#IT WAS A STAINED GLASS VARIATION OF THE TRUTH!!!!!

[princess-of-purple-prose]

Almost cried in the car today constructing a mob animation to "neptune" by sleeping at last today ✌️

[formorethananame]

“Do you want to hear the dream I had about us last night?” (from Misty to Sunny)

Sunny slides his hands up Misty's sides. He watches the way the fabric of her shirt bunches under his fingertips, watches the way more and more of her skin is exposed.

The shirt is one of his, yet another way of Misty claiming him as hers. It warms him in a way he can't quite describe.

"Tell me, baby."

Sunny lets his hands slide under the shirt. Misty's skin is terribly soft, and sometimes, he worries that the callouses on his fingers will harm her somehow. For all of her might, she's still so delicate, and the idea of that delicacy coming to ruin is hard to bear.

Sunny sits up. He kisses Misty gently, slides his hands around to her back to hold her against him. He's curious, and that gleam in her eye tells him what she's going to say is something wicked.

"What did you dream about? Were we naked? I like it best when we're naked."

[ignisregina]

@shireentheunburnt from here

Shireen giggled, agreeing with Marianne there. Councils could indeed be tedious, even upsetting, events, as had been proven time and time again. Still... "A dear friend of mine once declared that 'a king protects his people or he is no king at all'. I think being a king, or queen, is far more than the power the title, the crown, bestows. For, if a ruler cares naught for their people, then, surely, they are false. The people should come before the person responsible for them, always."

"A moment, don't tell me just yet." Propping her head on her palm, Marianne feigned to think deeply. "Is this dear friend yours, mayhap, a bearded man? Short of few fingers?" Once more her lips pulled into a thin smile. Of course, it's Ser Davos, which was a shame - not because the knight was bad company but surely, Shireen should have more good friends closer to her age than her father's. "I have seen men do evil things for the sake of their people, sadly. Power is shiny, bright - it blinds." Fortunately, she was able to stop herself from saying more on the bleak subject. "And this is why, milady, we shall work on finding you friends that are your age."

[dxlaflamme-archive]

@fatheredlegend​ | x

Merlin was in Arthur’s chambers doing his chores or at least his magic was doing most of the work. When she came inside the armor and the bucket which was being used to wash the king’s tunic dropped to the ground. He smiled sheepishly. “Oh. Nothing. I learned a new spell and wondered if you wanted to see.” Climbing to his feet because he was scrubbing the floor, he wiped off his hands.

“You are doing this?” Marianne tried to contain her wonder but her voice was thick with disbelief she had no doubt she lost that fight before it even began. With the tip of her fingernail she tapped the armor as if testing if Merlin’s spell would hold. “Not to put a damper on your discovery but have you heard of the apprentice who cast a spell - like this - and flooded the entire dungeon?” she asked, taking a seat - because of course she would comment but not help with the chores.

[betweensaintsandmonsters]

i haven't written any of the time war fic bc i got too stuck in the meta world building but my brain has caught on to a song lyric for a title so that might be the spark i need to write this

[velidewrites]

Lucien has long given up on his crush on Elain Archeron — until she drops by his flower shop to return a bouquet from her now ex-boyfriend.

OR

Elucien Flower Shop AU except that Lucien is the florist.

Notes: This is my contribution for Day 5: Nature of @elucienweekofficial!

Warnings: Graysen, Lucien's slutty apron

Read on AO3

Lucien looked at the clock and sighed. He’d have to close the shop in about ten minutes—something he was actually supposed to do fifteen minutes ago—a sign, if nothing else, that the time for stalling had long passed.

She obviously wasn’t coming, and it had been foolish of Lucien to hold out hope. Catching himself glimpsing at the open glass door every few minutes had become somewhat embarrassing—especially since he was pretty sure the woman in question didn’t even know his name.

Lucien knew hers, though. Elain Archeron. He liked the way it lilted on his tongue the first time he tried it, a sound so sweet it could very well have been a melody. He hadn’t tried since—hadn’t really dared to, fearing she might hear it somehow, even from her bakery a block away.

She dropped by almost every day, though, as if fate was intent on testing Lucien’s will until he cracked. He called her “miss” instead, which—of course—ended up being worse than actually saying her name. This nickname of sorts made Elain’s face light up every time, a small smile curling up the corner of her full, rosy lips, as though being addressed as such by someone so close to her own age amused her. Lucien, frankly, didn’t care if she found it silly—he was simply content to watch that pretty smile of hers and know he was the reason behind it.

Besides her beauty, so breathtaking he still was not entirely sure she wasn’t some kind of hallucination from all the colourful scents surrounding him, Lucien knew a grand total of two things about Elain Archeron. One: she enjoyed baking, which resulted in her hands almost always being stained in some kind of flour or spice, and two: she had a particular affinity for flowers, which was just as well, because it always led her right to him.

To be fair, there weren’t any other flower shops in the area that she could choose from, but Lucien conveniently chose to omit the fact. It was easy to forget anyway, when she would show up in the doorframe nearly every day, her silhouette lit up by the golden sunlight. She looked like a spirit sent down to Earth to bless him with her beauty—or haunt him, perhaps, given that there was no way Lucien could ever do anything more than stare.

It was a very cruel punishment, really, and lately Lucien began to wonder what, exactly, he had done to deserve it. He’d always been a hardworking man—finished college with outstanding scores, opened his small business and he liked to think he was kind—better than his wretched family, at least, which, truth be told, was not exactly a difficult thing to achieve. Perhaps fate was punishing him simply for being born into it, and to be completely honest—Lucien wasn’t sure he could blame it.

Punishment or not, Lucien wasn’t sure he could live without it, anyway. He’d grown used to the frequent visits from the beautiful baker, always looking for fresh flowers to liven up her place whenever she made her way back from work. She went for tulips nearly every time—of different colours and crowns, yes, but they still seemed to be her preference, and ever since it had become obvious, Lucien began ordering new variations every week. It was an effort Elain had definitely noticed, sometimes playfully teasing him about his indecisiveness, though she’d always chosen the newest option instead of going for the standard pink. To Lucien, it was rewarding enough.

She’d gone home with a pretty purple bouquet yesterday, and Lucien told himself it was the only reason she hadn’t come today—the flowers were of good enough quality to last her more than the usual few days, giving her no reason to drop by again today.

Still, he’d kept the shop open. Just in case.

