#you just have selfish desires.

[thesmallersnow]

⋆⭒˚.⋆Quand le Directeur n'est pas là ( les acteurs dansent )⋆.˚⭒⋆

> ACT 3

Loop says they try not to look the Fighter's way, and that he's never going to see them anyway, so it doesn't matter. Well... What happens when he does look their way?

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[critter-wizard]

ep 43 had me tearing up in a fucking shopping centre ‼️‼️

b+w alt version that I truly couldn't decide if I liked it more . Also I included a lot of thoughts in the tags but they're somewhat incoherent<3

[tea-cat-arts]

Since we're getting closer to the release of the next Madoka Magica movie, I'd like to gently remind you guys that Rebellion doesn't have a single reliable narrator, and you really can't take anything the girls say as fact.

Madoka, Mami, and Kyoko have all had their memories tampered with by Homura and don't have the full story

Sayaka and Nagisa are both mentally fully there, but they're biased as they benefit from Madoka's system

Homura is being prodded by Kyubey, is in the middle of a mental breakdown, is missing key information, and is locked inside her own head where she is subconsciously filtering out and ejecting things that don't alight with the reality she wants there

This isn't to say that any of these girls are bad people or being intentionally manipulative. Just please keep in mind that all these characters' perspectives are skewed, and you really can't take everything they say at face value.

[suddencolds]

insatiable appetite [1/?]

sooo... this is one of the thirstiest things i have written—and also one of the only times i've written a character with the kink, ever T.T warnings in advance for mess, character getting sneezed on, implied contagion, possible ooc-ness, & me writing this entirely with my d instead of my head

ivan and till are from al//ien sta//ge (a very fun watch which will only take 30 mins out of your life; i really recommend it!!). that said, this fic takes place in a modern au setting, so feel free to read it without any prior context :)

special thanks to @6pmsoup for sending me a very cute alnst doodle of these two which altered my brain chemistry permanently

—

Summary: Till shows up to a dinner outing with a brewing cold. Ivan suffers. (est. relationship, kink!Ivan, ~2k words)

—

For all Till tries to hide it, Ivan can tell immediately.

There’s this: Ivan has been paying attention to Till for most of his life. A full decade before they’d gotten together officially, and some more—this is how long Ivan has had to observe his tells. Always from the sidelines, always with a detached air of indifference that, in reality, was anything but.

All the signs are there the night before. Till, turning up the thermostat a couple degrees higher than he usually keeps it. Spending a little too long in the shower and using up almost all of the hot water. Clearing his throat one too many times in the morning before Ivan leaves for work, his smile distracted, the rasp of his voice nearly indistinguishable—but only nearly.

Now, Till is here for dinner—it’s a dinner they’ve had plans for a couple weeks now, at one of the nicer restaurants downtown, in celebration of Till’s recent promotion. Ivan had booked the reservation a couple weeks in advance.

When Till arrives, stepping out of a taxi cab, he’s wearing a scarf, even though the weather is too warm for it. Ivan steps up to meet him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Till says. “Traffic here was the worst I’ve ever seen it, swear to god.”

“Was it cold outside today?” Ivan asks, a little pointedly, tilting his head towards his scarf.

Till looks at him, his expression unreadable. Then he nods. “Colder than usual, for this time of year.”

“Strange,” Ivan says, just to be difficult. “But the weather forecast says it’s the same temperature today as yesterday.” 

“It’s probably just windier today,” Till says, readjusting his scarf around his neck. His face is a little flushed.

“Your voice sounds a little off, though.”

Till clears his throat with a scowl. “You must be imagining it,” he says. “It always sounds like this.”

No admission, then. That’s fine. Ivan will get the truth out of him at some point. He lets Till guide him into the restaurant.

It’s a nice restaurant—worth the hassle of the reservation, Ivan thinks. Each table is set with flowers arranged tastefully in long glass vases, empty wine glasses turned on their heads. The server—who leads them to their table in a small, private booth—is wearing a suit.

It’s a shame, really. Ivan has a feeling that he won’t be able to pay attention to any of that tonight.

They sit. Ivan looks down at the menu, picks out something at random in a matter of seconds. Truthfully, he can hardly think of anything less worth his attention right now. He turns his attention to Till instead—Till, who’s seated directly across from him, the scarf still around his neck, obscuring the lower half of his face. 

