#so the walls of this metaphorical heart of the world seem too fragile...

[balkanlila]

i could write valuable meta about specific ways in which lila and pasquale see beyond intended reality and elena and enzo see beyond intended reality and how it has to do with where you stand as the analyst and how you don't get the entire picture if you don't combine the knowledge from the very edge of the world and knowledge from the very centre of it, but i'm making this post about how much i love these photos for now

[notlongtolove]

a perpetual possibility

your whispered confession is barely loud enough for you to hear yourself, soft enough that he won’t catch it. your words cut through you, a blade sharp and merciless. you’ve always known you loved him—but you’ve never said it out loud. the knife twists deeper, making a home in your chest, right through your heart. this work is part of the burnt norton series

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst...

content: mentions of a crime scene, blood and knives. brief metaphorical mention of self harm, no actual self harm. situationship core. again. very avoidant. reader cries in spencers bed.

word count: 3.6k

note: part 2 to time present and time past, but i guess it could technically be read as a standalone. this wasn't what i originally had in mind so that may be saved for a part 3. i don't know if spencer is actually allowed to show crime scene photos but lets ignore that shall we. a line: Your eyes dart from one thing to the next as though they might offer some insight, some answers. But you know you’re just trying to piece together a puzzle he’s never invited you to solve.

What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. - t.s. eliot

In all the months you’d known Spencer—takeout dinners, movie nights, shared silences—you’d never once seen the inside of his bedroom. The late and long nights that inevitably ended in bed always unfolded at yours. Tonight had been no different, at least not at first.

The rain had been relentless. You’d tried to call a cab, even as the downpour soaked through your resolve. He’d said he could drive you himself, a half-hearted suggestion with a casual shrug. But then, when the thunder cracked again, he’d offered to let you stay instead—offered, not insisted. There was a sharp distinction, precise and piercing, a clear-cut difference that’s not lost on you. 

“This okay?” he asked, holding up a shirt with a faded Caltech logo. It was too big for you, clearly, but it would have to do. You hovered in the doorway of his bedroom, awkward and uncertain, like a child unsure of what to do with their hands.

“S’fine,” you murmured.

He set the shirt on the bed with a nod. “Right, well, do you wanna shower first?”

“You go,” you said quickly, cutting him off before he could object. “You’re tired.”

“Okay,” he said after a beat, the word gentle, his footsteps already headed toward the bathroom. “Just—call out if you need anything.”

You gave him a faint smile in response, waiting until he was gone before stepping fully into the room. It was heavy with his presence, even in his absence. You stood there, unsure if you were looking for something or hoping not to find it. His walls were dark, so unlike yours. A book sat on his bedside table, and you wondered if it was the one he’d mentioned last week.

You’re no profiler, but your gaze sweeps the room all the same, catching on every detail. The file on his desk—was that why he seemed so drained tonight? The handle of the left drawer, more smooth from use than the right—what was in there that could be so important? Your eyes dart from one thing to the next as though they might offer some insight, some answers.

But you know you’re just trying to piece together a puzzle he’s never invited you to solve. 

So instead, you watch as he tosses his shirt into the hamper from behind the bathroom door, his movements practiced, deliberate. Nobody else gets to see him like this. You trace the corners of his dresser, run your fingers along the edges of his space. Nobody else has ever been this close. Not like you. You tell yourself it’s enough.

It feels like progress, though you know better than to call it that. A weak flutter of hope stirs, something small and fragile, and you try to stamp it out—not progress, no progress to be made here. But still, the voice in your head whispers: it’s something, at least.

You hadn’t planned on staying, truthfully. That was a hope you’d long since buried, a privilege you’d relinquished without ever quite consenting to its loss. Spencer had always been better at boundaries than you—he’d flirt with their edges now and then, but he never let them fall quite like you do. You’d learned not to expect him to.

That’s why you’d stopped asking questions—the what ifs and the if onlys—stopped trying to claw your way through the walls he kept so carefully intact. You’d used to push harder, searching for a reaction, any sign he still cared, that he could still feel, still hurt with the same intensity you did. But at some point, the not-knowing had become easier to bear than the risk of knowing. Because while you’ve made your speeches more times than you can count, you know if Spencer ever said he was done, he’d mean it.

You on the other hand, had tried to walk away more times than you cared to admit, each time thinking it was the last, that maybe it would finally stick. But it never did. Your words always faltered, teetering between resolve and hesitation, walking that razor-thin line between staying and leaving but never fully committing to either.

Your friends had their opinions—you didn’t need to hear them to know. You’d stopped willingly bringing Spencer up in conversation a long time ago. It was a quiet betrayal of silence, slowly keeping pieces of your relationship tucked away from them. Relationship, ha. Could you even call it that? You never thought you’d be the type to settle for something undefined, falling into the well-worn cliché of excuses: he’s different when we’re alone, it’s complicated, they don’t see what I see. You’d always promised yourself you wouldn’t be the girl who believed that the good moments could somehow outweigh the bad.​​ But in the silence of moments together, when his walls softened just enough, it was impossible to believe this was anything other than love. 

Even if he couldn’t say it. Even if you’d both agreed to be ‘just friends’. You knew.

It was in the way his hands lingered at your waist now, pulling you closer, his damp hair curling against his forehead.

“Put a towel in there for you” he murmurs into your neck, “Think you’ll look good in my shirt.” Your heart stumbled at the casual intimacy of the words and you forced a playful shove, masking the hurt in your chest with a coy smile. 

Spencer’s bathroom is nothing like his bedroom—The walls a cold, clinical white, pristine in a way that makes the small space feel even more like a shrine to order. Every surface is perfectly curated, free of clutter or unnecessary items—Spencer’s bathroom is most definitely nothing like yours either. 

As you reach for the towel he’s left for you, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The signs of a long day are evident on your face. You can see it in the fatigue in your eyes, in the smudged eyeliner that’s long since run. Your fingers reach out instinctively, brushing away the evidence of weariness before you step into his shower. Huh, who knew Spencer Reid was a cotton chamomile kind of guy?

By the time you’re out of the bathroom, the room is already casted in a muted glow from his bedside lamp. Spencer is propped up against the headboard, engrossed in the case file you’d spotted earlier, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—an uncommon but always welcome sight. A rare treat for you. 

You stand in the doorway of the bathroom, towel in hand, your hair damp and tangled. You let out a small, uncertain cough to draw his attention, “Um, hey, Spence?”

“Hm?” His voice is soft, distracted.

“We forgot one thing.”

He looks up, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose, “What’s that?”

You tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up against your thigh. The movement draws a teasing glance from him as you add, “Kinda need pants.”

A smirk forms on Spencer’s lips, playful and a little wicked. He stretches out the sheets from his legs and swings them aside, the cool air brushing against his skin as he walks across the floor toward you. There’s a teasing lilt in his voice as he steps into the space between you, his fingers brushing yours as he reaches for your hand.

“You know, in the old days, they just used leaves,” he says, his voice low and warm as he leads you toward the dresser in the corner.

You raise an eyebrow, smirking despite yourself, “In the old days, they also worshipped dung beetles.”

He chuckles, the sound low and amused, and opens the left drawer. “Red or blue?” he asks teasingly, his eyes expectant as he waits for your answer.

“Red,” you say, with a playful nod.

Spencer’s hand moves to retrieve a pair of red plaid boxers. So that’s what’s in there. You take them from him, your fingers grazing his. He watches, a subtle smile playing on his lips as you slip into them. Your damp hair clings to your face as you try to keep his shirt from falling off your shoulder. He leans against the dresser, eyes warm with a hint of amusement.

“What?” you deadpan, fully aware of how disheveled you must look.

“I was right. You do look good in my shirt.”

You scoff, pushing the wet hair out of your face, “You should know that flattery gets you nowhere, doctor.”

His fingers brush your shoulder as he helps you by gently tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “It got you here, didn’t it?” he said, eyes bright with that teasing spark as he leads you toward the bed. 

“Technically, the rain did.”

He chuckled, a low sound that resonated through the space between you, “Hey, I offered to drive you home,” the grin on his face daring you to find fault.

You bristled at that, even as you knew he was teasing. There was an edge of truth to it that you couldn’t ignore. The rain really had been the only thing that had brought you here, with him, in this moment. This was the game you both played—one that kept the lines blurred, that kept you both on this side of real. And as much as you wanted to pretend otherwise, you knew nothing would change. Not really.

You clambered onto his bed, trying to distract yourself. The mattress dips under your weight. His side of it was scattered with case photos—splotches of red, maroon streaks, the cold glint of a knife. Spencer followed your gaze, his hand sweeping across the bed to flip the photos over, stacking them into a precise, face-down pile.

“Mm, don’t look,” he said, his voice soft but firm.

“M’fine, show me,” you countered.

“It’s pretty gory.”

“I can handle it.”

There was a pause. He hesitated, considering, before sliding the first photo into view. You exhaled. It wasn’t as bad as you’d expected—red smeared across a wall, stark against the sterile background.

The next one was harder: a close-up of a hand, blue and lifeless. Your stomach turned, but you pressed your lips together and didn’t look away. 

Spencer hesitated again, his fingers hovering over the next photo. "Oh, come on. It’s not like I don’t know what you do," you said, voice laced with mock impatience. He’s not convinced. "Spencer, I’ve quite literally fallen asleep to you describing how Marquette dismembered his victims. In detail, might I add.” 

With a reluctant sigh, he handed it over. It landed like a punch: A knife, buried hilt-deep in a chest, blood pooling in wide, dark circles. Your breath hitched. Okay, maybe this one had a little kick.

“Stabbed himself,” Spencer said, breaking the silence. “His wife was there. Saw the whole thing.”

“God,” you murmured, horrified. “That’s awful. Didn’t she try to help like, pull it out or something?”

Spencer turns to you, frowning like you’d personally been the one to stab the poor man. “You don’t pull the knife out when you’re stabbed. You’ll bleed out. Everyone knows that.”

“Oh.” The word slips out, small and hollow.

You sit there, feeling a little sheepish, like a student who’d just answered wrong in class. Moments like these always reminded you that you lived in two entirely different worlds. You’d never know the things that came second nature to him. You weren’t built for his world, and you knew it. You couldn’t help but think back to the pretty agent he’d mentioned once—She’d probably know better than to say something like that. She belongs in his team, in his world. She’d fit. 

You know all about his team, or at least the fragments he’d shared with you. There was Penelope Garcia, endlessly chirpy and endearing. Derek Morgan was hard to forget, he teased Spencer relentlessly but loved him all the same. And of course, Aaron Hotchner, whose clipped, commanding voice you’d overheard in late-night phone calls that always seemed to pull Spencer away from you. 

You wonder if your naive questions ever made their way into their office—the bullpen, he called it—as anecdotes. Maybe they’d laugh, just a little. But even that would surprise you. You doubted they even knew you existed. Probably not. Probably better that way, you told yourself. 

“Enough of that,” Spencer says, cutting clean through your spiralling thoughts. He shuffles the photos into a neat stack and sets the last of them on the nightstand, “Get some sleep. I’ve gotta be up early.”

“Early?” you repeat, drawing out the word. You tug the blanket up over yourself, settling into his bed. The sheets are colder than yours, smooth in a way that feels unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

“You can stay, though. Let yourself out whenever—you know where your key is.”

Your key. You’d never taken it back the last time you’d tossed it at him in a fit of rage. He hadn’t offered it back, either. Still, something warms in you at the fact he still acknowledges your past claim on it.

“How early is early?” you ask, peeking at him in the dim light.

“Six,” he says simply, settling into his pillow.

You glance at the clock, its green numbers casting a faint glow in the room. “Spence, it’s one. You have to leave in five hours?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, already tinged with regret.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Why?”

You hesitate, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “I don’t know,” you admit softly. “I just thought we’d get to talk or something. I saw this video the other day, wanted to, show you…”

Your words taper off as he leans over and flicks off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. For a moment, the only sounds are the muffled patter of rain against the window and the faint rustling of sheets as Spencer adjusts his position. You stare into the darkness, blinking as your eyes struggle to adapt. The sudden shift is jarring. 

“Send it to me,” he murmurs, his voice already softened by exhaustion. “I’ll watch it on the jet tomorrow. Promise.” Then, he leans over and presses a light kiss to your temple, warm and fleeting. “Goodnight,” he says, his breath brushing against your skin.

“G’night…” you reply, though it’s more reflex than anything else.

He’s already drifting off, his breathing steady and even, and you’re left alone with the rhythm of it. You try to follow it, to let it lull you into sleep. 

You roll onto your side, facing away from him, and pull the blanket tighter around yourself. The video you’d seen earlier—the one about that experiment with memory or maybe the one about the stars—floats back into your mind. You’d pictured showing it to him, watching the way his brow would furrow as he concentrated, the slight tilt of his head when something intrigued him. You’d imagined him asking questions, diving into tangents, his words spilling out in that way only he could manage. 

But now, in the silence, it feels like a small, insignificant thing. Not worth sending. Not worth saving. You feel like a small, insignificant thing.

Your chest tightens, and before you know it, tears start to spill over. They carve silent paths down your cheeks. You clench your jaw, willing them to stop, but it’s no use. The ache has grown too deep, too wide. You press your palms into your eyes, trying to contain the sob that threatens to break free, trying to force it back into its corner. 

You let out a sniffle. 

Spencer shifts beside you. “Hey, what—what’s wrong?” His voice is low, rough with sleep but laced with concern.

You shake your head instinctively, but in the dark, he can’t see you. You take a ragged breath, fingers brushing against the dampness on your cheeks, and will yourself to speak, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “I’m fine,” you say, a little too cheerily. 

But then his arm is around you, pulling you closer, and you know he doesn’t believe you. You feel the warmth of him press into your side. He lifts a hand, tracing the edge of your jaw before settling it lightly against your cheek.

“You’re not fine,” he says. “You’re crying”. The words so simple, so obvious, that they shatter you.

You swallow hard, forcing a weak, half-hearted smile. “I yawned,” you try to joke, but the lie sounds thin. Even to you, it sounds pitiful.

“Why are you crying baby?” 

The nickname stings. It’s tenderness wrapped in barbed wire. A small sob escapes before you can stop it, raw and sharp.

“Oh, baby.” His voice cracks just enough to make your chest ache. If it weren’t for the tears streaking your face, you might believe he was the one with a breaking heart. “Tell me. Please?”

A hundred reasons run through your mind, but each one is too tangled with a hope you’re too afraid to voice. You search for a response that doesn’t carry the vulnerability of everything you feel. There isn’t one. 

“Nothing,” you whisper, though the tremor in your voice says otherwise. “I just… I’ll just really miss you.”

His thumb brushes against your skin as his hand shifts from your cheek to the back of your neck, the other hand gently tangling in your hair. “I’ll miss you too,” he says, the words a balm to the sting in your chest. 

Not like how I miss you, you think. Never like that. 

Spencer might miss you when he’s on a case, when there’s no one around to laugh at his inside jokes or split a pizza with him the way you do—You take his pineapples, he takes your olives. 

But you? You miss him even when he’s right there, in the space between his bedsheets, breathing beside you. It’s the kind of yearning that doesn’t go away with proximity. Outside, the rain only grows heavier. You wonder if this is how it will always be—him moving at a pace you can’t quite match, leaving you behind in the moments you most want to hold onto. You wonder if he notices the distance growing, or if he’s already made peace with it, content to live in two separate orbits that only sometimes, briefly, collide.

He shifts, his voice barely above a whisper. “Is that really why you’re crying?” The stroking of his fingers in your hair has stilled now, his breathing evening out as his eyes begin to drift shut. 

The question pricks at you, guilt twisting in your chest. He has to be up in five hours, and here you are, clinging to the last moments of the night and keeping him from sleep. You feel stupid, selfish even.

“Yeah, really. Just… got a little emotional—cause, I’ll miss you.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to press further. But instead, he just shifts closer, his hand settling more firmly against your neck. His lips finds yours in the darkness. It’s a kiss that’s slow and deep, a rare kind of intimacy that stuns you into silence. You freeze, breath caught, heart drumming against your ribcage. It’s been weeks since you felt a kiss felt like this, something unhurried. But before you can process it, he’s already pulling back. 

“I’ll be back on…” He pauses, his eyes drifting slightly as the exhaustion begins to pull at his usually sharp focus. You can almost see the effort it takes to keep his words clear. You picture his expression in the darkness—a little weary, brows furrowed. “Thursday. We’ll do dinner then, okay?” He continues, “We could go out—”

Your heart leaps before you can stop it. 

“Or just stay in—”

Oh. 

“Whatever you want, your choice,” he adds. 

You know it’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s just that he’s so used to this. Still, the casual tone, the gentle shrug of an offer, it makes your chest tighten once again. 

Before exhaustion fully takes him, his eyes find yours one last time, “you know you can tell me anything.” It’s a warm sort of reassurance that only threatens to bring more tears to the surface. You nod, blinking rapidly, willing them to stay hidden. 

You make out a faint smile from him, and his hand moves from your cheek to your waist, fingers tightening around you. His thumb brushes against your skin, soft and tender, catching the last of the tears that dare to fall. 

“Thursday, yeah?”

“Okay.”

And then he’s settling back into the darkness, his breathing deepening as sleep claims him. The silence that follows is absolute. 

He’d said you could tell him anything. But how could you possibly explain anything when it feels like everything?

I’m crying because I’m sad that you’re always leaving me, again.

I’m crying because I’m angry that it took a storm for you to let me in.

I’m crying because I’m scared that whenever you go, it won’t be me you come back to. 

I’m crying because I’m sad, angry, and scared—because I love you. And I know you don’t love me.

“I love you.” 

Your whispered confession is barely loud enough for you to hear yourself, soft enough that he’s lost in sleep and won’t catch it. Your words cut through you, a blade sharp and merciless. You’ve always known you loved him—but you’ve never said it out loud. The knife twists deeper, making a painful, familiar home in your chest, right through your heart.

Your hand searches for Spencer’s beneath the sheets. The knife in your chest shifts with each breath. 

Spencer’s right. You can’t pull it out, or you’ll bleed out.

So you decide you'll stay. In the silence, in the longing. 

Because it doesn’t hurt as much if I don’t move, you think as you wrap your hand around his.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: j's lullaby (darlin i'd wait for you) by delaney bailey ceilings by lizzy mcalpine

[lixiesfreckless]

The Way You Shatter | h. js.

➸ synopsis: you should love him. you do love him. but not like this.

➸ starring: han jisung x female reader(ft. a mention of another skz member)

➸ word count: 1.6k

➸ general content: probably the angstiest thing I have ever written. unrequited love, established relationship, mentions of metaphorical blood

➸ warnings: alcohol consumption, no real happy ending

➸ rating: teen+

➸ author’s note: a fic I wrote after I broke up with my boyfriend a few years back. I always see people talking about how hard it is to have your heart broken, but no one ever mentions the pain of knowing you have to break someone's heart, to do the right thing. so I wrote this to cope and process my feelings, in the hope that maybe this would help someone going through a similar situation. you are so not alone.

♫ recharge- yasumu

“I don’t wanna break up with you.”

Somehow, these are the scariest words that have ever been uttered to you.

For the first time, someone has given you their heart; something so precious and invaluable, fragile and vulnerable, and you don’t know what to do with it. You don’t have a clue.

He’s looking at you with watery eyes, the same eyes you once saw long nights and baby names inside of. A future. Something to build forever upon. 

Now all you see is dark umber rimmed with red.

You’re supposed to say something back, you realize. People don’t give others their heart so they can zone out and stare at the wall, leaving the blood to seep out between their fingers.