It was almost 6pm, though, and Lucien did need to get home eventually. He sighed again, throwing his white apron over his shoulder and eyeing the old green stain he was pretty sure was never coming off no matter how many times he washed it.

Today was a busy day—maybe it was a good thing Elain hadn’t come. Lucien would go straight home and—

The little bell tied to the doorway rang, and Lucien’s head snapped toward the sound.

She came.

“Oh! I’m too late, aren’t I?” Elain’s honey-brown eyes flickered to Lucien’s apron. “Oh. I’m ah, sorry, I—”

“No!” Lucien cleared his throat. “No, I mean—you’re good. I wasn’t going to close for another ten minutes or so.

It was definitely wishful thinking, but Lucien could have sworn her gaze dipped lower, right where he’d rolled up his sleeves earlier to avoid the thorns cutting through his linen shirt. He flexed his arms as if on instinct, feeling immediately stupid afterwards and awkwardly shifting on his feet.

Still fixed on his half-bare arms, Elain said, “I thought you closed at 5:30?”

“There was a late delivery,” Lucien lied, wondering if she could tell. He summoned the usual joke to help cover it up. “Anything I can help you with, miss?”

There it was. That damned smile, more beautiful than any blooming flower he’d ever sold. Elain’s lips parted slightly, revealing a perfect set of pearl-white teeth—Lucien could not believe he was lucky enough to be on the receiving end of Elain’s grin.

“Well—yes, actually. There is.” Her smile faltered slightly as she spoke, and Lucien frowned.

“Don’t tell me the Rembrandts wilted already?” The Rembrandt tulips, if handled by the right hands, could last well over a week.

“Oh, no—they are perfect,” she assured him. “I’m…well, I’m actually here to return these.”

It was only then that Lucien realised Elain was actually holding something—a bouquet so familiar it couldn’t have been made by anyone other than himself. A bouquet he’d sold just this morning—to Elain Archeron’s boyfriend.

She and Graysen Nolan—Lucien had finally learned his name after he’d placed the order—had been dating ever since he could remember. Graysen’s card stated he was an accountant for a well-known corporation downtown, which explained the insane price he paid for the gift. Lucien, of course, did not dare to suggest his girlfriend might have preferred something less ostentatious—from what he’d gathered, Elain was not the type to revel in thirty long-stemmed red roses, their leaves adorned with a thin layer of real gold, all finished off by a silk ribbon and heavy perfume. Lucien had simply assembled the bouquet and charged him the price, almost as ridiculous as the bouquet himself.

Special occasion? he’d asked Graysen then, unable to help himself. He’d recognised him the minute he walked into Lucien’s shop—he’d seen him pick Elain up from work too many times to count. For some reason, though, she’d never brought Graysen to buy flowers with her.

The man merely shrugged. Something like that, he chuckled, then added, as if he and Lucien were old friends, Women. You know how they are—gotta give them something pretty whenever they get too mad.

Lucien tried not to take too much hope in that—still, he couldn’t help but sneak a sly smile. So the two of them were fighting—and he doubted this monstrosity of a bouquet would be any help at all.

It seemed that he was right.

“There’s nothing wrong with them,” Elain added quickly. “I just…” she took a levelling breath. “Some people just can’t seem to let go.”

“Oh.”

Oh? Seriously?

“I’m sorry,” Lucien continued a shade pathetically. “It must be…hard.”

Elain hummed. “Not as hard as I thought it would be.”

He studied her beautiful face as she spoke, wondering if there was any chance she knew about the singular, white streak of flour staining her cheek. Wondering if she'd toss his hand away if he dared to swipe his thumb across it, marvelling at the softness of her skin. She probably would.

She definitely would, Lucien corrected himself silently—he couldn’t possibly ask her out if she’d just gotten out of a relationship. Elain had always been so close, yet completely out of his reach—life liked to be cruel this way, it seemed.

Lucien had only tried to get over her once—the first time he saw her plant a kiss on Graysen’s cheek, just outside of Lucien’s shop. He’d decided it was time to stop lusting after someone so obviously unattainable, and move on with his life. Dating apps were surprisingly easy to figure out—Lucien had gotten himself a date not even two days later. Jesminda, from what he could see on her profile picture, was a pretty girl about to graduate from the local college and looking for some fun now that her finals were finally over. She was exactly what Lucien needed—distraction and fun. He’d promised to take her to the bowling alley a few minutes away from campus which Jesminda somehow had no idea existed—it had been Lucien and his friends’ favourite spot after his own exams last year, and he’d been excited to revisit.

Until, of course, Elain had shown up at the shop the morning before his date, golden-brown hair unbound and framing her face in soft waves. She was wearing her apron, a pale shade of yellow with the logo of her bakery, which meant she’d come straight from there—if the small paper bag in her hand wasn’t already enough of an indication.

Sorry to bother you so early, she’d said, as if she could ever. I made a few extra cinnamon rolls and thought you might like to try some.

Lucien had only gaped, which, in turn, had made her cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink. I hope you’re not allergic? Elain had asked.

No, he’d finally told her. No, it’s just…I forgot my breakfast this morning. Wound up in all the planning, he’d forgotten to pack the sandwich he’d made earlier, figuring he’d have to wait a few hours until he could finally appease his growling stomach at the date.

Oh, Elain had smiled at his words. Looks like it was meant to be, then.

Lucien had cancelled on Jesminda the minute Elain left. He had felt bad, of course, but there was no point in even trying to get over Elain—not after she’d beamed at him so bright even the morning sun dimmed in comparison.

Meant to be.

“Would it be alright, then?” Elain’s voice snapped him back to reality as she approached the counter. “To return it, I mean? It’s very beautiful—it’s just…”

“Not for you,” Lucien finished for her, earning a small nod and a shy smile. “Yeah, it’s no problem at all—thank you, actually. You could have just thrown it out.”

Elain looked as though the very idea appalled her. “I would never do that,” she said with a vehemence that made Lucien chuckle.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, freeing the bouquet from her hands. It still smelled strongly enough to make his nose wrinkle. Elain giggled at the sight, as if she knew exactly what Lucien had just been thinking.

The thought caused a surge of bravery to rise through him, so before he could really think it through, Lucien told her, “I didn’t think you’d like them, you know.”

Elain cocked her head to the side. “Am I that predictable?”

Lucien winked. “Only to me.”

Her cheeks heated, that pretty blush he’d been waiting for gracing her stunning features, and Lucien couldn’t help but feel as if he’d just won the lottery.

