#selin sever

[iconsturkish]

[io-ti-regalo-il-mondo]

Demir: Selin posso parlarti un attimo?

Selin: Ma certo si parliamo

Demir: Vieni con me

(In sotto fondo Ayda: Dai Tolsvaga vieni fuori)

Demir: Selin io..

Selin: Dimmi Demir

Demir: È stato bello poter festeggiare un matrimonio in questa casa. Hai mai sognato una cosa del genere?

Selin: Aha

Demir: Quindi hai sognato un matrimonio?

Selin: Aha certo

Demir: Questo tuo sogno... Selin tutti i tuoi sogni..

(Caramuc abbaia e arriva verso loro con una scatolina rossa al collo)

Demir: ... Ti ho promesso che avrei realizzato tutti i tuoi sogni..

(Anche messier Tolsvaga viene trovata ha un pergamena attaccata al busto e viene portata da Selin)

Selin: Vuoi realizzare il mio sogno più grande insieme a me Demir?

Ascolta ho..

Demir: Selin aspetta un attimo, fammi prima fare la mia domanda.

Ah Selin io volevo..

Selin: Solo un secondo amore

(Gli porge Tolsvaga con la pergamena che Demir prende)

Demir: Si ma cos'è?

(Nel frattempo Selin vede la scatolina al collo di caramuc e la prende)

Selin: È questo?... (Apre la scatolina)

...Ohhh

(Demir apre la pergamena)

Demir: È una mappa...

Io ti porterò ovunque vorrai andare

Selin: Ovunque io voglia andare tu verrai con me Peter Pan? Sarai al mio fianco?

Demir: Per sempre Wendy

(Selin vede l'anello)

Selin: Per sempre

Demir: Cominciamo da qui allora?

Selin: Oh Demir.. due biglietti per India, allora sapevi che ti avrei dato la mappa?

Demir: No che non lo sapevo, ma sapevo che ti avrei dato questo anello.

In che angolo del mondo vuoi sposarmi?

Selin: Intanto partiamo decideremo durante il viaggio..

Demir: Si ma prima una cosa? Aspetta...

Posso amore mio?

(Le mette l'anello al dito)

Un esplosione di coriandoli li inondano mentre sigillano il tutto con un bacio 😍😍

[writing-whump]

Waking up

Isaiah wakes up after the operation. Mention of open chest wound, though not too detailed. Emeto down below.

Matthew sat down on the chair. Then got up just as quickly, barely stopping himself from pacing.

Seline sat straight on the other side, hands next to Isaiah's. She knew he had the operation, she was wrapping her head around the heart problems...but seeing it, seeing him like this, pale, unresponsive, with sterile thin gauze covering the long opening wound in the center of his chest...a gaping long line, like a bloody chasm-

Matthew gulped down audibly, gaze jumping from one corner of the room to the other.

Seline gave him an angry look. "You can't throw up here. If you can't stand it, go away."

Matthew flinched. He flinched almost everytime she spoke to him since the first talk with the doctor.

"No. I-I can take it." The red-haired man set his jaw resolutely, glaring at the opposite wall. After a minute he dared to flick his gaze towards Isaiah again. Like he was building up a tolerance to that sight.

Seline let out a tiny sigh. On some level she relized she was pretty hard on him. Espcially now, when they had bigger problems. But something about her seething resentment towards Matthew held her together. It was an easier emotion to focus on than the breath-taking sense of betrayal or stomach-clenching fear for Isaiah.

Or the horrible guilt in the back of her neck, like pressure gathering that told her this was all her damn fault for not noticing on her own.

For not being close enough, present enough to witness this, to help, to be someone they wanted help from.

Matthew was back on the chair, squirming on it. He braced his elbows on the matrass next to Isaiah taking slow measured breaths through his mouth.

Shouldn't blood be an easier sight for wolves?

Seline didn't know why it didn't bother her that much. There was more of a fascinated distant mortification that was a hole to Isaiah's inner organs, only with a bit of sterile gauze to protect it. She had to actively force herself to look away, cause it kept dragging her eyes towards it like a magnet.

Time lost all its meaning. Bodily functions didn't have any effect on them. There was no way either of them could eat or sleep or leave, and ignoring any tiredness in face of the tension in her back or Matthew's gritted teeth was easy.

This was the most alert emergency mode and it would probably crush them later. But right now the adrenaline was like 10 coffees in their veins.

So Seline had no idea how much time actually passed—it could have been a few minutes or two hours—when Isaiah started shifting around on the bed.

A soft groan escaped him and his eyes fluttered for a minute as he fought the grogginess.

Seline and Matt were both standing by that point, each from one side, breaths held back.

"Isaiah?" Seline called out softly.

Isaiah's face scrunched up, but his eyes finally opened. "Hmm? Where..." He looked to her, then to Matthew, scanning the room in confusion.

His eyes drifted downwards to his chest, the hospital gown, the blanket draped over him, several tubes and IVs sticking out of his hands.

The machine he was hooked to started beeping immediately as Isaiah's breath caught in shock.

Seline's put her hand against his cheek, coaxing him to look up at her. "Hey, hey, hey. Look at me, alright? At me, not there. You are fine, you are safe, everything’s gonna be okay."

Matthew's hand was on his shoulder, applying the gentlest pressure.

"What'-what's-"

"You had a surgery after a heart attack," Seline settled on the truth. "But everything worked out. It was successful. You are okay and gonna be completely okay."

"Why-why is that-" His green eyes were wide and his breathing was hitching from how fast it came.

Matthew grabbed Isaiah's forearm, palm wrapped around his elbow. Isaiah's fingers curled into Matthew's shirt in a vice grip.

Seline mirrored the movement, taking Isaiah's other hand into hers, the other still on his face, stroking gently up and down his cheek. "Shhhhh. We are here. We are here. You will be alright in no time. They are just letting some pressure and swelling up. It will go down and they will stich you up in a few hours. Your shadow will heal everything and you'll be all good in no time."

Isaiah's head twitched in her hand towards Matthew, like he wanted to check it added up.

Seline knew, she knew how close they were, all three together. That this was good, having them both by his side. She had never felt threatened by the closeness Matthew and Isaiah shared. All the experiences and commonalities, the quiet understanding, the open affection.

Now it made her feel like an outsider, disgusting bitter taste in her mouth.

"It burns..." Isaiah said, mouth twisting, looking at Matthew. He was gripping his hand like he was about to break it. "Like silver."

"Yeah, I know, buddy," Matthew said gently, his face drawn in pained lines. "They had to use silver cause your shadow was healing up all they did, even sedated."

Isaiah looked ready to cry at that admission.

"But not the opening wound," Seline interjected. The doctor's explanation ran through her mind nonstop. "Just around the blocked artery. Once they sew up your chest, the anesthesia wears off and you will be able to heal it up with your shadow. It will be just around the heart that will take a bit. But patients after these operations get home quickly, in just a few days after."

Isaiah nodded shakily, his breathing still fast, but not rising anymore. His hold on her hand tightened.

Seline brushed some of the black curls out of his face, then kissed his forehead. "Everything's alright. You are safe. We're right here and not leaving."

Isaiah looked towards the ceiling. "I don't like hospitals," he said, lips twitching in an attempted smile that couldn't hold.

"Nobody does, man," Matt said quietly.

Isaiah swallowed heavily, lips chapped and dry. He squirmed in their hold like he was testing how much he could move.

His body jerked suddenly and he looked down and up again, breathing in deeply.

"Shhhhhh. What is it?" Seline said, trying to catch his attention with her hand still pressed against the side of his face, thumb rubbing up his temple.

"My mom." Isaiah forced his eyes closed than opened them to little slits like the light was too much. "She-she was in a hospital with her heart...send her home and she died of it." The jittery twitchy quality to his movements was persisting, his head flinching towards Matthew. "Am I going to die?"

Matthew paled more than Isaiah's hospital sheets. "No! Of course not. No way we are letting you die, right, Sel?"

Isaiah's eyes went to hers in such fearful hope her heart squeezed, eyes burning. "You are not dying, baby. You are very strong, very resilient. They are taking good care of you."

"We wouldn't let them hurt you," Matthew said in a gruff voice. "Promise."

Isaiah looked towards the ceiling, straining in their hold with involuntary movements. "I want to go home," he said in a small voice.

"We will go home soon," Seline reassured him, leaned down to kiss his forehead. "It won't take long. You'll go to sleep for a minute, your shadow will come back and them you will heal up completely at home. All good."

"We won't leave your side for a second," Matthew added. He was focusing on Isaiah's face intentely to not mind the covered wound. He held Isaiah's forearm still up in the air with one hand, rubbing his shoulder with the other steadily.

"Hurts..." Isaiah whined. A single tear slid down his cheek on the side she was stroking it. "I don't feel good."

Seline thumbed the tear away, pressing her forehead gently to his. "Just keep looking at us, okay? None of this is important. You are okay."

"Want to go home," Isaiah repeated. The coherence was waning, his voice growing weaker. He blinked in exhaustion, another tear coming up.

Seline fought tears of her own with all she had, heart beating painfully against his ribs. She let go of Isaiah's hand in order to push the call button on the side.

It felt horrible, cause knowing he was awake, they would sedate him and check him if they could close the wounds...which was good, but it scared her that he would be closing his eyes again so soon.

Isaiah shuddered as the doors opened, people rushing in. "I don't-I don't want-"

"Just for a bit, buddy," Matthew said softly, cupping the side of Isaiah's face for a second before letting go. "We'll be here, when you wake up. First thing you see, I swear."

When the whole team of people came fussing over, Seline was forced to let go of Isaiah's hand. She never wanted to be a doctor more than in that moment to just know what was happening, what they were doing with the IVs, what they were checking him for.

A nurse ushered them out, saying they were about to roll him away to close the chest.

Seline stood in the hallway a little lost how quickly everything was happening.

A muffled groan interrupted her thoughts.

Matthew was leaning against the wall with an arm, pressing his palm against his lips with a nauseous expression.

He really held out that long for Isaiah, hadn't he?

Seline's heart wrenched at the realisation. She stepped closer, putting her hand on his elbow. "Come on. I saw a bathroom on the way."

Matthew let her steer him away from the wall to the small one-stall bathroom around the corner. She shut the door behind them to give them privacy, glad she could follow him in.

Matthew gagged against his hand, lowered himself down to the toilet in haste and burped emptily over it. "Ugh."

Seline hesitated, but then crouched down next to him as Matt shivered, gagging again. "That was a horrible sight," she agreed.

Matthew hiccuped, burying his head inside the bowl. His shoulders rolled with another empty gag. Then another muffled noise that sounded dangerously close to a sob.

Seline winced, risking to put her hand in the middle of his back. Her eyes were burning and her throat was all closed up. "Just get it up. You'll feel better in a minute. Deep breaths."

Matthew's shoulders hitched, wrapping both hands around his stomach as he heaved and heaved.

It made her suddenly wonder how much of this was Matthew's shadow reacting badly to stress, to having so many strangers around. How much did the pack behaviour play into this? Stressing him about the fact that was their pack leader too?

Shadow wolves weren't good with strained situations, emotions running amok easily. And Matthew's shadow was a hassle on good days.

She rubbed his back up and down gently, then added more pressure, thumping at his shoulder blades.

The motion ushered up a sickly burp and finally a gush of vomit spilled out.

"There you go," Seline said, stroking wide circles on his back.

Matthew let out a whine. His stomach was gurgling so loudly it echoed through the tiny bathroom. His whole back arched into her hand as another wave of sick splattered into the toilet, liquid against liquid.

He coughed against a choking noise before straightening up, nose and lips dripping with saliva.

Seline tore a bunch of toilet paper and handed it over. When he didn't take it, she gently dabbed at his face on her own, then threw it into the toilet and flushed.

"A bit better now?"

Matthew swayed dizzily, grabbing onto the porcelain rim for support. His eyes were glazed over and shimmering with moisture.

Seline made a move to stand. "I'll get you some water."

His hand on her wrist stopped her. Matthew didn't tug at it, just held it weakly. "Wait."

She lowered herself back to her knees with a sigh. "What is it?"

"Just-just stay." He looked away in shame, sniffling. "Please."

Even her anger didn't reach that far. And after seeing Isaiah rolled away with that gaping hole in his chest...

She pulled her hand out of his grasp only to take it properly. A tiny squeeze.

Matthew hang his head, not looking up, his elbow braced against the toilet seat. His breathing was evening out and he didn't seem so nauseous anymore.

Seline couldn't stand that look no longer, reaching over impulsively to wrap her arms around him.

Matthew gasped in suprise before letting himself sink into her embrace. His hands came around her waist, pressing tightly like that was all that he wanted the whole time.

"It's okay. We're gonna be okay," she said into his hair, burying her nose into it. She hadn't realized how much she craved this, how much more complete she felt with Matt pressed against her like this.

They held onto each other in that tiny bathroom, Isaiah's tears fresh in their minds.

