#this cannot possibly be a drabble anymore im sorry this is so long

[yayll]

~ a little something about waking up next to Dazai, and he's unbearable as always ~

"I might just eat you alive..." He mumbles to himself, barely audible. His eyes are half-lidded, and he's barely blinked.

He's been watching you sleep next to him curled up like a kitten for the past hour, way past the time you usually wake up. He's the oversleeper, not you, and it makes him hyper aware of your bodily functions and if they're okay. He hasn't eaten properly in days, but you don't need to know that. He's rabid, and he knows he's being a total freak right now, but who will worry for you if not for him? He must rise up to be the voice of reason, the watchful eye that keeps you on track even if he can barely keep himself alive! He wishes you'd stay forever, where he could avoid his problems and take care of your every single need. He should be everything you need... He hopes. Then you'd never leave, and he would make sure to eat more, just for you. How perfect... selfish.

God, he just wants to crawl inside of you and make you his home, it's almost pathetic. You'd find him vile for the things he would do for you and your happiness, despite you already being so accepting of his dark past... You're simply heaven sent. He takes a deep breath, and lightly runs his knuckles down your jawline, as if carving them out of the precious material that you're made of. You begin to stir, and his pupils dilate instantly as he pulls back with anticipation.

"Mmm... Osamu..."

You murmur sleepily as your chest rises up and down ever so slowly. He's freaking out. It's bad for his health to hear the way you say his name as if it were a healing oath, a spell that only works on him.

"Wakey wakey~"

Dazai's propping himself up on one elbow, a calculating smile plastered on his lips as if he were in on something you weren't. You pop open one eye, and groan softly.

"You're up... early"

"Yes!"

"Why..." You yawn like the silly little thing you are. He gasps in mock offense, clutching his chest.

"Can't a fortunate guy like ME just be happy that we both live to see another beautiful day?!"

He winks, and boops the tip of your nose, this gets a muffled snort out of you that causes you to bury your face into the pillow. He's addicted to the rush of causing any joy in your life, it's disgusting. When you don't lift your face back up, he scrunches up his face, and reaches out to stroke a strand of your silky hair, but his intrusive thoughts win and he tugs on it as payback for possibly falling asleep again. He needs your attention, and you're sleeping? Insanity. You swat at him, blindly smacking his arm away.

Oh, how he loves that you're the only person who truly sees him past his myriad of theatrics.

"Oh my... a slap from you feels wonderful!"

He rubs his arm, and grabs the hand that swatted him, bringing it up to kiss the pulse point on your wrist. Feather like kisses, almost undetectable... until you lift your face up from the pillow, finally.

He gazes at you as he rubs his face onto your hand like a cat greeting its owner, purring as if he were starved for affection. For a moment, his gaze becomes more serious, detached, as if he were thrown back into a distant memory. He can't describe the feeling, but the way your hand feels against his cheek is a warmth he hasn't felt in ages. His eyes sting, and he blinks the wetness away before you can notice as he hears your angelic voice again. He's back to his usual self.

"Osamu... You're being annoying"

"You think I'm just annoying?~"

His voice comes out in a tender whisper, his mouth curled up into a mischievous grin. He's insufferable. He could be anything for you if you wanted it. Especially annoying! He almost drools when you roll your eyes affectionately at him, the coldness in his heart disappears as he leans in just a little, invading your personal space as always, eager to hear your reply.

"Amongst other things, yes..."

You flash him a sweet little smile, and it mends all that is wrong in the world. The pink in your cheeks is starting to turn red, and it sends him to the moon. He hums, slowly nuzzling himself into the crook of your neck, it's his turn to curl up. You run your fingers through his messy hair that tickles you, feeling the warmth of Dazai's breaths against the back of your ear.

"Hmm, do I look like a pillow to you?"

He can hear the smile in your murmur, and he pulls back from your neck briefly, peering at you through his messy bangs, those intense hazelnut eyes demanding your attention, and his voice drips with an aching devotion that oozes like honey. he moves his lips to your ear, and whispers.

".. You look like an angel to me."

He watches you self destruct at his painfully smooth delivery of a compliment, and secretly rewards himself for once again giving you another reason to never leave. He's got it all!