Till sniffles, reaching down to turn the page, and oh. The sniffle is terribly liquid—has he been sniffling like that all afternoon? Perhaps it’s a good thing that they work at different offices—Till at a law firm, Ivan as a senior manager at a consulting company—because Ivan certainly doesn’t think he’d be able to get any work done with Till sniffling like that. 

It’s not two minutes later that Till is reaching up to wipe his nose against the back of one knuckle. All in all, it’s discreet. Just a quick brush of the fingers against his nose, which is still hidden under the scarf. Though, the look of sheer ticklishness that passes over his features for a brief moment there is...

“What are you thinking of ordering?” Ivan asks.

“I can’t decide,” Till answers. He turns the page again. “It’s between the ribeye steak and the… snf! The pork belly. Is this the kind of place that skimps on the portion sizes?”

“Not from their Yelp reviews,” Ivan says. “You know, if you really can’t decide, I can flip a coin.”

“I’ll pick,” Till says. “Why? Hungry already?”

He looks up, now. His eyes are a little watery. There’s a faint flush over the bridge of his nose. Ivan thinks that if he reached out and touched him, he’d probably be running warm. The thought is almost unbearable.

“Your taxi did take forever to arrive,” Ivan says, by way of explanation. 

“Did you really wait that long?”

He looks uncertain, for a moment. Ivan says, “Not at all. But you know, I’m always impatient when it comes to you.”

Till rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “There was a meeting that ran late. I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Is that also a part of your new position?” “I guess so, yeah.”

“I can see why they were eager to promote you, then,” Ivan says. “How productive can late afternoon meetings be, anyways?”

Till snorts. “Not that important. It definitely could have been an email instead. I was about ready to doze off.”

He sniffles again. “Okay. I think I know what I want.” The way he says know betrays the slightest hint of congestion. 

“At long last,” Ivan says, just to be a little bit of an ass. “I’ll call over the waiter.”

He flags their waiter down, waits for Till to order first.

“A spiced apple cider,” Till adds on, at the end, with the slightest of coughs. “Hot, if you can.”

That’s new, too. Till seldom orders hot drinks at restaurants, though he’ll drink tea without complaint if it’s offered. Perhaps his throat hurts, then, from the cold that has clearly started to settle in his system. Subtle, still, but Ivan is familiar with colds like this. He knows it will probably only be a few hours before this deceptively “small” cold turns into…

Ivan orders, too, and thanks the waiter, who leaves with a curt nod. When he looks back over to Till, there’s a… strange something to Till’s expression, a slight distractedness. Irritation.

Ivan swallows hard. He should look away. 

He should, but then, Till’s breath hitches. He pulls the scarf higher over his face preemptively, as if he anticipates having something to have to cover for. The sharp intake of breath that follows is breathy, though Ivan can hear Till’s voice in it. He should really look away.

Instead, he takes the scene in, painstakingly, little by little, as Till’s shoulders jerk forwards. As Till presses a hand to the scarf, presses the fabric closer to his face, to muffle a sneeze into his fingertips:

“hhH-Ih!! hiHH-’IESCHH-eew-!”

God. It sounds utterly miserable, the harsh release of it scraping against his throat, the spray tearing into his scarf. It’s the kind of cold sneeze that is undeniably telling: this is going to be one hell of a cold. It’s not very quiet, either, even muffled into the fabric.

For more reasons than one, Ivan is glad they’re in a private corner of the restaurant, not somewhere more public.

“Bless you,” he offers, once he can trust himself to speak. It’s a good thing that Till is too distracted to look up at him right now. Ivan isn’t sure he can keep what he’s feeling off of his face.

Truthfully, he isn’t sure he’s going to be able to endure a whole night of this.

The problem here is that Till—Till, of all people; Till, who Ivan has been pathetically in love with for almost as long as he can remember—has no idea about Ivan’s… relatively niche interests. That is to say, he has no idea what effect it has on Ivan when he does that.

“Thanks,” Till says, a little stuffily. He sniffles again, lowering his hand. 

Ivan can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t pursue this line of questioning, but he can feel his self-control dwindling by the second. “Don’t you think it would be better to take off your scarf, now that we’re inside?”

Till freezes. “Y-You know what,” he says evasively. “It’s pretty cold in here.”

Ivan tilts his head in question. “And just how do you plan on eating like that?”