[almightyhamslice]

Syringeon redesign!! FINALLY the last of the main characters (until Banban 8 comes out n I have to redesign the new silly guy and possibly Brushista)!!! He is a disgusting and disturbing worm but he wishes people didnt think he was disgusting and scary because he thinks he'd be a good parent!! (he's... not really...) He was conceptualized as a nurse mascot named "Fuchsia" but was "remodeled" when the scientists considered that he had no appeal to children, so they stopped caring to make him presentable to the public & modified him based on what traits would be useful to them.

"Fuchsia" was created with the DNA of a human woman and a hammerhead worm, though his four arms are from neither component, simply sculpted onto him when he was an inert clay figure. He is transgender and despises being viewed as a woman and has pretty severe body dysphoria that was only worsened by the scientists' modifications-- he always knew "Fuchsia" wasn't who he wanted to be, but the scientists and marketing department didn't know or really care about that. Several walls do display Syringeon's new name and appearance, but upper floors' gift shops still sell merchandise of "nusre Fuchsia" listed next to Slow Seline and Queen Bouncelia.

Comparison between Syringeon's original form and his new form. The scientists sought to make him a mechanized surgeon who could be expendable & care for the other mascots without fear of death, so he was made physically larger to effectively restrain the others. His original hands were all amputated to be replaced with various metal tools. He despairs over the loss because now he cannot use his hands to feel things. His mask is actually the same as it was pre-operation, he's not obligated to wear it anymore but he prefers to keep it on out of comfort.

Syringeon has a very strange complex about parenthood. He wants to be a parent and understands how to create subcases, but prefers to create them self destructively. He grafts them from his own flesh, injecting clay and givanium into his body and waiting a while for the new creatures to burst out of his stomach, like larval xenomorphs almost. It hurts a lot and he does it compulsively, he has no regard for his physical safety or wellness due to how his so-called caretakers treated him as expendable. The scar going down his stomach is permanent, the wound has been reopened and torn so many times the only thing keeping it together is his stitches.

He is cruel to his offspring in a similar way to how the scientists were cruel to him. He discards them once they aren't "cute" and creates new ones in their place. He has only one child he consistently cares for and loves unconditionally: Senengeon.

That was a lot and it was much heavier than usual!!! I overthought the fuck out of Syringeon because I designed him during a bout of dysphoria n that shaped a lot of how he is!! I hope you like him and aren't completely offput?? I mean ofc it's horror art but, you know what I mean!

[lilpunkrock]

where you go (i will go) — epilogue

Summary: The next chapter of your story begins.

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x f!Reader

masterlist

. . .

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: Close Your Eyes by Michael Bublé

0:00 ───|────── 3:33

. . .

epilogue

“C’mon, kiddo, you can do it. Say, ‘dada.’”

“Matt, she’s still a little young for that, don’t you think?”

“No, my kiddo’s a smart one. She can do it. Isn’t that right, Seline?”

Seline is all curly blonde hair and brown doe eyes as she flashes her parents a one-toothed grin. The sound of her tiny hands clapping together echoes through the Kemper’s living room, which is positively littered with toys. 

Ava scoffs, eyeing her husband with amusement. “You’re right, she is smart. That’s why she’ll say ‘mama’ first.”

Matt reaches for her hand where it rests on the floor between them. When he raises her knuckles to his lips for a kiss, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You’re right. She would be smart to say ‘mama’ first.”

Molten warmth floods your chest at their interaction, at the way that their attachments glow and sing with every word, laugh, and look. An unseen bystander, you reach forward from where you sit cross-legged in front of them to graze your fingers over the green storge attachments that tie their little family together. As your fingertips pluck at the threads like harp strings, they ring and strengthen. 

Was it necessary to fulfill every attachment? No, not anymore. Now that all philia, eros, and agape attachments were ensured, that only left pragma, storge, philia, and philautia to fulfill. In spite of this, you’d realized over the past six months that you still liked to walk through your daily assignments, fulfilling all of the attachments that made their way onto your list. You are a creature of habit, after all. Plus, the way the threads sing when you pluck them never gets old. 

Thank you, the storge attachments say, their threads bright, warm, and alive beneath your touch.

“You’re welcome,” you say in turn. “I’ll see you all again tomorrow. Don’t let her say any first words while I’m gone, got it?” 

Got it. 

With a pleased grin, you rise to your feet. As your attention shifts from the Kemper family, a new sight grabs your focus—a radiant stream of red, orange, yellow, blue, purple, and white. The threads unfurl from your chest, mingling and weaving into a delicate braid of light. They trail from your heart, out the Kempers’ front door, to a place far beyond this realm. Their whispers coax you to a realm of dreams and nightmares, to a man with a touch like cashmere and stars for eyes. At the mere thought of following them, your heartbeat quickens. 

Philia. Eros. Agape. Pragma. Philautia. Erotoropia. Even after six months, there was still one attachment that you and your Dream Lord had yet to foster. Green, unconditional, familial storge. 

You can’t help but wonder if today is the day. It is a very special day, after all. In fact, a quick glance at the clock on the Kempers’ living room wall informs you that it’s time for you to depart for the Dreaming. Lucienne will be expecting you soon.

Before you go, however, there’s one last stop you need to make. A friend to see, and a promise to fulfill.

. . . 

The morning sun shines surprisingly bright upon London as you step onto the street outside The New Inn. Far removed from the main roads, the sound of morning traffic only faintly reaches your ears on the pleasantly warm breeze. As you push through the entryway, the door handle’s bells jingle a tune that is all too familiar to you now. The New Inn’s windows have been pushed open to welcome in the early summer air. Several patrons sit at various tables sipping tea or coffee and nibbling on pastries that Hob purchases from the bakery a few blocks over. 

When your gaze shifts to the bar, you spot him—dimpled chin, stubbled jaw, chocolate eyes. When he begins to chat up an elderly gentleman sitting at the bar, offering to refill his coffee, you can’t help but beam. “‘Morning, Hob! Is the coffee pot still hot?” 

Hob‘s gaze darts to you at the sound of your voice. As he begins pouring coffee into the elderly man’s cup, he waves you over. “Wouldn’t turn it off until you came through. Get over here.” 

There’s an undeniable bounce in your step as you walk to the bar and hop onto one of the leather-topped stools. Hob makes his way over quickly, grabbing a clean coffee mug as he goes. When you spot the red apron he’s wearing over his normal attire, you have to suppress a snort. You rest your chin on your palm when he stops in front of you, gazing up at him adoringly. “You make a pretty barista, you know.” 

Hob lifts one dark brow at you, lips drawing into a smug smile. He begins filling your coffee cup without so much as breaking eye contact. Show off. “I’m flattered. You don’t think the apron is too much?” he responds, dark eyes crinkling with amusement. 

“Not at all. In fact, I’m going to buy you a fancy one with the little pockets for pens and the loop for towels,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows at him. He chuckles at your teasing, earning a satisfied grin from you. The warmth of the coffee seeps through the ceramic mug and into your hands as he hands it to you. “Thanks, Hob. I really did need the pick me up today.”

Hob returns the coffee pot to its hotplate behind the bar before turning back to you. “Ah, yes. Today’s the day you become the Queen of Gloom, right? The Monarch of Melancholy? The Sovereign of Solemnity?” 

You couldn’t hold back your laughter if you tried. Silently, you thank the Maker above that you weren’t mid-drink when he said that. “Alright, you’ve made your point,” you say, swallowing another giggle before taking a long sip of your coffee. 

A sly grin pulls across Hob’s lips as he rests his forearms against the counter. “Glad to hear it. You’ve yet to convince me that he’s not the God of Pessimists.” One dark brow shoots upward, curious and inquiring. “But you know what would? You telling me what’s really going on here.” 

Fondness blooms in your chest, warm and supple. Before your temporary death, your blossoming friendship with Hob had been limited to occasional check-ins. Working to combat Desire had been a full-time job, after all. In the six months since your sacrifice, however, life had slowed down a bit. This allowed for many morning coffees with Hob, during which time your friendship had deepeed, and his questions about Dream had never ceased. “Secrets, Hob. You know they’re Tall, Dark, and Broody’s to tell, not mine.” You smile as another long swig of coffee warms your throat. 

Hob rolls his eyes at you good-naturedly. “Right, right, secrets. Just you wait. I’m going to trip you up someday,” he says with a wink. A contented silence settles between you as you chuckle at him, closing your eyes and savoring the rest of your coffee in long, grateful sips. When you open your eyes, placing the empty mug in front of you with a contented sigh, you find that Hob’s expression has softened. When he leans toward you, it’s with a kind smile. “Well, I’m wishing you luck today. Really, Love. You deserve this. You deserve love.” His hand rests atop yours gently, but firmly. “You deserve to be happy.” 

When the gratitude swells up at the base of your throat, it takes you off-guard. Sudden and powerful, it steals your breath away. The familiar prickle of tears stings at the backs of your eyes. It’s only when he gives your hand a gentle squeeze that you finally find the strength to speak. “Thank you, Hob. So do you.” 

Off to your right, a new customer approaches the bar, waving Hob down for service. Hob gives your hand a quick pat before he slips away to take the patron’s order. The distraction gives you a moment to collect yourself, to swallow the lump in your throat and wipe the wetness from the corners of your eyes. You know it’s time for you to go to the Dreaming. But before you do, there’s one last thing you have to do. 

When Hob finishes waiting on his customer, you wave him back over. As you rise from the bar stool, you flash him a dazzling grin. “Well, Hob, I’d better head out. I’ve got a wedding to go to, you know. But before I do…” You reach across the bar, planting a hand on each of his strong shoulders. Surprise flickers in Hob’s brown eyes as you hold his gaze firmly, intently. “A new patron is coming to the Inn tonight. Should be around eight-o'clock. A word of advice from me…” You give his shoulders an encouraging squeeze. “…make conversation.”

You can see the exact moment that your insinuation lands, the precise second that the meaning registers. Hob’s chocolate eyes widen in astonishment; his lips part in awe. Stunning the innkeeper into silence is no easy feat, but it seems you’ve done it. It’s several long moments before he slowly smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. They glimmer with excitement, with promise. “Right. Yeah,” he breathes. “Make conversation.”

You pat his shoulders once, firmly. “You’ve got it, my friend.” 

When you slip out The New Inn’s front door, it’s with the jingle of bells, a levity in your heart, and a smile on your lips. 

. . . 

The sweet scents of pollen and nectar greet your nose as you walk the fields of Fiddler’s Green with Dream at your side. Between crafting dreams and nightmares, visiting Cain and Abel mid-murder attempt, and listening to Mervyn complain about another blood-and-perrier mishap by Fashion Thing in the main hall, it had been a hectic morning for the Dream Lord. When you’d popped into the Dreaming from a morning walking amongst the mortals, you’d taken quick note of the overcast sky and heavy, humid air. One look at the particularly deep crease between Dream’s exasperated eyes, and you’d known just what was in order–a walk.

As you trek into one of the grove’s lush meadows, Dream Country’s sun beams down on you, fat and gold as an egg yolk. The air, once thick and oppressive, is now crisp and refreshing. A sea of blue flowers greets you–dancing periwinkle, bobbing hydrangeas, rustling forget-me-nots, and swaying hyacinth. A few days ago, when Lucienne was dusting the shelves of ‘1800’s - W’ in the library, you’d made the off-handed comment that Robert William Wood was one of your favorite painters. The fact that you’ve stepped right into the scene of Fields of Blue is not lost on you. You can’t help but smile.  

As you enter the field of blues, a strong gust of wind sweeps the meadow, stealing blades of grass and stray leaves from the earth. As the breeze gathers the array of foliage into a familiar humanoid form, you come to a stop. Dream falls into place at your side. 

When two blue poppies settle into place on the dream’s face, you smile. “Good morning, Fawn. You’re looking particularly radiant today.”

Fragile iris petals unfurl as Fawn offers you a smile. While you adore all of Dream’s creations, the dream of freedom has always been close to your heart. She was your first collaboration with the Dream Lord, after all. “Thank you, Miss Love. The Dreaming’s sun shines so much brighter these days. My leaves adore it.” 

You shoot Dream a knowing glance out of the corner of your eye. A small, pleasant quirk of his rosebud lips is his only response. “As do I, Fawn. You’ll bring sweet dreams to my friend Theo tonight, won’t you?” 

Fawn bats her dandelion eyelashes at you, giving you a wide grin. When she spins in a giddy circle, blue petals dance around her like confetti. “Absolutely, Miss Love. He’ll have so much space to run, he won’t know what to do with himself. I’ll make sure he runs himself silly.” 

The sun is warm on your cheeks as you beam at her. “Thank you.”

With one last grin, Fawn dissolves in a flurry of leaves, departing for the Waking World. With a happy sigh, you step further into the meadow, relishing the warmth of the sunlight against your skin.

After several long seconds of silence, Dream speaks. “The Dreaming loves you,” he says, his voice a soft rumble on the honey-sweet breeze. 

“And I love the Dreaming,” you say, crouching down amid a gathering of hyacinths. You press your lips to their blue petals fondly, drawing in a long, savoring breath. 

“Then wed her.”

Stillness. You misheard him, didn’t you? Surely you must have. You straighten slowly, stunned. “What?” 

