like livin’ again, for the first time in a long time. And I want to experience it with you for as long as I can.”

“…Really?” Your voice sounds so small, so unsure, so… unlike you when you question him that he wants to kick himself in his own ass for the role he unintentionally played in making you feel this way.

“Yes. Really. I mean—” His voice takes on an edge of humor. “If you decide to set your sights on the year 3,000…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know about that. But as far as the 21st century is concerned? …I think I’d like to see it through. For as long as you’re there to see it with me.”

His words cause fresh tears to well up in your eyes, and you sniff in an attempt to hold them back. The sound catches his attention, and he leans forward, thumbing across your warm cheek. “…I’m makin’ you cry again…”

You shake your head, clearing your throat. “No—No, it’s okay. It’s good. They’re… they’re good. It’s… relief.”

He breathes out a relieved sigh of his own. “Yeah?”

You nod, leaning into him. “Yeah.”

As you rest against each other, breathing in the cool night air, you nudge him with your shoulder. “Can we… lay back? For a bit?”

He squeezes your arm in gentle confirmation. “Of course.”

He twists and reaches back to straighten the wrinkled blanket beneath you, before laying out across it himself. The radio crackles as he turns the volume back up a bit. Watching him with tired eyes, you smile at the sight of him patting his chest in habitual invitation.

“Sit in and watch the sunlight fade. Honey, enjoy, it’s gettin’ late. There’s no plan. There’s no hand on the reign. As Mack explained, there will be darkness again.”

Curling up against his side and laying your head on his chest, you release a heavy sigh when his hand comes up to rest on your shoulder. As his fingers press rhythmically into the tense muscle beneath them, you breathe in his scent. Black coffee and wildflower honey… he smells like home.

“Your secret is safe with me, and if secrets were like seeds, when I’m lyin’ under marble, marvel at flowers you’ll have made.”

You reach your hand out across his broad chest, slipping beneath his open flannel and sliding down to rest on his waist. He sighs, relaxing further beneath your touch.

“My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand. That’s how I know now that you understand.”

Yeah, you’ll take this over ‘luxury’ any damn day.

“There’s no plan. There’s no race to be run.”

Laying there with him, listening to the low hum of the radio, the moment grows so comfortable that you almost hesitate to break it.

“The harder the pain, honey, the sweeter the song.”

“…Sam?” You whisper into the night.

His hand sweeps across your back before returning to your shoulder. “I’m here, Darlin’.”

“There’s no plan. There’s no kingdom to come.”

You smile. “I… I’d like to be there, to be here, to see it through with you, too.”

It takes him a moment to recall exactly what you’re referring to, but when it hits him he hums a low understanding tone, clearly pleased. “Then let’s see where it takes us, yeah?”

“But I’ll be your man if you got love to get done.”

He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “We’ve got plenty a’ time.”

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. You can find my extensive notes and commentary on this fic right here on Ao3. My Sam & Darlin' Playlist My Sam Playlist My Darlin' Playlist My Sam & Darlin' Moodboard My Sam Moodboard My Darlin' Moodboard Header Image Credit: Gage Smith on Unsplash

[askfallenroyalty]

SPEAKING OF FLOWEY!! Something I'm curious about- will Asriel still have their whole "I'm not Asriel I'm Flowey I don't have a soul" crisis in the rewrite?

oh yea thats the crux of their identity character arc