“I’ll take it off when our food comes.”

“I can ask the waiter to turn the temperature up, if it’s a problem,” Ivan says. 

“It’s not a problem.”

Ivan rises from his seat. Till watches him, perplexed, as he heads to the opposite side of the table, where Till is seated.

When he gets there, he stops. Stands, unmoving, so he can study Till from above. 

“What are you—”

Ivan reaches out, settles his palm across Till’s forehead. As expected, it’s warm. Not quite feverish, which is a good sign, but warm enough to be notable. 

“Just how long were you intending to hide this?”

Till stares back at him, wide-eyed. “Hide what?”

Shouldn’t it be obvious? “The fact that you have a cold.”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” Till says, slowly.

“Hmm.” Ivan drops his hand to his side. He is a little concerned, now. “We could’ve called a rain check.”

This time Till really does roll his eyes. “For the reservation we planned weeks ahead?” he sniffles again. “That just sounds completely and utterly unnecessary. Are you the type of person to call things off just over a little cold?” 

Ivan leans over, tugs down the edge of Till’s scarf. Till bats his hand away just a moment too late, cups his other hand over his face to shield his face from view. For a moment, he looks faintly mortified.

Then his expression settles into something more disgruntled. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

So uncooperative. “Let me see,” Ivan says. Slowly, gently, he pries Till’s hands away from his face, and then—because the restaurant is dimly lit—tilts Till’s face up slightly so that it catches more of the overhead light. 

Till’s nose is redder than usual. He’s probably been rubbing it all afternoon, if the redness that percolates into his cheeks is any indication. There’s  a damp, liquid sheen on the underside of his nose.

“What’s there to see?” Till says, a little crossly.

“Your face, since you’ve been so intent on hiding it under that scarf,” Ivan says, leaning in to get a better look.

Till scowls at him, but there’s no heat to it. “You see my face every day.”

“On the contrary, I don’t see it nearly enough,” Ivan says. “And you hardly ever get sick. Is it so wrong for me to be concerned?”

Without looking, he reaches behind him with one hand to grab a couple cocktail napkins. The other hand he keeps held up to Till’s cheek. 

But then, Till’s breath hitches. “Wait,” he says. Panic flashes through his face. “Ivan, move, I—”

Oh. Well, seeing as there’s no way he’ll be able to get the napkins over in time, it looks like he’ll have to improvise. If Till wants to cover, Ivan can help with that. He moves his hand to cup it loosely over Till’s mouth. Not a second too late, it seems. Till jerks forward unceremoniously, his nose twitching, his eyes squeezing shut.

“hHheh-! HHh’EIITShHh’yYiew!” he gasps sharply. Two? “Hh-! hHiiH’DSSCSSHh-IIew!”  

The jolt of the sneezes is practically electrifying—all of that force, brought to an abrupt halt behind Ivan’s waiting palm. He feels the expulsion of air against his skin, the warmth of Till’s breath, feels the slight dampness behind his hand as the spray mists over his fingertips.

Ivan swallows, hard. Thank god it’s so dark here, otherwise Till might notice what this is doing to him. 

“Bless you,” he says, withdrawing his hand at last to wipe it on one of the cloth napkins. It comes out slightly raspier than he intends it to, though perhaps it’s a miracle that he’s still able to talk at all. “Some cold, hmm?” Belatedly, he hands Till the stack of napkins.

Till practically snatches them from him, turns aside to blow his nose wetly into the top few. The way he sniffles afterwards suggests that his nose is still very much running. 

“Do you have no self preservation? It’s as if you want to catch this,” Till says, drawing back with another sniffle.

Oh, Ivan thinks, fighting back a shiver. That would be far from the worst thing.

[egonkula]

"how can you hate chase but love house" first of all, bold of you to assume I love house. second of all, because one is blonde and annoying and the other is beautifully greyed and isn't a snob.

[distant-velleity]

lmao for the record this is not very... coherent or well-paced but-- it definitely exists so 🙂 yeah!!!

yuhua's book 7 dream in tgtwst (before he gets sent to silver's dream by the System)

(warning for floyu crumbs; explanation of the dream in the tags)

~

“You’re saying Azul wanted to see me?” Yuhua asks for what must be the second time now. He follows Chrysos along the oft-walked path to the Hall of Mirrors, adjusting his winter coat to better shield him from the January chill.