When you turn to Dream, you find a tension in his form that is foreign to him. His pink lips are pursed, his shoulders pulled back, his hands held rigidly at his sides. He looks…hesitant. No, you realize suddenly. He looks nervous. 

“Become her Queen. Her monarch. Her partner. Her caretaker,” Dream continues, his voice soft and tight. When he swallows, his throat bobs like sea foam on the tide. “Let us stand together. Officially.” 

A powerful stirring is rising in your chest, like the rapid flutter of hummingbird wings. The dizzying mix of awe and disbelief grows and grows, warm and insistent, leaving no room for air. “Is this your Endless version of a marriage proposal?” you breathe, taking a small step toward him. 

There’s a subtle shift in Dream’s form when you draw closer, like the coiling of a spring. He wants to touch you, you realize, but nerves have gotten the best of him. “In a sense,” he murmurs quietly. His ocean eyes study you intently, desperately. “You were expecting something more elaborate.” 

You could laugh out loud. You could tackle him to the grass and kiss him silly. “No. Yes.” 

“Clarify, love.” 

“No, I don’t need anything elaborate. I’ve never wanted anything elaborate. All that’s ever mattered is you.” You step forward, taking his hands in your own. “And yes, I’ll wed her. I’ll stand beside you. Officially.” 

Dream’s rosebud lips part in awe at your words. Was it possible that a small part of him was surprised at your acceptance, even after all this time? You bring his hands to your lips, pressing soft kisses against his knuckles one by one, as if pressing promises into his flesh. 

Dream leans over you, regarding you softly. “To become Queen of the Dreaming is to wed her. And to wed her is to bind yourself to her creator,” he murmurs, lifting one thumb to caress your chin. 

His skin is warm against your lips as you smile. Slowly, you draw his hands to your chest, lifting your head to meet his gaze. “You think I don’t understand the implications?” 

When a small smile lifts Dream’s lips, Dream Country’s sun gleams like a golden yolk, an extension of its master’s heart. “You are certain, then,” he says. Though his voice is quiet, there is an energy beneath it, a thinly-veiled eagerness. Excitement. 

When you lean forward to brush your lips against his, the grove’s birds chitter with glee. “As certain as I am that you are mine.” 

. . . 

In all your months in the Dreaming, you’re certain you’ve never seen the palace halls so busy. Dreams and nightmares of all shapes, sizes, and colors hustle back and forth through the halls in a blur of movement and chatter. As they pass by carrying trays of food, baskets of linens, and armfuls of decorations, they peer at you with wide eyes and even wider smiles. The excitement in the air is electric and infectious. You smile kindly at each resident as they pass, cheeks flushed and bashful, mind buzzing with glee.

“Your coronation attire will be waiting in your chambers within an hour’s time, Miss Love.” Lucienne’s voice cuts through the chatter around you, capturing your attention. You turn to where she walks at your side, spectacles perched on the end of her nose, reading over a list of tasks left to complete. “The beachfront is prepared, and the Dreaming’s residents will gather there at twilight.” Lucienne turns her head to you, brown eyes wide and attentive. “Will you still be reading your own oaths?”

Your lips lift in a nervous grin. “Yes,” you answer, heart fluttering in your chest. It had been your idea to do so, after all. Another mortal custom, you’d explained to Dream. Quiet as he was, you’d thought you might be the only one to write your own vows. When Dream had agreed to do the same, it had taken you aback in the best way possible. You’d been working on writing them for weeks, rehearsing them each morning before you left for your duties. 

Lucienne’s lips draw into a wide, pleased smile. “Excellent. If you wouldn’t mind, prior to the ceremony…”

As you round the corner near the palace ballrooms, two approaching figures quickly steal your attention. Lucienne’s voice, once loud and clear, fades to a quiet hum in your ears. You watch in silence as Dream and Mervyn Pumpkinhead stride briskly in your direction on the opposite side of the corridor. Mervyn gestures wildly, features pulled into his characteristic frown, while Dream listens intently, his dark brows drawn inward. 

The nature of their conversation, of Lucienne’s discussion, of anything else going on around you grows distant as Dream draws nearer. With each step, the thrumming of your heartbeat in your ears becomes louder, the coaxing in your chest growing stronger. You picture each thread between you glowing brighter with each footstep, whispering more insistently with each inch gained. 

Come closer.

Come closer.

You need to be closer. 

There is a moment as you pass ways when the spell suspends, when your transfixion takes a deep, yawning breath. When Dream’s eyes flicker to meet yours, your mouth turns dry as cotton. There is a brush against your knuckles, a featherlight touch that you feel from the tips of your fingers to the marrow of your bones. Fire and ice drip down your spine in equal measure. You shiver.

And then, he’s gone. In a blur of black and orange, Mervyn and Dream stride past you, their conversation uninterrupted. Your eyes trail after them, still halfway spellbound. You’re almost convinced that the moment never even happened. Only a lingering tingle against the back of your fingers makes you wonder otherwise. 

“Miss Love?”

Your head whips around so quickly it verges on whiplash. When your eyes lock with Lucienne’s, she levels you with a knowing smile. “I was just inquiring whether you could bring me a copy of your oaths prior to the ceremony?” she prompts, voice lilting with amusement. 

Heat creeps up your neck as you give her a quick, sheepish nod. “Yes, absolutely. No problem.”

“Splendid,” Lucienne says brightly. She removes her pocket watch with deft fingers, coming to a stop outside the tall wooden doors that lead to the palace kitchens. “This is where I must take my leave, Miss Love. I have a very zealous chef to attend to.” She gives you a wide, assuring smile. “Perhaps you should retire to your room for a while. There is much left in store for you today. It is best to be well rested.” 

As the two of you come to a stop, it suddenly hits you that this is the first time you’ve really paused today. Between your assignments, visiting Hob, and preparing for the day’s festivities with Lucienne, time had passed in a blur with scarcely a moment to think. There was much of the day left to live. You wanted to be ready for it, to enjoy it wholeheartedly, to savor every moment and commit them all to memory. 

“Thank you, Lucienne. You’re right. I think I will.”

With a nod and a bow, Lucienne departs, heading into the palace kitchens with her task list in hand. Likewise, you turn and head in the direction of the staircase that leads to the palace’s living quarters. 

As you walk the halls, you pass dozens of dreams and nightmares discussing the festivities, carrying decor, and so on. Now that you aren’t busy with Lucienne, several stop you to make brief conversation as they go about their duties. You smile and greet each one, thanking them for their hard work preparing for the evening’s events. Though the excitement in the air is palpable, you can’t deny the nervous flutter in your chest. The gravity of the day’s events is far from lost on you. In fact, it’s been a persistent occupant of your headspace ever since Dream proposed in Fiddler’s Green. 

I am going to become Queen of the Dreaming. 

No matter how many times you think the words, they still leave you in utter disbelief. 

When you step off the staircase and into the palace’s lodging area, you find the hallways quiet and empty. The quiet padding of your sneakers against the stone floor echoes off the walls as you walk to your room at the end of the hall. Your mind slips in and out of focus, rehearsing your vows, reviewing the schedule for the remainder of the day, remembering the brush of Dream’s skin against yours in the corridor—

There is a gentle pressure around your wrist, a quick tug. The movement is so sudden that you don’t even squeal as you’re pulled into one of the halls branching off the main corridor. Stumbling forward, you catch yourself against something warm, solid, black, and familiar. Instantly, the adrenaline in your veins turns to giddy glee. 

Warm breath fans across your face, gentle and sweet. “You did not say hello.”

A small smirk lifts your lips as you slip your hands under Dream’s cloak, entangling your fingers in stars and constellations. In the low light of the side corridor, his blue eyes burn like the flames of young stars. “Neither did you,” you say, leaning instinctively into the warmth of his torso. 

Dream’s eyes flicker at the teasing lilt in your voice. There is something downright otherworldly about the way his palm glides over the curve of your waist, the way his fingers trace the soft flesh at the nape of your neck slowly, tenderly, reverently. His touch leaves fire in its wake, a simmering heat that makes your mind scramble and your heart race. 

Over the past several months, you’d been surprised to find that physical touch was a love language the Dream Lord was very adept in. While you’d experienced his more intimate side in the unconscious world he’d created for you, you hadn’t known what to expect from him in real life, especially given the new nature of your relationship. You’d quickly found that while he was largely reserved in public, he had no inhibitions in private. 

Of course, you weren’t complaining. Dream’s touch was a drug and an antidote, a cure and an affliction, all in one. Even now, as his rosebud lips tilt upward at your shallow, eager breaths, a force greater than gravity pulls you toward him, like the poles of a magnet. When the pad of his thumb settles against the curve of your bottom lip, reality bends deliciously, your skin humming with delight. 

“Of course I did. In my own way.”

The touch. You laugh breathlessly at him, fingers twisting in the fabric of his black shirt. “Of course, Dream Lord. Ever so subtle.” You push up onto your toes, trailing your nose along his jaw affectionately. He smells like salt and seaspray. You breathe in deeply. “Well, hello.”

”Hello, love.”

For several long moments, there is nothing but the soft chorus of your breaths, the sinewy warmth of Dream’s form against yours, the overwhelming contentment that you always find in his arms. Finally, you pull away just enough to make eye contact. “Did you and Mervyn successfully solve the world’s problems?”

Dream’s blue eyes roll upward, eyebrows pinching in exasperation. There is a certain delight that comes from seeing him annoyed. When you first met, his lack of non-verbal cues and muted reactions were maddening. How you’d longed to make a chip in the armor, to be privy to the inner workings of his mind and heart. The vulnerability that he now seemed to reserve for you alone was a gift, one you cherished and treasured. 

“Mervyn prefers to work at his own pace. The high expectations of the day are a challenge for him, but one he is well-suited for.” When Dream’s eyes return to yours, the softness in them does, as well. “On the subject of the day, how are you feeling?”

It’s the first time that anyone has asked you. A small, tentative smile forms on your lips as you lean into him, fingers curling and uncurling in the fabric of his shirt anxiously. “Oh, you know. Excited. Nervous. Can’t wait, but also kind of want to throw up. It’s a big day.”

Dream’s eyes regard you gently, thoughtfully. You find no judgment in them, something that sets the flutter in your stomach at ease. “Indeed,” he says softly. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw slowly, as if he could dispel every trace of worry with his touch alone. Not entirely out of the question, you muse. “I assure you, there is no need to be tense.”

You lean into his touch gratefully, relishing in the solace he instills. It never ceases to astound you how completely transcendent you feel in his presence. As if you could move mountains and steal stars. His touch emboldens you to open up, to bring light to the shadow of doubt that has plagued your mind since that day in Fiddler’s Green. 

“You know what I feel for you. I know what you feel for me. But the Dreaming’s Queen? Are you really sure about this?” You pause, swallowing down the nervous lump that presses at the base of your throat. “Are you sure that I’m…that I’m worthy of this?”

There is a long, lingering moment where Dream does not move, does not breathe. Not even the familiar flicker of his eyes searching yours. For a split second, you wonder if you’ve broken him. But then, his rosebud lips suddenly part. 

“Worthy?” he echoes slowly. His eyes are wide, his tone incredulous, as if he can’t fathom what you’ve just said. When his palms cup your face, thumbs settling at the corners of your lips, his touch carries a gentleness that makes your heart ache and flutter equally. He pulls your face to his gently, so close that your noses nearly brush, so close that there is nothing but the bright, burning surety in his eyes. “There is no question of your worth. There is no question that you are what is best for the Dreaming. The Dreaming is not worthy of you. I am not worthy of you.”  

Liquid light pours into you with every word from Dream’s lips, from every inch of his skin against yours. The shadow of doubt shrinks away in its presence, leaving assurance, solid and true, in its wake. When you offer Dream a small, grateful smile, his expression softens. He leans forward to press his lips to the space between your brows, to the corners of your eyes and lips. 

“In fact,” he murmurs lowly, lips lingering against the corners of your mouth, “I intend to show you exactly how superlative you are later this evening.” 

If you were molten light before, now you are raw static, all white heat and crackling energy. The pressure behind Dream’s fingers as they trail down your arms makes you dizzy. You can feel the giddy flutter of your heart in your chest, like a flurry of moths gathering to flame. Pressing the bridge of your nose to his, you hold his gaze, smiling against his lips. “Why wait?” you ask with a quirk of your brow. 

If there’s one thing you know about the Dream Lord, it’s that he loves a challenge. When he tilts his head back to get a better look at you, his eyes dance with amusement. “You are incredibly adept at wearing on my resolve,” he rasps. There is a slight quirk to his rosebud lips. You want to kiss them silly. “But there is much left to attend to.”

Your mouth falls into a playful pout. “Lucienne says my coronation outfit will be here shortly. You’re sure you don’t want to stick around?” you tease, only half-joking. 

A chuckle escapes the Dream Lord, ghosting across your cheeks. It’s low and breathless; the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. “Do not mistake my need to leave for a desire to leave. You know exactly what I desire,” he murmurs. He reaches for your hands within his cloak, holding them between you, thumbs dancing across your knuckles in farewell. “I will see you shortly, alright?”

Smiling, you concede. “Alright.”