“You just don’t strike me as a roses kind of girl,” he added, and it made Elain’s brow arch.

“Oh? And what kind of girl do I seem like?”

Lucien placed the bouquet in a glass vase, considering before he turned to her again. “Roses like these have to be bred—carefully crossed, time and time again, until they achieve perfection—until they reach the desired shade of red or the curve of its petals. You…” he hesitated, meeting her gaze. “You need a flower that’s wild—a flower that grows tall and—and free, and…” Elain’s eyes shimmered, and Lucien was no longer sure he was still talking about flowers. He swallowed something tight in his throat. “And brighter than the very sun.”

Silence wrapped itself around the room, and for a moment, there was nothing but them and the light buzzing of the street outside. Elain simply looked at him, an incredulous expression on her face, as if this was the first time she was truly seeing him.

Unsure if he’d gone too far—if he’d taken her smile for a lot more than it actually had been—Lucien quickly cleared his throat. “Anyway—thank you again. I really appreciate you bringing these back.”

Elain blinked. “Oh—right. It’s no problem at all,” she said, and, unable to hold her gaze any longer, Lucien grabbed a nearby cloth and began polishing the already-shining counter. Yes, he’d definitely gone too far—she had just broken up with someone, and there he was, spewing some kind of nonsense about…about her wildness.

He could only pray Elain would leave before she noticed the furious blush beginning to stain his cheeks.

“Lucien?” she asked, and, his hand sweating over the cloth, Lucien looked up. She stood at the doorway, gleaming in the fading sunlight, watching him with such softness it knocked Lucien’s next breath from his lungs.

“Yeah?” he asked weakly.

Her smile widened. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The world spun and locked back into place. “Yeah,” Lucien repeated, and found himself smiling back. “Yeah, Elain. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

A few minutes after she left, Lucien found himself scrolling through his order log until the rose bouquet from this morning finally appeared. He stared at the screen for a few seconds, his mouse hovering over the “Home Delivery” button like a beacon calling out his name. Hoping Elain wouldn’t kill him for this, he clicked on the details Graysen had provided until he found her address at last.

Tomorrow morning, Elain would wake up to a small bundle waiting at her doorstep—six sunflowers, tied together by a single, golden thread. Deep down, something told him she would like them.

Elucien Week Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @melting-houses-of-gold @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies @kingofsummer93 @witchlingsandwyverns @gracie-rosee @stickyelectrons @selesera @sv0430 @vulpes-fennec @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @screaming-opossum @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @spell-cleavers @starfall-spirit @lectoradefics @this-is-rochelle @goldenmagnolias @bookeater34 @capbuckyfalcon @betterthaneveryword @tasha2627 @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune

[deicidis]

Come Wander With Me

Morpheus x f!reader

Status: Completed one-shot, requested by anon 

Wordcount: 5.1K 

Warnings: light smut, religious trauma

Summary:  Morpheus finds the reincarnation of his former wife in the house of god. He tries to find out whether they could be each other again.

—

He came from the sunset

He came from the sea

He came from my sorrow

And can love only me

—

In that cool evening, when he sits in the park he frequents with his sister, The first sight of her binds his chest in a shrinking rope. 

Her laughter is the same tune from centuries ago. Millenniums. A familiar smile plasters on her face, laughing along with children, small fingers grasping her calf-length skirt, begging to go home. A silver cross hangs on her chest, winking under the sun. 

He is rooted to where he sits. Fear made him so. If he so much as blinked, twitch a finger, let out his tears, she could be taken from him and it all would just be an illusion. 

She walked away with a toddler on her arm and a boy no more than 7 hanging on to her hand. 

—

She dreams of a silver cage with a restless serpent trapped inside. She dreams she lays bare inside that cage, voiceless and decaying inwards. 

Morpheus is the king of dreams. Every creature that sleeps he knows them all. But this, watching her dreams, quenching his thirst with slivers of imagery feels like a violation because she bears the face of his long-deceased mortal wife taken too soon by his sister. Some ages ago when mankind’s hubris offended god that he decided to converge their speech in other variations. 

The curse of the endless is that every aspect of themselves is also endless. His contempt is everlasting, his rage stretches for centuries. His love eternal. Nada, Calliope, Kilalla, (y/n). Each of them unequivocally holds a part of him. But his dear (y/n)... half of his being, the only one who could take him completely has gone. Her shadow is the only part he has of her, carved on the marrow and the spine of the dreaming. 

If he could take the chance to recover what was…

He rises from his throne and sets himself to where she dwells

  —

The convent she lives in is on the same grounds as the church. A small one that had only been thrice renovated despite being 3 centuries old. 

He pushes through the double-lidded door, and he finds her figure in a black habit lighting a prayer candle before a stained glass that depicts a saint on the wall to his right.

He steadies his heart. Swallows the heaviness in his throat. His feet carry him to approach her. 

“Will you tell me about this saint, sister…” He trails his voice in hope that she would catch his meaning. 

He sees her hesitation. 

“(Y/n).” her voice throws him to his days as a husband, and he feels slightly lightheaded. The ground feels unsteady under his feet. 

Even her name is the same. 

“Saint Anthony of Padua.” She shifts her gaze to the stained glass. Her face glows with light refractions in arrays of blue, red and purple. 

“Patron saint of lost items, lost people, lost causes and souls.” she continues. 

Morpheus silently clears his throat. 

“Should one pray to this saint, will my lost one be returned to me?”

“If God wills it.” Her voice is low and quiet. If he was a mortal being he would not hear it. But he hears her clear as day. The growing strands of her hair and her decaying cells if he wants to. 

There is nothing more to say. The truth is he doesn’t know what to say. 

She walks away from the room and he merely watches her. 

Morpheus takes an unlit candle, burns the twine in the fire she lit moments ago. 

—

He comes to pray beside her before the saint the next day. The next, and then the next. He attends Sunday mass and shed his coat in the summer to blend in with the congregation.

He still doesn’t know how to properly make conversation with her for she doesn’t seem to have the inclination to make small talk with him either. She seems to be—understandably—wary of new people. 

He really can’t just say hello, you are the carbon copy of my dead wife and I want to get to know you.

All he manages to say is formal pleasantries that she meets with polite nods or few syllable answers. Then she returns to pray before the Saint. 

He finally summons the fates and asks if she is truly her wife in some form of rebirth he doesn’t understand, and the fates confirm that she is the direct descendant of the same family tree. She might be her very own reincarnation, but that answer would cost him a higher price to pay. 