Romance, self deprecating humor, an inability to properly process his emotions and grief, but more importantly, an undying commitment to stay alive against all odds so that he may see another day of you in his arms... or you helping him change his bandages... or-

He's cut short by you grabbing the sides of his face and pulling him into the most sinfully delicious kiss known to man, and he could swear that despite all his efforts, this might be what ACTUALLY kills him.

[kaixserzz]

eons adrift ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ wanderer x gn!reader

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🎐 ꒱ "i'll come and find you in every life celestia will give me." "that's not possible, you and i both know that." "watch me!"

 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ cw: character analysis-ish, mildly proofread, drabble but it's kinda messy, its more like an idea than a fic LOLLL im sorry, hurt/comfort

scaramouche took you for a naive fool, just as he was when oh so stupidly believed those words as kunikuzushi.

you are but a human. a mere breath of his everlasting eternity. a few hundreds of years and he would forget everything about you.

insignificant, you humans were.

frail.

vulnerable.

so so easy to break.

as he walked into the path of darkness; consuming him and turning him into someone he doesn't recognize in the mirror no longer—kabukimono, kunikuzushi, the love of your life, was long gone. memories like the leaves that turn yellow and crumble to ashes as winter approaches.

yet the winter will remain in his empty chest for as long as he walks teyvat. churning into a blizzard of ice cold pain, destroying everything around him as it grows. he continues to walk this wretched path he chose.

but then he met someone, rekindling the spark that was once there beneath his porcelain skin. trying to light up a burn out wick, to bring an end to his winter and bring forth the beautiful spring he was once.

scaramouche never thought he'd love again.

even after all through the pain he went from the doctor's experiments, after roaming the great expanse of the abyss, after becoming the balladeer, the 6th of the fatui harbingers, he still felt.

love.

happiness.

pain.

sorrow.

and regret.

he hates it, but he loves them, just as much as he loved you.

though he allowed someone new worm their way into his heart, he kept them in arm's reach. he cannot bear to be vulnerable to someone else. they were human, they were to die; he is a puppet, he is meant to live on forever.

but then he heard them say things only you would say. giving him lavender melons you bought off the market, accidentally calling him names only you would know.

he remember that promise you made him before you died.

"i'll come and find you in every life celestia will give me."

scaramouche did not understand what he felt when he realized that his new lover, was in fact, just a reincarnation of you. and just like that, your name burns back itself into his mind—a name he thought he had erased into obscurity, along with his past.

he was a fool, scaramouche thought. he laughed at himself, a laugh void of humor, nor joy.

it was your name, your first incarnation, just in a different language.

it appears that scaramouche didn't like this feeling. of bitter butterflies in his stomach, the familiarity when you try to get close to him, the same smile you had, the light full of love in your eyes—it was all too much for him.

so he left you in the snow of his ever growing blizzard. buried under the thick layers of freezing ice.

and again, to your next reincarnation. a fatui, a vendor, an adventurer, a knight, a scholar—male, female, neither, or all of them; tall, short, plump, slim, dark or light skinned,

he cannot bear to lose you just as he first did.

slipping by his fingers, to the one thing he is not affected by.

death.

he doesn't accept the fact that your love has led you back to him, again and again.

why do you even keep coming back? don't you know he's part of the fatui? don't you know what he has done? don't you know what he has become?

and yet you'd knock on his door, calling his name with your voice full of warmth, arms wide for him to take and allow himself to be called yours again—all he had to do was open the door.

he has kept a lock on it ever since he met you again.

worn down and rotten; chains all rusted, handle jammed and barely working. he approaches the door once again. this time, as wanderer. a better version of himself,

one that's finally willing to open the door to you.

but you weren't there anymore, waiting for him on the other side.

how could you? you were never there in the first place.

not with this version of himself.

not as the wanderer.

and maybe that was for the best. even though he cries himself to sleep at night for all the things he has done to you. weeping, as he curls onto the sheets, praying to the stars above in hopes you'd hear his heartbroken apologies, yearning for your love, your touch, your smiles—

this was his punishment for hurting you, for being a fool. he was underserving of your love, after all.