When Dream steps away, you force yourself to swallow the quiet, pleading sound that rises in your throat. Just before he re-enters the main corridor, he gives your hands a gentle squeeze. “Remember my vow to you,” he says softly, his voice earnest. “There is no reason for you to fear ever again. And there is certainly no reason to be fearful of anything pertaining to today.”

You squeeze his fingers in return. When you smile, this time, it’s with confidence. “Right. Never again.”

. . . 

You remember the first time you witnessed your function like it was moments ago, not centuries. The awe that had wiped your mind clean of thought when you’d witnessed the first attachment, the giddy excitement that had coursed through your veins when you stepped into the kaleidoscope world that was yours, the overwhelming rightness that filled your chest to the brim when you first made those threads sing and shine. Your function was radiant, vibrant, all warmth and technicolor beauty.

It was a juxtaposition, then, how you’d always seemed tied to the dark. You’d died in the dark, had come into new life in the dark. In all the years you’d spent isolated and alone, you’d always felt comforted under the night sky, as if befriended by those glittering stars. Though you couldn’t remember it, your mortal self had first encountered Dream in the midnight hours of sleep. When your paths finally crossed again in the throne room, he had seemed to you the darkness of night in human form. A walking dream with moonbeam skin and stars for eyes. 

Perhaps it only makes sense, then, that you feel at home clothed in twilight. The place between the fading radiance of day and the comforting embrace of night. The gossamer fabric of your coronation gown spills over your skin like sand from the Dream Lord’s palm. Woven from stars, the silken material feels weightless upon you. As you gaze at your reflection in the mirror, your eyes catch on the gown’s hem. Traces of pastel pink, lavender, and teal swirl like nebulous dust beneath the glittering stars, accenting the fabric that pools at your feet. 

A flash of color amidst the darkness. A piece of him, a piece of you. 

A small, shaky breath escapes you as your fingers trail over black gossamer and stars.    In the mirror, your smile is equal parts eager and nervous. It’s time. 

As if on cue, there is the soft creak of a door and a familiar flash of dark hair in the mirror behind you. When you turn around, you find Dream standing in the entryway, quietly closing the door behind him. The rectangular-cut ruby that pins the top of his ceremonial cloak together gleams in the lamplight of your bedroom. Living flames lick at the cloak’s hem where it trails along the floor. In the soft lamplight, the flames flicker and jump, imbuing his porcelain skin with warmth, casting shadows from his cheekbones. 

The breath slips from your lungs in a soft, awed rush. He’s beautiful. And his ocean eyes are on you, wide and staring, his pink lips parted as he looks at you like you’re the only thing that was, is, and ever will be.

He’s crossed the room before you even get the chance to say hello. “Breathtaking. Radiant. Exquisite,” Dream breathes. His hands find the curve of your jaw, cradling your face in his palms. “There are no words.” 

You laugh, leaning happily into his touch. “You just said several words.” 

There is a soft hum in Dream’s throat at your jest. “They are all inadequate,” he amends, a smile pulling at his lips. 

Now it’s your turn to give a hum of pleasure. “You look pretty exceptional yourself. The flames are a nice touch,” you muse, tugging lightly at the edges of his cloak. You press a quick kiss to his chin before you step back, ruffling your skirt in a shimmering wave.  “You like it, then?”

“More than you know,” Dream says. He takes a step forward, appraising your gown  thoughtfully.  “But there is one thing missing,” he continues. 

For a brief moment, your brow wrinkles in confusion. But when Dream reaches into his cloak  and withdraws his hand moments later, all you can do is gasp. From the cosmos hidden within the black fabric, Dream produces a swath of material spun from stars and comet dust. Thousands upon thousands of pinprick flames ripple and shift like liquid glitter against the black gossamer in his grasp. 

With careful hands, Dream turns you to face the mirror. His fingers make quick work of fastening the cape of stars to the straps of your bodice. When the material slips from his hands, the bridal cape spills to the floor, burning like a comet’s tail. 

Your heart catches at the sight, throat thick with emotion. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen, all of it. You are spun from cosmos and constellations. You are at home among the stars. You are a walking dream. 

Your voice is soft, barely a whisper. “Oh, Dream.”

Dream’s touch is warm as his fingers trail down from your shoulders. His feather-soft hair tickles your cheek when he settles his chin in the crook of your neck. “You have always liked mine, have you not?” he breathes against your skin, blue eyes bright within the mirror’s reflection.

You capture his hands in yours, turning to meet his gaze head-on. With his rosebud lips so close, his breath warm and honey-sweet against your cheeks, the desire to pull him close and kiss him is undeniable, coronation schedule be damned.  

And so, you do. “Yes.” With a gentle tug, you close the distance, pressing your lips to his. When you breathe in unison, it’s a sigh of contentment, an exhalation that says, finally. There is nothing but the soft whisper of breath; the gentle press of Dream’s mouth and fingers against your own; the fuzzy, intoxicating warmth that spreads from the top of your head to the tips of your toes with each movement. 

When you finally part for air, you smile, nuzzling your nose against his, favoring the slight dimple at its tip that you’ve always loved. “Thank you.  You really never cease to amaze me.”

“You never cease to inspire,” Dream responds. After pressing a final kiss to the corner of your mouth, he leans back to regard you. “They are ready for us. Are you ready?” 

Dream’s eyes hold you gently, assuredly. Under his gaze, all doubt slips away. Under his touch, confidence blooms and thrives. By his side, you have nothing to fear ever again.  

“Yes.” 

In a flourish of fabric and stars, Dream whisks his cloak over the two of you. When the Milky Way and constellations slip away, you find yourself standing on the dirt path outside the Gates of Horn. Beyond the towering structure of polished bone and keratin lies the black sands of Dream Country’s shore. Twilight is breaching over the familiar waters, painting the sky in pastel pink, burnt orange, and rich gold. Beneath the watercolor sky stands two great crowds of Dream Country’s residents, gathered on either side of a self-made aisle. Their smiling faces and eager eyes are illuminated by the setting sun. And they’re all looking at you. 

You had expected to feel nervous, or bashful, or self-conscious. But as Dream extends his elbow to you, as your arm slips into his own, as you begin to walk forward into this new life, all you can register is excitement. 

Side by side, you and Dream pass through the Gates of Horn, the same gates that had led you to him all those months ago. The black sand is soft beneath your feet as you walk down the beach, still warm from soaking up the day’s sun. The glittering eyes and wide smiles of dreams and nightmares both humanoid and abstract greet you as you walk through the crowd.

You recognize all of them. You’ve had the privilege of encountering countless dreams and nightmares during your time in the Dreaming. After Dream had made his proposal, you had doubled down your efforts to mingle with the Dreaming’s residents. He was their creator, the seed from which all things grew. He loved them. You loved them, too. If you were to stand by his side, to care for the Dreaming as your own, you wanted to know them. You wanted them to know you. 

There’s a particular face among the crowd that jumps out at you. Death of the Endless stands at the end of one of the frontmost rows, curls bobbing as she cranes her head to watch you two approach. When your eyes lock, the sheer enthusiasm in her toothy smile seems strong enough to light the Sunless Lands. You return her grin with equal excitement as you pass, making your way to the final smiling face that awaits you at the end of the aisle. 

Lucienne gives a slight bow when the two of you stop in front of her. The flames along Dream’s cloak lick at the sand as the two of you turn to face one another, hands joined between you, just as you’d been instructed to do. A Dream King with raven hair and stars for eyes and a goddess with light in her veins and night on her skin. What a pair the two of you made. 

It’s time. 

“Greetings, dear residents of the Dreaming,” Lucienne begins. Her voice echoes over the beach, carried on the saltwater breeze. At her words, any quiet chatter and excited shuffling within the crowd stills. “We have gathered together today for not just a coronation, but a celebration. Today, the Dreaming gains a Queen, a defender, a nurturer, and a champion. As the Queen weds the Dreaming, so too does she wed its creator.”

Your eyes turn from the royal librarian to her King. Dream’s eyes are only for you, lingering on each flicker of your gaze, each shift in your expression. When you smile, his eyes brighten. His thumbs drift over the backs of your knuckles tenderly. No reason to fear, they say. You are what is best for the Dreaming. 

“Agape, Deity of Love, presents herself to you today with the intention of leading you, guiding you, nurturing you, and defending you. She has passed through the Gates of Horn, ensuring that her heart is truthful and her intentions are pure.” Lucienne pauses, allowing her declaration to settle over the crowd. Out of the corner of your eye, there is a shift of movement as she raises her hands to address them. “The Dreaming acknowledges the presentation of their hopeful Queen. Does the Dreaming accept her?”

“We do,” a thousand voices chorus in unison. The flutter in your chest is undeniable as the sound washes over you, as the sunset’s reflection in Dream’s eyes shines a little bit brighter, as the grounding, peaceful sense of belonging settles in your soul like Dream’s hand in your own.

“Excellent,” Lucienne says. When you pull your eyes from Dream, you find her dark lips stretched wide, the corners of her eyes crinkled with delight. Lucienne had been with you since the very beginning, from nearly the first moment you set foot in the Dreaming. To see her joy, to know that she is pleased at your union with Dream, to receive her blessing, means everything. “The Dreaming accepts Agape, Deity of Love, as their Queen. As she binds herself to its creator, so too does she bind herself to us. She will now offer her oath to our King.” Lucienne leans forward slightly, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Do you need your oath?” she asks. 

You shake your head gently. You had been dreaming of this moment for a long time. You had rehearsed these words again and again until they were etched upon your heart. You knew precisely what you wanted to say. 

You turn to Dream with a deep, grounding breath. In spite of the crowd around you, the gravity of this moment, he looks at you as if there is no one else, nothing else, that matters. As if it is only you, the sand, the setting sun, and your joined hands. 

A sweet, all-encompassing calmness settles in your bones as you watch one another. As you open your mouth to begin, you allow yourself to be drawn into his gaze, into an intimate pocket of the universe where it’s just the two of you. “Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, Dream Lord, Dream. One night, on a wooden dock in a sea of stardust, I told you that love was difficult. That it was as much about sacrifice as it was about reward. And I was right.” A pause. A breath. “But what I didn’t tell you is that every sacrifice is worth it. Because it leads you to where you’re meant to be, who you’re meant to be, and who you’re meant to find. Sacrifice means that you have something, or someone, worth continuing on for, risking it all for, giving everything for. For me, that someone is you.” 

There is a soft bob of Dream’s throat as he swallows, drinking in your words. The ever-present pull between the two of you swells and crescendos, coaxing you to him as the rising moon calls the tide. You take a step forward. “We’ve both lived lives with plenty of sacrifice. Now, it’s time for our reward. I vow to love, cherish, and keep you. I vow to be yours in any time, in any realm, in every reality. I vow to support you, protect you, and defend you. I vow never to forsake you. I vow to stand by your side in every circumstance; to be your constant solid ground; to be someone you can always rely on. I vow to make every sacrifice and moment we were without one another worth the wait. I vow to spend every moment of every day for the remainder of my existence showing you just how deeply, unfathomably, uncontainably loved you are.” You lean forward, your words a whisper for him and him alone. “I vow to be yours, forevermore.” 

Time passes slowly in this pocket of the world. Seconds or hours could pass as you and Dream watch one another with bated breath. The flames at the edge of his cloak leap and flicker eagerly, as if your confession were kindling. There is an electricity between you, a yearning to answer that ever-present coaxing between you, to satisfy the universe’s will. When you feel Dream’s fingers curl around your own, you think he might just do it. 

You have to suppress a jump when Lucienne’s voice startles you back to reality. “Does the Dream King accept these vows?” she asks. 

Dream’s eyes flicker briefly to Lucienne, then back to you. It’s evident that the pull back to reality was just as off-putting for him. You offer him a small smile, raising your eyebrows ever so slightly as if to say, Later. 

When Dream affixes you with a knowing look, your stomach erupts with butterflies. The slight quirk of his lips is hidden from the crowd, visible only to you and Lucienne. “I do,” he rasps. 

Lucienne gives a soft huff, a thinly-veiled laugh that only the three of you can hear. “Excellent,” she says. Refined as she is, you suspect her desire to admonish the two of you over your barely-concealed affection at this event is compelling. But when she turns to look at Dream, her brown eyes are crinkled and happy. “Our King will now offer his oath to his–our–Queen.”

When your eyes lock with Dream’s, you find them burning with conviction, soft with promise. When he takes one step closer, you picture the six threads between you glowing and singing with glee. “Agape, Deity of Love. Love. Fate and destiny are powerful creatures, ones we are both well-acquainted with. Throughout the eons, there have been moments when I questioned mine. There was surety, purpose, and fulfillment in my function. It was my fate, my destiny. And yet, I was plagued with a persistent absence. Regardless of what actions I took, an enduring emptiness remained. It was a call I could not seem to answer, a phantom limb I could not shake.” A pause. A swallow. “From the moment you set foot in the Dreaming, from the moment we met, you were known to me. The soul knows its counterpart.  For the first time, I found that the emptiness was filled. The call had finally been answered.” 