“What is it that you gain by putting her in my path?” sometimes the thought of her pierces him a little too hard, unbalances his breathing. The fates are cruel creatures he knows of this, but to play with his dearest one like this—

“Dream, you speak as if your brother is not Destiny itself.” The maiden wears a coy smile. 

—

When he visits the church again (y/n) is not to be found. He asks Sister Siobhan—the matronly old woman who always greets him kindly—and informed him that she had fallen ill. A sudden fever struck her and she resides in her room

“Would it be alright to pass her my well wishes?”

Sister Siobhan hums as she rests her arm on the tip of her broom.

“What do you have in mind?”

He sends her large bouquets of flowers and some sweets she might like with a get-well-soon card. Then he visits her dream that night. 

Trapped bare in the cage with a sleeping Serpent, (y/n) lays on its scales. Her hand rests on her stomach. Her breathing rags. 

As if she understands his presence is not conjured from her subconscious, her eyes are probing him, wrings his inside with little thrill, the eyes that used to bloom flowers in the Dreaming in its image. 

“What are you doing here?” she rasps. Morpheus has no words to answer that question. 

—

He waits for 3 days until he visits her again. Relieved when she sees her figure praying in front of Saint Anthony. 

“Thank you for the gifts. You didn’t have to do that.” She says when they’re standing side by side.

“I do.”  

“For what? You barely know me.” her brows crease slightly.

“I… would like to get to know you.”

She laughs. He swallows, it reminded him that laughter used to linger in his throne room, his library, his chamber… 

“I am married to god, Morpheus. My spouse is a jealous man.”

“I- enjoy your company. As a friend nothing more.” Morpheus doesn’t know whether his words are true. What it is he hoped to unearth within her. The soul of his former wife, a memory he hoped she’d remember, it all seems foolish but he had to try. 

 I want to know whether my wife is inside. 

“It’s funny, I saw you in my dream a couple of days ago. It feels… it feels like we’ve known each other for a long time.” 

Her words slightly tremble his hands.

“Perhaps an age ago we did.” he manage to say. 

“Perhaps.”

—

The life of a nun is bound by Christ, it requires her to be away from worldly endeavours. Morpheus know and understand this, he becomes patient with this fact. (y/n) doesn’t go outside much except for taking the orphan kids to the park or helping in the soup kitchen. He meets her on both occasions apart from visiting the church. 

“What do you do, Morpheus?” (y/n) asks after she swallowed a slice of Tangerine they currently share. The peel settles at the bottom of her net bag, along with 2 bottles of water for the orphan children after they stopped playing.

He ponders for a moment. 

“I’m a creator.” he takes another slice of Tangerine. 

“What do you create?”

“Everything.”

She chuckles at the ambiguity of his answer. 

“That’s a little vague.”

“One day I promise I will show them to you.” he gives her the last slice of the fruit. She puts it in her mouth, smiling. 

“Alright, I’ll be waiting.”

  —

What traces left of his wife he found is merely in her physical appearance, name and gestures the mortal eyes can easily be missed. Where his wife was an exploding cacophony of exuberance, (y/n) is quiet and talks as gently as winds of spring. 

He finds himself sinking deeper into her when she sits beside him watching the children play. A content look graced her lovely face. When her wilful kindness and her sense of duty come to act to help those who need help. When her patient voice would always come to her little orphan kids, to the needy. Her endless devotion to them. He can’t help but stand beside her to ladle soup into the bowls with her. He tries to wear the same warm smile just like her for the people who say thanks after each bowl. 

“There’s not much to know, this is all i am.” she says one afternoon when he walks her back to the convent from the Soup Kitchen.

“What you are is extraordinary, all of you.” he replies. He notes the little bashful smile she tries to contain. 

When they say their goodbyes at the gate of the church, Sister Siobhan stands at the doorstep, she gives him a knowing smile and look. 

Morpheus hides his own bashful smile as he walks away. 

—

“Why do you become a nun?” Morpheus asks at one point. Sitting beside her in the afternoon watching over the children play. Her leg crosses on top of the other. 

“I have a very religious family. I’m just following their footsteps.” she says quietly, in the tone only he could hear. 

“Do you believe in him?”

“God?”

He nods.

“i- hope he doesn’t.”

He waits for her to continue.

“I have many friends that would… that would…”

She trails, her eyes darting around the park. 

“He made parts of them that he rejects in his book. I almost hate him that way.” she finally says. 

“I understand. He can be fickle and obtuse.” 

“You made it sound like he owes you money.”

A smile creeps on Morpheus' face.

“Do you?” she returns. 

“No. He exists, but he is not of my belief.”

“And how do you know he exists?”

Morpheus turns his body towards her, drinking in the beauty of her eyes.

“Because he owes me money but lives in a mansion somewhere in Las Vegas.”

Gentle laugh breeze from her lips like winds of spring. Morpheus’s heart quickened slightly. The featherlike tingles on his stomach are something entirely new, relentless. 

—

Every week he looks forward to meeting her. There is not a second that passes that she stopped lingering in the crevices of his mind. A month turns into three, then six, and a year they develop a kinship with one another.

Her, this new form of his long-deceased wife that is in fact an entirely different being, eclipsed what he tried to find. Puts him to shame for his false pretences. 

He realised at one point when they prayed before the saint, when the refraction of light landed soft on her face, altogether he stopped looking for something that doesn’t exist. He chose to cherish her as a friend, her irreplaceable presence that comforts him in their routine. Her dearest (y/n). 

But lately, when he meets her, her eyes are sunken ever slightly. Her silence seems to be that of wariness instead of contentment. 

“You are troubled, (y/n).” he nudged her knee with his knuckle as they sit in the park again once they take the children home. An unusual request from her. 

Only her silence meets his observation.

“Are you alright?”

She focuses her eyes on the horizon instead of answering his question. 

“You can tell me anything.”

“I’m fine.” she snaps at him. Morpheus closes his mouth. Fall silent in resignation. But as moments pass he can feel her agitation, see her thumb digging into her palm. Notice the film over her eyes, an indescribable sort of anguish. 

“I’m sorry.” she sighs.

“Don’t be.” Morpheus assures her.

I used to…” she breathed. Hesitating for a moment. 

“I used to teach at the elementary few years ago. I remember that it was hard work, and the hours are long. But I never felt that sense of purpose in my entire life. It was all I wanted to be.”