You know exactly what you’re supposed to say to make the tears stop. You want to rub the space between his eyebrows until the wrinkles that lie there smooth out, until the corners of his mouth lift in relief. You want to run so far away from him; erase any chance of you hurting him again. Invent time travel and stop yourself from saying yes too quickly.

“I don’t wanna break up with you either.”

The words taste so vile in your mouth. You hate yourself for every syllable you speak. Liar, you hear yourself say in the back of your mind. 

You almost don’t recognize your own voice; thick with tears and stress and yet so devoid of emotion. There are robots with more character. Again but with more feeling, the director in your head screams at you.

But Jisung doesn’t seem to think any of that, no— he lets out a broken sigh, squeezing your hand in his, and it feels as if you’re being suffocated. As if the thumb caressing your knuckle is slanting against your windpipe, stopping you from saying the words you desperately need to tell him.

You feel yourself continue talking. Reassuring him that you’ll get through this, that you can work through this together. That you’re just going through a dry spell. You can’t tell who you’re trying to convince anymore.

Please stop talking. Please, you’re only making it worse.

Even the people pleaser inside of you is wincing, knowing that this cannot last for long. That you cannot pretend for another second. That your words are more hollow than sparrow bones.

Please don’t believe me. Please figure it out so I don’t have to splinter your heart by hand.

Your eyes meet with his and you finally notice it. How his eyes don’t penetrate past your physical appearance anymore. How the idea of love isn’t immortalized in his irises. 

It finally clicks once you stop talking, but not in the satisfying way legos do. It manifests in your stomach dropping, the thought that no, this cannot be remedied, you have crossed the point of no return but will not be paying the price.

You have effectively shoved shards of glass into the heart in your hand. With every sentence you spoke, you mindlessly wove together a world where you could continue, with him. With his chestnut hair and round cheeks, his sweet songs and guitar melodies, his full laugh, his doc martens.

You should love him. You do love him.

But not like this.

And so the world you wove together takes its strings and wraps them around your neck, all of the promises working together against you, and you curse your tongue for being so quick to please, his eyes for begging you to make the pain go away.

“I love you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he looks up at you, eyes expectant.

You must say it back. After everything you’ve said, you have to right? Maybe the feeling will come back, if it was ever there. Maybe you won’t compromise yourself to ensure a smile again. Maybe you’ll repeat the words back and it won’t feel like you’re removing a shard from his heart, and shoving it right into your own.

But it’s in saying the words that you realize what a mistake you’ve made. You wonder if Jisung could finally tell you about the thing each of his songs talk about. Looking into your eyes, he is bound to figure out what love is.

After all, you’re much more likely to notice something when it’s not there.

“I love you too.”

In its absence.

…

“As long as you love him, I think you guys will be okay.” He raises his bottle to his lips, half expecting you to nod your head, say something, have some sort of reaction.

But you sit across from him, lifeless, and instead of waiting for the cold soju to hit the back of his throat, he tips his head forward, setting the bottle down beside him.

“Y/n,” he says with a hint of concern, “you do love him, right?”

Your eyes dart to his, big and brown, half expecting there to be worry, fear, anything to be swimming in those coffee-colored irises.

Instead you find Hyunjin looking at you with a blank expression, tracing the rim of the bottle opening with his index finger. He’s so carefully neutral about the way he looks right now, which only tells you one thing.

He already knows how you feel.

About Jisung.

You hesitated for a second too long and now you are glass, so perfectly see-through for Hyunjin to dissect and psychoanalyze. 

It only takes those two seconds of silence, your hesitation, for Hyunjin to see, to know what has been plaguing your thoughts.

“Yes.” You gulp hard. “Yes, I do love him.” Does love sound like a forced phrase?

Hyunjin is one of those friends that likes to surprise you. With his talent, his paintings, his dances, his outbursts of laughter. He is a constant in your life and yet, you never know what to expect from him.

“But you are not in love with him.”

You did not expect Hwang Hyunjin to read you so easily on the floor of his living room, to explain your situation in the simplest most detailed way possible.

Your mouth opens to fight his suggestion, because in your head, he is wrong. In your head, it is crazy that he would assume such a thing. You kiss Jisung hello and goodbye, you already have his birthday gift, you love his dog, his family, his smile, his laugh. Isn’t it obvious? Isn’t it enough?

Your heart knows it isn’t. Your mouth closes again.

Hyunjin knows what to expect from you, which is why even though he just made a statement, he left it open ended. Open for you to admit that it went wrong, somewhere. There’s no judgement in his eyes; part of you wonders if he’s been here before. Teetering on the line between obligation and feeling. You hope he’s never been here.

But you’ve been here, you feel like you’ve lived a million lifetimes here, and now it feels like the tear rolling down your cheek is the first step down off the tightrope you’ve called home.

You don’t want to admit it. But what’s the use in hiding it— if Hyunjin could see it, who’s to say no one else has? You don’t want to indirectly break Jisung’s heart like that.

Eight words is all it takes for him to break the glass that is you. And you shatter all over his floor.

Hyunjin doesn’t say a word when you sniffle. He picks up his bottle and walks over to you, bunny-shaped slippers stepping on the scattered splinters of you on the floor. He crouches next to you, hooking the cuff of his hoodie around his thumb so he can swipe away the wetness on your cheek.

“Y/n. He will be okay.”

It’s no use, the dam breaks, and Hyunjin catches you as you start sobbing, releasing all of the pent up stress and worry you’ve been holding for weeks. You try to speak but it’s barely understandable, but it’s met with soft hushes, whispers of it’s going to be alright, you didn’t mean to hurt him, you tried, you tried, you tried.

Hyunjin doesn’t say a word when you take his bottle of soju, and down the rest of it in one go. He doesn’t speak when you start stringing your tears into sentences. You let him into the darkest corner of your mind and he doesn’t snoop, he just sits and waits for you to show him around.

And you show him everything. How you never got butterflies when you kissed. How you haven’t felt your heartbeat in months. How you think Bbama understands you better than he does. How he’s never done anything wrong, but the more you try to love him the more you start to resent him. And how the thought of resenting Jisung makes you want to throw up.

You remember the exact moment you realized you weren’t in love with him, how you looked into his eyes and asked yourself, how did it get to this point?

“I don’t want to break up with him,” you whisper out shakily, and Hyunjin nods back at you, still drying your tears with his sleeve. “I know how it would break him. I can’t do that to him.” Not after you reassured him. Not after you splintered his heart and stabbed your own.

Hyunjin has a couple things he could say back to you. He could tell you that it’s no good leading Jisung on from here. That lying to yourself will make you bleed from the inside out. That he doesn’t want to see his two closest friends in tears either. 

But the sorrowful look in his eyes tells you all of that already.

“I know,” he sighs, eyes just the tiniest bit more glassy.

What more can be said, really?

[sososouma]

banked fire - soma saito (jp, rom, eng)

click here for doc version

埋火　斉藤壮馬

uzumibi - saitou souma

Banked Fire - Soma Saito

それは ほんの

sore ha hon no

That is the only

かすかな火 ゆらめいて

kasukana hi yurameite

Faint light, flickering

もう今にも

mou ima ni mo

Even now

かき消されてしまいそう

kakikesarete shimai sou

It seems like it'll be drowned out

遠くけだものの声

tooku kedamono no koe

The far-away voice of a beast

角笛が鳴らされて

tsunobue ga narasarete

The horn is blown

歩くあてなど とっくに失われ

aruku ate nado tokku ni ushinaware

My aid to walk was lost long ago

渦に飲み込まれていく

uzu ni nomi komarete iku

Engulfing the vortex,

翳り 腐り果てていく

kageri kusari hatete iku

The gloom[1] rotting away,

黄泉への旅さ

yomi he no tabi sa

In a voyage to the underworld.

灰になっていく

hai ni natte iku

Becoming ash

こんなんじゃない [2]

konnan janai

Not like this

遠くなっていく

tooku natte iku

Becoming far away

こんなんじゃない

konnan janai

Not like this

弔いの 葬列はフラジャイル

tomurai no souretsu ha furajairu

The funeral procession is fragile

祈りは そう 唇の中

inori ha sou kuchibiru no naka

The prayer is, yes, within the lips

灰になっていく

hai ni natte iku

Becoming ash

こんなんじゃない [2]

konnan janai

Not like this

遠くなっていく

tooku natte iku

Becoming far away

こんなんじゃない

konnan janai

Not like this

灯火にくべた熱の種子

tomoshibi ni kubeta netsu no tane [3]

The lamp that burned, a seed of heat

それが偽物だと気づいたのはね

sore ga nisemono da to kidzuita no ha ne

I had realised that that was a forgery, hadn't I?

いつかの朝だったな

itsuka no asa datta na

It was some morning

それすら ごらん

sore sura goran

Even looking at that

犯されていく

okasarete iku

It unnerves me

この狂気だけなの

kono kyouki dake na no

It's just this madness

たとえ嘘でも赦しをくれるのは

tatoe uso demo yurushi wo kureru no ha

Even though it's a lie, the one who gives forgiveness is

焦がしてよ

kogashite yo

Burning away

目が醒めるたびに ああ今日も

me ga sameru tabi ni aa kyou mo

Whenever I wake up it's, ah, today too

夢ではないと哀しむだけなら

yume de ha nai to kanashimu dake nara

Just the sadness, if only it wasn't a dream

もういいよねって思う

mou ii yo ne tte omou

Thinking 'I've had enough, haven't I?'

壊してよ

kowashite yo

Breaking away

それでも歩き続けている

soredemo aruki tsuzuketeiru

Even so, I'm continuing to walk on

なんて馬鹿げたウィアード・テイルだ

nante bakageta uiaado teiru da

What a ridiculous weird tale it is

埋み火 消えちゃいそう

uzumibi kiechai sou

Banked fire, vanishing

黄泉への路は片道さ

yomi he no machi ha katamichi sa

The path to the underworld is a one-way trip

[to bank a fire is to build a wall around the fire pit so as to protect it from the wind, so that the coals will still retain enough heat to start a fire in the morning.]

[1] 翳り : gloom, cloud, more abstractly - a shadow (over someone's happiness)

[2] こんなん in kanji - 困難 - means hardship, difficulty, distress. So this line could also be translated as 'It's not a problem/it's not difficult', etc.

[3] 種子 is written, but is pronounced as 種, both meaning 'seed'.

this is as depressing and bleak as the song sounds..!!! wow WOW WOW.

uzumibi is a grey mix of dullness and despair. it describes being disillusioned with the world as it is, and dreams being one's only hope. it has been a long journey, and the fire might not last until the morning this time. every day is a struggle.

I think the extended metaphor of 'banked fire' is really cleverly used here: the protagonist is desperately trying to keep the coals hot enough until no farther than the next morning, but by the end, they are close to completely going out, after all. there was nothing to look forward to in the first place. it's a bleak and desolate picture created wonderfully by the imagery in these lyrics. and the last section is heart-wrenchingly powerful, brutal, and takes things to a relatable level. (that's why I decided to avoid using personal pronouns as much as possible until then.) but when life is just waking up and dwelling on the dreams you had when you were asleep, is it really life at all?

one of the first SS songs I heard (a very good night walk song~) and suuuper thought-provoking. also fits really nicely into 'my beautiful valentine', one of Souma's darkest works. thank you for yet another amazing song, Souma-san!

finished [some time in mid 2024]

[swimmingleo]

The psychedelic girl

Back back back again with a Harry Pink Floyd rant im sorry guys but there is content for days in that comfy niche

Early Pink Floyd days were pure gender fuckery songs and that's like. Something I think about often. It is all Syd Barrett's songwriting and his very peculiar fantasy world, and I just can't help seeing a bit of Harry in it.

So this is, once again, me reaching about how you could possibly find hints of those early Pink Floyd days into Harry's art and expression. But also another post for me to rant about mermaids, random classic rock stuff and just. gender <3 so even if it doesn't make sense I really enjoyed this trip hope you do toooo

thanking the gods Arnold Layne's MV and Harry's Beauty Papers photoshoot exist in the same cute pretentious beat generation wannabe timeline so I can make edits

It starts in 1967 with Arnold Layne, their first single about a man who commits ''crimes'' at night for the mere satisfaction of wearing women's lingerie.

On the wall hung a tall mirror

Distorted view, see through baby blue

He done it!

The vision he has of himself is distorted and he can only feel good wearing the garments he stole.

Though the song was considered a joke or a trippy tune, it seemed close to Syd's heart and convictions:

But when gender shit goes hard is with their second single See Emily Play. The song is about Emily, a girl who feels more like an emotion than an actual person.

While many pSycHeDeLiC stories surround its origins, Syd never confirmed any and all he said about the song is that it's about a girl who appeared to him in a dream: Emily.

Here are some more or less relevant parallels with She, the pSyChEdELiC gender anthem by Harry Styles:

The chorus line from See Emily Play "There is no other day" could be what the man from She needs to hear: he fantasizes about getting to know her, but never takes one day to do it. He's absorbed by his routine and the days go by.

Another interesting opposition is on the word play. In Pink Floyd’s song, the play/game is Emily trying, getting it wrong, crying and repeating the whole process until she gets it right. She plays around to know who she is. The man in She is playing the opposite: he tries to ignore her, he pretends he knows what to do, when he's in reality just as confused as Emily.

Salvation comes for Emily in the final verse, the accomplishment:

Put on a gown that touches the ground

Float on a river, forever and ever, Emily

After being confused, lost and desperate, Emily finds her ground with a dress that literally connects her to the earth. She doesn't have to live through someone's dreams anymore: she understood how to be with that dress.

THE BABY BLUE GOWN TOUCHES THE GRASS GROUND GOOD INNIT

The imagery of a woman in a long dress floating on a river is probably inspired by Ophelia.

Ophelia is a character from Shakespeare's play Hamlet. She becomes mad and drowns in a brook by moonlight. Because female characters were originally played by men, Ophelia's femininity was conveyed on stage with a long white dress and flowers, which also portrayed her fragile mental state: she's a classic depiction of female madness in literature. She's lovesick, but also traumatized by patriarchy and too whimsical to be understood by others. She expresses herself and her repressed sexuality with riddles and metaphors, singing even as she's drowning. She's even compared to a mermaid in her death. Ophelia inspired many artists and left such a mark on the subconscious that she became a phenomenon, the Ophelia Complex. It consists in illustrating decadence, trauma or one's alienation from society through the feminine water element. Very specific and very lunatic.

With the release of the first ''official'' Pink Floyd biography, we learn that Emily was supposedly based on a young girl frequenting a club where the band used to play, Emily Young, who was nicknamed ''the psychedelic girl''. Emily Young expressed her doubts about being the inspiration as she didn't know Syd at all, but her interpretation of the song is really interesting:

yeah btw Syd's real name was Roger of course of course

THIS IS ME RANTING MORE ABOUT PINK FLOYD AND MERMAID SONGS CUZ I LOVE THEM

That Ophelia Complex, and the whole Emily deal can be found in two later songs, which. always resonate to me a lot compared to Harry's Fine Line way of writing ~gender:

She took a long cold look, 1969: featured on Syd's first solo album. She is desperate to see and be extreme, and she is still full of questions. The addition is that it is made clear that she is Syd, and that he struggles to let her be. She is even pictured as a threat. I believe there is a theme in the album of Syd making the point on what makes him so miserable, and she is one of the reasons: in the song, they fight, and he ends up hiding the piece (the gown?) under the surface of earth. And that's the end of it, of what he describes as "a mile or more in a foreign clime to see farther inside of me". While See Emily Play ended on Emily floating on a river, here it's Syd who lays down in the water. I consider it a sadder, more resigned rewriting of See Emily Play and it really reminds me of that line in Fine Line: I don't want to fight you and I don't wanna sleep in the dirt.

Green is the Colour, 1969: written by Roger Waters, the song references See Emily Play explicitly "Hazy were the visions of her playing" and checks out the Ophelia description: the white dress, the moon, her laying down in the water and her kind being green. Green for nature, but also to hint at the idiom "green with envy". Indeed, the song concludes by evoking both the beauty and sadness of her condition: Envy is the bond between the hopeful and the damned. She wants what others have, she hopes for it, and that makes her a sinner (layers. LAYERS). The song also exposes that appearances can be deceiving: "Shade my eyes and I can see you", "Quickness of the eye deceives the mind". The way you perceive someone doesn't mean this is who they are. isn't that. very sensible and modern. bonus points for the sound of the sea and seagulls in the single version. I can't get over this song man how can one just pin point exactly the thing like how empathic one must be to??? write this??? im dead

David Bowie later sang See Emily Play for his nostalgia album "Pin Ups": the concept was to cover songs that left a mark on him as a teenager and influenced his career.

Syd was a major inspiration for me. The few times I saw him perform in London at UFO and the Marquee clubs during the ’60s will forever be etched in my mind. He was so charismatic and such a startlingly original songwriter. [...] His impact on my thinking was enormous.

Bowie's version is super interesting because he plays with voice modulation. He sometimes overlays his singing voice with a deepened or higher pitched/mannered one, and this gender fuckery variation can be heard notably on the verse about wearing a dress.

Also funfact, the cover for Pin Ups was originally meant for Vogue but it was dismissed because as we know, Vogue didn't want any man on their front cover until November 2020.

Bottom line is. See Emily Play is a well known song in rock culture, and with it and his short career, Syd definitely took a part in paving the way for the glam rock movement to come. Could Harry nerd about it in his quest for glitter gender rock expression, I don't knooow maybeeee

From the shaky foundations of a solo career

THIS is what initiated this post yo this is what made me think "there is something very delicate here and that could be something very cool".

1970: following his exclusion from Pink Floyd partly due to his very fragile mental state, Syd puts out his first solo album, The Madcap Laughs. Some see in it the proof of his mental deterioration, but it is a well thought through and constructed album. It is one bitch of a raw introspective journey.

2017: following One Direction's break up hiatus due to a very fragile hm balance, Harry puts out his first solo album, self titled Harry Styles but initially named Pink. And it is one bitch of an introspective album too.

Hear me out. Both of these sad, sad albums conclude the exact same way. Those are the first lines of both albums' last songs:

Woke up alone in this hotel room

Played with myself where were you?, From The Dining Table

When I woke up today

And you weren't there to play

Then I wanted to be with you, Late Night

And it's about playing again. Or rather the difficulty to do so following a heartbreak: in both songs, the speaker reminisces the other, and notes the other's absence from waking up to late at night.

Harry literally mirroring this specific part of Syd's career is fascinating to me: Syd is an actual myth. There are lots of stories about him, but he barely told anything about himself during his time and disappeared for most of his life. His short solo career is all there is to try and understand him, and I wonder if Harry's twisted little mind saw something in that.

I'll just finish with The Madcap Laughs' famous photoshoot by Mick Rock. It depicts a woman posing naked, always situated by the back of Syd's head. He faces us, she never faces the camera. It very much feels... like the two sides of a coin? Also flowers and yellow room?

... Harry is like the fusion of both.

IDK BYE.

[havenoffandoms]

Hey congrats on 900 followers! Would I be able to request the touch starved prompt from your list with the pairing Aiden/Lambert please? Love all your writing!

Hello!! Thanks for requesting this prompt and this pairing! I’ve been on a right Lambden kick recently, so I felt inspired. I hope you like it! 

Prompt 13: Touch-Starved

Pairing: Aiden x Lambert

Warnings: None

Prompt List

Lambert was apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together. Being stabbed to death in his sleep comes to mind, or having Aiden go all batshit crazy if Lambert dared to beat him at Gwent. Lambert has heard many rumours about Cat witchers in his long life. Cats are batshit crazy. Cats are emotionally volatile. Cats are backstabbing sons of bitches… literally and metaphorically. Cats are bad. Cats are evil, etc, etc. All these rumours circulated in Kaer Morhen long before Lambert even set foot in that ramshackle castle. He was too young to have witnessed the Tournament, but he heard the older witchers talk. Later in his life, when only a handful of wolf witchers were left after the sacking, Eskel gave Lambert a more detailed account of the Tournament.