Thankfully, Chrysos has the miraculous patience of a saint, at least when it comes to him. “Yes. Truly, it’s an urgent matter; both he and I agree on that.” 

They enter the hall and take a soft right veer into the alcove for the Octavinelle mirror.

“Of course,” Chrysos says, right before they enter, “if it helps, Floyd is rather insistent that you come as well.”

Something strange flutters in Yuhua’s chest, the beginning traces of a feeling he can’t allow himself to feel. He silently stamps it down, though he can’t stop himself from smiling regardless. “Really, now?”

“And there it is.” Knowingly, the corners of Chrysos’ mouth quirk up in a faint smirk. He gestures towards the mirror invitingly. “Go ahead. You know the route to the Mostro Lounge.”

“Right.”

Yuhua steps through the mirror and experiences the usual weightlessness for the briefest of seconds. His foot finds solid ground again on pale lilac tiling, the reflections of the water from above warped over his shoes. Having walked this route countless times now, it’s through muscle memory that he follows the path to the Mostro Lounge; Chrysos isn’t far behind him.

“Ah, wait—” Yuhua looks behind at Chrysos before he opens the door. “...is it locked? Or—”

Chrysos shrugs one shoulder, a non-answer. “It’s unlocked right now, I can assure you.”

“Really? Okay.”

Yuhua grabs the handle and pulls the door open to see utter darkness inside. He blinks, wondering if it’s merely the effect of his eyes adjusting to the light, but no—only the lights from within the tanks are on, and those do little to make the interior any more visible.

Skepticism sinks into his chest. “Chrysos, are you sure—”

“SURPRISE!” shout a pair—no, a chorus of familiar voices. A burst of magic, a showy effect of harmless sparkles, erupts before Yuhua as the Lounge is once again illuminated. Ace, Deuce, Epel, Jack, and Santiago are right there by the door, their eyes bright.

“Happy birthday, Yu,” Deuce says first, a sincere smile on his face. 

“Ya didn’t think we forgot, now did ya?” asks Epel. He partially covers his good-humored laughter at Yuhua’s face with a fist. 

Jack crosses his arms and looks at the others. “...C’mon, guys. Give him some room.”

Indeed, Yuhua needs it—he can’t quite believe his eyes. Looking past the first-years, he can see the Lounge decorated, not too flamboyantly but not too modestly; he also spots other familiar students gathered around, watching the door or sitting at tables and chatting among themselves.

“I—I…” 

His grasp on the door handle grows weak; Chrysos takes it and makes sure he doesn’t make a fool of himself by letting the door crash straight into him.

“...This is for… me?” Yuhua finally wonders aloud.

Ace snorts at that and shoves a bundle of clothing into his arms. “Who else? I don’t know any other January 27th birthday boys at this school.”

“Um—but I never told you guys my—” 

“Don’t underestimate our combined deductive abilities.” Santiago winks at him, dangling a bolo-style tie around his finger for a second before handing it to Yuhua. “We figured it out just in time.”

“Together? Don’t you guys hate each oth—”

“We’ve learned how to put aside our differences sometimes,” Chrysos assures him, though judging by Ace’s stink-eye, it seems to be a one-time occurrence and nothing better. “And we decided to hold it here at the Lounge as a compromise.”

“But, I…” Yuhua’s mouth remains open even as he falls silent, trying to form questions he doesn’t quite know how to vocalize. “...I… Is this really okay… The Lounge, I mean, and my birthday…”

He doesn’t know quite what he’s feeling, just that the feeling is so immense it stops him from forming coherent sentences. 

“Who else decides if it’s okay or not?” At the imminent approach of a very familiar and very welcome sophomore trio, the first-years scatter like minnows. Floyd easily snakes a hand behind him to place on Yuhua’s opposite shoulder and walks him in. “C’mon, it’s your birthday, li’l Koi! A day just for you!”

“Surely, someone else was—”

“My, my.” Jade hides an amused smile behind a delicate gloved hand. “Are you just going to tell all of these people to go back to their dorms after they’ve already arrived?”

“Come on, now,” Azul agrees. “We were even able to coordinate such a well-timed surprise.”