She says quietly. Morpheus waits for her to continue.

“And I fell in love, you know, with one of the teachers there. She’s brilliant. And kind. She has a way that makes your insides just- melt into mush. I had the best summer holiday with her before my father found out.”

There is a yearning smile. Morpheus notes the tears gathered in her eyes. 

“He is a bigot and wealthy. There are no more dangerous traits than those combined in mankind.” she says then laugh bitterly.

“You took your vow unwillingly.” The realisation hits him.

“All because I love men and women equally.” she mutters bitterly.

“The sisters are kind enough to let me see you regularly, even sister Siobhan fought with my father for my release. They know that this life… it’s bleeding me dry.” 

Then there is nothing but hollowness in her eyes. All the rage and yearning and restlessness dissipate in a blink. In turn, he feels it tenfold.

“I could give you another.” he offers.

“You don’t know how powerful my father is.” she whispers. 

“I can assure you that would pose no problem for me.” 

“He’ll find me even at the edge of the world.” 

“I’ll make sure he won’t even so much as think of you.”

For a moment she looks hopeful, but the light is doused quickly.

“Leave the convent. Break your vows. You shall not be disturbed by your father.” 

“Please Morpheus. You’re being foolish.” irritation laces her words. 

“Trust me i-”

“Enough. No more, please.” she pleads. 

Desperate, Morpheus uses a last resort as he takes her hand. 

“You dream of a serpent trapped in a silver cage. Tonight you shall dream that she is free.”

“What?”

“Please. Trust me. I shall be with you when you walk away.” 

She contemplates his words, her eyes never leave his. Then she tips her face to the moon. To the horizon in the distance. She mulls over it for almost an hour, Morpheus is there beside her every second. 

—

Morpheus stands at the gate of the Church as he watches the sisters tearfully say their goodbyes to her on the doorstep. (y/n)’s eyes do the same thing, filmy and wet. She wave one last time and blow her kisses. But once she reaches the gates and walks away with him, her tears never fall. The usual cloud over her brows is replaced with something else, something light and easy. 

Hob Gadling is kind enough to let her stay at the New Inn upstairs. She settles there quietly. Resumes her teaching as a private tutor to the children of the parents who frequents the church. Resumes her service in taking the kids to the park and participating in the Soup Kitchen.  

Once they meet at the park again, when the last traces of sunlight sink in the horizon and the sky wear its dark blue, she asks him a long overdue question. 

“What did you do, Morpheus?”

He falls silent. For if he open his mouth, he fears that everything would pour from his lips and the truth would drive her away. The omission of truth lies heavy within him. But he could no longer do such a thing. 

She notes his unnatural silence. Her inquisitive eyes burn his profile as he rests his arms on his knees.

“What are you?” she whispers once more. 

Morpheus straightens his form. Then look her in her eyes.

“There are no words that would suffice to tell you what I truly am. I can only show you.” 

He offers her his hand. She eyes it cautiously, faint crease forms between her brows. But she takes his hand nonetheless.

—

She takes him so readily. Her eyes take in the Dreaming unflinching. Takes his nature without fear as he explains. There is even wonder twinking in her eyes. The part of her mouth in Awe of his Dreaming. Morpheus can’t help but preen under her marvel, never felt more proud of his creation.

Then he saw Lucienne’s bewildered face as he takes (y/n) to his throne room. It must be quite a sight that the ghost of her queen wanders the halls beside him. 

“My lord.” Lucienne greets him. Rigid and strained. 

“Lucienne, this is (y/n). My friend.” Morpheus notice the even widened eyes of the Dreaming’s librarian. 

“Welcome to the dreaming, Lady (y/n).”  Regardless of Lucienne’s bewilderment, she can’t help but give (y/n) a warm smile.

“Please, just (y/n). It’s nice to meet you.”  (y/n) returns Lucienne’s smile.

“Of course, (y/n).” Old habits die hard, Morpheus think of Lucienne. The title was used affectionately. After all, they were as close as any sisters could be when his former wife reigned beside him. He notes something of nostalgia in Lucienne’s eyes. The longing. The daze. Morpheus can imagine Lucienne’s feelings upon it, remembers he’s the one who felt it first. 

“Come, my friend. There is something I want to show you.” Morpheus beckons her to a hallway that leads to his chamber. As they walk through the stretching floor, on the wall to his left are the windows overlooking the sea of the Dreaming. On the wall to his right hangs all manner of paintings from all genres. Tonalism, Realism, Abstract and more. Subjects from still-life, animals, historical, vistas to portraiture. 

Morpheus stops at a portrait wedged between an abstract of Joan Miro and the tonalism artwork of Angel de Cora. He awaits for her response. 

“Who’s- who’s that?” she stumbles upon her words

“My former wife. The queen of the Dreaming.” In the style of Naturalism, he depicts her in draperies of white Muslins surrounded by bushes of her favourite flowers, smiling softly as her hands folded on her lap. He painted the portrait with his own hands, when his longing was too unbearable that he doesn’t know how to relieve that burden. 

“You are the descendant of the same family tree as her. Her name was (y/n).” The truth bursts from him. The guilt weighs too heavily. 

There is only silence. The slight labour of her breathing. She leans on the wall, trying to catch her breath. Morpheus paces to support her but she pushes his hand away.

“I want to go home.” she mutters under her breath. Refusing to look him in the eyes. 

“My friend-”

“Take me home.” She speaks with a finality in her voice. Morpheus understands whatever he would say after that point would be of no use to her well-being. So he nods and grants her wish. He commits her form, her face engulfed by sand as he watches her disappear. Not knowing if she truly lost to him once more.

—

The subjects of the Dreaming know that their king is in a state of agitation. They can feel it in the constant changing of the weather every hour. Some parts of the Dreaming plunges into sandstorm then rain, dry clear skies, drizzles of snow then sandstorm again in no particular order. The sun is quivering from one into three then four, as does the moon. 

Morpheus waits and waits and waits, until the second week passes and she calls his name. He appears outside of her room before she could finish mouthing all three syllables. 

She asks if he would like to accompany him to the park when she opens the door, at the very second of that midnight. 

They sit in silence. Barely illuminated by the white light with a tinge of pale blue from the lamppost in the distance. Neither knows how to start the conversation, Morpheus more than her. 

“What are you doing here Morpheus?”

He recognises her allusion. What is your intention with me?