“The Cats betrayed us, went on a rampage. Killed many wolf witchers in the process. Geralt and I lost many friends that day,” Eskel told him one evening, when the oldest surviving wolf was too far in his cup to notice that he was oversharing. “Radowit’s court mage Astrogarus promised the Cats monopoly on killing monsters within Kaedwen in exchange for attacking the Wolves during the tournament. Turns out Radowit was a backstabbing motherfucker himself. He ordered his soldiers to shoot all of the remaining witchers of both schools in the arena.”

“Lemme guess,” Lambert spoke, his own speech slightly slurred, “pretty boy saved the day?” 

Eskel shook his head. “Fled. Mousesack helped him escape the massacre. Poor bastard never forgave himself for abandonin’ our brothers, but what choice did he have?”

Don’t get Lambert wrong. He’s not saying that Aiden is harmless, far from it. The guy’s lethal with his swords, deadly with a pair of daggers, not to mention a stealthy and clever thief. Aiden is mercurial, hot-tempered and a bit feral when he wants to be, and his morals are at best dubious. Whereas wolf witchers had their emotions beaten out of them at a young age, cat witchers feel too much, too strongly. Lambert’s witnessed Aiden flip tables when peasants beat him at Gwent, but he’s also witnessed the Cat shed a tear after bringing the news to a mother that her son did not survive the ghoul attack two villages down the road. 

Lambert was apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together, but the Cat had never ceased to surprise him. The most unexpected trait Aiden has displayed to date is his insatiable need for physical contact. It’s not like Lambert hates being touched - he’s only human, albeit a mutated one, but still human. He enjoys a hug as much as the next person, especially when said hug comes from one of his brothers (or, dare he say, Vesemir) at the end of a long and difficult year on the Path. Lambert has also never begrudged a bed partner a post-coital cuddle session. Aiden’s need for physical contact is… on a whole different level. 

The first time it happened, Lambert almost shoved the Cat off him and sent him packing, until he realised that Aiden was not only hugging him, but clinging onto him. His sharp nails were digging in the soft material of Lambert’s shirt, the fabric creaking in protest under the firm grip. When Lambert looked down, he noticed the pinched eyebrows and tears trailing down Aiden’s face. It wasn’t until a broken sob pushed past the Cat’s lips that Lambert reluctantly returned the embrace, arms wound tightly around Aiden’s trembling body. Aiden eventually settled in the safety of Lambert’s arms, his features softening as he sank back into a peaceful slumber. 

Neither mentioned the previous evening’s impromptu cuddling session, but from that moment one, it was like someone had flicked a switch. Aiden came up with every possible fucking excuse to touch Lambert. Their hands would always accidentally graze each other when they packed up camp, or tacked up the horses. Aiden would bump shoulders with him when they were travelling on foot. If they sat next to one another in a tavern, Aiden would press his leg against Lambert’s, and if they were facing each other, a tentative foot would gently nudge Lambert’s shin and linger there. It’s not like Aiden was trying to hide his intentions, either. They rarely paid for two rooms anymore, because even if they did, Aiden would always end up in Lambert’s bed anyway, arms wound around Lambert’s body like a koala clinging to its mother.

Lambert doesn’t hate Aiden’s need for physical proximity, he’s just… confused by it. Aiden rarely takes any lovers to bed, even though he clearly craves physical intimacy. Lambert is more than happy to cuddle with Aiden, especially when they are forced to sleep under the stars and the early autumn frosts begin to settle over the region. It saves them from lighting a campfire, which may attract the wrong kind of attention to them. That’s all that’s ever transpired between the two, though… cuddling. Lambert enjoys the cuddling as much as Aiden does, but for Aiden it seems to be about more than mere enjoyment. The Cat simply refuses to go without physical intimacy which at times can be… alright, it can feel overbearing, but Lambert’s not about to complain, not when most humans turn away from him in disgust and contempt when he tries to chat them up. 

Over the course of the next few weeks, Aiden almost develops a form of separation anxiety. He refuses to let Lambert out of his sight, going so far as to follow the man everywhere, and that’s the moment when Lambert snaps. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks, his tone hiding none of the irritation he feels at being tailed by this overgrown tomcat. Aiden stops dead in his tracks, his eyes growing wide at Lambert’s words. 

“Huh?” 

“You’ve been following me since this morning… I have errands to run and it’s hard to do that when you’re breathing down my neck!”

Lambert instantly regrets his words the minute they leave his mouth. Aiden’s shoulders visibly sag at Lambert’s comment, his content expression melting into something sadder and the sight tugs at the wolf’s heartstrings in all the wrong ways. Aiden averts Lambert’s eyes shyly, the tip of his ears turning a pretty shade of pink as embarrassment washes over him. Lambert heaves a sigh. Way to act like a fucking dick. 

“Sorry, Aiden. I… I didn’t mean to sound like an ass, but-”

“It’s alright, I… I knew this moment would come eventually.”

“What are you talking about?” Lambert asks, a confused frown etched on his face. Aiden doesn’t look at him when he replies in a voice far too small to belong to the lethal, cocky witcher Lambert has come to know over the past few months. 

“You’re gonna ask me to leave for good. I get it. I… I’ll go back to the room and pack my things.” 

As Aiden turns around to leave, Lambert’s hand shoots out and grabs a hold of Aiden’s wrist. Before Lambert’s brain has a chance to catch up, he finds himself pulling Aiden into a nearby alley, away from prying eyes of judgemental humans meandering the stalls of the midweek market. Aiden looks so unsure now, so vulnerable like this, and it makes Lambert want to wrap the Cat up in warm blankets and cuddle him and forget the world for a while. Instead, he settles on pressing Aiden’s back against the wall and draping himself around the Cat witcher as much as he can. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Lambert breathes in the air pocket between them as he locks eyes with Aiden, “you’ve just been… especially clingy recently. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Aiden averts his eyes once again, but Lambert is quick to grip the other man’s chin and force Aiden to meet his gaze. Even that simple touch pulls a small hiss from Aiden, whose eyes flutter shut as he relishes in the feeling of Lambert touching him anywhere. Lambert purses his lips, eager for an answer. 

“Aiden-”

“Winter is around the corner,” Aiden whispers, his tongue darting out to lick his suddenly dry lips. Lambert’s frown deepens. 

“And?”

His question is met with a pointed eye roll from Aiden. 

“And… wolves return to their dens for winter, don’t they? I was just… enjoying the last few weeks in your company before you leave and never come back.”

As the final piece of the puzzle slots into place, understanding dawns on Lambert. He pulls away from Aiden and the small whimper the loss of contact triggers does not go unnoticed. Something old and fragile aches in Lambert’s chest as the meaning of Aiden’s words sink in. Aiden isn’t just worried about being separated from Lambert for a few months, but he’s worried that Lambert will never come back.The wolf links his fingers with his Cat’s, squeezing softly as he leans into Aiden’s space and rubs his bearded cheek against Aiden’s jawline. The latter quickly melts under the soft ministrations, the soft content rumble deepening into a continuous purr as Lambert nuzzles the crook of Aiden’s neck. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” 

“Yeah, right,” Aiden snorts in response, “cause you’re so good with feelings and shit.”

“Not everyone’s a sappy sentimental bitch like you are,” Lambert teases gently, earning himself a half-hearted slap up the back of the head. “I don’t have to go back to Kaer Morhen this winter.”

Aiden tenses, his soft purring stopping abruptly as he takes in Lambert’s words. Lambert continues to rub his cheek against Aiden’s jaw, his neck, his cheek… wherever he can reach, the action meant to soothe the brewing storm in Aiden’s mind.

“It’s your home,” Aiden offers weakly, “I don’t want… I… it’s your home.” 

“I can send a letter to the old man. Let him know I’m alive. We could find a den somewhere else… an attic somewhere, or an abandoned castle.” Lambert nuzzles the spot right behind Aiden’s ear, earning a pleased hum from the Cat. “Or you could come with me.”

“Sure. Cause that’s gonna end well…” 

“That’s settled then. I’m spending winter with you.”

Aiden pushes Lambert away, their eyes meeting once again but this time, Aiden searches for any trace of a lie in Lambert’s amber gaze. He finds none, because Lambert is one hundred percent honest in his offer. He would ditch Vesemir, Geralt and Eskel for a year to spend it with Aiden… and the thought should scare him more than it does, truthfully. He’s only known the Cat for a few months, and yet… well, maybe Lambert was dreading the winter as well. How about that? It’s not like he felt equally anxious about leaving Aiden, it’s just… fuck off. 

“You mean that?” 

“Mhm. Fair warning… I hate the cold. If I’m spending the winter with you, you’ll have to find a way to keep me warm or I will bite your head off.” 

In Aiden’s defence, he does keep Lambert warm all winter long. Their cuddling finally turns into something more, and from the moment Lambert and Aiden cross that fateful line there is no going back. Aiden becomes insatiable, always seeking Lambert’s body in some shape or form, never letting the wolf out of his sight again.  Lambert may have been apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together, but it turns out that all his worries were for nothing. Turns out Cat witchers are still crazy, and feral, and mercurial… a tad possessive as well, something Lambert doesn’t hate... but they’re also the cuddliest sons of bitches on the Continent. 

Lambert can live with that, he thinks. 

Request a prompt.

[candycityy]

Hii, Candy! For the Drabble Challenge, 12 and 19 😊

(You can also read this on AO3!)

Newlywed bliss, Levi decides, is sort of like a bubble. Or a vacuum, pick your metaphor.

You get so caught up in the sheer wonder of the whole situation, of shared touches and delirious smiles and and waking up with the love of your life sprawled unglamourously beside you, open-mouthed and drooling and just thoroughly adorable, and your heart swells and you can't think and you forget that the world hasn't stopped spinning on its axis for you and you alone.

In other words, Levi pleads insanity.

So when Petra walks into the drawing room one day with a frozen look on her face, one that's equal parts terror and bewilderment and something else that he can't quite discern, he doesn't know what to think. And then she says it.

"Levi," she says, "I'm pregnant."

Just two words, and his world is upended. He think Petra says something after, but he doesn't hear her; blood roars in his ears, his breath is stuck in his throat, and for the first time in his life, he finds himself shocked into utter silence.

And he realises, that third emotion in her face that he hadn't recognised earlier: it's happiness. A wild, fierce joy, a bewildered and terrified joy, but a joy nonetheless.

His head spins, and he feels, incomprehensibly, the urge to lie down. "Pregnant," he echoes. His voice is hoarse, ragged. "Petra, that's..."

He trails off. He doesn't know what to say. Incredible? Ridiculous? Impossible? Petra seems to recognise the tumult in his thoughts, though, because her expression shifts into a kind of defensive stubborness. As if by instinct, her arms curl over her still-flat abdomen, protective.

"Look," she begins, "I know we hadn't planned on this so early, but if you're thinking of—"

"No," he says. His voice is harsh, decisive, and he takes a small step towards her. "I'm not. Petra, I'm sorry, I was just...surprised. I wouldn't...ask you to hurt it. I would never."

She swallows. Her gaze searching, tentative. "Then...you're okay? You're not mad? Or upset?"

"I don't know how I feel," he says honestly. "I don't know shit about being a parent. Maybe I'll screw it all up, I don't know that either. And I'll be real, this is fucking terrifying." Petra laughs. The sound is like broken glass.

"But," he takes a step towards her, "I know I'll try my damned hardest to protect it. Give it a good life. I mean..." His eyes never move away from her stomach. "It's our baby."

His voice cracks on the two words, and that's all she needs. She almost falls into him, sobbing and laughing all at the same time. "Levi, I'm so scared," she whispers. She sounds dreamy, incredulous; enchanted. "A baby. We made a baby."

Levi's never been sure of anything; his life has been a maze of choice, of possibilities, of maybes and what-ifs. But as he stares down at Petra, her arms still wrapped around her middle, he feels a surge of something fierce and unfamiliar in his chest, something almost painful in its acuteness, and he knows, without a doubt: he would die for this stirring of life that drifts, still blind to the world, in his wife's womb.

==

The first time he tells someone, it's entirely by accident.

They're all hanging out in the lounge, like most nights; they haven't told Erwin, and Petra reckons it's better to wait a little, just in case. Eld and Auruo are bickering away as usual, and somehow, the topic turns to one of their colleagues, who recently put in a request to switch to the Garrison after his wife became pregnant.

"I mean, I get why," Eld says, his lip curling, "I just don't get how. Sitting around on the walls, getting drunk and playing cards all day...I'll never understand."

"Your fiancée might like that, though, wouldn't she," Auruo taunts. The other man rolls his eyes.

"Aria knows I'll never leave the Survey Corps. I plan to live till the ripe old age of seventy and die in a blaze of glory as Supreme Commander, thank you very much."

"Supreme Commander isn't even a title, you ass," Gunther goes from across the room, looking up from his book. "But pregnancy...that's a whole lot of responsibility, isn't it? How do you just go off and risk your life every day, with a kid waiting at home for you?"

Levi's stomach churns suddenly, his dinner threatening to make a reappearance, and his face suddenly feels very hot. He fights to keep his expression carefully blank, but Petra's eyes catch his, narrowing with concern.

"And that's how you ruin a life. Congratulations," Auruo concludes wisely.

"Hey," Petra retorts sharply, "that's not true. Being a dad doesn't mean your life ends, you know. You can still be a soldier, and fight, and everything."

Auruo leers at her. "It's different for you, Pet. Mothers have options...but fathers, they gotta provide for their families, woman. Dying...leaving your wife and kid to fend for themselves...it's not done." Eld and Gunther nod agreement, and Petra makes a face, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, 'sexist cows'.

Levi doesn't know what possesses him in that instant. His throat is dry, and he's so lightheaded he feels numb, almost disembodied. He stands up abruptly, and announces, "Petra and I are expecting."

The silence that follows is palpable, thick enough to choke on. He can feel Petra's eyes as Auruo begins to sputter apologies and retractions—"I only meant—but of course, you wouldn't die and leave your kid alone, captain! You're humanity's strongest, after all! You'd never..."

He's still stammering away when Levi turns on his heel without a word, and walks out of the room.

==

The candle in his room has melted into a stump of wax when Petra finds him, later that night.

"Hey," she says softly. She's changed into her nightgown, and her hair, still damp from the showers, tumbles into the hollow of her collarbone. In the dim light of the candle, she looks pale and fragile; hollowed cheekbones, shadowed eyes.

Something deep in his chest wrenches, and he opens his mouth, only to find that no words come out. But she seems to understand his expression; of course she does, she always does.

She walks over to the window, where he stands, staring out of the window, and wraps her arms around his back. They're so nearly the same height that it's a comfortable position for them, her face pressed into his shoulder, her hair brushing the curve of his cheek. They stay there for a few moments in a comfortable silence, just relishing in the wordless companionship.

Petra isn't a patient person by nature. But by now, she knows him; knows how the thoughts whirl insistently in his mind at the height of his emotion, unwilling to settle into the dust. So she waits, her warm breath reassuring on his neck, her heartbeat strong against his back.

He finally exhales. "Do you think they were right?" he asks. The words sound unnaturally loud in the silence of the night. When she doesn't reply immediately, he goes on, "I could...you know. I could join the Garrison, too, or the Military Police. Or leave the military. I could do other things. Erwin would understand, he'd help—"

"No." The word cuts through the room. Gently but firmly, Petra turns him around to face her. The moonlight casts her in silver, turning her into something luminous, ethereal—almost otherworldly.

"Levi, I love you more than anything in this stupid world." Her expression is fierce, intent. "And I won't let you do that. You belong here, in the Survey Corps. And I do, too."

"But just say—"

"I'm not fragile, Levi," she shoots back, her eyes burning with a familiar fire. "Sure, maybe I'm not strong the way you are, but I'm strong enough. I'm not saying I'd be okay if you died—of course I wouldn't—but I'd survive, and I'd keep our child alive, too. And I believe you'd do the same."

Something breaks in him, then, like the shattering of a glass, and he looks up. Petra is glaring at him with those burning eyes, and in that moment, she's so alive and beautiful, the love of his life, the mother of his unborn child. The realisation makes him stagger. He's never felt so complete; he's never had so much to lose.

Feeling as though the weight of the world sits on his shoulders, he nods.

Petra's answering smile is a promise, golden and honeyed and full of light. She draws him in tighter.

"Trust me," she whispers. Her presence is warm, solid, comforting. "Everything will be all right."

Drabble challenge!

[itsmoonphobic]

Dream SMP characters and my interpretation of them:

-Techno: The smell of Dirt and soil,blood,wine and old books. Silk pillowcases,golden jewelry,mosaics,stained fingertips, grand staircases,scented candles,storyteller,lazy smiles, secretive,slow dancing,sad resting face,elegant language,cold weather,confident,doubts himself,philosophy, messy braids,glowdust flakes, poetry,graceful movements,neat and cursive handwriting, greek mythology, oriental music,pale skin,libraries,sarcasm, long-lasting friendships,quotes,frosted windows,layering clothes, know-it-all,rude but endearing,pile of papers,cherry blossoms,muted colors,overthinks everything,devotion,logical thinking,insomniac,scattered mind,castle walls,laid back,tired eyes,long debates,show over tell,lingering touches,rulebreaker, dirty palms,old movies freezing feet,old habits,late nights studying,early riser,skips meals,eye bags,tea with milk,velvet jackets,dimly lit by streetlights,ancient wood floors,flowy curtains,art museums, gravely morning voice,echos in the middle of nowhere,sleepy whispers,nostalgia everywhere,red lipstick stains,loves animal more than people,calm and quiet, healing stones,parked car conversations,sharp jaw,obsessed with memes,violins,doves, doves,floats instead of walks,unbroken promises,twisting and winding hair around fingers,nail biting, repeating phrases,mist secret scars,rumors,always wearing earphones,metaphorical, emotions fragile as a flower, speaks with his eyes,fluttery eyelashes,dog lover,forehead kisses,calligraphy,pretty knives,cares too much,lopsided grins,messy desks,talks for hours no,rolling his eyes all the time,powerful strides,wants to conquer the world,slender hands,good grades, dusty book covers,wax stamped envelopes,vintage mirrors

-Phil: The smell of cold air,pine trees and sandalwood.Dead birds and mothballs,stops on the sidewalk to make sure nobody is left behind,morning person,herbal teas,crows,eats breakfast outside,constellations,family portraits on walls, chirping and whistling,crime documentaries,cool father figure, graveyards,weeping angels,meteor shower,many friends but only a single close one,contagious laugh,fragile teacups,fog, early mornings,fuzzy blankets,springs of thyme,bare feet, empty streets,rosemary stems,flickering lanterns,burnt wood bowls,feather collector,antique silverware,a sky full of stars, skylights,torn pages,overstuffed bookshelves,makes you feel comfortable whenever you talk to him,organized,full of ideas, believes in magic,gives the best advice,lost in his own way, warm hugs,scrapbooks and bullet journals,old cars,soft features,daydreaming,bright eyes,getting lost in the woods,moonlight,self knitted sweaters, stargazing on tailgates,the universe,hand in hand with wandering hearts, garage sales,questioning life but feeling at peace,attic bedrooms and haylofts,pursuing science and desiring art, photo albums,hopeless romantic,dark chocolate,open windows and quirky morning rituals,actually knows what brunch is, succulents,a kind-hearted loner,free-spirit,plaid button-ups, always ready to let you rant,abandons projects quickly, complicated past,bold moves,goes with the flow,aims for things that seem unachievable,lives in extremes,knowing smiles,constantly busy with something new,soft touches,love at first sight,naps alot,subsequent tea stains,sparkly eyes, abandoned barns,handwritten notes,feather quills,fascination with the sky,whispering secrets to the wind,great with kids, takes a backpack everywhere,hugs trees,big winter coats,road trips,knows tons of medical info,bites his nails,comforting presence,lost souls,city lights from a high rise