A soft, shuddering breath escapes you at Dream’s words. It has to. After all, there is no spare room for it in your chest, not when this bittersweet ache is filling your lungs. The love, deep and deliciously painful, crowds out everything else, pouring forth from your heart, spilling over, over, over. When Dream squeezes your hands tighter, you wonder if he can feel it, too.

“I did not know peace and contentment until I knew you. I knew not what it was to feel complete. It took a long time to comprehend that sensation. But now, I understand,” Dream says. “You once confessed to me that the deepest desire of the soul is to not venture through life alone. You were right. And now, both our souls are satisfied.” A pause. A brush of thumbs against the backs of your hands. “I vow to devote myself to you, wholly and completely. To cherish you incomprehensibly, boundlessly, until the last creature dreams. I vow to give you stars to comfort you and an embrace to run to. I vow to protect and defend you, to rewrite worlds for you, regardless of the sacrifice. I vow to give. I vow to remain yours, as I always have been. As I always will be.” Dream draws near to you, his voice like the sea breeze, so soft that only you can hear. “S’agapo.”

When Dream withdraws to stand up straight, you think you’re seeing stars. The smattering of lights beyond his face must be a product of your imagination, a consequence of the lack of oxygen your brain is currently experiencing. But when you take a deep, settling breath and blink, you find that they are stars. As the sun dips below the Dreaming’s sea, twilight is receding, revealing the faint beginnings of a night sky overhead. The coronation is almost complete. 

“Well said, my Lord,” Lucienne says, more for herself than anyone else. Her spectacles gleam in the fading twilight as she turns to you. “Does Agape, Deity of Love accept this oath?”

As if you could answer any other way. “I do.”

“Excellent. Together as one, the King and Queen of the Dreaming will now procure the symbols of their union.”

It was the only part of the ceremony that you hadn’t rehearsed. After all, you couldn’t do it without Dream. Will it really work? you had asked him one morning as you walked along the shoreline. 

Eyes dancing with vague amusement, Dream had affixed you with a knowing look. Need I remind you of what I told you the first night we crafted together? In this Realm, all things are possible. 

Dream reaches into the folds of his cloak with one hand, procuring his infamous pouch of sand. The whisper of the grains is barely audible over the ocean tide as he pours a palmful into your hand, and then his own. At first, when you re-join hands, clasping the grains together between you, nothing happens. And then, like magic, like a dream, they begin to warm. 

“May these tangible objects serve as a reminder of the intangible union that is forged here today. The binding of souls, the merging of realms, and the entwining of futures.”

You feel the exact moment the sand disappears, the exact moment that something small and spherical rests in your palm instead. When you open your hands, you find that the sand has been replaced with two rings made of clear, iridescent sand glass.

“The King and Queen of the Dreaming have elected to recite a final vow as they conclude the binding ritual,” Lucienne announces to the crowd. Quietly, she adds for you and Dream, “Whenever you are ready.”

You had never been more ready for anything in your entire life.

Dream’s fingers are warm and gentle as he takes your hand in his. When he slips the sand glass onto your finger, he does so slowly, carefully, like making a dream. “Do not urge me to leave you or to turn back from you,” he breathes into the saltwater air. 

Never again, you think. We will never be apart again. “Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay,” you vow in turn. The sand glass ring slips over his knuckle with ease, as if it was always meant to be there. And it was. 

The stars overhead catch in Dream’s eyes as he watches you. In the darkness of dusk, the flames on his cloak reflect in the glass ring on your finger, coloring it orange and gold. His fingertips skim over its surface eagerly, ceaselessly, as if he can’t quite believe it’s there. “Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried.”

“May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me,” you finish softly. 

There is a long, quiet moment where there is nothing but the whisper of the tide against the sand. And then, Lucienne speaks. “Dreams and nightmares, beloved residents of the Dreaming. I present to you…your new Queen.”

In an instant, the entire beach erupts into a chorus of cheers and applause, as if they were only waiting for permission to do so. Your gaze turns to the crowd instantly, lingering on each grinning face, soaking in each cry, shout, and holler. The Dreaming had always possessed an undeniable talent for turning the intangible tangible. It was a place of pure imagination, after all. In this moment, the sheer joy from the crowd crashes over you in a wave that truly feels physical. It’s overwhelming. 

You can’t help but smile and laugh along with them. 

Dream’s hand is warm against the small of your back as he turns you to face the crowd. He leans in close, so close that the unruly mop of hair you love so dearly tickles your cheeks, eliciting another giggle from you. “Welcome home, love,” he breathes, his voice low and honey-sweet, meant for you and you alone. 

You turn to look at him as his words settle over you. Home. 

It takes only the briefest of moments. Your hand against his cheek, a touch he leans into. Reaching out, reaching through, you peek into the Realm of Attachment. Because you need to know. 

In an instant, the night sky overhead turns into a kaleidoscope of color. When you look at the space between you and Dream, you find seven radiant attachments. White, soul-bound philia; red, romantic eros; purple, playful erotoropia; orange, companionate pragma; blue, compassionate philautia; golden, selfless agape; and green, unconditional, familial storge. 

Welcome home, love. 

And it feels like, finally. 

. . .

In all your time visiting the Dreaming, you have never seen the palace so packed full of people. When you’d peeked into the ballroom earlier today, the sheer number of tables and chairs set up for the post-coronation banquet had astounded you. You’d thought that surely they wouldn’t all be filled. 

Now, sitting at the front of the ballroom, gazing out at what must be every single resident of the Dreaming, you realize that you were so wrong. Not only does every chair at every table have an occupant, but it seems it’s not enough. Dreams and nightmares gather in the corners of the room, drinking, laughing, and conversing. Winged creatures fly to and from the lavish buffet tables, bringing plates of hors d’oeuvres and delicacies back for themselves and their friends, while others brave the crowd on foot. The energy in the air is infectious, practically buzzing with chatter, laughter, and life. 

Dream’s thigh presses against yours beneath the table as he leans into you. “Are you doing alright?” he asks, his voice warm and low against the high-pitched chatter of the crowd. “You’ve hardly eaten or drank since we sat down.”

Your hand finds his beneath the table, fingers toying with the sand glass ring around his finger. When you turn to him, you find his blue eyes soft with concern. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Yes, husband. It’s just overwhelming. Everyone seems so…so happy.” Smiling, you lean in close, brushing your nose against his. “I am happy.”

Dream’s lips quirk upwards at your admission. “Then all is as it should be,” he murmurs against your cheek. 

His skin against yours is like kindling to flame. You lean in eagerly, hungry for more, scarcely caring if any of the Dreaming’s residents take notice. “Indeed, husband. I think it finally is.”

Dream’s laugh is a rumble in your ear. “You seem quite fond of that term of endearment, wife.”

What you’d give to drag him out into the corridors and show him exactly how fond of it you were. 

Just as you’re about to declare as much, the bright sound of silver on glassware captures your attention. Just a couple of tables away from your own, you find Death of the Endless rising from her seat with a champagne flute in hand. 

“Before you two get lost in your canoodling, I think we need a toast. It’s not a wedding without a toast, right?” she states, wiggling her eyebrows for emphasis. As warmth creeps up your neck, Dream shoots his sister a knowing look. Though he does not smile, the twinkle in his eyes betrays his amusement. Death gives him a quick wink before continuing. “I just want to say that I feel largely responsible for this union. So, you’re welcome. And congratulations, lovebirds.” She lifts her glass so emphatically that her bubbling beverage nearly spills over. “To Dream and Love, King and Queen of the Dreaming.”

“To Dream and Love, King and Queen of the Dreaming,” the room echoes in response. 

Death waves her fingers playfully at you as she takes her seat. You roll your eyes half-heartedly at her, making a gesture as if to say, I’ll find you later. “Maker love her. I should have known she’d make a toast. Did you know?” 

“Perhaps,” Dream muses with a quirk of his brow. 

Just as you’re about to ask if there are any other surprises you should know about, another round of sharp chimes echoes through the ballroom. Scanning the crowd for the source, you find that Matthew has perched himself atop a tray of glasses carried by a server. The sound of his talons clinking against the delicate drinkware gets everyone’s attention. 

That draws a laugh out of you. “You’re letting him talk?” you ask incredulously. 

Dream’s mouth smiles against your ear. “He begged me,” he says, the baritone melody of his voice trailing shivers down your spine. 

Across the room, Matthew ruffles his wings, preparing for his big moment. “Alright, everyone, it’s toast time. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks,” he crows, his voice thick with drama. “First things first, Boss, Lady Love–congratulations. You two make a beautiful couple. And I mean that both literally and metaphorically.” 

There is a gentle rumble of laughter throughout the room. You offer Dream a small smile as if to say, Here we go.

“If there’s one thing you all should know about me, it’s that the Boss and I have been friends for a long time. Or, it feels like a long time, at least. When you’re putting up with his melancholy ass, the days tend to drag on at times,” Matthew continues. He takes flight briefly, swooping over to land atop a lantern centerpiece on Death’s table. “But he and I have been to Hell and back together–literally–and I care about him. When Love first came around, I thought, ‘Man, this girl is nice. Way too nice for this guy.’ Honestly, Boss, you’re such a stick in the mud, I don’t know how she put up with you.” 

Matthew pauses again, obviously reveling in the crowd’s chuckles. With a shake of his head, Dream speaks up. “Please, Matthew, do go on,” he prompts, eyes flashing with thinly-veiled amusement. 

“Will do, Boss. So, yeah, at first I thought, ‘These two have nothing in common.’ Wasn’t really sure how this whole partnership thing would work out. But then, I realized I was wrong. They did have something in common. They’d both been hurt. They were both lonely.” 

This time, there is no laughter when Matthew pauses. His eyes gleam like black pearls in the ballroom candlelight. When your eyes meet, your throat tightens. “I’ve watched these two go through a lot together. I’ve watched them grow and change and open up in ways I never expected. I’ve watched them sacrifice everything for one another. I’ve watched them heal. And now, I get to watch them both be happy.”

There is a long, yawning moment where the ballroom is entirely still. Beneath the table, Dream’s hand squeezes yours. 

Matthew dips his head at the head table in acknowledgement. “To Dream and Love, two kids who finally got their happy ending.”

“To Dream and Love,” the Dreaming choruses in unison. 

For several seconds, there is only the quiet sound of residents sipping their drinks. Then suddenly, Matthew ruffles his feathers emphatically. “Well, what are you all sitting around for? Someone get some music going! It’s time to fucking party!”

All at once, the Dreaming seems to burst into life once again. A round of applause sweeps the room as dreams and nightmares alike leap out of their seats. A group of dreams quickly gather next to the balcony doors across the room. With practiced hands, they procure a fiddle, mandolin, flute, and bagpipes from thin air.  When they start up a fast-paced, jovial tune, the Dreaming’s residents flood the ballroom floor between the crowd and the head table. 

“He really knows how to set the mood, doesn’t he?” you laugh, watching as Matthew sweeps across the room, shepherding people toward the dance floor. 

“He has always been exceptional,” Dream muses thoughtfully. 

The two of you watch in contented silence for several moments as residents of the Dreaming take their celebration to the dance floor. Between the electric joy in the air and the music, you have to admit that even you want to dance. “Well? Should we–”

In a flurry of black, Matthew lands on the table in front of you. “Ah ah ah, not so fast,” he says, waving a wing at Dream. “I call the first dance, Boss. I got the party started. It’s only fair.”

You can’t help but laugh out loud at the absolute Matthew-ness of it all. The raven ruffles his feathers appreciatively at your response. “Well, what do you say, Boss?” he asks. 

Dream looks from you, to Matthew, to you again. You know he’s only dragging it out for dramatic effect. They were both dramatic, though neither of them would ever admit it. You suspected it was part of why their dynamic worked so well. 

The Dream Lord lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. “Be my guest.”

. . . 

When you slip out of the ballroom and onto the balcony, you’re not sure how many hours have passed. All you know is that you’re dizzy and breathless, and the Dreaming’s night air feels so good against your skin. The granite is cool against the soles of your feet as you walk to the balcony railing, your shoes long-since abandoned. You honestly can’t remember the last time you had them on. Spinning and stepping through the thick throng of dancers, it’s a wonder you’ve been able to hold onto the cape Dream made. 

A long, contented sigh escapes you as you rest your elbows against the balcony rail. You can faintly hear the persistent hum of music as the instrumentalists start up another song inside. But now that you’re outside, you can also hear the soft whisper of the breeze and the quiet chorus of katydids and crickets far below on the palace grounds. Beyond the palace lights, there is only the darkness of empty houses and the endless expanse of stars above. 

Will the mortals dream tonight? you wonder absentmindedly. With everyone here at the palace, would humanity have a single night of comforting darkness free of dreams and nightmares alike? Or would they dream of these festivities, awaking with joy on their lips and wine on their tongues, their limbs exhausted from a night of dancing in another world?

“Does my beloved wife grow weary of dancing already?”

The smile that lifts your lips at the sound of his voice is instantaneous. It’s as second-nature as the warmth that blooms in your chest when he draws near, as instinctual as the way your fingers find his when he wraps his arms around you. “Just needed a little break. I think Mervyn might have two left feet. He just kept guiding me in circles.”