“Do you wish me to be her?” there is a hint of fear in her voice.

“No, (y/n). I do not.” he muster earnestness as best as he can. 

“Do you pity me?”

“No. never that.”

“What are we doing Morpheus?” she whispers.

He falls silent.

“It’s true I approached you because you bear my former wife’s face. But I found myself comforted merely by your presence. I found myself thinking of who you are constantly, not who you’re supposed to be. I can assure you that you are far from what she was.” He says, his throat heavy.

She nods. Recognise the sincerity in his voice. Her quiet exhale sound that of relief. Then she takes his hand, he tangles his fingers around hers as he counts her tears dripping one by one. His own heart aches at the sight of it. 

“Thank you. For everything.” she whispers once more. His grip bound tighter. His whole being sinking into the pools of her irises. 

—

In no time, her list of students is growing, her lives are busier. Bountiful. Her smiles and laughs are lighter and airy. In several months she moves out of the Inn and lives in her own apartment she rents. And Morpheus is in every step she takes, admires how smart and sharp she is, how it is in her nature to be kind and gentle. How dear she becomes to his heart that it almost hurts. 

He would always be there whenever she needs him in any way, even so far the only thing she asks is nothing but his company, he would always give her more. Inspire her with the sweetest dreams. 

He frequents her apartment with all sorts of gifts. He’d bring her favourite flowers, her favourite takeout, books she might like, his own favourites, and her preferred brand of wine. 

This time he brought her a necklace forged from the stone of fiddler’s green that bears the same colour as her eyes. The stone is no bigger than her fingernail but she claims she never seen a stone so beautiful and otherworldly. So stupefying when a direct light hits it. She conveys her thanks and sheepishly turns on her back to let him clasp the necklace around her skin. His breath brushes her nape, he hears her heart beating erratically. The hairs on her arms stretching on ends. 

Now the jewellery dangles between her collarbones. 

He wishes his fingers could linger on her skin a little bit more.

“Pasta or Roast chicken?” she flutters away to the kitchen with his answer, her necklace winking under the afternoon sunset filtering through her apartment’s windows. 

Morpheus can’t help his own smile, strangely feeling mortal-like in their routine. He cherishes their routine.

—

  “This sounds like the bowels of Tartarus.” Morpheus says as he listens to one of her favourite records playing on the turntable, an Oratorio sung in Baritone integrated with gentle synths and Cellos, composed by a recently deceased composer that makes her cry the whole day when it happened. She lets him comfort her that day. 

“No fucking way, the Pantheons are real?” 

“Not just them, The Vanirs, Aesirs and their kind, the Sumerian gods and all.”

“Wow…”

He can’t help his smile spreading as he watches her eyes, drooping lovely by the wine they currently share on the dining table side by side. The cores from eaten Strawberry Apple stacked on the bowl. 

“So… he’s real too?”

“Unfortunately.” Morpheus sip the wine from his glass. 

“Fuck. I just know I’m going straight to hell.”

“No. I’ll not let that happen.” Morpheus says it earnestly, she chuckles and gives him a lazy grin.

“The perk of befriending a god, huh?”

His smile grows wider. 

“I’m not a god.”

“To me you are.”

He pauses. His heart picks up slightly at the words. Feel the heat creeping to his neck.

“You’ve done more for me than he ever did.” she continues. Her fingers search for his, memorising the texture of his nail with the pad of her finger. 

“Do you worship me?” Morpheus leans inch by inch. Brushes her hairline. Twirl the necklace between her collarbones. 

“I know you heard my prayers.” she gravitates forward towards him. 

“I do.” 

(y/n) tilts her head to the side, drinking in his features. He recalls her prayers whispered quietly at midnight. The words trembled his hands on that night. Burns his chest with euphoria. 

“Your prayers, your recent dreams, I witnessed it.” he almost says breathlessly. Heat pools in his stomach. 

“Does it reflect your desire?”

“Yes.” she whispers. Her own voice strangles by desire’s hands. 

He watches the expansion of her pupils. Hears her heartbeat pace quickly when he focuses on it. 

“You will have me?” he asks. 

“Yes.” she licks her lips. 

“I am wholly yours.” he claims when their faces are close enough they could count each other's eyelashes. He brush away the one that fell on her cheek, then caress her jaw with his fingers. She leans into his touch, into his warmth. Her hands fists on his chest as she presses her lips to his cheeks. 

Morpheus sighs in pleasure. A thrill of shiver runs along his spine, his hand circling her back as the other takes her jaws to kiss her on the lips. She kisses him hard enough to turn him inside out, to make her a god if she asks for it. 

That night, every being that sleeps dreams of her glistening skin against his, of her lips chanting his name. Her eyes and her satiated sighs. Her tears of pleasure. Morpheus swallows everything he could. 

—

“Hello little brother.” Death's warm voice calls to him. He turns from the waterfall and meets her warm smile as she opens her arms to receive him, Morpheus return her gesture. 

“It’s been quite some time since you summon me to your realm.” She says as she takes in the beauty of Fiddler’s green.

Morpheus stays silent because she knows the answer to that statement. The last time she was here, Death took the queen of the Dreaming. And the dispute after that, the calamity he wrought after their fight can be felt even upon the waking world. 

An altercation that he believed was a betrayal. She took centuries to mend their relationship into what it was. 

“So, what is it Dream?” Death squints slightly under the sun of the Dreaming. 

He remembers last night, when (y/n)’s half asleep from euphoria after their intercourse, his dearest said the words that stir him with complete devotion. That fills his stomach with dread and reminds him of his duty as an Endless. I love you, Morpheus. I would do the unthinkable for you.

“You know what this is about.” he firmly says. 

Death’s mouth twists into a faint grimace. But she nods.

“Promise me, Death. Promise me.”

He sees Death’s throat swallow. 

“What affection you have for me as your brother, promise me this. Do not betray me again.” He rasps. His chest feels the heaviness on that day.

“Please, Morpheus, I did not betray you. It is only the rule that binds, little brother. Our duty” she takes a step towards him. Her hands reach but he pulls back. 

“You owe me.” he whispers. His tears sting the back of his eyes. 

Death's lips are pursed thin. Her gaze remorseful and rue.

Death takes a deep breath. 

“Make her an Endless then. I will help you.”

Her words stun him into silence. A proposal that is painstakingly leviathan in nature he never thought his dutiful big sister would ever offer him. A proposal that is to be made in such a short time and the risk would be insurmountable for both siblings. 