-Wilbur: The smell of fire,smoke,caramel and coffee. Stands up for people who can't for themselves,emotional wreck,loves his family too much but still yells at them,soft turtlenecks,sits in different spots every time he eats dinner,chipped nailpolish, songwriter,probably depressed,wakes up in the middle of the night to write down random thoughts,heartbroken teenager songs,dark psychology and deep meanings,globes and maps, wants to travel and make lots of memories,curls of steam, earbuds in,spattered ink,good singer,keeps to himself,old music and dusty vinyl,the type of person that you could stare at for hours,loud laugh,ride or die,dreams about his future, believes in fresh starts and new beginnings, messy and tangled hair,summer nights,soft features,deep thinker and dimples, having crushes,musicals and theater, half finished diaries and laptop stickers,mixtapes,quirky love notes, secretly kinda insane,always ready for coffee,thrift shops, beachy waves, bonfires,probably drives too fast,cutoff jeans, cream and sugar,nude colors,always creating new problems for himself, fights for equality,long debates and tired eyes, tapping a rhythm and humming quietly,spends all his time on social media,beanie galore,trench coats,foggy glasses,cozy sweaters, dancing around his room to the Beatles,looking out the window when the sun is setting,birkenstocks,guitar strumming on a warm summer evening,bells and chimes,subtle sadness, the feeling of diving into a deep pool,perfect proportions,too many playlists,holding hands,pretty boy,sew on patches and bomber jackets,candid photos,warm sun on bare skin,dancing silhouettes on the sunsets,beach walks at midnight,messy but cozy room,different mood every minute,singing his favorite song at the top of his lungs,sharp grins,haunted houses, paranormal stuff,late night snack runs with friends,explores creeks and lakes,double checks everything he does,walking through hot sand,backyard campfires,acoustic songs,photo booths,train platforms at night,s'mores,sun bleached arbors

-Tommy: The smell of plastic,fresh cut grass and musk. Does the bare minimum at School,unless genuinely interested in a topic,doodles on the side of his paper,movie marathons,empty coca cola bottles everywhere,rope swings,glossy nailpolish,lots of energy,life of the party, kidcore ,can always make you laugh,loves photography,eyestrain and bright colors,bruised knees and untied shoelaces,paperballs in class,brand new red converse,denim jackets,pins and clips,chalk drawings in the middle of the road,every text contains emojis, garden sprinklers,graffiti,wreck this journal,vibrant dyed hair, scribbles and highlighter pens,carnivals,involed in many things, watermelon flavored anything,loves to climb trees,screaming on playgrounds,oversized t-shirts,stained glass windows, anklets,skateboards and hula hoops,milkshakes on the front porch,social butterfly,always in a hurry,pinkie promises,tangled headphones,melted crayons and gummy bears,bean bags and hummingbirds,spinning around till he gets dizzy,chaotic and crazy yet so fun to be around,rushing into things too quickly, roller coasters and derbies,doesn't get knocked back by criticism,cans of fizzy drinks and neon lights,skips school,tye dye shirts and nitendo games,impulse and class clown,sticks stickers on stranger's things,pickpockets his close friends,has to carry a walkie-talkie around with him at all times,sleepovers and sneaking out through windows,pockets full of change and random buttons,stands out in crowds and makes friends easily, pretends to be fearless but is scared of the littlest things,trips and rips his jeans daily,uno cards,social butterfly,music discs, fights with his family but would actually kill for them,broken handwriting,flannels and jerseys around his waist

-Tubbo: The smell of honey,fresh bread and citrus. Lowkey soft, hugging a teddy bear,pressed flowers,eats alot of bread,big hoodies,fairy lights and blanket forts,prank calls while holding in your laughter,beeswax candles,sidewalk dandelions,gentle cuddles on the couch,pastel yellow and cute doodles,flower crowns and diasy chains,plays the ukulele,fascinated by bees and supports local coffee shops,outdoorsy sunshine addict, sparklers and iced lemonade,festivals with fireworks and fireflies in mason jars,homework done as soon as its assigned, watercolor paintings,giggling uncontrollably,long hugs and lazy cartoon afternoons,park dates and forehead kisses,cutting pants into shorts,messy wild hair and pear lollipops,has tiny random braids decorated with golden yarn,hearing the crinkle of leaves underfoot,suprise piggy back rides,adult swim shows and lip gloss stains,being goofy without meaning to,bounces in his step and stops to pet stray animals,baked bread and washi tape bracelets,bike rides and summer picnics,rolling down a hill in the spring and bringing home grass stains on his jeans, waving at someone across a crowded room,spontaneous hang outs and self made clay rings,sitting in the warm sunlit grass on early spring mornings,rock painting and hiding them for other people to find,picking apples from trees but needing to be held up in order to reach one

-Ranboo: The smell of peppermint tea,denim and rain. Is there for everyone but never themselves,regrets things they said but can never find the nerves to apologize,clumps of mascara and winged eyeliner,writes down every tiny thing in notebooks, loves children and their friends,forgetting that they already grabbed a waterbottle,drawing on condensation windows,rainy days and puddles,always on the edge of a breakdown,elevator music and long limbs,old tape recordings and cassettes,moss covered ruins and greenhouses,wanting to be in multiple places at the same time,different colored socks,long hugs and head pats,reading under the covers,collages and spray paint,record players and walks alone through the woods,loves playing by creeks and collecting stones,always wondering and worrying about things they shouldn't,vivid dreams and leather jackets, silver necklaces and piercings,snoozing their alarm clock, seeing the moon in the early morning,blurry photographs and windswept hair,downpours and comfortable silence,wrapping gifts and handing them over with shaking hands,sitting on a rooftop and spontaneous plans,lofi sounds and long train roads,deja vu moments,randomly dissapears and sipping tea, cold concrete and city parks,tickets and brochures from places they visited,dusty parchment and desperately trying to be a good person,wikipedia articles and lace-up boots,often loses track of time while talking to people they love,sings to the radio and avoids conflict if possible,can't sit still for five minutes, perpetually in an emo phase and knows more than they let on, hawaiian shirts,henna tattoos and sparkling water,sleeping in complete darkness and the relief of falling into bed,midnight thunderstorms and anticipation for the coming day,lucky charms and the sound of rain hitting the windows

-Dream: The smell of apples,eucalyptus,vanilla and green tea. Freckles and smiley faces,glow sticks and wrinkled linen, probably a really good singer,wild laughter and jellyfish, popular,tanned skin and cruising with the top down,doesn't take shit from anyone,analytical and self assured,beachy waves and dreamy sunsets,running barefoot,likes being active and on the go at all times,sassy and dramatic as fuck,dream catchers and hammocks,glow in the dark stickers on his phonecase, feisty and a sense of danger,brought home stray cats when he was a child,falling in love with strangers,waking up early and continue laying on the bed,golden hours and 4pm naps,soft aching hands burried in messy hair,center of attention,static and heavy breathing,old percy jackson books under the bed, throwing pebbles at the closed windows of his friends' room, retro diners at 2am,adrenaline junkie and nighttime thriver,will go insane if cooped up indoors for too long,deadlines till last minute,oversleeping and coming home past midnight,naturally a really good surfer,hugs from behind and neck kisses,checking the fridge at 1am,ice cream in bed and cat cuddles,always picks up over facetime

Might make more parts for some of the other guys :)

[aster-aspera]

The bitter end

Written with @despite-everything-exe

Warnings: major character death

Relationships: platonic DRLAMP (anxceit? maybe)

"It's coming," Patton whispered, barely audible as he looked on in fear. Everything was slow- it had been for years now, but it was the slowest it had even been yet. He could sense it, could feel the sand running out of the hourglass, and the sand was almost gone.

They all knew it was coming. Hell, even Thomas himself had been expecting it, but that didn't make it any less sad. Patton lifted his head up, looking at Roman with already tearful eyes to take his hand tightly. "There can't be much time left- ten minutes perhaps," he whispered, audibly shaky and filled with fear. Now was not a time to hide his emotions.

Truthfully, it hadn't ever been, and Patton scorned his younger self. Not that he could help it now.

Roman squeezed back, trying and failing to hide his tears. He couldn't break now, he needed to be strong. He was a prince, brave even in the face of adversity, even facing the end of all he knew and loved. Even though he knew that the bravery was a lie.

"We should find the others then," he said, standing up to gently tug Patton along, heading to everyone's individual rooms. He could feel the familiar feeling of dread rise up in his stomach, curl around his lungs and slowly cut off his breathing. He knocked on Logan's door.

The second Logan came out, Patton wrapped him tightly in his arms, body shaking with silent sobs as a mixture of death and fear squeezed at his lungs. "It's happening," he whispered in his ear, urgency, sadness, and panic curdling together in his voice.

Logan, ever-eloquent as he was, was at a loss for words. "Oh," he whispered, voice falling apart already.

Everything was beginning to feel cold and grey, like the forgotten stone of a weathered grave, no loved ones left alive to lie flowers or mourn.

Roman could feel himself breaking, fear and regret and the overwhelming anticipation of losing his family crashing through him like a tidal wave. A door creaked open from across the hall and he turned to see Virgil, exhausted from his constant worrying, staring at them with a resigned and hopeless expression. "It's happening, isn't it?" He asked, voice already choked up and breaking.

Logan was the only able to nod in confirmation, as Roman looked away at the ground, not wanting to face the others, and Patton had his face buried in Logan's chest.

Virgil used his depleted energy to painstakingly summon the other two sides. There might still be unresolved arguments between them, and unforgiven fights, but the most unforgivable action of all would be to let them die alone.

"What's goi-" Remus started, stopping dead still as soon as he saw the forlorn and empty look in Virgil's eyes. "Oh," he mumbled, just like Logan. Virgil could feel the life seeping out of him- see him turning grey. Janus said nothing, only moving to grip Remus' hand as fear and early onset grief rose in his chest, grabbing his lungs with a desperation that knocked all of the air from his body.

"Let's head to the commons," Patton rasped. He didn't want to spend his dying moments in a dark hallway. Dark holes were where you were supposed to go after you died, not beforehand. You were supposed to die with those you loved.

Well now, they could all die together. The worst kind of party.

They all shuffled to the common room together, a miserable parade heading towards their own funeral. Janus looked around, at the people he had spent his whole life with, the people he considered family. He remembered birthdays and Christmases, movie nights and tight hugs. None of them even felt real now.

He felt his heart sink, his chest feeling like an empty chasm as he yearned for something unidentifiable. They had all known the end was coming, but being face to face with it was a whole different story.

They weren't brave, they weren't happy, and they weren't calm. Panic, sadness, and despair gripped every particle in the air, clinging to their skin as they waited for their death in the cold common room.

Janus noticed Virgil's hand balled up tight in his sleeve, his whole body shaking. He stepped closer to him, Remus following along and gently took Virgil's hand in his, prying open his tightly clenched fist. "Virgil..." He started, a hundred things he wanted to say clamouring for space in his head. Apologies, accusations, memories- there was so much left unsaid between them, and he had no time to fix it.

If only they'd been less stubborn.

Suddenly, Virgil flung his arms around Janus, clinging to him tightly like it was the last time he'd ever get to, only it wasn't a metaphor. "I love you," he sobbed, tears soaking through Janus' outfit and pouring from Virgil's eyes faster than rain in a storm. "I'm so sorry, thank you for everything, and I love you so, so much," he said, voice barely distinguishable beyond the wavering sobs.

He removed his face from Janus' chest to look at the others. "Join us?" he croaked, a fragile sound echoing in the silent grave of a room. At least this way they could all go out together, holding eachother until the bitter end.

Roman nearly fell into their arms, Janus curling an arm around him to keep him steady as Remus took one of his hands, trying to communicate so many things to his brother. He didn't know how to say any of it out loud, so he hoped Roman would understand. Logan nodded and pulled Patton into their little huddle, letting the others wrap their arms around the two of them.

It wasn't particularly comfortable, elbows and shoulders digging into each other at weird angles, everyone pressed just too close for comfort in the cold, dimly lit space. But Logan couldn't imagine a better feeling than all of them together, like this. He wished he had taken more time to enjoy it, to simply spend time with them instead of burying himself in his work.

Regrets seemed a little pointless now- he could feel it all slipping away. Every star in the sky, every fact Thomas had ever learned, the name of every friend. Every moment with the others he'd missed by being too cold and stubborn, fading away. Mistakes he could never amend.

Roman moved a little bit away from Janus to pull his brother into the tightest hug he could- no way was he getting away with merely holding his hand. "I love you. So much," he whispered. "I should've been a better brother, but-" Remus cut him off. "No. None of that. You were perfect."

Regrets, apologies, confessions, and farewells were exchanged in choked-up voices from tear-stained faces. They tied up all the ends they could think of, but of course they were nowhere near a perfect denouement.

Minutes elapsed, sand falling through the glass, fate pulling the time away with its cruel hands, and the reality of the end was imminent.

Thomas' eyes feel shut for the last time and the mindscape went dark, every light switching permanently off. There was barely two minutes left before their world crumbled to dust forever.

"This is it, isn't it?" Roman asked, fear stricken and far from resembling brave or noble. Patton nodded fearfully. "Goodbye, everyone," he choked, recieving a tighter hug from the group and tearful goodbyes in return.

The walls began to crumble, an avalanche that should have been raucous and loud, but everything fell silent.

No noise was made by gasping breaths or falling bricks, and everything began to null.

Their world falling apart around them, they held eachother together in the dark, right until there was nothing.

Right to the bitter end.

[normal-piece-of-shit]

Congrats on the 500! Could you do a Daminette 2 were they’ve been rivals but that just how Damian dealt with his crush. Now worried if you don’t want to! Thank you have a good day!

Thanks! ╰(*´︶`*)╯

Also, how dare you. How dare you make me like this prompt so much that I end up writing almost 2000 words.

Oh, and I may have changed the dialogue a bit to fit the story? And I also may have lost inspiration towards the end? Sorry!

Hope you enjoy!

Whispers flew around the school gym grounds. Even more so than the usual. Something about a certain cinnamon roll that could light up a whole room? Apparently that cinnamon roll would be with their class for a whole day?

Damian was sure that the Gothamites had finally reached the borders of insanity. Who knew how they survived this far with maniacs on the run every other month?

A cinnamon roll attending their class? And it lighting a room? Within Gotham of all places? Pah! He would have laughed if he hadn't been opposed to the idea of laughing!

His thoughts came to a halt as he heard a small, yet intriguing whisper.

“It's the cinnamon roll.” The person had whispered.

In an instant, hushed silence fell upon his class and heads turned to find the ‘cinnamon roll’. Damian would deny that he had been a part of them in this activity.

There. At the entrance. The sight of the famous ‘cinnamon roll’ left him baffled.

It-It was a person?! And cinnamon roll was used in a metaphorical sense?! The Gothamites still hadn't bordered insanity?! She really did light up a room?!

“DODGEBALL! WE'RE PLAYING DODGEBALL!”

We were what?

He'd spaced out?! He, Damian Wayne, had spaced out?! What had Gotham come to?

“DAMIAN’S THE LEADER OF TEAM 1!”

What?! Just how long had he spaced out?!

He didn't get to learn who the second team's leader was- he wouldn't have cared either way. Soon, he'd been pushed forward to select his teammates.

This could do. His eyes surveyed the crowd, looking for the best. His contemplative gaze rested on the ‘Cinnamon Roll’. She held his gaze fiercely. Hm. The Roll had guts, he’d admit. But no, she wouldn't do well. Too small and fragile.

He gave a small, dismissive shake of the head. The Roll’s eyes narrowed and burned with silent rage, as though she could read his thoughts.

He ignored her, of course.

A few minutes was all they needed. The teams had been formed. Team B were merely puny bugs compared to Team A. All of them seemed to realise that as well.

Well, all but one. The Roll’s glare pierced him no matter where he went. She seemed to be confident in her team's success.

He held back a smirk. The Roll had no idea just what she was getting herself in.

**

Marinette's teammates shuffled around, uneasy. Uneasy. Almost as if they had already been defeated. That wouldn't do!

No!

She fully intended to destroy that green-eyed, heartless, monster's whole career! And enjoy it at that!

“Listen up, you good for everything folks!” They turned to her. “Don't you despise feeling weak? Don't you want to feel the triumph that comes along when you defeat those that look down on you?!”

Her team looked at each other uncertainly. But not all! Some had contemplative looks. She was getting somewhere with this!

“Do you forget how Royalty should carry themselves?! Rise! I shall lead you to victory! The war shall end with their beheading!”

There was a pause.

“I-” Marinette looked at them nervously. “I was just kidding, of course.” Suspicious glances were thrown her way.

Ignoring the glances, she pointed at one of her teammates.

“You. Felix, Adrien’s cousin who's here for some reason.” She said with narrowed eyes. He grumbled under his breath. “I know you've got some tricks up your sleeve, use them!”

She turned to her other two teammates, one a blonde, long braided female and the other a brunette Male.

“You two, Allegra and Claude.” They stood straight. “You've got charm, distract them with it!” They gave a salute, hiding mischievous smiles.

“Allan! We need your music, make it epic, it'll catch them off guard! Felix will help you do it without getting caught.”

And just like that, she’d finished planning their victory. They wouldn't mind if she laughed an evil laugh would they?

**

One.

There was only one player left in both teams. Within one minute. AND THAT EPIC BACKGROUND MUSIC KEPT PLAYING.

Damian looked at the tiny Roll. The tiny Roll that had used her teammates unrelated to sports characteristics to defeat almost all of his team.

This was no longer about losing. He knew now. It was war. He'd set off the bomb and now he'd have to turn it off.

The gym grounds were dealt silent. Damian moved. The Roll moved.

The bell rang.

Groans flew from all directions. The Roll came up to him and held out a hand, a pleasant smile that hid silent threats on her face.

“Good game.” She said. “Never think of me as tiny ever again.” She whispered, her threat being loud and clear. He hesitantly shook her hand before giving her a glare.

“Good game.” He grit out. “Your hand is just as tiny as you.” He took his leave.

And as he did so, he'd established one certain thing. They were now, official rivals in all things.

**

Rivals for a week. That's how long the rivalry lasted.

Yes, Damian did notice their rivalry dissolving gradually. The two of them were seeing less of each other by the day and the dates and sharp jabs thrown were rare. The only thing that caught him off guard, were the new...emotions that came with.

He...He missed their old rivalry. And her sharp jabs. And her smug smirks. And how her tiny nose scrunched when she'd lose. And how her eyes would just shine- so bright when she'd win. And-

He really had to get rid of this new feeling.

Soon.

“-And Marinette will be paired with Damian-” He slammed his head against the desk. The world really was out to get him.

**

Paired with the demon. Paired with the demon. Paired with the demon. The kind of cute demon. Pairedwiththekindofcutedemon

Wait. No.

Not cute.

Evil.

Get your morals together, Marinette! He is not cute! He called you tiny! He's evil incarnate!

Well, on the bright side, she did miss his intolerable company. With no one to challenge and bring shame upon for losing, her days seemed...boring .

She even missed his remarks of her height! That said a lot.

Now that she thought about it, she even missed his annoying scowl! And how his eyes would twinkle with triumph and his adorable glare!

“We’re going to your place for this project, Tiny Roll.”

She'd even started hallucinating his presence!

The illusion Damian brought up his hand and-

Hit her head lightly.