There is a quiet rumble of acknowledgement in Dream’s chest as he winds his arms around you, resting his chin against your shoulder. “I have never seen him move with such fervor. It seems you brought out a new side of him,” he muses. Turning his face to yours, he presses his lips to the tender hollow beneath your ear, a sacred spot that only he knows. You sigh with contentment, sinking into his embrace. “As you do with all, love.”

You remain that way for a long time, wrapped comfortably in Dream’s arms, chests rising and falling in unison, looking out at the midnight landscape of the Dreaming. Allowing yourself to simply relish in the sweet warmth within your chest, the soul-deep contentment within your core, the stillness of your mind, and this overwhelming, all-encompassing sense of rightness. 

Love. Happiness. Peace. You are complete. 

Dream is the one who finally breaks the silence. “I have been thinking…once the festivities have concluded, perhaps we should go to the dock and craft?” he says, his voice a lullaby in your ear. 

For a moment, you simply blink, allowing his words to sink in. With all of the day’s events, your functions had been the furthest thing from your mind. The fact that the Dream Lord was busy pondering dreams and nightmares while you were tripping over Mervyn Pumpkinhead’s feet is the most Dream Lord thing you’ve ever heard. 

With a grunt, you spin around, hopping up onto the balcony railing to get a better look at him. Dream’s hands instantly settle on your hips, grounding you in place. Though it’s a long way from the balcony to the palace grounds below, you don’t fear falling. You have no reason to fear, not when you’re with him. “You want to go craft on our wedding night?” you say, raising a questioning brow at him. 

Beneath the midnight sky, the Dream Lord’s eyes glitter with stars. “Do our functions ever cease?” he asks, each syllable spun from night and velvet. Leaning forward, he presses soft kisses to your forehead, the corners of your eyes, your cheekbones, your nose. His eyelashes brush over your skin, delicate as butterfly wings. Your eyes flutter closed in contentment. “Dreams and nightmares never rest, love, nor do humans ever cease to sleep.” He pauses, his breath warm and sweet against your lips. “And they sleep so much more soundly when you’re with me.”

Perhaps the Dream Lord was right. Perhaps love was too feeble a word to describe what was between you. As your heart outgrows its home, as your eyelashes flutter open, as your eyes lock with Dream’s, you’re certain that there is no word that can fully encapsulate this feeling. It’s impossible.

“So set in your ways,” you tease, your voice soft and breathless. “You know, stubbornness isn’t typically considered an endearing quality.” 

Dream dips his head slightly, looking up at you through dark, full lashes. This is it, you think. You’re going to spontaneously combust. Your heart is going to burst right out of your chest and leap into his hands. 

“And what do you think of it?” he asks softly. 

It’s not just endearing. It’s downright maddening. 

“Come here and kiss me, Dream Lord.” 

When Dream’s lips meet yours, it’s like coming up for air. As if every fiber of your being that was starved for him is fed, as if every nerve ending that was numb is brought to new life. The hum that pours from his throat into yours is so much more satisfying than any feast. His mouth is cashmere and honey against yours, his hair soft as silk between your fingers. Everywhere he touches seems to burn and sing and glow. 

If he is the night, then you are a star. With each kiss, he pours light into your soul. With each touch, he kindles the flame. There is nothing more powerful than this feeling between you. You’re sure of it. It could ignite galaxies and illuminate worlds. It could create and destroy. It could overcome anything that stood in its way. 

And, you supposed it already had. 

Only when the burn in your lungs becomes painful do you part for air. Fingers tangled in that beloved perpetual bedhead, you brush your lips against his. “Before we go craft, there’s one thing you have to do for me.”

Dream’s eyes burn like sapphires in the darkness. “Anything,” he says. 

You pause, holding your breath for dramatic effect. And then, you smile. “You have to dance with me.”

For a long moment, Dream only stares. And then, he laughs. Not just a chuckle, or something soft and breathless–something low, delicious, and happy. 

You want to coax that sound from him again and again. You’ll dedicate the rest of your life to doing so. It will be a worthwhile cause. 

“I believe that is a fair request. A husband would be a fool to leave the celebration without first dancing with his wife,” Dream says. He presses a final kiss to your lips before stepping back and offering you his hand. “Are you ready, then?” he asks. 

Yes. Yes, I’m ready. 

Your hand slips into his with ease. “Lead the way, Dream Lord.”

. . .

AN: And so, we come to the end of the road, my friends. When I started WYGIWG back in September, I had both the highest hopes and the biggest fears. Writing was a passion that I had let lie dormant for a long time. Would this story be any good? Would anyone read it? Would I have the time to dedicate to it? Would I really be able to finish?

In the end, what encouraged me to take the leap was understanding that I didn't have to have a perfect answer to all of those questions. As long as I was writing something I loved, it would be good enough. Even if no one read it, I could be proud that I accomplished my goal. If it was something I truly cared about, I would make the time. If I kept my mind and heart focused on those things, I would be able to finish.

I never could have expected what has come from this story. All of the mind blowing support I have received, all of the phenomenal people I've had the pleasure of talking to, all the the laughs, smiles, and memories shared over this story! You all are the flame that lights the fuse. Every kind word and reaction fueled the fire that brought this story to life. I truly could not have finished WYGIWG without you all. Thank you, thank you, thank you. It's been such an honor to get to know you all and to bond over something that we all love.

I'd be remise if I didn't include my incredible husband in this thank you. Nearly ten years of loving him inspired every sentence of this story. Tyler, thank you for making writing about love easy. From every emotion described, to the very title of this story (central to our wedding and featured in our home), to the final song featured (Close Your Eyes by Michael Bublé - our wedding song), you were at the heart of each part. S'agapo.

I still hope to do some bonus content for this story. I'm not sure exactly when any future posts will be up, but I will be sure to let my update list know. If you'd like to be tagged in any future updates, please let me know! Also, if you have any asks or special requests, please let me know. I will try to do what I can. x

All my love always, my friends! x

[aliferousdreamer]

🌷💗🌷 dizi leading ladies 🌷💗🌷

characters/actresses/shows used:

devin akın (aile) played by serenay sarıkaya + rüya yıldırımlar (alev alev) played by dilan çiçek deniz

eda yıldız (sen çal kapımı) played by hande erçel + efnan payidar (aziz) played by simay barlas

leyla çaka (üç kuruş) played by aslıhan malbora + bahar yöndel (üç kuruş) played by nesrin cavadzade

yağmur kara (son yaz) played by hafsanur sancaktutan + ceylin erguvan (yargı) played by pınar deniz

sena koçovalı (çukur) played by dilan çiçek deniz + eylem aydın (içerde) played by damla colbay

mahur türel (maraşlı) played by alina boz + nihan sezin (kara sevda) played by neslihan atagül

dila bilgin (kuzgun) played by burcu biricik + esra erten (aşk mantık intikam) played by burcu özberk

selin sever (her yerde sen) played by aybüke pusat + melek yıldız duman (içerde) played by bensu soral

sibel yıldırım (ramo) played by esra bilgiç + mona ünkap (kusursuz kiracı) played by dilan çiçek deniz

[forthedancingandthethriving]

Ashley walks into one of Tulip's workshops, a small stack of what appear to be photographs in hand and a syrupy-sweet grin on his face, "So! Something very interesting happened at work today."

Tulip looks up from what she's working on (something that might have been a dishwasher at some point and now has far too many laser emitters), "Oh?"

"One of the other models called in sick just before she was supposed to show up (not that I can blame her, poor girl sounded like death on the phone), and everybody was scrambling to figure something out in time... and then the perfect substitute walks through the door, " On cue, he spreads the photos across what little free space the workbench. Some of them include himself, but all of them have a tall woman with long auburn hair, "Allow me to introduce; the lovely Seline."

"Oh wow, she's gorgeous," as Tulip looks the photos over, she slowly develops a contemplative frown, "and... somehow familiar."

Ashley's grin somehow gets wider, "I should hope so, she is your 'dear older sister' after all."

Tulip does a double-take, "wait, that's Archie!?"

"Yep! He happened to be visiting me, he does that sometimes, and when he saw we were having trouble he wanted to help. He was surprisingly okay with that help involving putting on a dress, so long as nobody knew it was him. Said it had something to do with swapping places with his sister when he was little?"

Tulip lets out a fond chuckle, "Oh yeah, he was kind of small as a kid so we fit in each-other's clothes, and sometimes we decided to pretend we were each-other and see how long it took for anyone to notice. We got really good at it too, one time not even our parents noticed for a whole week. 'Course, then puberty happened and he shot up like a tree, so..."

"That is, so cute! Anyway, yeah, he did really well. Though, apparently he's into method acting or something because he stayed in-character the whole day, even when he wasn't anywhere near the cameras. There were a few times I was almost convinced he'd forgotten Archie even existed."

"Oh yeah, he does that. Honestly I think he'd have actually become an actor if our parents hadn't decided to mold us into their mini-mes... and then their genderbent mini-mes when they realized I was the one who got the mad scientist genes and he was the one with a knack for schmoozing," she huffs in frustration, then shakes off the bad memories, "Still, it usually takes him a few sessions to slip that deep into a role. Wonder how he managed it..."

---------------

Spongebob Timeskip Card Voice: *Several Hours Earlier...*

Archie takes in every inch of the woman in the mirror, nearly all his attention on crafting a persona for her. It'd been a while since he'd played a part so far removed from the one his parents knew as their son, and the nature of this one in particular had brought up some of his favorite childhood memories, one that had recently become painful in hindsight.

It brings up the complicated emotions surrounding his sister and their broken (largely by his own actions and cowardice, he's aware) relationship. Chief among them, this time, being jealousy. It's easy to be jealous of her, really. She'd been brave and clever enough to get away from their parents, to use her talents for her own ends, to hold onto her passion for all those dark years, to take what had once been their prison and turn it into a home. Not to mention she'd become so much prettier than he- NOPE! Not going down that road just yet, he doesn't need one more way for Mother to turn him into another her.

He lets out a huff that blows the wig's bangs up a little, then shakes himself off, shuts his eyes, and refocuses on the task at hand.

He'd worked out just who Seline would be, now it's time to become her. He pictures a bubble, one that contains everything that is him, Gathering all the parts he wants to put into Seline, he pushes them into the side of the bubble, soon forming a large bump, and then a second, smaller bubble, one that slowly breaks off from the main one. The large bubble descends, coming to rest most of the way down into a bank of thick fog that represents the subconscious, while the smaller rises to the top of... whatever this mindscape is supposed to be.

Seline opens her eyes, releasing a contented sigh. That was... easier than it normally was, especially for such a new persona, but she doesn't pay that any mind. She has a job to do, after all, and she isn't about to make Ashley wait any longer than she already had.

As she makes her way out of the dressing room, Liana fades into view and grins like a shark. She'd been surprised that Archie was this sincere about helping, but she obviously couldn't trust an Orpheus not to find some way to screw things up for sweet little Ashley, so she'd decided to help him for once, as disgusting as that felt.

She'd originally been planning to possess him, not to the degree of full control, just to cover for any issues that might crop up, but that fascinating mental construct had been much more interesting. So, she'd helped it along, pushing the separation of the imaginary bubbles further Archie's mind would have managed on its own at this stage. From what she could tell, the resulting personality wouldn't even think of the name Archie unless someone else brought it up. She could've sent the main persona down even further and had Seline fully replace Archie, at least for a while, but that would have raised far too many questions, and probably got her caught by that strange purple poltergeist who seems to think it's Ashley's guardian angel.

Though, from what she'd seen of Archie's surface thoughts before the construct was in place, she wonders if...

Well, it doesn't matter really. Whoever they truly are under the surface, they're still an Orpheus.

(putting this in an ask instead of my own post since Archie's half adds a pretty damn major detail to them, and they're not my character so you obviously get the final say on whether or not it's canon)

OH THIS IS... THIS IS NEAT? AS HELL?

I have no words because it is GENUINELY a very cool idea!! It's so very!! Yes!! All the layers to it... AGRJGAHA *rattles my cage's bars*

I love this sm.. I'd love to see where you're going with this..

[echoarts03]

I like your Garten of banban lads, do you have any more headcanons for them? (Stinger Flynn is my fav as well)

Yes, I do have more headcanons, thank you so much for asking!

Buckle up everyone, this post is going to be LONG. XD

Heads up, some of these lean more into my AU. I'll put a ◐ next to the AU-specific ones.

Don't steal my art, or I promise I WILL find out and I WILL break your knees.

(PART 2)

Queen Bouncilia:

• This girl is a straight-up badass. She will put anyone in their place, including Stinger Flynn.

• I personally believe the kids in her pouch(?) are just her joeys that can't be trusted by themselves.

◐ She's kind of the mom of the gang, and the others would rather go to her instead of Flynn.

◐ She babies Josh to a ridiculous degree.

Slow Seline:

• Her head is in the clouds a LOT and she lacks a strong attention span.

• She doesn't talk much, but when she does the others are usually quite surprised by it.

Jumbo Josh:

• He is definitely the most neurodivergent of the gang.