And he couldn’t think of someone more worthy to be an Endless. 

“I will help you before it’s too late. After that, we’re square. Deal?”

He nods. Unable to find his words for a moment.

“Agreed.”

—

“Hi!” She giggles with glee when he circles his arms around her as she’s preparing the ingredients for dinner on the counter of her kitchen. 

“You’re early.” she turns and gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

“I couldn’t wait.” he murmurs as he buries his eyes on her shoulder. 

“I can tell.” She teases. But when he is silent, he takes his face in her hands. Search for his evading eyes. 

“What’s wrong Morpheus?” she gently calls for him. Concern between her brows. 

“There is something I must ask, (y/n).” he says restlessly. 

“Of course.” she replies. 

He takes her to the dining table and sits side by side. He explains what it is to be an Endless. How one of their great weaknesses is bound by the ancient rules that predate even their creation. One of them, the Endless can not fall in love with a mortal and prolong their affiliation, or the Mortal’s downfall would soon follow. 

A tear slips from her eye. 

“You’re leaving me?” she asks, strikingly calm even through her tears. 

“Without the alternative, I must, (y/n).” he caresses her jaw. His own eyes smarting. His chest weighs heavily. 

“And the alternative?”  she takes his other hand to anchor herself down. The numbness in her legs became too much. 

He feels her pulse quickening on her wrist. 

“Understand this. I was blinded by my foolishness, it was not my intention to put you in this precarious position and I assure you I never wanted to jump into your life to just leave-”

“Just say it Morpheus.” she whines. 

“Will you become an Endless?” he blurts. 

She stares at him for a moment as if he grows a second head. Then quickly realises the gravity of his question, the unsaid pleading in his eyes, his inability to beg her because he does not want to pressure her into compliance but his heart—rending eyes, his bright—sharp eyes, the colour of a brewing storm, says it all. She wants to weep for those eyes. 

She takes his face in her hands. Kisses him on the lips. She feels the tension lining his shoulders melt away. His hands slither to grip her waist, washes her body in pleasure. 

“Yes. Make me a god.” she says when she pulls away. 

His wide smile could replace the sun. She realised, in a heartbeat, that she would do anything and everything just so she could see that beautifully divine smile for the rest of her life. Would do the unthinkable for him. Devote her life to her Dream. Devotion and Dream, that is all she needs. Devotion and Dream for eternity until the universe erodes and blinks away. 

—

Taglist: @aurorarevenclaw1927​

[wolffyluna]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💞

Ten of Swords, Silmarillion, Tar-Miriel/OFC about the fall of Numenor. It's one of the first ~novel-ish lengths things I wrote, and I still love Zimrazagar, the King's man who falls in love with Tar-Miriel. I also love the tragedy and apocalypse vibes

Stained Glass Variation of the Truth, TGCF, a Mu Qing centric post canon Xianle trio fic. This started from a kernel of "I want Xie Lian to tell people about book 4, except he is never, ever going to do that" and ended up becoming about Mu Qing's relationship with Xie Lian and how it's coloured by his time as a servant.

it deepens like a coastal shelf, MDZS, a Mo Xuanyu & Nie Huaisang & Jin Guangyao fic. I have so many emotions about Mo Xuanyu and the way Nie Huaisang manipulated him. I also, relatedly, have so many geology metaphors that can fit in this baby.

A Fermi Estimation of Devil Possession Prevalance, a WKTD fic that asked both 'what would these girls be like once they were a bit more grown up?' and also 'can I write a post yellow ending fic that Venus survives?' It's got statistics! Spiritual experiences during Satanism! Being convinced for several years that your friend is dead!

hai gynaikes, tois idiois andrasin hos to kyrio, a DSMP Quackbur royalty AU. I was kind of torn about which mcyt fic to include here, but it's gotta be this one. Sometimes, you just so happen to be inhaling elections arc DSMP at the same time as a book about Dark Age queens, and you end up creating something very specific about power and who can directly have it, gender, and Medieval Catholicism.

I'm tagging @arofili, @chocochipbiscuit, @corviiids, @earlgraytay and @coldwind-shiningstars, and anyone else who wants to play this game!

[lyselkatz]

Pitch black, pale blue • There was a stained-glass, variation of the truth • And I felt empty-handed

I'm only honest when it rains • If I time it right, the thunder breaks • When I open my mouth • I wanna tell you, but I don't know how

Sleeping at Last - Neptune

I binged I am Nobody 異人之下 in 3 days and it's really good!! So many cool characters and I like many of them but I'm especially soft for ZhuGê Qing 諸葛青 and Wáng Yê 王也!

...☕?/commission

[etapereine]

stained glass (variation of the truth)

@cycleprompttuesday: "colour"

also on ao3

you dream in yellow.

yellow for the sun, for its flowers, for the jersey.

yellow in your hair when you look in the mirror, in the eggs they serve you for breakfast each morning, in the fading bruise running down your side.

up a mountain and down again, try not to kill yourself on a climb and then speak to the press, take the jersey off and put it on again. rinse and repeat.

yellow bleeds into red and the tour bleeds into the vuelta, messy and orange like the sunset in paris and the sunrise in spain. where does one stop and the other begin? you do not know.

you dream in red.

red for denmark, for spain, for the jersey.

red on primož’s knee after another crash, on sepp’s face after another hard climb, in your eyes after another sleepless night.

up a mountain and down again, nearly kill yourself on a climb and then talk to the team, call nathan but don’t look at social media. do not pass go, do not collect $200.

red bleeds into blue and the long months of the off-season form a buffer between you and the world, muted and grey like the clouds over glyngøre and the clouds over monaco. does it matter where it starts and ends? you don’t know that either.

you dream in blue.

blue for denmark, for monaco, for the jersey.

blue in the ocean outside your window, in his eyes when he asks you to stay another night, in the veins under your skin with every kilo toward race weight.

up a mountain and down again, kill your opponents on a climb and then talk to the press, try to keep the jersey colors straight and do not think about him. is the glass half empty or half full?

blue bleeds into pink and the season spirals toward the summer, bold and purple like the jersey wout is chasing and the photo noemi sends you of the flowers outside her window. maybe there is no beginning or end, maybe there is no dividing line. you cannot think about it.

you dream in pink.

pink for the sunrise, for his lips, for the jersey.

pink in the confetti they spray all over the podium, on his cheeks when he facetimes you late at night, on your cheeks when christophe spies the messages on your phone.

up a mountain and down again, try to kill your feelings with every pedal stroke but realize you cannot, watch him resurrect like a phoenix and try not to cry. the heart wants what it wants.

pink fades into green and spring into summer, bright and alive like the look in his eyes when he sees you in florence and the rolling hills around you on the road toward paris. something has begun, though you do not know what. maybe that's okay.