Oh. It was real.

**

Damian stood outside the apartment that Tiny Roll had told him to come to.

His hands hovered above the door bell. Why was hesitating? Why wasn't he ringing the bell?

The door opened, revealing a sleepy Marinette.

“Did it have to be at this time of the hour?” She asked the stunned Damian.

“Its 1 pm.” He stated, eyes narrowing. “How did you know I was out here?”

“1 pm is too early during weekends.” She yawned. “Also, I could sense your hate for me from a mile away. You've been talking out loud.” She gestured for him to enter. He moved inside, not a tiny bit ready for what he saw.

Pink.

The whole place was pink. Ok, maybe not entirely. There were white and black too, but so much pink.

“Eh, your eyes will get used to it.”

He turned towards her, for a moment forgetting her presence while he had been lost in the pink.

“I’m making coffee, want some?” She didn't stay for an answer, leaving immediately.

He sat on the sofa. Surrounded with the pink walls. He shuddered at the pink sight.

**

“You've been quiet.” Marinette said, sounding accusing. “What are you planning?”

He stared at her, contemplating how to explain what he was secretly planning, probably. She raised an eyebrow.

“...I don't hate you.”

Wait, what?

“I think.”

There it was!

She rolled her eyes. Why had that given her momentary relief? “You hesitated. For about 10 minutes too!” She patted his head, “Of course you hate me!”

“I don't hate you!”

“You do!”

“No, I don't!”

They held each others gaze, both too stubborn to back down.

“Prove it.” She said softly. “Prove you don't hate me.”

He stiffened. A contemplative silence fell upon them.

What was taking him so long? He'd been so sure just a second ago! She wanted him to say something! She didn't want to be left alone with her thoughts. Not now. Not when the answer was so obvious. Not when it...hurt so much.

“There's no way I’d hate you.” He said, stepping closer. “No. If I'd hated you, I'd have hated the sight of your smile.” He stopped right in front of her.

Why was her heart beating so fast?

“I'd have hated how your eyes would always shine.”

When did he notice such things? Why did he notice such things?

“I’d have hated seeing you every day.”

And just why did his words make her happy?

“Prove it, you said?” He leaned closer, their faces inches apart, as he brushed aside stray strands of her hair. “I never did back down from your challenges.” He murmured before kissing her-

Cheek.

Oh god. He kissed her cheek. And she let him!

She pushed him away, desperately trying to hide her blush.

“JUST WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO DO THAT?” And who gave you the right to enjoy what he did?

“Well,” He started, having the decency to sound embarrassed. “You did tell me to ‘Prove it’?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Wait. Are you blush-” She didn't let him complete his sentence. She pulled him closer and placed a kiss on his cheek.

“THERE! NOW WE'RE EVEN!”

Both of them blushed so red, you could basically call them tomatoes.

“We...still have to do our project.” She said, her voice tiny.

“Oh. ThE pRojeCt. YeS.” He responded, his voice changing tones every letter. He coughed. “Let's get back to that.”

She nodded, unconsciously noticing that he was relatively small in height.

She hid a grin. Maybe him proving her wrong did have perks other than making her melt into a puddle.

[recycledcactus]

c!Wilbur & Eight by Sleeping At Last analogy

because apparently c!Wilbur was based off that song? Link here

!!!!Okay so this is not all in canonical order. It’s just based on every lyric/line!!!!

Most of it is during the Pogtopia arc and Wilbur insanity arc though.

For @soot-spots I hope you like it. It’s written very weirdly and not like a regular analogy so bear with me here:

Lyrics are in italics like this [My analogies are bolder and in brackets like this]

I remember the minute It was like a switch was flipped I was just a kid who grew up strong enough To pick this armor up And suddenly it fit

[I think here, during the unknown of time before L’Manburg and after his childhood, Wilbur is thinking about his past with Philza. How Philza ‘raised’ him, AKA was an absent parent half the time. He knew how to survive, yes, and he knew Phil was somewhat proud of him. But Wilbur always felt he needed to prove himself. Techno constantly had Phil’s attention, so Wilbur wanted some for himself. He forced the metaphorical armour to fit. He forced himself to be responsible and strong. To act like he knows what he’s doing. People believed him, they followed him, so maybe the armour could fit.]

God, that was so long ago, long ago, long ago I was little, I was weak and perfectly naive And I grew up too quick

[I’m thinking this is probably in Pogtopia. Wilbur reflects on his past self and laughs. How naive could he have been? Thinking if he started a nation, Phil would pay attention to him? He was so stupid. So needy. Phil never cared. He forced himself to be responsible and grow up and prove himself that he didn’t take the time to be a child. And now look where he is, in a ravine, without his home, country, or people. Just Tommy. (Tommy, who also grew up far too quick. Tommy who should still be growing up and not exiled in a ravine separated from his best friend).]

Now you won't see all that I have to lose And all I've lost in the fight to protect it I won't let you in, I swore never again I can't afford, no, I refuse to be rejected

[(Pogtopia arc). He stops writing letters to Phil. He stops ranting on and on, filling up the pages with messy scrawl, about his victories, his losses, his thoughts and feelings. He stops pouring his heart out in these letters and telling Phil about everything he’s done. He rarely gets replies and when he does, they’re always short and blunt. His heart can’t take how little his father cares anymore, so he stops all contact.]

I want to break these bones 'til they're better I want to break them right and feel alive You were wrong, you were wrong, you were wrong My healing needed more than time

[(Pogtopia arc). Tommy tried desperately to encourage his brother and tell him that things would work out, that Wilbur could be better with more time. But Wilbur could only lash out and yell, punching walls and pacing wildly and tearing at his hair until small indents were carved into the floor of Pogtopia. He yelled at Tommy, screamed and berated him. And for what? Tommy was a kid. Tommy was forced into this. Tommy was trying to help. Wilbur can’t take back those words now. He couldn’t do anything. Nothing was enough. Nothing could bring him out of his head. He’d lost. It’s over. There’s nothing left, there’s— he’s—]

When I see fragile things, helpless things, broken things I see the familiar I was little, I was weak, I was perfect, too Now I'm a broken mirror

[(Pogtopia arc). Wilbur looks at himself in a mirror and doesn’t even recognize himself. The bags under his eyes are too big and his hair is too matted. There’s dirt cakes on parts of his coat and his shirt is covered in patches to keep it together. But he thinks maybe he’s stronger. He’s learned from his old self. He used to get too attached to people and things only to be betrayed and thrown out of his own country. He was weak. But now that he had nothing, he was stronger than ever, right? They say a man with nothing to lose can do anything he wants, right? There can’t be a harsher consequence than being exiled and thrown out of the country you built. Wilbur can do what he wants. He looks into Tommy’s eyes and sees a reflection of himself––broken, too. Broken and lost. But not the same. Tommy is so much stronger than him and maybe that does make him mad.]

But I can't let you see all that I have to lose All I've lost in the fight to protect it I can't let you in, I swore never again I can't afford to let myself be blindsided

[(Pogtopia arc). He puts on an air of self-confidence and (albeit grim) cheeriness for Tommy. He can’t show his little brother that he has no hope. He can’t show him he’s truly planning on blowing up L’Manburg and that it’s not just ‘Plan Bomb’. He can’t bring himself to talk to Tommy about how shitty things are for him because he knows Tommy has it shittier. Tommy is 16 and scared and traumatized and is holding himself up for his brother & Tubbo. He doesn’t need more problems to worry about. Wilbur smiles only to walk away and break down. He covers up how hopeless he feels and how far gone he thinks he is. He offers up plans of taking his country back just to see Tommy’s eyes light up. But he can’t help but know L’Manburg will all be blown up. He can’t get distracted from doing that because it’s the one thing that might make this pain go away.]

I'm standing guard, I'm falling apart And all I want is to trust you Show me how to lay my sword down For long enough to let you through

[(Pogtopia arc). Wilbur needs Tommy or Phil or hell, even Techno. He just needs someone. Someone to snap him from his intrusive mind. His thoughts that run rampant and scream at him to destroy everything. His plan that is both self-destructive and literally destructive that will leave everyone he cares about in shambles.

But he has no one. He can’t speak to Tommy without further scaring or hurting the boy. He refuses to write to Phil because he doesn’t even care (he wouldn’t come running to save his ‘son’ from himself). And Techno only supports the idea of destroying L’Manburg——he wouldn’t bother helping Wilbur with his problems.

Wilbur doesn’t know how to make the first move and let his guard down. (His mind briefly flashes to Eret and how much he used to trust the man. It was thrown away as soon as the Dream Team walked out of those walls though). That’s one of his last mistakes.]

Here I am, pry me open What do you want to know? I'm just a kid who grew up scared enough To hold the door shut And bury my innocence But here's a map, here's a shovel

[(At the beginning of L’Manburg and the drug van). This symbolizes Wilbur starting L’Manburg——starting a country from nothing but a van, his brother, and a crazy dream. He left his small childhood home behind––finally being able to breath in relief when he doesn’t have to relive all the times he and Phil had yelling matches when he walks through the kitchen, or to feel a bitter sadness remembering Tommy waking up screaming from nightmares and being the only one to console him whenever he passed the blond’s room. He can finally push the past behind and open up to people he cares about and trusts–– his friends and citizens.]

Here's my Achilles' heel

[(During L’Manburg when it was still a new country and they still wore soldier outfits). He soon realizes that L’Maburg is more than a country. It’s his home. It’s his family. His weakness. He cares about it because it’s the only place he could ever truly call his own. A small, nagging part of his brain whispers to him that if he’s not careful, it could be his downfall. He pays no mind though, because that seems so unlikely. He’s happier than he’s ever been and he won’t let intrusive thoughts ruin in]

I'm all in, palms out I'm at your mercy now and I'm ready to begin I am strong, I am strong, I am strong enough to let you in

[(Pogtopia arc). It dawns on Wilbur that L’Manburg has not been his downfall yet. Sure, he’s exiled, but he always imagined his downfall would be dying for his country. His country still lives though and he is not dead. Instead, the game is still on. His Achilles heel has not yet been struck. So maybe L’Maburg was not his Achilles heel all along? With that belief, Wilbur can’t help but still want L’Manburg back. He can’t push L’Manburg away when he’s trying so hard to get it back. He thinks maybe if he becomes president again and gets rid of Schlatt, his downfall would not come. He would be safe.]

I'ma shake the ground with all my might And I will pull my whole heart up to the surface For the innocent, for the vulnerable And I'll show up on the front lines with a purpose

[(Pogtopia/insanity arc). There’s still a possibility of L’Maburg being the end to Wilbur. With plans of war and overthrowing Schlatt, the thought is more prominent than ever. While Wilbur goes mad in Pogtopia, he’s quickly realizing that L’Manburg can’t be his Achilles heel if there is no L’Manburg. If he gets rid of L’Manburg, there will be no other problems. His symphony won’t be finished and therefore his Achilles heel will be protected.]

And I'll give all I have, I'll give my blood, give my sweat

[Oh but... but what if he is his own demise? L’Manburg was his. His dream. His home. He pushed everyone away for L’Manburg. He ignored his son, his brother, his best friend. Would it not make sense if he fell too? Should he not perish too? To let his brother rest? He knows the way they look at him——like he’s unstable, untrustworthy. Which he is. And Tommy... Tommy who still trusts him, who still looks at him like he could do no wrong, like he’s still a fearless leader. (He catches his small flinches though, the way he sometimes bites his tongue and hesitates before blurting out his words loudly, like usual). No matter how many times Wilbur hurts Tommy and tears him down, he’s always back——loyal and unwavering. Tommy did not deserve this. Tommy should be free. Wilbur cannot live in a world knowing Tommy is hurt because of him. Wilbur cannot see Tommy free with knowing what happened daily in that stupid, sold ravine. Wilbur cannot live and be anything to Tommy.]

An ocean of tears will spill for what is broken I'm shattered porcelain, glued back together again Invincible like I've never been

[Wilbur watches the leader who took his place, fall. He watches as his people cheer and fall over each other in exhaustion. Their wounds are deep, but smiles deeper. He elects Tommy, who in turn elects Tubbo (the discs again, when will it stop?) Wilbur listens to the man he once called father try to convince him not to destroy L’Manburg. He listens to the screeches of Withers and muffled cries of people.

It’s time.

Wilbur takes the arrow and strikes his Achilles heel.

He watches in twisted, painful satisfaction as his world blows up before him. People cry out for other reasons. They——especially Tommy——look at him in horror. But why does the arrow not kill him? Nothing else can hurt him like this does, right?

No, the wound is not deep enough. He is too happy to be injured like this for it to be fatal.

“Kill me” He begs. He thinks it’s good revenge on his father for being ignorant. And a good way for the arrow to strike him dead.

Philza stabs him.

The arrow in his heel digs deeper.

And then all is calm,]

----

[Also I feel like every one of those strong brassy bursts in the song is like a fist against the wall——Wilbur striking out against the walls of Pogtopia in anger and (self-)hatred and frustration.]

Hope you liked it. It was certainly an experience to write and I really enjoyed doing this

[dailytomlinson]

He made a couple of false starts, but after four long years, Louis Tomlinson’s debut album Walls is finally here! The much-anticipated album immediately shot to #1 on the iTunes charts in over 50 countries. And while it signals the true end of an era (Tomlinson’s the last member of One Direction to release a solo project), it’s mostly the beginning of a new one. As reflected in the visuals for the title track; where one door closes, another opens. And it’s one that was well worth the wait, as Walls promises an exciting new era of guitar-driven confessional pop.

Guitar-driven, because it’s clear that Tomlinson was sonically inspired by the 90s and 00s indie-rock that he grew up on. Confessional, because each song presents us with yet another look into the emotional complexity of Tomlinson’s experiences with heartbreak, pain, and letting go.

A clear example of the former is the opening track “Kill My Mind.” It is a rousing up-tempo song with a soaring anthemic chorus that’s just begging to be performed live. Tomlinson referred to the track as a true “statement of intent,” although it’s defiantly rockier than the rest of his album. Perhaps it’s already setting the stage for album number two.

There is “Habit,” of which the melody is weirdly reminiscent of 4 Non Blondes’ “What’s Up?” Lyrically along the same vein as “Kill My Mind,” it regales an addictive and slightly toxic relationship. Whether that’s aimed at an actual relationship, or meant as a metaphor for the music industry at large – who’s to say?

“We Made It” is another track that pulls Britpop right back into the ’20s. Significantly more laid back, the song’s mid-tempo production has somewhat of a Post Malone vibe to it. The song may not be the stand-out single of the album, it does encapsulate Tomlinson’s road to this moment. He’s made it, regardless of the adversity he’s faced along the way. Both as an underrated former member of One Direction – despite earning himself the most writing credits – and due to the personal tragedies, he faced over the past few years.

He doesn’t shy away from addressing any of these obstacles in his career. Title track “Walls” seems to be all about overcoming adversity – be it personal or professional setbacks. The string section adds a sophisticated touch to the rich instrumentals of the song, really honing in on that indie-rock sound Tomlinson is so fond of.

The heart-wrenching ballad “Two Of Us” stays true to the confessional style of the album. Tomlinson wrote the song about his mother, who passed away in 2016. It’s perhaps the most personal and vulnerable that Tomlinson has allowed himself to be on this record, and it shows in the lyrics: “The day that they took you, I wish it was me instead.” However, Tomlinson manages to yet again transform the acknowledgment of pain into an inspiring promise of honoring life. It’s extremely rare that a songwriter is able to capture both darkness and light within the same song. To do so in such a convincing way, about a topic that’s so deeply personal yet universal shows the strength of Tomlinson’s lyricism and his emotive delivery.

Interestingly enough, despite Tomlinson’s love for rock, he seems to prefer the mid-tempo tracks. “Don’t Let It Break Your Heart” includes a beautiful opening guitar solo, before adding a bit of kick drum to build a proper anthemic pop song. It’s rich in sound, and its message is uplifting and reassuring. Similar to his first solo track “Just Hold On,” its lyrics aim to inspire listeners to keep going in spite of the heartbreak. What’s refreshing, is that it doesn’t specify the cause of the heartbreak, nor does it marginalize the emotional impact. Rather, the lyrics remind you that you’re not broken beyond repair, no matter what it is that’s hurting you in the moment.

“Always You” is the only true pop, up-tempo track on Walls. Listen to it once, and the playful guitar and staccato beat make for an irresistible hook that’ll draw you right in. It’s almost odd how a song this perfect for pop radio is hidden away more than halfway through the tracklist. The lyrics are innovative, as Tomlinson travels all across the world, only to conclude he’s never getting over his ex.

Elsewhere on the album, Tomlinson addresses the loss of innocence and youth. Being in your twenties is somewhat of a confusing time, as you come to realize that being a grown-up is not all it’s made out to be. “Fearless” opens with the sound of children, then sees Tomlinson lament the innate recklessness you lose as you get older. It’s perhaps one of the only tracks that verge on disillusionment and wistful longing for those days you felt young and invincible.

“Too Young” is the other side to the same coin, highlighting the negative consequences of youthful naivete instead. This time, he connects heartbreak to regret. Accompanied by nothing but an acoustic guitar, Tomlinson reflects on a past relationship. It requires real emotional maturity and bravery to see your own flaws and mistakes and to take ownership of them. Even if it means saying “I’m sorry, I was too young to get it back then, but I get it now.” The only downside is that Tomlinson seemingly randomly adopts an American accent in the pre-chorus, which feels slightly out of place.

Tomlinson said of the record that it’s about him; “it’s me, I’m the storyline.” That definitely seems to be the case, what with each of his songs highlighting various aspects of the life he’s lived so far and the difficulties he’s had to go through. Nevertheless, there are definitely moments throughout the album that feel somewhat reminiscent of the old One Direction sound – and this is where it gets tricky. Of course, One Direction was also a part of his life, and Tomlinson was an integral part of developing the musical DNA of his former band. As such, it’s perhaps inevitable that there would be some sonic overlap between the past and his present.

On the other hand, this record is his chance to establish his own musical identity. “Perfect Now” seems to be the epitome of this split personality. It’s a mostly acoustic track, with some strings added into the mix as the song builds into its final chorus. The lyrics echo both “What Makes You Beautiful” and “Little Things,” two of One Direction’s biggest (and oldest) hits. It’s an admittedly incredibly catchy song that centers around the heartbreak of seeing someone you love unhappy. Still, it’s a shame he felt the need to cater to a sound that’s not solely his. If he truly wants to take his music in a more indie-rock lane, he should fully commit to it – surely fans (old and new) would follow.

Thankfully, the album is filled with songs that truly highlight Tomlinson’s abilities as a singer/songwriter. Two songs that stand out from the others when it comes to vocal range, delivery, and lyrical ingenuity, are “Defenceless” and “Only The Brave.”

“Defenceless” is the true embodiment of what it means to find strength in vulnerability. The song builds steadily, starting out with just a guitar before heavy drums kick in during the chorus. The lyrics, on the other hand, portray the insecurity you feel when you’re letting all your guards down. The bridge in particular highlights the fragile heartbreak that follows when trying your best isn’t enough anymore: “I hope I’m not asking too much, just wanna be loved by you. I’m too tired to be tough, just wanna be loved by you.” Tomlinson’s falsetto only serves to further emphasize the sense of defeat and raw emotion on display in this track.

The album closer “Only The Brave” sees him bring back the falsetto that’s absent from the album elsewhere. Contrary to the more confessional and conversational tone of the previous songs, this short track relies on metaphors throughout: “It’s a church of burnt romances, and I’m too far gone to pray, it’s a solo song, and it’s only for the brave.” As such, it’s a bold choice to end the album on such a different note. However, it works beautifully – an ode to what’s to come, perhaps.