◐ His best friend is Selene.

• He's TERRIFIED of Stinger Flynn.

• He loves cooking.

Banbaleena:

• Her patience is like that of a strand of hair.

• She's kind of an airhead. I mean, if you think a basketball is a student then there's SOMETHING wrong, don't you think?

Banban:

• He HATES Flynn, and Flynn hates him. They both think they're the team leader, so that causes tension between them a LOT.

◐ He and Banbaleena are siblings, NOT romantic partners like some people seem to believe.

Opila Bird:

• She has severe anxiety and is CONSTANTLY checking over her shoulder.

• She's selectively mute but does make noises when reacting to things.

Captain Fiddles:

◐ He stays with Sheriff Toadster a lot of the time; they're buddies.

• He's pretty chill and just kind of goes with the flow. Nobody really has any complaints about him.

◐ He's the youngest of the gang and likes to drag the others into playing his games.

Stinger Flynn:

• Definitely the dad of the crew, but he's one of those dads who just ignores his kids until it's convenient for him.

• He has no patience for anyone, but exceptions can be made OCCASIONALLY for Josh and Opila.

◐ He and Bouncilia bicker like an old married couple, but don't say that to either of their faces or they'll lose their shit.

• Like I said in my last post, Flynn can change the size of his body at will.

◐ His normal/default size would be about 15-ish feet tall. He usually tries to stick to 6 or 7 feet, though.

Sheriff Toadster:

• I don't really have a lot of headcanons for him, but I do think he's extremely protective of the others.

• He radiates a weird but also nice Uncle energy.

(Headcanons may change as the chapters continue to release, so check in once in a while just in case!)

[zero-braincells-left]

4, 8, 10. whichever ocs or aahvmh characters you please. perchance

4. Wich oc is most likely to call you a slur xela. Definitely. im surprised he hasn’t actually /silly

as for others. Luqui would if asked lmao

8. Who listens to Weezer

uhm. I’ve never gone out of my way to listen to any of their songs and I’m not going to now but. off of vibes. oh hey that one dnd character I made for my campaign Seline prolly would. yeah she could I guess

10. Who would take several bites from a fruit before realizing it's a fake decorative fruit a lot of my ocs would. if it were a fruit he didn’t recognize, Cad would probably just assume that’s how it tastes lmao.

[silentshadowmancer]

@aamusedly for Devil

“Devil,” Seline quietly called out to her guest as soon as she stepped through the door. He had been staying with her for several days while he recovered from the car bombing that had been intended to kill him. It was odd for the dragoness to share her living space with anyone much less a man who had tried to kill her only weeks before. She had refrained from mentioning how vulnerable his knowledge of her aerie made her; his presence here displaying a level of trust that she hadn’t afforded anyone in decades.

It was probably a stupid move. She would likely regret it in the end but she needed his aid to ensure that she could survive long enough to regret something.

“I have some news regarding our enemy if you would care to hear it.”

[iconsturkish]

[io-ti-regalo-il-mondo]

Lettera di Demir a Selin dopo che le ha lasciato il suo spazio per farla riflettere..

Selin amore mio.

Avevi ragione tu... Non vado bene per te, questa casa era tua e io sono stato per un po' ospite della tua vita. È stato un bellissimo sogno che non mi sembrava neanche vero.

Non essere triste, non è la prima volta che lascio questa casa, l'ho lasciata quando ero un bambino e quando ci sono tornato anni dopo ho avuto la fortuna di imbattermi in un uccellino molto molto raro, così libero, così variopinto, così magico... Se restassi non permetterei a questo meraviglioso uccellino di volare se bene sia provvisto di ali.

Vola in alto Selin.. si libera con i tuoi piccolini, con le piante e il tuo modo colorato di vedere la vita. Io non posso guarirti, non so fasciare le tue ferite.. ne riapro una nuova ogni volta che ti stringo a me. Stiamo lontani per un po', proviamo a vedere come va. Sappi solo che me ne vado al mio malgrado, non versare altre lacrime per favore...

Ti amo da impazzire.

[writing-whump]

Unseen wounds

This is a mix of several ideas, but especially ☕️-nonny's request for Arnie in the hospital with a concussion and Hector and Isaiah meeting there after the former has been avoiding him. Lots of brotherly angst. Thanks for the ideas! :D

Isaiah was nervous about leaving the apartment.

But Rip seemed fairly stable, tentatively trying out vegetable broths. Dylan wouldn't leave his side and the presence of the wolfing seemed to have amazing influence. Rip's shadow was simply trusting with him.

Seline sat close by the two boys for a good measure. Her initial apprehension disappeared as she watched the immediate and obvious effect of her presence working on Rip's upset shadow. The way the boy's shoulders sagged and his frown eased was too hard to miss, even if he was still in pain.

The way Seline looked both in awe and torn about the revelation had Isaiah's heart squeezing. He knew she never really got into touch with what her magic could do for wolves, but now she seemed bothered by it. Made him wonder what he could do.

Maybe he could take her see one of the Big Three's training grounds. Show her what other effects she could have.

Matthew kept his distance. He was both, very aware of the boy's injury and his upset shadow and how much more upset it could get with him around.

The further he was from him the more consideration he was showing.

Isaiah could see it was painful for him though. Both the reminder of who Rip was as a stray at their mercy, the state of his shadow Matthew understood so well, and that he couldn't be helping in a more specific tangible way.

Isaiah had not expected Matthew's compassion though. As if the vulnerability Rip was forced into by the injury stirred his protective instincts. Something he couldn't play out fully with Isaiah or Seline with their whole independence issues.

Instead of Matt's shadow being angry and territorial like it was with Caleb, it was vengeful and angry for Rip. Quiet but constant growling came from his chest and although he didn't dare approach, he kept circling around the room like caged, in perfect symmetry.

Isaiah's own torn feelings didn't help the matter.

He checked the trio once more in the room and went out, reminding everyone with a message to call him immediately if something was up.

But he had a breakfast scheduled with Arnie at their favourite coffee shop in the center. It was a welcome distraction.

Isaiah decided to walk there. He could take the car or the tram or the metro just down the street but the crisp morning air before the heat hit was refreshing and to be enjoyed.

There weren't many people up either, though he was sure it would soon start to crawl with tourists.

He reached the park in half an hour, opting for a bench with view of the coffee shop so he could spot Arnie right away. Better they ordered at the same time.

The park was filled with dogs and their owners, also using the early hour to get things done. Isaiah didn't mind dogs. With his shadow pulled back as tightly as it was, they didn't show any agression towards him, even coming by for a stroking with a wiggling tail.

The clock kept ticking. Arnie fancied himself a couple minutes or even quarter an hour late at times, easily losing track of time when styling his hair.

But after 20 minutes past, Isaiah started to get a bit annoyed. He kept glancing at his watch and at the coffee house as if his glare would materialise Arnie at the spot from thin air.

He looked at his phone. No messages, no missed calls, no notifications. What the hell.

This wasn't good. He wanted to keep busy, focus on someone. Not think back at the drama happening in the last two weeks since Dylan brought the torn up kid to their home.

Since hearing Rip's story, seeing how agressive his shadow was and who it decided to protect...he couldn't help feeling for the boy. Both in facing a father he couldn't defeat in time, broken in the worst way. But with such a strong fighting spirit, with such a burning will to live, while feeling guilty for it.

Rip's problem wasn't that he couldn't get the hang of his shadow. It was that he felt too in danger for too long. Strung up too tightly. He could not see wolves or humans as nothing short of threats.

Isaiah knew how he could help with this. But a shadow this experienced to fight and personality this betrayed and distrusting? Rip wasn't ready to accept help or charity for free.

Isaiah also wouldn't have believed kindness could be real after he left. For a very long time everything had to have a price to make sense. He could see the same kind of thinking mirrored in Rip.

Almost an hour since the meeting time with Arnie.

Isaiah dialed his number, annoyed he let his thoughts get away from him before doing so.

Arnie didn't pick up.

Isaiah's first next step would be to call Hector, but his finger hovered over his number.

Something was going on with that too. Hector wasn't picking up his calls or reacting to his messages. When Isaiah called to excuse himself from the weekend meeting, since Rip was still to unstable to be safely left alone.

But Isaiah wanted to talk about the whole discovery of him and about the state of strays and rumors and...and just check if things were still the same. He wanted to face Hector now, healthy and recovered. Get back to where they were, forgetting the sick night in the process.

No such luck. Hector wasn't even giving him that chance.

Isaiah sighed, the movement jostling his finger over the number just enough to make the call. Oh well. Worth a try.

The call kept ringing and ringing and just when Isaiah was about to hang up, Hector answered.

"Hello?" His voice sounded strained, tired.

"Hey, do you know where Arnie is? We were supposed to meet an hour ago." Isaish tried hard not to sound too miffed. Did the kid oversleep?

"Ah, right," Hector said, clearing his throat. "Arnie was in an accident on the way. We are at the hospital right now."

...

"I'm telling you, I'm okay," Arnie said with annoyance. To his credit, his voice was strong, but the hospital gown, the thick bandage around his head or his pale face didn't make it convincing.

"It was a bike?" Isaiah said incredulously.

"Yep. Way more dangerous than cars in Vienna. Cars always stop when you even turn towards the street. But a biker will take you down, as if he was the freaking king of the road everyone shoul—" Arnie winced at his own voice, leaning back with a grimace.

"Don't work yourself up." Isaiah sat down beside him, patting his hand. He rushed to the hospital in a panic that made the road there blurry and forgettable. The fear he felt at the words Arnie and hospital was so icy and intense it reached all the way to his bones.

Hector was there. Of course. He was the one Arnie called with a bleeding and confused head, while bystanders called for an ambulance. In the confusion no one thought to call Isaiah.

Hector got up from Arnie's side at Isaiah's arrival, facing the window resolutely. Isaiah wanted to shake him.

"Seriously. It doesn't hurt that bad. Migraines are a lot worse. This is nothing," Arnie said. For some reason there were dark bruise like circles under his eyes and he seemed shaken, hands all jittery.

"What did the doctor say?" Isaiah couldn't help keeping his hand on Arnie's forearm. His pulse was quick under his touch.

Arnie looked towards Hector expectantly, but when no reply came, he said: "Mild concussion. Head wounds just bleed a lot, it looks all dramatic. They would like to keep me for 24 hours for observation though." He said the last part with a disappointed scowl.

"That's okay. Better to be safe than sorry. And you will be nicely pampered around here, food in bed, TV...anything I can bring you from home?"

Arnie shrugged, winced at the movement again and gingerly leaned back against the cushions. "I can't really...focus on anything. Looking at my phone hurts," the blond said sheepishly.

"That will clear up in no time." Isaiah reached over, brushing Arnie's hair from the bandage. He could smell where about the wound was, the coppery scent stronger on the kid's left side. "What about some sleep?"

Arnie nuzzled his face into Isaiah's hand, closing his eyes. "Uhmmm...maybe. But it's like 10 in the morning."

"So what? Bleeding takes energy out of you."

"Hmmm...you'll stay here?" Arnie's head lolled to the side, towards his oldest brother.

Isaiah chuckled softly, resting his hand on Arnie's shoulder. "Course."

There was an annoyed huff at that and stomping of feet as Hector turned away from the window and grumbled himself out of the room.

Isaiah's lips twisted. "Any ideas what's that about?"

Arnie made a vague sound, but his eyes slipped shut and Isaiah wasn't about to disturb him.

...

Isaiah only left when a nurse came to check on Arnie, checking the little beeping noises and the IV.

He wasn't happy to leave him alone, so he needed to get this handled as soon as possible.

Hector didn't go far, either. The older blond was in the hallway, elbow leaned against the windowsill, with a frown so deep and angry that the whole world should be catching fire from it by now.

"So what exactly is your problem?" Isaiah said. Hector wanted to be angry? Two could play that game.

Hector's head jerked at his voice, but he didn't turn back. "Am not."

"You could have called me sooner, you know? It’s kinda mean to leave me out."

Hector leaned both his elbows on the windowsill, back against the view. "Oh christ, you had to wait for a couple of minutes, big deal—"

"It is a big deal, when one of you is hurt," Isaiah said sternly. "And I want you to spill what's going on with you."

Hector set his jaw tightly, glaring at the wall, only his side towards Isaiah.

They waited in tense silence, a battle of wills.

Isaiah deflated. "Fine. Keep it. But we are not going to fight in front of Arnie. If you—" he swallowed heavily. "If you are gonna be this miserable with me around, perhaps we should take turns? I can go pick some stuff for him and then we can switch and you can take a break or something. One of us should take the night shift and then we'll change in the morning—"

Hector's bushy eyebrows went up, surprise taking over the annoyance. "What? No, you don't have to—"

"You can't even stand to look at me. I'm not gonna stress Arnie out in his state, he is sensitive about it as it is."

Isaiah never should have let that night happen. That was clear now. He shouldn't have come when he felt tired and sluggish. He shouldn't have let Arnie and Hector take care of him, he shouldn't have let them see him like that.

Not if it led to this outcome. To Hector loathing him so much.