"hey, wanderer, was it?"

a new voice, someone unfamiliar. he refrained from sighing, for buer's sake, and instead took a deep, refreshing breath. he turns, and the stranger smiles brightly at him.

immediately, as if the winds of spring has hit him all so suddenly in the face. the fragrance of blooming flowers that was once buried under the snow, the sun shining brightly in the skies, and birds chirping symphonies.

like the mornings brimming with new found hope, the smell of dew sticking onto his clothes as he trace his fingers all over the a tree's trunk. like the the juices of a fruit he sank his teeth into, dribbling down the corners of his lips and down his arms.

warmth tingled on his skin, and his heart leaps.

"nice to meet you!" you say your name, a name he has heard hundreds of versions before, all so different and yet they all felt and tasted like honey dripping down his tongue. "i hope we get along."

"yeah," he says, almost breathless, as the tears begins to well in his eyes. his fingers tremble, and his smile grew wobbly. tipping his hat down to avoid your gaze, his voice cracks. "i hope so too."

his door was wide open, waiting for you come in.

you grin, and take a step inside.

 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

author's note: "i thought this was a dottore only blog? SHUT UP!!!!! SHUT UP!!! 🥹🥹🥹🥹 IM MAD AT MYSELF TOO BUT THIS IS FOR @fatuismooches also new format because im too lazy to open my files :/ not back yet, i just wanna write this for the pookie 💗💗 ty for listening to me ramble like a madman ur single handedly gettin me thru it ong LMAOOO /lh

[dozinggen]

Hello! I have just recently found your blog, and I absolutely ADORE your works!

If it's alright with you, may I request a Part 2 with Mara-Struck Yanqing & Jing Yuan, where Yanqing (like Jingliu) returns but he's a) unaware/doesn't recognize Jing Yuan and b) draws his blade more than he speaks/has violent-murderous tendencies.

I cannot get enough of this duo I swear—your work has fed my inner-brainrotting mind and I love it :D Keep it up, but don't rush!

͙✧˖*°࿐ Pairings: Jing yuan x yanqing (platonic)

┊͙ Summary: Yanqing was mara-struck but returns.

┊͙ warnings: mentions of death

┊͙ A/n: Thank you smm <33 I hope this is good enough for you! Im so sorry this took so long but I enjoyed writing this honestly. It’s also a Drabble, i apologize if you wanted headcanons </3

—

he had lost his son-like student to the curse of long lived species almost 2 years ago.

The beginning of his loss was the hardest. But, over the couple years, he’s been able to manage without his lieutenant by his side anymore.

He’s still kept the swords he used to admire, and maybe, just maybe, he’d return someday—like her, the only difference, he has his memories with the general.

It was early one morning aboard the Xianzhou Luofu, he was strolling through cloudford, admiring the sunset. Listening to the artificial raindrop sounds. His calloused hands gently grazed the railing. No thoughts were on his mind.

That was until a familiar feeling caught his eye. Was it possible he ran into him? He wasted no time, his head turning to the left, and it was him.

No words came out of his mouth, he was shocked, ecstatic, but his guard remained sharp. He knew what happened, during the exchange with Him and Her.

“Yanq-“ he spoke. It was soft, he wanted no harm. He stopped the moment he saw it in his eyes.

His aura, his gaze, everything—something, was different. He felt it. The way he stood. He could feel the almost vicious-violent intent in his lieutenant, his student.

“Who are you?” He spoke loudly—straight to the point. He held his sword high, yanqings eyes were narrowed, they seemingly had no light in them.

Jing yuans face remains stoic. but deep, deep down, he could just wish, that his beloved student—son, remembered him, and the countless; cherished memories, they had together.

He didn’t want to fight him, but yanqing left him no other choice.

—

©2023 broynasfavv do not translate my work, or rewrite/repost my work on any other platform without my consent.

[mintseesaw]

huling sandali 

translation. last moment ⇀ an entry for paraluman playlist

pairing: namjoon x reader genre: angst, est. relationship au word count: 2.2k warnings: themes of insecurities being triggered, emotional struggles, a break-up drabble a.k.a not a happy ending // pg-13

drabble request by @jim-parkin​​ with “pighati + namjoon” hi hjdgdhsgsg im sorry it took me 3254 years to write this :((( i hope you like it. Also, happy belated birthday, alyssa!!! huh i just found out like 10 hrs ago prior to posting this on my first attempt hfdkdjdh im a horrible friend but ily ;-( *unedited

Namjoon arrived home by the time you started packing your stuff. He found you sitting on the living room floor, casually sorting things and putting them in labeled boxes laid in front of you.