Walls provides an exciting and much deserved first glance at who Louis Tomlinson truly is – both as an artist and as a human being. Listen from start to finish, and you’ll immediately enjoy the guitar-driven, intricate alt-pop that’s characteristic of this record. But if given the chance, it’ll be the emotive, authentic lyricism that truly reels you in for good.

It’s rare to see artists actually offer a multi-faceted, introspective look at their inner emotions. To have a male singer share his heart with such conviction – openly, brazenly, almost recklessly – is even more exceptional. On the other hand, perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise at all. Because if this album tells you anything about Tomlinson’s personality, it’s that he’s fearless, resilient, and he always gets back up. He doesn’t hide his scars – he wears them with pride, inspiring you to make peace with your own and do the same.

Let Walls break down your walls, I promise you won’t regret it.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Which Fic

I was tagged by @stusbunker!

Which of your fics…

…did you think would get a bigger reaction/audience than it got?

Finally. I think reader engagement has definitely declined in general, though.

…got a better reaction than you expected?

The Right Spot. I’m still a little flabbergasted by how popular this was. Like, I thought it was hot, but I didn’t realize that many people would be into it. 

Runner-up, The One Where Reid Is Reading Harry Potter. This is such a dorky little bit of wishful thinking; I really didn’t expect it to get any notes, but I love that so many people shared my emotional attachment to reading out loud. 

…is your funniest?

The Rockstar AU, especially Daisies and Cheers. There’s so much comedic potential in all those characters that doesn’t get put to use because of what they all do; I just started thinking about what they would be like if they were making music and partying, instead of saving the world, and fuckin ran with it. 

Runner-up, Brains Over Beauty. Mostly because I refer to Sam as “Lumberjack Ken.” I’m still giggling over that. 

…is your darkest or angstiest?

Set Yourself On Fire. It’s about Sam between seasons 3 and 4, and it touches on some things that came from a very real emotional place: self-destructive tendencies, depression, drinking, drugs, that sort of fun stuff. I have a lot of fics that are sad or feelsy, but there’s usually some sort of positive spin. This one is just fuckin dark, emotionally. 

…is your absolute favorite?

Probably the Coffee & Psychopaths series. When I started writing Quitting, I knew there were a couple parallels between the characters that I wanted to write about, but the more I wrote, the more I found... and I’m still amazed by the way those canon plotlines wove together. So. Much. Plot. 

This series has become a place for me to dive headfirst into philosophy, psychology, neuroscience, dorky history trivia, and so many more of my favorite subjects, and tie them together with Sam and Spencer character studies, and I love being able to connect all those dots. I love every single fucking sentence of this series so far and I can’t wait to write more. 

 …is your least favorite?

I Can Change. It was my first fic in the Supernatural fandom and when I started it, I had no idea where it was going.

…was the easiest to write?

Big Damn Heroes. I’d had a few of those character exchanges in my head for a loooong time, and the crossover challenge gave me an excuse to finally write them out. I had so much fun writing that and I think it shows.

…was hardest to write?

Lost At Sea (But I Am Home). All of Marked was difficult in its own way (trauma processing! Fun times!) but this even more so. The plot is very very subtle, there’s a lot of emotional nuance happening, and I really wanted to stay true to Dean as a character, and the meta bits are, like, deep and meaningful and shit, and on top of all that I saddled myself with some running metaphors that were tricky to integrate... yeah.

…has your favorite lines/exchange/paragraph? (share it!)

Marked, Chapter 20. The entire conversation with Sam, but especially this: 

“There are good days and there are days when… when it feels like it’s crushing you. And that doesn’t mean you’ve failed, or that you’re not strong enough, or whatever else, because even if you’re doing everything right, the bad days are going to happen. What matters is that you’re trying. Every day you get up and take one little step, in spite of everything you’re carrying, that’s a victory. It’s not about getting somewhere. It’s the step that matters.”

Also, I think a few of the exchanges in Sharp Edges are some of my best work, particularly the negotiation conversation and the last few paragraphs. Such as:

“You good?” he asks, falling back on what seems to be his mantra for the evening.

“I’m… no, not really, hang on,” Spencer mumbles, and Sam flinches, moving away instinctively.

“Shit, sorry, what -”

“No, wait, that’s not - just… can you reach the tissues, or do I actually have to stand up right now?” Spencer asks, with a disgruntled sort of glare at the box of Kleenex on the end table.

Sam laughs, awkward and self-conscious. Spencer blinks owlishly up at him, shaking his hair out of his eyes. Then a smile spreads over his face slowly and he’s laughing too as Sam leans and stretches over to grab the box.

“The male orgasm is really inconvenient sometimes,” Spencer mutters.

Sam lets out another snort of laughter, looking away to give him some privacy as he cleans up. He’s not sure what the etiquette of this whole situation is; it’s such a strange thing, oddly intimate, and even though Sam’s still fully-dressed, he feels exposed in a way he’s not used to.

“Now I’m good,” Spencer says quietly. He’s got his knees tucked up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, but he tilts his head back against the wall and aims a hazy, heavy-lidded stare at Sam. His lips part and curl up in a barely-there smile, and his tongue flicks out over the pink curve of his lower lip.

Those edges that Sam first noticed are harder to see, now; he’s all soft eyes and softer mouth, flushed skin, messy hair… all except the line of his jaw. That’s still wickedly, unmistakably sharp.

Spencer should come with a warning sign: handle with care. Sam’s not sure who that sign would be protecting. It could be handle with care: fragile, or, just as easily, handle with care: sharp edges.

Either way, there’s a good chance of someone getting hurt here.

“Can I kiss you?” Sam asks.

Spencer’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly with surprise, and his pupils are huge and dark, liquid-looking, hypnotic. He blinks, slowly, and suddenly looks about ten years younger. He’d been so self-assured ordering Sam not to draw blood; that confidence is gone, now, like he’s had less experience with kissing than with telling people how to hit him.

Oh, Sam thinks, and tries not to let his own surprise show on his face.

Also also, Origin Stories has some of my favorite conversations/overall themes, but they’re long passages and I’m not gonna paste them here! 

…have you reread the most?

Uh not gonna lie I’ve re-read Everything a lot. Because... unf. That’s my go-to fantasy. 

…would you recommend to someone reading your work for the first time?

Most of my favorites are already cited here! But if you wanted a short, concise kinda one-shot sampler plate, I’d start with:

Let’s Get Married - happy, poetic.

Told You So - sexual tension and snark.

Heart of Gold - feels.

Prey - hot but also weird and unsettling.

…are you most proud of?

Marked. I’ve talked about this fic so much, I don’t think it needs to be reiterated, but Marked means so so much to me.

Tagging: @cockslut-padalecki @deanwanddamons @butiaintgonnaloveem @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @mrswhozeewhatsis @dontshootmespence and whoever else wants to! 

[hiddendreamer67]

The Injured Fairy

Summary: Roman the butterfly catcher stumbles upon the most beautiful pair of violet wings he’s ever seen...until he realizes, that’s no butterfly.

Check out more of my writings at @hiddendreamerwriting!

Roman was an expert at collecting butterflies. His collection had grown quite vast over the years, and his walls were decorated with pin boards displaying the many vibrant wings. So, when he was out along the edge of the forest and spotted an iridescent purple wing, Roman was instantly intrigued. What kind of butterfly could that possibly be? Of course, as he pushed through the bushes, Roman realized that it wasn’t a butterfly at all.

“...a fairy.” Roman gasped, looking down at the tiny humanoid figure passed out on the rock. Roman had always believed magical creatures existed, but he never expected to meet one in his lifetime. Roman leaned closer, trying to get a closer look. His eyes widened, realizing the second wing was looking...not so good. A large portion of it had been torn off with a rip still present down the middle, and the fairy himself looked rather bruised too.

“Oh. Oh. You’re hurt.” Roman stated the obvious. No wonder he was able to find this one; it couldn’t fly. The fairy gave a groan, and Roman wasn’t sure if he was fully aware that Roman was there. “Here, let me help you.”

Roman had actually dealt with this sort of situation in the past. Collecting butterflies was not just a vicious act meant to be cruel, in fact most of the wings in his collection were from butterflies that were dead when Roman found them. The injured, the wounded, the flightless, these Roman would take under his own metaphorical wing and try to mend so they could get back out into the real world, and if the injuries were too great for Roman to repair he’d help the butterflies live out the rest of their short lives happily in confinement.

The gist of it being, Roman knew what he was doing so long as fairy wings worked the same as butterfly wings. With butterflies, their bodies are so fragile that one must pick them up by the tips of their wings instead. Roman grabbed the fairy’s wings to do just that, and the moment his fingers made contact the little fae’s eyes snapped open.

“No!” The fairy cried out, squirming desperately as Roman stood up.

Roman yelped, shocked enough that he very nearly dropped the fairy. He had never had a butterfly that could talk. That was certainly new.

“Phew, that would have been quite the fall!” Roman laughed, awkwardly trying to re-adjust his grip to cup a hand under the fairy just in case. “Good thing I caught you, eh?”

“Let me go!” The fairy didn’t stop struggling, letting out a shriek that sounded as though it was in pain. Roman’s eyes widened, watching the wing tear further as the creature desperately tried to escape his hold.

“Quit struggling, you’ll only make it worse!” Roman lectured, now using his hand to wrap fully around the fairy, mindful of the wings as he restricted its movements. This seemed to finally make the fairy still, and Roman took the moment of peace as an opportunity to rush back home.

Usually, the next step in repairing a butterfly wing was to sedate the creature by putting it in the fridge. However, looking down at the little fairy scowling back at him, Roman knew he couldn’t do it. It just seemed extra cruel to put what was essentially a miniature person in an ice box.

“...you’ll cooperate with me, right?” Roman asked, looking at the fairy. The fairy hissed at him. Not exactly a promising answer, but it would have to do. Roman passed the refrigerator and headed straight back to his room, examining the boards.

“Now, let’s see…” Roman murmured, holding the fairy higher to compare. A new wing would have to be of similar shape and size to the healthy wing, or else the aerodynamics would be all off and all Roman’s work would be for nothing. Not to mention, Roman wanted to pick a pretty one as well, for mere aesthetic reasons.

As luck would have it, the fairy did seem willing to cooperate. Or at the very least, he seemed to have stopped struggling. Roman did not notice the way the fairy had paled, wings flattening against his back as he stared up at the many butterflies lining the walls.

“Perfect.” Roman grinned, stopping at a board that was still in progress. Here was a pair of spotted purple swallowtail wings, which were black in appearance with purple and green stained glass spots across the surface. It wasn’t identical to the shimmering iridescent pair, but it was closest in shape and would make a pretty contrast. After all, repaired butterfly wings were meant to be sisters, not twins.

Roman placed the fairy down on the table, stomach up and displaying those beautiful wings. He placed the hook of a clothing hanger on them to weigh the creature down and leave Roman space to work. However, the second he went to get his tools the fairy began to sob openly.

“Please, please, don’t do this.” The fae closed his eyes, pressing his hands to his face and letting out cries that broke Roman’s heart. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Oh no, don’t be scared, don’t be scared!” Roman winced, putting his hands up to show he meant no harm. “I don’t want to hurt you! I’m trying to help you. I’m just going to remove the injured wing and give you a replacement.” Butterfly wings lacked the ability to grow back, and contrary to popular belief cutting them was no more painful than a haircut. However, this did not seem to qualm the fairy’s fears.

“Don’t take my wings!” The fairy shrieked, looking up at Roman with unabashed horror. “I- I won’t be one of your freaky displays, I won’t!” With this declaration the fairy tried to tug himself free, but the clothing hanger stayed firm.

“I’m not going to turn you into a display!” Roman insisted, only now realizing how his room must look to the poor fairy. He had planned on adding the remains of the injured fairy wing to his collection, but, well… He wasn’t about to admit to that now. “I promise, it won’t hurt.” He reached over, grabbing the swallowtail wing carefully between his fingers. “I’m just going to remove your ripped one, and replace it with this nice swallowtail instead.”

“You keep your grimy hands off my wings, you hear me?” The fairy spat. “They’re my wings, and I’d rather have my own damaged pair than some dead butterfly’s any day.”

“Look.” Roman put on his serious voice, getting stern. “I get it, you’re upset. But you can’t fly like this. At least with a butterfly wing you’ll stand a chance out there. Now shut up and let me help you or I’m sticking you in the fridge.”

That seemed to get through to the fairy. Or if it didn’t, he at least realized his struggles were pointless. Sullenly he turned his head, looking somber as he closed his eyes almost as if he were waiting for Roman to stab him through the heart.

It was certainly a new experience for the both of them. The fairy clearly had never had a wing cut before (after all, it can only be done once), and Roman had never had a patient who cried as he worked. It was honestly depressing, making Roman feel terrible. But what else could he do? He was trying to save the fairy’s life. If he just did as the fairy asked, it would probably die within a day from not being able to fly away from a dog or something.

“Aaaaaand...done.” Roman said quietly, for once not feeling as triumphant as he usually would after a successful surgery. He took some baby powder, sprinkling it over the wings so that when they flapped together the glue wouldn’t stick. Roman accidentally got some on the fairy’s face as well, giving him an apologetic grin. “Sorry. Here, give it a test flap.” Roman lifted the clothing hanger so the fairy could be free.

The fairy sat up, hesitantly flapping his wings together. He was looking over his shoulder, watching as the wings almost perfectly aligned.

“How does it feel?” Roman asked. He had never actually gotten feedback from a patient before.

Instead of answering, the fairy stood up, trying to launch himself into the air. A few beats of the wings were successful, but after a moment he came crashing down, clearly exhausted.

“Woah, hey, careful!” Roman put his hand out, trying to help steady the delicate creature. “Let’s get you something to eat before you go trying any stunts like that.” Roman quickly fixed a snack in the kitchen, only on the way back realizing he hadn’t actually asked the fairy what he ate.

“Um...hope you like sugar water.” Roman said sheepishly, setting down a small shot glass. “If not, I can get you something else.” It had been instinct, as that was usually what most butterflies wanted.

The fairy glared at him, but he walked over to the glass and cupped his hands, taking some of the sugar water to his lips. The wing tips flittered, a sign that the drink was enjoyed.

“So, what’s your name?” Roman asked, realizing now that the danger was over he had the chance to actually converse with a real, live, fairy. Of course, the fairy himself seemed less enthused.

“...Virgil.” The fae said, almost reluctantly.

“Virgil.” Roman repeated, watching as the wings twitched in recognition. “It’s a pleasure to meet you! I’ve never met a fairy before. Oh, my name’s Roman, by the way. Do you want some more sugar water?”

“Yeah, sure.” Virgil stood up, stretching. Roman noted he was looking much better. That wasn’t surprising; most butterflies just needed a snack before they could fly again.

He mixed some more sugar water, concerned to see Virgil wasn’t on the table where Roman had left him. A quick glance around the room and Roman was able to spot the fairy, who had managed to fly across the room and was desperately trying to shove open the window. Roman deflated slightly, having wanted to get to know the fae better, but he must still be awfully frightened. It would be best for the fairy to get back to his family.

“Need some help?” Roman asked, spooking Virgil as he snuck up behind him. Virgil jumped, pressing himself against the wall but giving a hesitant nod. Roman unlatched the window, pushing the double glass panes open. A cool spring breeze drafted in, bringing with it that wonderful meadow scent.

Virgil seemed to relax now that his exit was open. He peeled himself off the wall, looking confused as he studied Roman’s face.

“...thanks.” Virgil said finally. Roman wasn’t sure if he was talking about the window or the wing, so he just nodded.

“Anytime.” Roman assured him. “Good luck with your wing.”

Virgil gave his own nod, and then with a running leap off the window ledge he was airborne, darting out across the rolling hills of green. Soon Roman lost sight of the little purple blur, happy to see that Virgil seemed fine in his flight pattern.

After a few minutes, Roman finally tore his gaze away from the window to begin cleaning up. This was no reason to be melancholy. Virgil had even thanked Roman, which was more than he could have asked for with the way the fairy reacted in the beginning. Roman did hope he enjoyed the new wing.

Well, there was always a chance he would see Virgil again. Maybe he could ask about the wing then.

[biwenqing]

remind you

Lan Xichen tries to find the words he needs as he and Nie Mingjue share a moment, tucked away from the rest of the world and their responsibilities.

for fytheuntamed on tumblr’s untamed spring fest day two prompt: blossom

Teen | Words: 1071 | ao3

Lan Xichen let out a breath as he settled on the bed, relaxing against the wall. Nie Mingjue followed, resting his head on Lan Xichen’s lap. It was a familiar position, and Lan Xichen sunk his fingers into Nie Mingjue’s hair. Carefully, he took out the pins and headpiece. Setting those aside, he turned his attention to the braids.

Nothing needed to be said as they settled into a ritual that had followed them since boyhood. Lan Xichen loved to be able to see Nie Mingjue’s soft side, to be trusted enough for the other man to put down his constant guard. Nie Mingjue’s face relaxed further with each braid he took out, and it was all Lan Xichen could do to restrain himself from leaning down and kissing him. That was not a part of this, any kissing came after. Right now was to relax, to just be after a day of meetings.

Lan Xichen matched his breathing to Nie Mingjue’s. The light of the setting sun slipped in through the mostly closed shutters, sneaking over the walls of the Unclean Realm. Lan Xichen could remember traveling here for a hunt when he was a boy and finding those walls intimidating. Now they made him feel safe, knowing who was behind them.

“Lan Huan,” Nie Mingjue murmured, taking one of his wrists. He pressed a kiss to the inside, a soft brush bringing Lan Xichen back to the present. “My blossom…”

Lan Xichen let out a little laugh at the name, smiling down at Nie Mingjue. He leaned forward, his own hair falling like curtains to hide them further from the world. “You haven’t called me that for a very long time.”

Tangling their fingers together with one hand, Nie Mingjue reached up with the other. He rested it against Lan Xichen’s cheek, his callused thumb stroking gently. “It has been feeling like spring since you came. I forget the warmth sometimes, in my shadows.” Nie Mingjue’s seriousness broke with a chuckle. “Though you are much stronger than the delicate blossom I once assumed you to be.”

“Mhm,” Lan Xichen turned, pressing a kiss to his palm. “People do often assume…” That he was weak, that he was slow-minded, that he was nothing but a pretty face.

“To their own peril,” Nie Mingjue assured and shook his head slightly, not moving from his place in Lan Xichen’s lap. “But let’s not talk of that. There is no one to make assumptions now.”

And that was the heart of it. The understanding they had found many years ago, that hidden underneath the protective personas of future clan leaders was who they really were. Trusting that with someone else had been scary at first. Now it was as natural as breathing to relax when it was just the two of them behind closed doors.

“I missed you,” Lan Xichen said, running his free hand through Nie Mingjue’s hair once more. Where the braids had been it was wavey, seeming to beg Lan Xichen to continue his ministrations.

“I missed you too, my blossom,” Nie Mingjue said, and he moved then, sitting up and crowding Lan Xichen back against the wall. Lan Xichen happily kissed his smile, reaching his arms out to wrap them around Nie Mingjue’s shoulders.

All too soon for Lan Xichen’s liking, Nie Mingjue pulled back. He seemed to search Lan Xichen’s face, before peppering him with kisses until Lan Xichen was laughing. “That tickles!” he protested. When Nie Mingjue stopped, Lan Xichen carefully smoothed the offending mustache. Then he tried to reel Nie Mingjue back in for more.

Nie Mingjue just smiled, pressing a final kiss to Lan Xichen’s forehead. “First, dinner. We have had a long day of meetings.”