[cycleprompttuesday]

End of Challenge Roundup

Our Colour challenge is closed.

We had 7 stories this round:

stained glass (variation of the truth) by etapereine

rosa, jaune, rojo, and all inbetween by pernice

Blonds Have More Fun by curious_bibliophile

An empty space to fill in by mundanememory

Primary Colours by danseuse (superSepia)

twisted by indie-summer

So much wine by and_nobody_noticed

Thank you to everyone who participated in this second round! The next prompt will be up shortly.

[dxlaflamme-archive]

@luposcainus | from here

A SMILE ESCAPED the werewolf.“ Oh? I didn’t expect that, I was expecting more cat from you.” Caspian says. He just shrugged. He didn’t mind cats though. Dogs are nice creatures , and he has that connection with them. Maybe it’s because of his wolf nature? They’re nice little killers. They’re cute though. Caspian leans forward. “ Or are you just saying this because we’re friends.”

Marianne raised a brow. "You expected cat from me? Huh, curious." She's heard this before. "Why? Am I stuck up? Snobbish? Only comes to you for food and - AND - push your things off the table just because I want to? Be honest, Caspian. I don't scratch." She's not angry. Just very curious. Like a cat, you could say.

"Or maybe, I just like dogs." Still, she smiles, shrugging.

[betweensaintsandmonsters]

chapter one of the time war au is up!

The force glimmers here, more vibrant than anywhere else on the field. He is certain this was the Republic, one of their operatives acting to sabotage his efforts. Beneath the rage he feels bubbling in his chest, there is fear, and there is admiration. It is not often he is bested. He is his Master’s right hand for a reason. He does not fail, he is not thwarted. And yet. And yet. He finds it admirable that someone has beat him here, has taken his game and twisted it up in front of him. He feels the challenge in his veins. or The 'This is How You Lose the Time War' au no one asked for

[jaynovz]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗

Oh hi, thanks so much for sending this!

did the twin flame bruise paint you blue aka Break Up AU:

My favorite story of all time is of course my monster of a Silverflint mod au/novel. My pinned post gives a more thorough summary of this extravaganza, but basically: Silver and Flint meet back up at a holiday party a year-ish after a devastating break up and the cycle of heartache and desperate unhealthy codependency begins again.

This took over a year of my life to write, it nearly fuckin killed me lol. it's my greatest accomplishment. Complete with two interlocking timelines, alternating POV, a shitton of introspective kinky porn, doing the hardest parts of original fiction and fanfiction at the same time, and writing an ambiguous ending that feels the way that canon does.

and I nailed it imo. please enjoy the pride of my life (so far!)

the sweetest devotion, hitting me like an explosion aka Cupcakes AU:

Funny, sweet, and sad all at the same time. Mine and @brinnanza's baker Flint and guitarist Silver rom com, complete with an INTENSIVE beat for beat structure that like, god I’m so fucking proud of and was def the precursor for learning how to write Break Up AU.

I love this verse intensely, it holds a special place in my heart. It's basically the only time the boys get a happy ending :P

Also exists in podfic form!

in this garden there’s no feeling aka Hanahaki/flowers au:

Written as a prompt for Beach Blanket Blacks Sails Event in 2021.

This might actually be the piece I’m most proud of from a canon Silver character study angle. I really crawled deep into his head for this (derogatory). It was also VERY VERY difficult technically/structurally. Got to explore the Howell-Silver dynamic the way I always wanted while executing the hanahaki trope in… a very Silver-y way. 

This is not for the faint of heart lol.

a stained glass variation of the truth aka the Silver backstory: 

Yeah I'm still putting this one. This may be the most deeply personal piece I've written to date. In many ways it's my fucking heart and soul. A character study and a writing exercise, just one potential “what happened to Silver,” by no means a definitive take since that doesn’t exist. But I wrote this to get into his head more, or to have him get into mine maybe lmao, to fully embrace and understand him as a character as much as possible. It was hard, excessively researched, gave me fits, and was fucking PAINFUL EMOTIONALLY lol but I love it to pieces.

Also was the first podfic I ever recorded, if you would rather listen.

sipping on your lips, hanging on by a thread aka Milkingfic:

I talk a lot about John fucking Silver around here, but this story is a full on thorough Captain James Flint brain swizzling. I'm so proud of this character study of Flint as shown through magic freak lactation. Yep you read that right! I made it work and it's fucking brilliant if I do say so myself. Featuring Silverflint becoming partners through strife much earlier, humor, reveling in joyous sensation, and Big Flint Gender Feels.

Oh also, it's really REALLY hot.

--

Thanks for asking! My answers had changed a bit from the last time I did this challenge and it was really validating to see how far I've come since then. Mwah.

[collabwithmyself]

📻 AKIIIKOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Neptune, by Sleeping at Last! A summary of Akiko's messy relationship with Hito and their resentment of his inability to raise them the right way, as well as their struggle with feeling the way other people feel.

Pitch black, pale blue There was a stained-glass variation of the truth And I felt empty-handed You let me set sail with cheap wood So I patched up every leak that I could 'Til the blame grew too heavy

Stitch by stitch, I tear apart If brokenness is a form of art I must be a poster child prodigy Thread by thread, I come apart If brokenness is a work of art Surely this must be my masterpiece

I'm only honest when it rains If I time it right, the thunder breaks When I open my mouth I wanna tell you, but I don't know how I'm only honest when it rains An open book, with a torn out page And my inks run out I wanna love you but I don't know how

[holyluvr]

Pitch black, pale blue. There was a stained-glass variation of the truth. And I felt empty-handed. You let me set sail with cheap wood, So I patched up every leak that I could 'Til the blame grew too heavy. Stitch by stitch, I tear apart. If brokenness is a form of art, I must be a poster child prodigy. Thread by thread, I come apart. If brokenness is a work of art. Surely this must be my masterpiece. I'm only honest when it rains. If I time it right, the thunder breaks when I open my mouth. I wanna tell you, but I don't know how. I'm only honest when it rains. An open book with a torn out page. And my inks run out. I wanna love you but I don't know how.