“Well—” Yuhua sputters, flustered. He hugs the clothes to his chest. There’s a million arguments for his case, but just as many against it. “This is all really impressive, yeah—”

“So there we got it!” exclaims Floyd. “It’s your birthday, and we’re gonna celebrate it. Now, are ya gonna go get changed or what?”

Happiness. Like a soap bubble popping, Yuhua comes to the realization when he looks at Floyd’s infectious smile and feels the warmth surrounding him. This overwhelming, confusing, dizzying feeling—is happiness.

“I…” What is he waiting around for? If everyone’s already gathered… Like a fool, Yuhua laughs at himself sheepishly. “Yeah. Just wait for me a sec, I’ll borrow one of the bathrooms.”

…

“Hold still,” Vil demands, stopping Yuhua as soon as he steps out of the bathroom.

“I—Huh?”

Yuhua stays frozen in his tracks as Vil steps around to stand behind him. Rook takes Vil’s initial place as the housewarden sets to work on Yuhua’s hair.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” Rook sing-songs. 

“Hi, Rook,” answers Yuhua. “Are you also here for—?”

“The celebration? Why, of course~” With a flourish, Rook bends into a bow and extends an open palm forward. “May you have a very happy birthday on this fine day.”

“Don’t distract him while I’m doing his hair, Rook,” Vil says curtly.

“But of course, my Roi de Poison.” Still, Rook smiles at Yuhua in his poetically pleasant, friendly way.

Finally, Vil steps back to appreciate his work. Yuhua, after awaiting the approval of a quick “Go ahead,” gently feels at the braid his hair has been done into.

“Wow, I…” Yuhua turns around. “Thank you, Vil. You didn’t have to.”

“Mm, is that so?” Vil lets out something of an almost-content hum, as usual. “I couldn’t have the birthday boy walking around with his hair the same as his day-to-day look.”

“Your beauty has only been enhanced, monsieur,” Rook declares. “Now, shall we return to the party?”

“They’re all waiting on you,” adds Vil.

“Ah—” 

They’re waiting on him. They actually want him there.

Yuhua nods slowly. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They leave the side hallway to return to the Lounge. Almost immediately, Yuhua catches sight of a certain redhead waving madly at him from one of the tables. It seems like Ace has fervently and insistently claimed himself a spot at the table with the cake, alongside others like Floyd, Deuce, and Chrysos.

“Over here, over here!” calls Ace, earning himself a simultaneous flick to the forehead from Chrysos and a punch in the arm from Deuce. “Ow!”

“Yelling isn’t going to make me get there any faster,” Yuhua retorts, though he’s still laughing when he squeezes in to sit between Ace and Floyd. “I bet you just wanna eat the cake already.”

“You’re pretty greedy, Crabby,” agrees Floyd, just to get a jab in at the first-year.

“Hmph.” Ace grins mischievously, neither confirming nor denying. “Maybe I just wanna know what the birthday boy’s gonna wish for.”

The candles on the cake flicker. It’s just a birthday wish, and it doesn’t mean much. Not much is riding on it.

“I don’t really—” Yuhua pauses, and then huffs a laugh. “Yeah, like I’d tell you. That ruins the whole point.”

“Aww,” whines Ace, batting his eyelashes. “Seriously?”

“Seriously, you dork.”

“What about me?” ventures Floyd, a shit-eating smile on his face.

“Come on.” Yuhua rolls his eyes affectionately. “It’s supposed to be a secret. That means I don’t tell you guys until it comes true. And it’s not that big of a deal anyway—I bet you can guess what it is pretty easily.”

That seems to appease them into staying silent, each thinking about what it could be.

…Again, it’s a wish that doesn’t mean much. With nothing too big to relegate to a birthday wish but nothing memorable enough to immediately ask for, Yuhua more or less has to make it up on the spot. He takes a deep breath before he silently thinks—

I hope I can celebrate my birthday like this again in the future.

—and blows out all the candles in one clean exhale. 

Ace whoops, and somewhere in the Lounge the sound is repeated. Cheers and clapping, from the people celebrating for the sake of it  and the people who want food, echo through the room. “Alright! Now the party’s really begun!”

“I want the first slice of cake!” Floyd insists abruptly.

“No way. It’s mine!”

“Huuuuh?”

“Hey, you two, don’t fight in the middle of Yuhua’s party—!”

Chrysos leans over the table to Yuhua while the other two bicker and Deuce tries to play mediator. “You’re giving it to me, obviously. Right?”