Lan Xichen released Nie Mingjue but stayed seated on his bed. He listened as Nie Mingjue moved out of sight, opening the doors of his rooms and murmuring thanks to a servant. They must have knocked and Lan Xichen hadn’t noticed, too wrapped up in Nie Mingjue. This little interruption into their time alone didn’t bring tension back to Nie Mingjue’s shoulders thankfully. He carried the food to his table and Lan Xichen stood to join him.

It was light fair, mostly vegetables and rice, clearly made near to the Gusu style. Lan Xichen smiled at this as he sat. A little piece of his home. Lan Xichen didn’t know quite how to say as much as he appreciated it, and he did greatly, there was truly no place that felt more like home than when he was at Nie Mingjue’s side. Not even Gusu. Though their duties often limited their time together, Lan Xichen would gather each moment up to remember.

Nie Mingjue set out the food and poured the tea. It was also a light flavor, something to induce sleep and not wakefulness. Lan Xichen ate in silence, and Nie Mingjue followed suit in his custom. What was there to talk about, except perhaps…

Lan Xichen spoke up after the last bites had been taken and they were left to finish the tea. “I feel that… I am no longer a blossom. No longer so young and unmoved by the world.”

Nie Mingjue set down his cup and looked thoughtful for a moment. “You have grown to a full tree of your own, lifting up those around you.”

Lan Xichen smiled. “I’m unsure of the metaphor. I do know this. My feelings for you have changed.”

Nie Mingjue took a shaky breath but didn’t interrupt, gesturing for Lan Xichen to continue.

“They’ve grown, they are no longer the fragile petals of a spring flower,” Lan Xichen said, making sure to hold Nie Mingjue’s eyes. “I hope to weather much sadness and celebrate much joy at your side. The way forward, I always see you there.”

Nie Mingjue relaxed. “I am always humbled by you,” Nie Mingjue said, his hand once more finding Lan Xichen’s. “I don’t want what we have to end, even if it is hard to see what might happen in the future.”

Lan Xichen could only nod as he stood, tugged Mingjue with him. “I’m glad. You will always have me. Even when I am a gnarled old tree.”

Nie Mingjue kissed away any more words before they could leave Lan Xichen’s mouth. The rest of the evening together, they found other ways to express their love that Lan Xichen found just as enjoyable.

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Mourning at Midnight

(UwU so Hey. i’m back with some more trash)

Word Count: 7480

Summary: It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

Warnings (could potentially be small spoilers, nothing too big, but if you don’t have any triggers I’d suggest you skip reading this!):

There are no u!sides in this, nor does anyone have malicious intent, but the other main three (Virgil, Patton, Roman) and Thomas, to a lesser extent, treat Logan unkindly (not on purpose) and don’t realize their errors. This will be resolved! Just… not yet OwO

Being ignored/talked over

Mental/emotional breakdown

An unidentified illness with symptoms including: [extreme persistent nausea (lots of mentions), vomiting (once), bile, weakness/weariness, shaking, lightheadedness, double vision (once), headache, body aches/pains, breathing difficulties]

General negativity including: [self-doubt, self-deprecation/depreciation, feeling worthless or unloveable, self-hatred]

Anger management/temperament issues

Unintentional self-harm (not anything like c-tting, Logan gets a bruise as a result of an angry outburst)

Separate small, vague allusion to self-harm, but it’s not outright and not detailed in the slightest. Could be read as not even talking about self-harm

Potentially triggering descriptive imagery (metaphors and similes to describe how a character feels or percieves a situation, not anything that actually happens) including but not limited to: [glass, sharp things, blood, injection, live wires, loud noises, screaming, general mentions of pain, masochism, sound torture, knives/blades, wounds, drowning/suffocating, pressure]

Temporarily unresolved tension between Logan/Deceit/Remus and the other sides/Thomas (there will be a happy ending in the next fic, though, don’t worry!)

A few vulgar threats of violence (somewhat explicit, be careful) to the other sides from Remus (out of protectiveness; Remus means well but he does Not express it in a healthy way) that is not carried out or even humoured

Remus’ morning star and descriptions of its destructive capabilites

Loceit as a romantic pairing (for now…. UwU)

Sympathetic “dark” sides

That should be it for warnings! Let me know if I need to add anything!

A/N: So! This is finally done :D !! I’ve been working on it on and off for the past week or so, and although I know it could be way better, I think this is where I’ll keep it! This is technically a sequel to my other fic Tea at Twilight and it takes place in the same universe, and although you don’t need to read that before this to understand the story, I strongly suggest reading that first to get more of a feel for the dynamic! 

This is inspired by @illogicallyinclined and her absolutely amazing Disaster Trio™ headcanons/au, and was prompted by this post so I just started writing! I meant for it to be a bit shorter, but of course my brain would Not let it go, even despite my ADHD, executive dysfunction, and massive amounts of writer’s block. 

This is also unfinished! It is the second of three main works, all happening chronologically in the same universe. The first one is Tea at Twilight as stated previously, then this one, and there will be a third and final installment added to finish off this short little trilogy! I’ll be adding this to the series on AO3, so when the final fic is up, it’ll all be together for an easy reading experience. It is also possible that there will be other small fics in this universe (UA, as has been recently coined) that operate outside of the timeline of the main story, so be sure to watch out for that! 

Thanks to Jay once again for creating these lovely headcanons that haunt my dreams every night, and for inspiring me to get back into my writing groove despite a writer’s block that’s lasted for over three years! Hope this isn’t too terrible, Jay! ilyy <333</p>

Also, a huge thank you to @illogical-anxieties for being such a good cheerleader/enabler! You really do help to keep me motivated and on track (and keep my ADHD in check), which is probably why this was even able to become a full-fledged story rather than a WIP to be buried where unfinished fics go to die T~T Love you tons <3</p>

(If I’m being honest with myself, this is just an excuse for me to live up to my IRL title of “Living Thesaurus”, coined by a friend many years ago and has since spread around to other friends and family. My title is thriving, and I suppose that means I should actually have proof of it, so there’s that.)

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 1 here)

He can feel it building.

There’s far too much left to be desired when it comes to frustration. The natural helplessness that makes way for anger when you try so hard to do something or be something for someone and you’re pushed down by anything and everything between ignorance and antipathy. The fear that nothing you can do or say will ever be good enough. The buzzing, ticking, pinpricks upon pinpricks of heat injected into you until your blood and heart have been replaced with glass, fragile as a crumbling stone wall. It’s not as if he hasn’t had his outbursts before, spurred on by the familiar sharp pulse of rage that courses through him in a split-second whirlwind. It builds inside him, and he can feel the pressure in his limbs expand until it feels like his muscles are being squeezed out of existence and then he snaps like a rubber band that’s been pulled too taut. He’s not in denial of the fact that his impulsive, blinding reaction when met with frustration is not okay, and only detrimental to the demeanour he’s trying to retain. He knows it’s childish. He knows it’s immature, and pathetic, and wholly invigorating, at least until the adrenaline has worn off and he’s in the aftermath of his knee-jerk reaction to the tension coiled in his arms and legs and head.

It doesn’t mean that Logan is particularly in control of it though, despite his self-awareness being far above the level that most people with anger management issues are at. Maybe there’s a certain quality to it that allows for growth; it’s not as if Logan stays angry, or that he wants to hurt people. He loves the others, painfully so (as much as he loathes to admit it), to the point where he’s so desperate for their approval that he tampers down his passion, that spark that used to drive him to learn and speak and be happy just to avoid being cast out and abandoned, alone in the way he never wants to be. He wants to find a way to temper the fall into those dark, consuming waters, a way to mute the buzzing and ticking. He wants to seal those exposed live wires and release the tension to the point where he never lashes out ever again. He wants to, and he doesn’t know how to, and that fact infuriates him in an ironic, endless cycle of self-imposed and self-directed enmity.

Logan still thinks on this often, even now, wracking his brain for solutions to problems that realistically won’t be solved as easily as he wishes they would. Excerpts and quotes and data and statistics from many different studies about anger and temper management and irritability and everything in between seem to figuratively run amok through his brain, a screaming crowd of witnesses to the chaos and failure found in his ability to filter through the nonsense and come to a satisfying conclusion, any conclusion at all. He notices how his fingers tremble as they slip into the handle of his coffee mug, endures the dull ache in his mid-to-lower back from falling asleep at his desk for the majority of the day under the guise of work so important he holed himself up in his room to complete it. He ignores the way his head pounds, how he feels so dizzy that he might fall over and pass out any second from lightheadedness. He suffers through the loud conversations between the other three that are typical to the dinner routine that Logan cannot deal with today, not with this headache poking at him like figurative needles in his head.

When he senses the summons from Thomas stirring up the familiar but nonetheless odd ticklish sensation on the back of his neck, Logan can feel the tension knot up his muscles, and the combination of the two just makes him want to growl in irritation. The others, having also felt the summoning, seem to get impossibly louder, ringing and stinging and singing in his head. He still persists, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t be out doing anything today that’s likely to exacerbate his sickness, because Thomas is important, more so than Logan himself. No matter how much he wants to hole himself up in his room and sleep the day away, his host needs him, so Logan simply forces his mask of indifference to melt into steel. He refuses to budge, not for the first or last time, and he rises up in the real world standing straight and rigid and as put together as he’s always expected to be.

When he’s finally settled into his usual spot, as still as he can possibly be to not exacerbate the roiling nausea disquieting his stomach, he’s able to take in the other four arranged in their usual positions in Thomas’ living room, already having begun a conversation that Logan has missed the premise of entirely through his all-eclipsing, obfuscating malady. His vision doubles, like broken fractals of glass reflecting onto themselves, and then it pulls back together, merging back into something visible, something manageable.

“Well, I’m sure Danny likes you, too! You just gotta ask him, kiddo!” Patton exclaims, high voice pushing through the heavy, suffocating cotton in Logan’s ears, and the words snap the bespectacled side to attention. He needs context, needs to know what they’re talking about, needs to be able to help for once. Maybe he has to endure the bad to be able to put out the good, and this is where the climax is, the top of the rollercoaster at such a high altitude that oxygen is thin and dispersed before he shoots down the tracks in a rush of fresh air, relieving and calm and sanguine as he’s finally able to ground himself. A shiver runs through Logan’s body, between his shoulder blades and down his hip and through his leg, and his eyes flutter under the weight of consciousness. It recedes, the flow is ebbed, and his head clears to a more sustainable level.

“Oh, that’s so boring, Padre! Thomas should hire a band to play! And we can rig up streamers and confetti and there can be a cake and dancing and a party to celebrate!” Roman crows, throwing his arms and hands up into his signature pose to match his full, booming tone. Patton squeals, clutching his cardigan in his hands to pull excitedly at the sleeves as he bounces giddily on his feet. At the suggestion, as the polar opposite to Patton’s reaction, Virgil grimaces, hunching over even further in his jacket as he protests with every way he can think of that the situation could go wrong. Unsurprisingly, Roman takes personal offense to it and refutes Virgil’s points with the same intensity and fervour that’s been present in himself and his interactions with the anxious side since day one. Logan sort of understands, can infer that they’re discussing how to ask out Danny, a new friend of Thomas’ who has very quickly turned into a crush. In that case…

“If I may interrupt? While I don’t share all of Virgil’s worries, I do agree with his position in regards to the fact that there isn’t a need for such extravagance. It might embarrass Danny, for one, and for two, there are many ways such an excessive venture could backfire, such as technical difficulties or general human error. The idea is, while exciting, frankly outrageous,” Logan says, his role as the voice of reason renewed once more. It’s his job to sift through the conversations they have and get to the important parts, and he likes his job. He’s good at micromanaging, mediating the chaos, good at storing information to sort and consider and veto and bolster. It’s how he operates, how he copes. “We can think of something else to–”

“Oh, shut it, Pocket Protector. We all know you don’t care about romance, but this is important! Thomas wishes to find love with the second most handsome prince in the world! After me, of course,” Roman exclaims, in that boisterous, self-aggrandizing way of his, the way that hides his real insecurities he buries so deeply in himself he doesn’t know how to find them again. Oddly enough, it’s not Roman’s defense mechanism that throws Logan off, it’s the way that Logan stopped talking almost reflexively to allow the other side to finish his statement, as if the prince’s words were more important than his own, and it speaks as testament to how much Logan’s been conditioned (or maybe he’s conditioned himself all on his own) into putting everyone else before himself, even when it hurts him or Thomas. Logan is ignored in the face of his implicit trust, and he hates that even as it pours salt in the open wound, he finds himself taking a depraved, spiteful comfort in the familiarity of it all.

“That’s not what I–”

“Awe, c'mon, Logan! Thomas deserves to have a happy relationship and someone he can live out the rest of his life with! Doesn’t that sound nice, to grow old together with someone you love? Isn’t that romantic? Oh, it just makes me so warm and fuzzy thinking about it!” Patton interrupts, hands clutching each other over his heart as he swoons. Logan knows Patton doesn’t mean to be rude, but he still can’t help but be a little hurt by it, especially since he’s now been ignored twice consecutively. He’s just trying to help, and if that means reigning in Roman’s exorbitant ideas that border on egregious at times, then Logan knows it must be done. Although he encourages Thomas to seek a relationship to improve his mental health and provide more financial stability, there is a limit to how much he can disregard himself and others in doing so, and that doesn’t mean that Logan is the bad guy for pointing that out. He knows that. He knows that, so why does the dismissal still feel so sharp in his chest?

“Yeah, romance is cool and all, but what if it doesn’t work? What if Danny actually hates us? What if we ask and he laughs at us or says no and then we’ll be standing there like an idiot and then he’ll never wanna talk to us again because he thinks we’re pathetic and stupid and–”

“Hey, now, don’t be such a Debby Downer, kiddo! I’m sure it’ll go just fine! We’ll just ask him. The worst thing that can happen is he’ll say no, right? Shouldn’t we give it a shot?” Patton consoles before Virgil can go into a spiral. Although his well-meaning reassurances are meant to be comforting, his voice just grates on Logan’s ears, tinny and hollow and misdirected.

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

Logan wants to keep listening, he really does, but the noise is rising to levels where it’s too much to handle. He’s already sensitive from his illness, but the discussion that is very quickly turning into an argument falls in pulses through his head, sound torture to the broken, hopeless masochist. He’s barely holding onto himself at this point, consciousness like a dangling thread that swirls and dances and twirls with even the tiniest breeze, a hint of movement sending it shivering and quivering as it spins. It wouldn’t take much for the thread to fray from the weight pulling it down, or to saw through it in a clean slice that leaves it floating feather-light upon air currents, petals spiraling to the ground.

Petals. Flowers. Thomas could bring Danny flowers! It’s perfect! Danny is especially predisposed to gardening, and he frequently talks about different flowers and what they mean based on the type and colour. His interest in botany could make this a sweet gift, to show that Thomas pays attention to what Danny enjoys, and can be the perfect segue into asking him on a romantic outing. Yes, this could work! It would appease Roman’s inclination to classic romanticism while still being practical and not unreasonably expensive, give Patton his ideal relationship fantasy (and a “warm and fuzzy feeling”, apparently), and allow Virgil a little more breathing room, so-to-speak. This is something they all should be agreeable towards, and that confidence is enough to supply Logan with enough energy to push past his lightheadedness and offer a solution. He’s proud of himself for taking the others’ feelings into account, something he knows he’s not always been the most proficient at, and for coming up with a compromise that will likely satisfy everyone’s wants and needs.

“What about bringing him flowers?” Logan asks, pleased and antsy as he feels hope well up in his chest. He doesn’t push it down this time, and he thinks maybe, just maybe they’ll finally listen to him, that they’ll tell him that he did well, that he’s being considerate and maybe even say thank you–

“How would you even know, Roman? It’s not like we just go out and hire mariachi bands every Saturday!” Virgil says with furrowed brows, and Roman huffs in indignation, and Patton sighs as he looks between the two of them, and Logan’s words fall on deaf ears. They didn’t even hear. They didn’t listen. They didn’t care they didn’t care–

“Uh, hey, Virgil, what if–” Logan tries once more to speak, nausea rolling angrily in his gut, head spinning dizzy round and round and round and round and Virgil flinches.

He flinches. Because of Logan.

Virgil hasn’t been afraid of any of them for a long time. Sure, in the beginning, when they fought one another on nearly a day-to-day basis, there would be a moment before he could pull on his figurative mask that a flash of fear would go through Virgil’s eyes, and the sadness kept within wouldn’t subside even when he growled and snapped and blustered whichever side had the misfortune of picking a fight with him during a time where his first instinct was to keep away the pain and longing and loneliness the only way he knew how. Over time, that flash of fear dulled, morphed into something more manageable, more trusting. The sadness never really went away, but it was met with warmth, a soft contentedness that danced in his eyes when he realized he had a family to turn to. He hasn’t been afraid for a long time. And yet, he flinches away from Logan, just from him speaking.

Is he really that bad?

Does even simply the sound of his voice have such a negative association for Virgil that it prompts genuine fear and discomfort? Has he really scared Virgil that much? What did he do? How can he fix this?

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Logan’s felt disconnected from the others for quite a while now. He loves them, of course he does, but he doesn’t feel like he fits. He’s the metaphorical jagged puzzle piece, the one that should snap into the final vacant space but is so broken beyond repair that it doesn’t fit quite right. He wants to belong, to feel at home whenever he’s with them, but he doesn’t. He yearns for the acceptance that Virgil earned, the support that Roman is held up by, the respect and adoration Patton seems to acquire so casually and naturally that it’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Logan wants to be like them. He wants to be loved, but… that isn’t really his place, is it?

Love is not an inherent thing. It’s something that’s earned, by doing good things and being important enough to someone that they give it freely. It’s something Logan doesn’t understand, but despite that, still desperately, painfully yearns for. He wants to be loved, the way he loves the others. He wants to be a part of their famILY, to have that implicit trust in each other that only comes from acute, profound, deep-seated love. He wants that fondness directed towards himself, that devotion borne from hapless, radiating appreciation. The humbled esteem, the maudlin, theatrical longing, the passion and yearning and helpless, acquiescent love that bursts from the seams in a manner that will never diminish or fade. He wants that. Badly. And he’s finally ready to accept that he will never have it. He’s okay. He’s okay. He just needs a moment. He just needs to breathe.

The others must have continued with their arguments long ago, seemingly unaware of anything outside of themselves. Logan supposes he shouldn’t really berate them for that since he often falls victim to getting lost in debate as well, but something is wrong with Thomas, going by his expression and demeanour and the logical side can’t ignore it anymore. It’s highly unlikely that the other three will come away from themselves for long enough to notice, and it doesn’t sound like they’re anywhere close to coming to a conclusion amongst themselves, so Logan is perfectly fine with bearing that responsibility upon himself to check up on his host and make sure he’s okay. He’s the most important one here, after all, and it’s Logan’s job to help him, guide him in his life and decisions.

“Thomas? Is there something wrong?” Although the words come out clear and precise as usual, Logan’s throat burns, and he can barely breathe. He wants to sleep, he wants to sleep, but Thomas needs him, and that doesn’t happen often nowadays, so Logan does nothing but wait impassively. His host bites the inside of his cheek, then sighs as he stares off at the wall, lost in thought. Since he says nothing, the logical side assumes he will continue to say nothing for a few more moments, and decides to give him a once-over to gather more information and any possible context. Thomas’ eyebrows are furrowed, and his posture far from adequate. His expression is troubled, and his arms are crossed loosely, a pointer finger scratching at his elbow unconsciously. There is no obvious cause for his confusion and/or upset in himself or anywhere in the room, apart from the current dilemma, but he was fine before, so something must have changed to distress him now. Logan cannot ascertain what Thomas needs simply from observing him, so he concludes that the best thing for him to do is wait.