Isaiah leveled Hector with a look, green eyes flashing. "It's about that night, isn't it? I understand you are disappointed, but acting like this around Arnie is just irresponsible."

"Disappointed?" Hector unglued himself from the window to face Isaiah, shaking his head, hand running through his hair. "It's not—that's not what this is about. Just...just let me explain."

Isaiah waited. He felt frozen again, Executioner mask on, emotions in a gnarly little knot pushed back safely.

Hector's face went all red and contorted. He was usually so in the face about things, whatever was giving him trouble was downright suffocating.

"It's not that I'm disappointed, for Christ's sake. It's that I'm ashamed." The blond wolf looked down at his feet. "You probably don't remember how—when you were delirious from fever, you were scared of me. And...and I realized why you never let me see, why you never told me—was probably my fault. Because I was that unreliable to you." Hector balled his hands into fists at his sides. Isaiah could see his shadow rippling at his feet, though he didn't actually let it manifest.

"And I don't fucking know what to do with that, okay?!" Hector growled in frustration, his booming voice carrying across the empty hallway. The dark presence of their upset shadows, even if pulled down and back, must have unconsciously kept the personnel from running around them.

Isaiah's eyebrows jumped up, his stoic mask breaking over the sheer surprise. He stepped closer. "I—I don't understand. You are avoiding me because I don't—what?"

"No. That's just me being a coward and running away." Hector's gaze flicked up towards Isaiah and down again.

"But I'm not angry with you. Neither do I blame you," Isaiah said in a stunned voice, daring to get even closer. He was just a touch away from Hector, mirroring his previous position his elbow on the windowsill. "For none of it. It wasn't your fault or your responsibility...seriously, I was out of it, those weren't my real reactions."

"Arnie said you didn't realize you were coming down with something cause your stomach always hurts, when you visit," Hector said in a defeated tone, head jerking up slightly at Isaiah's closing proximity.

Isaiah winced at that. "That's my own problem, not your doing."

"But it's kinda telling about the situation, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry—"

"Oh, don't you fucking dare apologize!" Hector said, finally looking up. His eyes were glittering, face a grimace reflecting the storm inside.

Isaiah wasn't sure what else to say that wouldn't upset Hector more. His heart was hurting at Hector hurting himself over him. Usually, Isaiah preferred to fight off what he didn't want to feel.

But this time, out of sheer confusion at the new situation, at Hector expressing sympathy and regret — it somehow reached through to something frozen solid inside and melted it.

Isaiah leaned into the feeling shaky and unsure, reaching forward to pull Hector into a hug.

Hector stood stony at the touch before wrapping his arms around Isaiah, clutching him with strength.

Isaiah held him, held them both, feeling something cracked and raw inside, knitting itself back together at the contact. Hector's being this emotional over him touched him in a way he didn't expect.

"Shhh. We can fix all of this, okay? I promise. Just stop avoiding me and we'll fix it."

[twoheadedfawnn]

tagged by the lovely @serethereal to post 10 books to get to know me 🤍 thank you !!

1. jane eyre

my favorite book of all time forever … i cant explain to you what this book means to me but when i first read it it hit me like a thunderbolt. i love jane & rochester sm idgaf that he locked his wife in the attic like that’s father idk …

2. catcher in the rye

i haven’t read it since but when i first discovered this book in middle school i went through an insufferable phase where i carried it with me wherever i went … i was severely mentally ill though and it was so comforting to me at the time and made me feel less alone so for that i’ll love it forever

3. normal people by sally rooney

i’m forever a sally rooney disciple idc … this book is everything to me i’ve read it so many times and it never gets old. it feels so real like everyone has had a situationship like marianne and connel’s i think …

4. conversations with friends by sally rooney

another sally rooney … it’s gotten me through some hard times and i recommend it to everyone

5. all about love by bell hooks

i know everyone recommends it but this book forever changed my outlook on love and i will never shut up about it

6. how should a person be ? by sheila heti

i definitely need to re read this one soon but this is the kind of book that can almost be hard to read because it really challenges you to look at yourself, thorns and all … life changing to me personally

7. crying in H mart by michelle zauner

i’ve never cried so much reading a book this one ripped my heart out … everyone should read this but also it WILL traumatize you

8. devotions by mary oliver

should be required reading !!!!!!!!

9. jeff buckley: his own voice

jeff is one of my favorite artists forever and this book made me feel close to him which is so nice … he was srsly an earth angel

10. the idiot by elif batuman

selin is so real she’s just like me … i too need to contextualize my life as a movie or else i get horribly depressed

tagging @godardgirl @saintbronte @vanirgo @deathandsensuality @thomyorkesgf @iloveyou2 @brigittefitzgerald @marlborohomme <33

[selincakar-archive]

❝ a bitten tongue and gritted teeth, midnight underwear dance parties, cropped cardigans, worn jeans, late night bonfires, the ashes of a forgotten cigarette, stolen sweaters with too long sleeves, taper candles stuck into teacups, baggy tees, abandoned mugs of coffee, tragic romance movies, aggressively making tea, nap marathons, bergamot scented anything, a purse full of dr. pepper and chocolate candy

BIOGRAPHY | CONNECTIONS | PINTEREST

NAME: Selin (SAY-lihn) Tülay Çakar

PREFERRED NAME/NICKNAME(S): Sey

AGE: Thirty-three

BIRTHDAY: June 21st, 1989

ZODIAC: Cancer sun, Capricorn moon, Sagittarius rising

RESIDENTIAL AREA: Bighorn Hills

OCCUPATION: Owner of Harp Antiques

LENGTH OF TIME IN PROVIDENCE: 33 years, minus a few spent in Seattle and Boston

basics.

BIRTHPLACE: Providence Peak, Colorado

HOMETOWN: Providence Peak, Colorado

GENDER IDENTIFICATION: Cis Woman (she/her)

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual, Biromantic

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Divorced and currently single

POSITIVE TRAITS: Protective, sentimental, hospitable, thoughtful, tenacious

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Reticent, moody, impressionable, provoking, melancholic

family.

MOTHER: Afet Çakar

FATHER: Selim Çakar

SIBLINGS: Two older brothers, one younger sister (all WC’s)

OTHER: two cats, Danny and Dawson

tldr (but still long af, actually).

TW: chronic illness, infidelity, death

Born and raised in Providence Peak, Selin comes from a tight knit (if not somewhat overbearing) family. Her grandfather started a sporting goods store that her father later sold, turning a tidy profit in the process. Despite the influx in money, though, their family remained humble and always lived well below their means. 

Sey was always a bit of a curious, wandering child-- more prone to being found in a dark, dusty corner of the local library or out on one of the many trails than she was at home in her room. That all came to an abrupt end when she was fifteen.

While out with a few friends on a run of the mill hike she started to feel off and, before any of them fully realized what was happening, she lost consciousness. For a little over twenty-four hours she was in a hypoglycemic coma and ultimately ended up being diagnosed with type one diabetes. 

The entire ordeal wreaked havoc on her parents, and they became a little too concerned, a little too involved in her life from there on out. Even though Sey knew it came from a good place, their constant doubt in her ability to take care of herself and micromanaging began to feel like an invisible cage. 

At age twenty-three her boyfriend proposed, despite having only been together for about eight months, and, in a desperate bid for independence and separation, she said yes. It wasn’t long before they were wed and then she was off– following him first to Seattle during his surgical internship, and then to Mass Gen in Boston for his residency. 

Long story short? Their marriage was paper thin and in no time she realized she’d made a mistake. Still, she stubbornly stayed, only returning home to Colorado after his affair with a co-worker was revealed.

Upon returning she started working at the local antique store where she’d gotten her first job back in high school. When Weldon Harp, the cantankerous owner, passed away not long after she was shocked to learn he’d left her the store (and a few acres of land) in his will. 

headcanons.

is the proud cat mom of two rescues, danny and dawson, who she named after the romantic leads in her two favorite movies.

refuses to acknowledge what it might say about her that both characters in both movies tragically died.

despite having owned the property she inherited from weldon harp for several years now she's made no move to build on it. instead, sey lives in the eccentric little carriage/cabin hybrid situation that's been there from the start.

is the queen of "it's okay" and "i'm fine" even when (or especially when) it is absolutely and most definitely not.

mutters "what the fuck" under her breath at least 36 times a day and "my boobs are too pretty for this shit" might at well be her catchphrase.

these days she uses an omnipod (wireless insulin pump) affectionately nicknamed sue ellen. in case you were wondering, she’s also named her glucose monitor dex. whenever one of them decides to yell at her sey is 1000% known to yell back. 

always keeps a chocolate candy bar and can of regular soda on her in case her sugar gets too low. ice cream is her weakness, though, and she probably indulges in it more often than she should. 

has never once in her life invited someone into her place without offering them tea. or tequila. dealer's choice.

believes in her heart that half a pot of coffee and two cigarettes should be considered a balanced breakfast, but faithfully eats a veggie loaded omelet or some plain greek yogurt with blackberries every morning because she’s a good girl. 

her wardrobe ranges from band groupie to suburban dad to pastel princess and nothing in between.

similarly, her dance moves also range from white dad at a bbq to a stripper whose rent is due next week.

soft, sensitive, and easily hurt but will keep laughing and never show it

rarely saves numbers in her phone but in the event that she does keep a contact it's always under a nickname or funny descriptive

selin is, in fact, obnoxiously loyal and protective of those she cares about. she always has a smile and a minite (or ten) to talk with anyone she meets, but you know you've made it in her books when that smile takes on a decidedly asshole-ish vibe

[brxxksazars]

lost in the dark

tw: drugged, alcohol, serious injury, death

His gaze was completely unsteady. As Brooks looked up through the crowd, the room seemed to tilt and stretch and fade all into a blur. Eyelids held heavy. His mind felt like an ouroboros, every new thought eaten by another, all falling into nothing as he stood amongst the crowd, lost.

The tops of his knuckles turned lighter as he fought to hold onto the bar’s countertop. His attempt at a strong grip nothing more than a desperate cling. All the while, his blinking eyes now looked down upon a cup in front of him. There were dozens, if not hundreds scattered across the bar alone and yet Brooks could not stop thinking about that one, not this one— Kat’s. Earlier that night, he had thrown back what he had thought was his drink. The burn as it went down told him differently. He knew alcohol too well to mistake it.

This feeling? This he didn’t know.

His head had just lulled upward to look upon the blurred vision of the screen. The clock was winding down its final seconds of the second game and the crowd both televised and humming around him were on their toes, eyes peeled to that overtime. For Brooks it was all this faded sense of too much. He was stripped of understanding, of coherence, of not much more than the orange and white blur of the crowd and the far-away cheers of a near-end-of-game basket.

There was what felt and sounded like an underwater hum. If Brooks had been able to surface, he might’ve recognized it as a countdown: ten, nine, eight… fuck those numbers were lowball guesses to the amount of times he had drank himself dizzy. Different. Different. This felt different.

And then, almost like confirmation, a different sensation cut through the haze with a harsh, metallic sharpness. All thoughts, all sensations, they travelled to the left-side of his torso. A glimpse downward saw the blade as it protruded from his skin, from the poor, flimsy t-shirt barrier. His lips, they had only managed to shape themselves into a pained expression of surprise when a heavy presence forced itself next to him. There was warm breath upon his ear as gruff words launched with targeted frustration.

“You ruined everything.”

Then, with a single thrust, Brooks’ life began to ring. This sound came travelling forward like an alarm as he felt the length of the blade carve down with breath-stealing pain before finally pulling from its spot between his ribcage. As the world around him continued to turn in its normality, his eyes had rolled back and his life tumbled towards the past. Fallen to his knees, his age chipped off several years in a second, the blur of the world around him shifting into the vague portrait of his childhood kitchen. The back and forth of a mother’s worry. A dad sat at the table, hands with steepled fingers. The looks of hurt. ‘Oh, god,’ he’d thought. He’d let them down again.

Then, again, at least they’d come.

Brooks groaned as he fell father back, landing into the arms of someone nearby, his hand laid over the wound gently. He stained himself red in his worry. Blood bubbled to his lips. He coughed. He sputtered. He looked onward, helpless and trapped now between the maze of his mind and the pain. Darkness crept in at the corners— a broken boy receiving an audience as his life closed in around himself.

His eyelids fluttered, wanting to close but urged to ‘look at me’ as a gentle touch held up his head. Dark hair hung over them like curtains, saving that moment just for them.

He thought first of his mom but even in this incoherency, Brooks knew it wasn’t her. She’d mourned her son already, her tenderness saved to the past and to the boy he never could have been. Oh, but his sister. He blinked through the pain, confused at any semblance of why she was here. They’d thrown him away to Nightrest. She was… she wasn’t… No. With his last ounce of strength, Brooks widened his gaze. Selin.

His body sunk further into hers, his red mouth wobbling between a smile and frown because they both knew what this was. A tear slipped from his eye as they finally shut. “I’m sorry,” he exhaled, sparing his last breath, giving himself away again. Someone else would have to make her smile. Someone else would have to make Lukas laugh. Someone else would have to be the distraction in the dark.

Because he was lost to it now.