Yuhua sighs, meant to sound long-suffering but instead reflecting his muffled giddiness. “You guys…”

…

Once the food is eaten and the gifts are given, Yuhua finds himself sitting on a stool by the counter while the others mingle among themselves. 

He isn’t mad that he’s seemingly being neglected, no—because he isn’t. People are still checking in on him: Jamil, stopping by to offer him a hair clip; Idia being nudged by Ortho to make Yuhua aware of his attendance (haha); Riddle personally wishing him a happy birthday before being accidentally warded off by Floyd; so on and so forth.

And people are gathered here because of him. They’re all getting along, making merry because of him, in a way. It feels nice, to see everyone not at each other’s throats for once—to see Azul and Leona talking civilly, to see Sebek and the other freshmen having an eating competition… To have people still asking him if he wants to try this food or play this game with them, and knowing that he can just join in whenever he feels back up to it.

This happiness, that knowledge—they form a pool of warmth in his heart, a pool running so deep that Yuhua thinks he might burst if he does anything other than sit. He’s happy to be here, happy to be a part of the celebrations; so happy to be acknowledged as something important to people. Happy to be more than a thought that fades away once the moment has passed.

He’s happy to belong.

Are you really happy? asks a voice in his head—

“Hey, li’l Koi!” Floyd shouts from a table. “Wanna play a game with us?”

—The easy, obvious answer is an unhesitant yes.

Yuhua smiles and nods his answer. A fluttery, bubbly feeling in his heart fills his veins with excitement as he stands up—

The world spins; his vision swims. His foot doesn’t meet the floor, his stomach sinks, and suddenly he’s falling with all the weightlessness of a dreamer being awakened.

~

taglist (ask to be added or removed): @thehollowwriter @theleechyskrunkly @elenauaurs @casp1an-sea @nahelenia

@skriblee-ksk @boopshoops @scint1llat3 @nyx-of-night @nemisisnemi

@sillyslipperybananapeel @beneathsakurashade @kathxrat-01 @lumdays @twistedwonderlandshenanigans

@taruruchi

[sandycookie]

fellas the book 7 update…. *crying*

(refer to the tags for my rambling, just to minimize ppl accidentally spoiling themselves)

[uncanny-tranny]

In discussions about mental health, I am so tired of the only voices mattering being other people or other people who do not deal with a condition/disorder or a specific situation.

"Here's how I deal with loved ones with [x] condition!"

"If you do [y] because of [x mental health reason], you're selfish and everybody who loves you is having their lives made harder by you!"

"If your symptoms are [z], you're gross, and you deserve no sympathy for struggling"

I understand to an extent why people do this, but holy hell, as somebody who struggles and struggles often, the last thing any of us need to be told is that we're a burden that others have to carry. And it's terrible how everybody else's feelings but ours matter - even if we are the ones most affected by our condition or situation.

If you are dealing with issues surrounding your mental health and well-being, know that everything above isn't true; you are worthy of patience, understanding, kindness, and love. You are worthy of being listened to without judgment. You don't have to apologize or "make up" for who you are or what you struggle with.

[mad-hunts]

starting off this sunday with a sad fact, and that is often whenever barton smells this cinnamon, but as a part of a specific blend with... something else he can't quite identify? barton is reminded of marcy because she used to wear a perfume that had that sort of scent to it.

[kasumingo]

"But this thing isn't for me and I want everything to be for me :((((" is literally toddler talk and yet here we are, on the internet, watching people with 21+ in their profile talk like that unironically

[magnusmodig]

ovo whispers menacingly abt his grandstanding .

[danielagainsttheuniverse]

Ode to You

I swallowed the universe to hold you closer.

I became everything so that we could keep living forever, and even though it’s not the same as it used to be, I don’t regret it.

Don’t get me wrong. I mourn what I used to be. I remember what it felt like to be truly human. To hold you to my chest and show you it was okay to be afraid, that I’d protect you no matter what.

I remember the sounds of our laughs. The stupid puns I would make in an attempt to make you smile when you were feeling down. You were always much more clever with your humor—dry and calculated, and usually spot on with your comparisons.

I miss the feeling of being useful in a way you could rely upon. The routine of waking up, making breakfast, and getting you to school. It was tiresome, but it kept me grounded. It reminded me that we were okay. Life would go on because I knew the next morning I would get up and you would be there. That was what I lived for.