So he does. And he does so for a minute, two, five. Every second that ticks by feels like a needle is being shoved into his eyes, his brain, his legs, his everything and it takes more effort to stand than he’s used to. Breathing is difficult, but that isn’t exactly a new development, so at least he knows how to ignore it. Eventually, ten minutes pass with only the sound of the other three arguing in the background, and it doesn’t seem like Thomas is really all there. Although the action makes him want to throw up, Logan shifts forward, moving out of his usual spot and into Thomas’ own. He still doesn’t acknowledge any kind of input outside himself, so Logan lays a hand on his host’s arm gently, which snaps him out of his trance in a slow, unhurried kind of way. Thomas gives him a glance when his logical side sighs, tampering down any audible signs of his nausea in a manner that is unbeknownst to the host, but returns to staring at the wall without a second regard.

“Thomas?” Logan murmurs, bile rising in his throat and shoving his hidden suffering even closer to the forefront of his mind, as though it hasn’t been there all along. It’s hard to think, through all of the white noise and weary irritation and the tiniest sliver of hope that he crushes immediately, but thinking is his job, and he needs to help. “Are you alright? You can talk to me.”

And then Thomas is shrugging him off, turning away as he tells him he should “just stop” with piercing words, that he “can’t do anything to help”, and the rejection feels like a metaphorical knife has been shoved into his gut. Logan can feel the pain and the heartbreak and the insecurity materialize into a cold blade, twisting and twisting just to make him hurt more. Logan is ignored for the fourth time today, by the person it hurts to come from the most, and he can feel the sun whipping and screaming in his chest. His breath is stuck, sucked down into his throat, a sharp pain localizing in his neck, and he can’t help but bring his hand up to rub at the spot with trembling fingertips as he unsteadily lurches back to his regular spot. The others don’t notice, of course, or if they did, they don’t care. Then the nausea he’s been fighting against surges like a violent wave at full force, drowning him and the hurt is forcing its way into his mouth, his throat, his lungs, and he can’t breathe–

His fist flashes down from his neck to the banister, punching the railing so hard it echoes in the reverberation created from his vicious, angry snarl.

It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

There’s a very short window of time where the logical side rushes into the en-suite bathroom after rising up in his bedroom, trembling legs aching with exhaustion. Barely a second passes between him falling to the floor and emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet, the bile burning in his tender throat as a reminder of his failure. The floor is cold and hard beneath him, ridges of tiles pressing unrelenting into his knees through his wrinkled jeans. His head spins, unbalanced as it whirls through itself, words and thoughts and ideas that mean nothing and everything simultaneously existing hollowly in a falling echo. There is pain, and aching, and soreness, and exhaustion, and Logan wants to sleep.

It’s hard to rise to his feet, head throbbing and knees shaking as he wipes the spit from his mouth on a folded square of toilet paper. The pain nags at him, persistent and irritating in its attempts to shut Logan out, almost clear in a way that belies the foggy haze blanketing his nearly incoherent thought process. Marking a clear vantage, a faultline to anchor onto is no easy task, and all Logan wants as he stumbles over to his bed is a landmark to pinpoint and find his way back to. He careens toward the mattress once he’s close enough, finally letting his legs give out underneath him when he’s as near as he can bear. It’s so difficult to stay upright in stiff misery, pangs and twinges of sharp pain coursing through his limbs and his back as his muscles are forced together under pressure.

In another familiar, frustrating bout of anger that seizes his breath before it can escape his lungs, Logan shoves his fingers in the knot of his tie, yanking it forcefully even as the motion jerks his own head forward uncomfortably along with it. His fingers run down the length of the fabric, and it falls apart at the end of its cycle, much like Logan has, and he snaps his arm back to chuck the dark blue, silky length to the ground in a motion that does little to relieve the rage built up inside him.

He can feel it building. The buzzing, the pressure, the glass in his veins running on shards. He feels the pinpricks upon pinpricks, the fire burning in his lungs, and the stone crumbles, and tumbles down, and he’s like a rubber band pulled taut.

He cracks, shrill pressure in his knuckles and head and torso, and nothing happens.

Then Logan hears the telltale squeak of his door swiveling on mildly rusty hinges, and a familiar voice echoes right through his bubble, shatters the stone wall like a bulldozer running at full speed, and then the wetness spills over his lashes and over his stony, impassive face.

“Oh, Lo,” Deceit murmurs, sad and tender as the breath rushes out of him and Logan can’t do this. He wants to throw out his fist in a wide arc and pummel the wall next to him until his knuckles are raw and bloodied and bruised beyond repair. He wants to scream until his throat is torn and his voice is gone, lost in the uncaring, empty void that coldly swallowed up his passion. Happiness has never seemed further away, and he knows he deserves it. But then he remembers all of the times where the pressure in his limbs and the buzzing in his brain forced him to lash out, to hurt others, and he thinks that maybe it’s okay for him to hurt right now to even the score. With the last of the metaphorical wall around him in tiny pieces, fragments of a life he never wanted to live but he desperately fought to keep, he lets his guard down for the first time in years.

Logan’s face crumples under the weight he’s burdened his being with, body immediately drooping under the heaviness that he’s forced himself to fight through. He finally submits, and the tears come in an endless stream over his cheekbones, itchy and hot and terribly, mindlessly relieving. It feels so good to finally let the negative emotion he’s pent up inside him out, to fall out of his cage he’s lived in high above a swirling ocean of release and fear and freedom. And he’s so, so lucky because he has someone to save him from the fall.

Deceit’s kneeled down in front of him, wiping away the tears as they fall with uncharacteristically degloved thumbs, and Logan can feel the smoothness of the scales twisting and trailing down his fingers. Every so often, Deceit’s pointed thumbnails catch lightly on the skin of Logan’s cheek, and it just causes him to cry harder. The vulnerability in the room is palpable, a wispy breath of worry and insecurity and trust trailing over their skin, blanketing the room in a warmth that runs even warmer when Logan reaches up to gently lay his hand over Deceit’s own. He shows his appreciation through tactility when the words he so desperately wishes to say are lost in his throat, blocked by the barrier that separates his newfound submission and the part of him that’s still clinging to the feeble grasp at acceptance he craves so dearly.

Logan can barely tell what’s in front of him through the kaleidoscope in his vision, but he doesn’t really need to see to throw himself forward off the bed and bury himself in Deceit’s chest, of whom lets out a surprised noise but doesn’t hesitate a single second in wrapping his arms tightly around the other side. He strokes Logan’s back comfortingly and offers him whispered reassurances through the heart-wrenching sobs and broken, croaky whines that disappear into his cloak, hand coming up to cradle his head in the overwhelming reflexive instinct to keep the logical side safe and happy. It feels like a dagger has gone through Deceit’s chest at the knowledge that Logan has been suffering for so long and hasn’t been able to let it out or just simply be held, the self-preservation that is at the core of his function as a side going off like alarm bells with every sniffle. Logan curls into the first person who’s ever offered him physical affection and emotional safety, and his fists clench the fabric at the snake-like side’s shoulders as tightly as he would if he were to never, ever let go.

Logan is out of breath even as his heart begins to calm, beating and beating in his ribcage and in his lungs. The lump in his throat prevents him from speaking, but he figures it’s okay to not be heard audibly, just this once, and speak with his actions. Although he doesn’t know what he’s saying when he pulls back and wraps his arms around Deceit’s neck, laying his face in the crook of other side’s neck like a small child would, not really, he hopes that his intent still comes across in some sort of intelligible, hopeful way. Deceit seems to take this as a request, a promise, and slides his grip to a point where he can hoist the smaller side up in his hold, carrying him just like a parent carrying their kid to their bed after they fell asleep during a visit to a friend’s house. This situation is much more loaded, stained with impurities and unsure withering, but it’s just as raw, just as real, and Logan finds himself feeling safer than he ever has before.

At some point, they end up on the bed, Logan having been manhandled into a more comfortable position for both of them, which is laying across Deceit’s lap without ever having let go of his neck. The logical side feels small and vulnerable, something that he would normally hate, squash down, bury so deep within himself that he doesn’t even have to acknowledge it. But honestly, right here, right now, he’s so goddamn exhausted, and forcing himself back into the state of repression he’s been in for so much of his life would take too much of a toll, more than he already has on himself. The wetness rolls down his cheeks, bold, blue precipitation falling in droplets onto his skin and the fabric of Deceit’s cape, sinking and spreading and thinning out into airy nothingness. And the nothingness enraptures him, pulls him in even as he breaks and whimpers and spills wisps of forgotten feelings into empty space, at least until his bedroom door opens once more with a loud click, because nothing Remus ever does is truly quiet.

“Hey, are you guys having a sexy party without me? How c–… are you… crying?” Remus asks, suggestive tone split and watered down into something confused, and surprised, and angry. The younger twin kicks the door shut behind him with his foot, more out of muscle memory than conscious forethought, something that stands with nearly every action Remus executes. Logan turns his head wearily, not lifting it from where it rests on Deceit’s collarbone. The latter of the two takes that chance to clear away some of the tears that didn’t get absorbed into his clothing, hoping that since the stream is slowly dispersing, his cheeks will stay dry this time. Remus slowly approaches, body tense and eyes piercing as Logan’s face is wiped off for the nth time, offering no other sounds or words as he crouches down to examine how the bespectacled side’s skin is rubbed red and sensitive.

Logan just whines softly, stare falling to the bedsheets, observing nothing in particular as he tries to figure out why words are failing him. Something that’s such an intricate part of himself, the communication of thoughts and ideas and knowledge that defines so much of who he is and how he exists, it’s dwindled and diminished into nothing. Deceit seems to understand, he always does, and reads him so perfectly it’s a wonder the two didn’t become closer in the beginning, with how much they truly are alike. A scaled hand makes it’s way up to Logan’s head and cards through the soft, disheveled hair there, scratching lightly at his scalp in a motion that seems to draw the aching tension caused by his distress out of his body, leaving his muscles to relax and melt into the chest that holds him upright.

“Something happened before I came in here. I assume it has to do with the others,” Deceit murmurs into thick, heavy air, stale with shame and tired hopelessness. Remus’ eyes flick to Logan’s own, actively searching for some sort of confirmation or denial. There’s a beat of silence, and Logan’s eyes flutter in a fatigued attempt to stay awake, and the nausea creeps its way into his stomach once again like a predator stalking its prey. Deceit repositions himself quietly, pulling the smaller side impossibly closer, as if he knows that he’ll need the added comfort. With his body squished into a protective embrace, and his tie laying flat on the floor below, forgotten and scorned for what it represents, Logan swallows hard around the sharp block in his neck and nods through his nonverbal affliction.

At the minimal admission, something in Remus’ eyes darkens, bathing the bright craze that typically resides there in something hateful, and vicious, and dripping with chemical absolution. He shifts away, rolls onto his haunches in a way that doesn’t read as entirely intentional, as though he’s been physically forced back with the weight of the confession. There’s so much there, in the way his breath comes out shallow and gravelly and low like a beast biting and snapping at the bars that contain it, fighting against the cage it’s locked inside. Nostrils flare, and jaw sets, and fists clench white as bone, and Remus straightens up to his full height, intimidating and looming and dangerous.

“Who?” he spits, venom coursing through the single word in molten streams. It’s a protective fire, serious in a way Remus rarely is, and the storm in his eyes and aura only becomes more turbulent and intense and solid as he reaches behind himself to slowly seize his morning star from where he keeps it at the ready. Pulling it to the front of him is an unexpectedly slow event, yet still ferocious in its quiet, cold fervour. The silver weapon swings in a steady arc around the side of Remus’ body, catching the dim light in a threatening glint, the gleam alluding to its deadliness in a way that’s almost unexplainable. The spiked mace finally comes to its resting point, hovering in the air just beside the fierce side’s leg, unassuming and ready to drive its way into an unlucky antagonist’s skull.

“I’ll cut their fucking throats. I’ll rip off every single limb from their bodies until they’re nothing but a pile of flesh and blood. They’re gonna pay for this,” Remus snarls, each threat bathed in acrimony and malice and choked by fury ripping through the tempest. Logan stares through misty eyes, half-lidded and concerned but too out of it to muster much of a coherent thought. Thankfully, Deceit is still there, soft and warm and well-equipped to deal with Remus and his behaviour. The snake-like side sighs, reaching out to just barely snatch up a frilly black sleeve, tugging him closer and meeting surprisingly little resistance despite the rigidity of the tallest side’s posture. Each breath from Remus comes out like a bullet, brisk and arduous and punctuated by a pang of impermeable guilt.

Even as Deceit motions Remus to lower himself onto the bed in front of them, the latter of the two is still apprehensive, terse movements and restless eyes that flit between anything and everything they can to avoid stagnation. It’s almost fearful, in a way, primal in its aptitude to think, and cultivate, and vindicate a wrongdoing that was never his fault or responsibility in the first place. Logan hates that they need to save him, hates that he doesn’t truly believe they actually care. There’s a level of certainty with himself and with others that the logical side hasn’t reached yet, and it feels too close and yet too far, kept obscure and secluded and almost clandestine in the way it’s ostensibly unreachable.

With the help of Deceit’s hand to guide his way, Remus slowly lets go of his morning star, tossing it to the side with a pensive, trembling swallow. It clatters to the ground, metallic clang resounding in vibrations, tilde-shaped waves that bounce off the façade and yell out to one another. Muted shrieks upon perfect, flat, neutral paint, sepulchral oscillations attacking the drywall.

“You can’t hurt them. I know you’re angry. I am too. But hurting them won’t solve anything, Rem, you know that more than anyone,” Deceit says meaningfully, smiling in a way that’s sad and distant but caring and compelling and relaxing for the tension wrapped so tightly around the three of them. The snake-like side lifts the hand that’s not in Logan’s hair and reaches out to grab Remus’ own, firmly but gently as he squeezes his fingers in a way that reassures, and consoles, and reprimands, not unkindly. He admonishes, and breaks that anger and frustration, and builds up positivity and alleviation and reprieve from everything that allows that buzzing, ticking, those pinpricks upon pinpricks. His care and concern washes over you, paternal in a different way than Patton operates, and it’s why Deceit is so comforting to be around. He manages a respite from vexation, a refuge in sanctuary, discreet freedom for the flawed, defeated dreamer.

“I’m mad. I’m mad that they hurt you, Lo-Lo. I want them to feel the pain you’re feeling,” Remus mutters, frigid and defeated, head bowed and gaze distant in that transparent manner of his that easily broadcasts all of his thoughts and feelings and wishes. Logan feels the pride welling up in his chest without even realizing it, quietly delighted at the progress Remus has made in being clear and forthcoming with his emotions and impulsivity. A weary grin makes its way onto his face, predictably aggravating the soreness in his cheeks, yet he finds himself indifferent to it, unperturbed by the plight that��s ravaged his body for the day, and probably longer without his notice. He wants to reassure the younger twin, to smile and laugh and brush all of it off, but his eyelids droop, and a pathetic mewl is the only thing able to escape his lungs. Of course, since there’s something Logan wants to say, Deceit somehow knows how to communicate it, just as prompt and courteous and perceptive as always.

“We can talk about this later after Logan has slept. Don’t worry too much, Rem, and don’t do anything stupid. If you get angry again, please go to your paints instead of your legs,” Deceit instructs, more of a suggestion than a demand, but he hopes Remus will listen and be mindful anyway. The latter of the two bounces his leg anxiously, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath as he stands up in one swift, fluid motion. As Remus makes his way over to exit the room, Logan nudges Deceit’s hand with his head gently, trying to bring his attention back to the massaging motion that ceased sometime during the conversation. The snake-like side’s eyes flick downward to meet the smaller side’s own half-lidded, teetering gaze, and he huffs a laugh after a moment of searching. Logan doesn’t know what he finds, but he realizes that he doesn’t really care that much about worrying over every little interaction anymore.

Remus finally turns and glances back as he swings the door open, brows still furrowed and shoulders still hunched, but simply shakes his head and leaves. The door closes much softer than before, thankfully, so as not to be too harsh on Logan’s migraine, an unusually conscientious thought from someone that rarely shows consideration to the needs of others that the logical side appreciates that much more. As the sound of Remus’ footsteps slowly fade with his retreat down the hallway, the two of them left are bathed in silence, one that is marginally less heavy and thick than before.

A small while passes afterward, only punctuated by soft breathing and light scratching noises from nails trailing through messy hair. Logan feels like he might pass out any minute, what with the comfortable, quiet understanding the two have come to rest at, but some part of him says to wait, to push through the mind-numbing exhaustion for just a little while longer. That part of him is probably just being considerate toward Deceit, who Logan can’t imagine would be very comfortable with another side falling asleep on him and laying on him for an extended period of time, but he figures that it’s a good of a reason as any. It’s not about him feeling like a burden. It’s not.

Eventually, Deceit must start to get tired as well, or maybe he’s sore from Logan’s weight on his legs, so he sits forward, apologizing quietly for disturbing the peace, and he moves them into a more comfortable position. The new arrangement is far more snug and cozy than the previous one, Logan thinks drowsily, as his head hits the pillow across from Deceit. They lay there on top of the blankets but make no move to pull them up, just content to stare lazily at one another in the dim, ambient light cast by the desk lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

“Why?” Logan finally asks, and although he loathes disrupting the silence, he needs to ask. The words are scratchy in his tender throat, a charcoal whisper on a steel canvas that scratches and sketches away with nothing viable left to keep through the wind that blows the dark dust off the surface. “Why are you helping me? Why do you care?”

Deceit just hums, sending Logan a weak, distracted smile. He mulls over the words, tossing about the meaning and possibilities in his head and on his silver tongue, rushing in an uncertain river through valleys of golden sand.

“I am self-preservation at its core. I exist to keep Thomas safe and healthy and thriving, and that also means you and the other sides by extension. But… it’s not just that. Even though I feel physical pain whenever one of you or Thomas is hurt, I specifically want to help you because… I care about you, Logan. I love you, and want to see you healthy and happy. I haven’t really been doing a good job of that lately,” Deceit mutters, gaze somewhere on their shared pillow, and there’s a quality to his tone that’s bitter beyond the line of frustration. Although Deceit doesn’t expand on it, doesn’t offer up a single clarification despite the heavy air and his resigned demeanour, Logan gets it. He understands, and he wants to prove him wrong.

So he does.

And that comes in the form of surging forward, fighting against the current, the pinpricks in his stomach and shoulders and abdomen, disregarding the exhaustion for just a little while longer so that he can let Deceit’s lips meet his own. Logan’s so close he can feel the shocked rush of air leave Deceit’s nose, feel the vibrations through the air as his body trembles in fear and anticipation and relief. The other side eases in, sinks closer, closer, and finally moves his lips in a careful, emotional dance that leaves Logan dizzy and breathless, for entirely different reasons that have plagued him for the past day.

“Lo,” Deceit breathes, low, wanting, and he pulls back to give Logan a chance to catch up. A scaled hand comes up to caress the logical side’s cheek, a soothing, cool balm for the raw skin beginning to heal there. “I didn’t… I didn’t think…”

“I love you,” Logan breathes, the words he’s refused to say, to acknowledge, to confront welling up through his throat and for the first time, he lets them spill out. The dam has broken, debris left to descend and submerge in the depths of the sentiment crashing through in a roaring, passionate rapid at the narrowest point yet. The words come, and they don’t stop, and Logan almost can’t believe how right they feel on his tongue. “I love you, I love you, I–I love you so much, Dee.”

Logan is like a rubber band, pulled taut and still and trembling under the pressure. And maybe he’ll split, shoot apart, torn in two pieces that will never fit back together again. But maybe he won’t. Maybe instead of snapping in half, he’ll snap back, and that thought alone gives him a quiet comfort that he’s not used to allowing himself. He’s waiting, hoping, and he’s okay enough for now.