I wish that we had spent more time doing things together. I wish I asked you more about your favorite things. What about dragons? Do you like the ones that are long and snake-like, with a furry mane? Or did you prefer the ones with wings for arms— “Wyverns,” you once told me. I never knew dragons had classifications, but you always had something to teach me.

I want to know what you would have done if you had grown up. Would you have been an artist? Or maybe a teacher? Or…Maybe an art teacher? I wanted to see you flourish, be happy, maybe even love someone else if you wanted to. They’d have to meet some high standards before dating was even an option, but I’m sure we could have figured something out.

Of course, that’s not how it went. Instead I made a sacrifice. The world—the galaxy—the *universe* buckled and shattered as it reshaped into me.

I can see it all. Stars and planets, every moon, every pebble floating in the abyss. The strands of time all trace back to where we began, in our original universe. Where I split the threads of our beings, our essences, and time itself into an endless multiverse.

There are versions of us in every single one of them.

Even past the screen, we exist in the recesses of peoples minds. In everything, you can see a little bit of us. It’s a blessing and a curse.

On one hand, I see you everywhere. You’re always near me because I can find you in every timeline. From the one located near my heart (It’s one of my favorites because we’re all cowboys) all the way to the farthest at the tip of my tail (the zombie dystopia…you know the one).

On the other hand…I’ve never felt so alone. It’s not like I didn’t deal with loneliness while I was human, but this is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.

Do you know that feeling, when you’re in a room with a bunch of people, but you still feel alone?

Like everyone’s talking to each other and you can’t get out of your head long enough to join the discussion?

Or maybe it’s just that you don’t feel like you can truly be yourself with so many others around. So many potential rejections if you don’t perform the subtle act of conversation correctly.

I realize now that like all feelings, that was a privilege.

Because at least back then there were still people to be lonely around.

Now that I’m here by myself, I find that I like to pretend you’re talking to me in my head, to imagine how you would respond to what I’d say. A lot of that comes in the form of your quippy humor.

I think you would love the poetic irony of this. Something about how usually gods are the ones being prayed to, not the ones doing the praying.

And I’d say, “I’m not technically a god, I’m more than a god because I am the force of creation and the container of all that is known and unknown, including time, all universes, and everything!”

and you probably wouldn’t know how to respond to that—Because let’s be honest, that’s a lot to lay on anybody.

So, I don’t know. I want to imagine that maybe somehow this gets to one of your many versions in it’s own cosmic weird way.

I hope you can forgive me.

[jrwiyuri]

Is any other jrwier actually a bit obsessed with how much of Grefgore has been changed by his forced devotion to Shilo (and likely in some way previously to the Queen) and how little of Grefgore probably exists in him anymore because he’s supposed to be a servant? Or is that just me..?

[timothylawrence]

was discussing this with jordan yesterday but i think my overall thoughts on 3-5 are despite it not being my favorite case it's definitely got some of the best moments in the trilogy. definitely a very good case overall and the grief is so palpable in it. god. think i cried the most during that case.

[marshmellowtea]

tbh i think what initially draws sandra to the caregiver role isn't some innate maternal instinct (i actually think that between her self centeredness and her mommy issues she has a lot of complicated feelings on the idea of motherhood, even before she starts seriously considering whether or not that's something she wants) but rather the power dynamics involved with being in charge of looking after someone and having a softer side that she doesn't feel comfortable or able to express anywhere else. she's not talking it all that seriously at first—it's only after a combination of growing closer to chris and his little side, growing more compassionate in general (though ofc keeping her arrogant pizzazz, she's just not as mean about it now lmao), and developing some goddamn spite for celia bean and how she raised her son that she starts embracing the responsibility and caring nature of it.

[darabeatha]

/ What I love about the avenger class servants is that they will always answer the call of the wretched, those who are sinking in the deepest ends of despair, those that are in pain, those who have faced injustices, those whom the world has mercilessly turned their back to, those that are entirely on their own, who have no one else in this world to cling to for an ounce of light. An avenger class servant is truly a questionable spirit to summon, for they will prioritize that small weak spark of life that has desperately called for help, for anyone, over the whole world, and I think that although it's selfish, it is on the same hand, very human, and that's why I like them all a lot.