You were supposed to ignore him, just like what he’s been doing in the past week. You realized, days of argument after argument before seems better than a whole week of silence in the apartment. The loneliness becomes greater, the glassy tension— unbearable, and his passive treatment more than anything else, hurts you the most.

You couldn’t look at him, having no will to possibly see the indifference on his face while he watches you gradually removing your traces in his place.

As seconds turn minutes since the distinct click of the door closing snaps shut, you took notice of the prolonged silence without the tap of the heels of his black shoes on the granite floor resonating through the living room. With your curiosity suddenly distracting you out of your focus, your head tilted on your side to peek behind you.

There he was, standing so tall and so formal with a frown on his face. His eyes shone not because of the lenses of his glasses but from the unshed tears on his eyes. When your gazes met, he was quick to crane his neck to the opposite side.

You open your mouth to call him to gather his attention. But he was already walking away out of the living room.

It’s been a whole week since you told him you’ll move out. He perfectly understood the implication of it. He objected, tried to convince you not to leave. When his attempts went futile, he did stop trying. Then fostered the silence between the two of you.

He avoided you while you try to make things right by keeping the break up somewhat acceptable on both terms. His refusal to speak with you seemed to convince you that, somehow, he had given up, silently giving you the signal to proceed on your plans.

Half an hour later, you began emptying half of the wardrobe in the walk-in closet. Coincidentally, he was in the shower at the time. After work, he’d routinely clean himself up before he rests or eats dinner with you. However, he stopped taking meals with you nor stayed in the bedroom to read the day you broke the word to him. With his persistence to avoid your presence, you’re almost sure he would let you be in peace while you packed the last bit of your clothes from the closet.

You’re supposed to leave days ago. The tenant of the apartment complex you found weeks prior has been non stop bugging you to move in.

However, you cannot just leave without a proper goodbye to him. In fact, he should be the one leaving you, not the other way around. But he couldn’t do that. Because he owns this place just as much as he owns nearly everything here including your heart.

Namjoon would never ask you to leave, even if he wants you to. That’s how much goodness there is in him. You just happened to take advantage of it and live comfortably by his side.

With your emotions at bay, a silent tear spid down your cheeks, leaving a dot of patch on the fabric of your folded clothes as you fill up your luggage on the bed.

Mere seconds later just as you hear the bathroom door opening, you feel the familiar, strong arms snaked over your waist from behind making you still instantaneously on the spot.

“Namjoon—“

“Don’t… don’t leave.” He says to you for the first time in a week.

His wet hair quickly drenches the spot on your shoulder where he laid his forehead.

Squeezing his hand pressed on your stomach, you smile weakly without facing him. “We talked about this.”

You felt his forehead grazing your shoulder blade as he shakes his head, “I don’t agree with this.”

“We both need this. We need to give each other time to breathe.” You murmur under your breath, nearly admitting the real reason behind your decision. That you knew. You knew he was suffering, and he was trying not to show it to you.

“I don’t need it if you’re not with me.” Namjoon says back, the grip of his arms around tightening.

Sighing, “You’re smarter than me, Joon. You know it’s been tough for the both of us. You’ve been so patient with me and I know you’re getting tired.”

“We can s-still make this work. Fighting is normal. Arguments allow us to speak of our minds. We learn but we move on from it because we love each other.”

“We tried, Joon. So many times. So many times that there’s nothing left of me but doubts and insecurities.”

Namjoon plants a subtle kiss on the side of your head. You remained pliant to his embrace, almost not wanting for him to let you go. For him to insist his place in your life despite your determination to fulfill what you need to do.

“I can wait until you’re ready to love yourself, again.” He attempts once more. He’s always honest with his thoughts so you know he’s sincere when he speaks his heart out.

“That’s not how it works.”

“Then tell me what I should do, please don’t give up just yet.”

His words are like a twisting fire of a knife in your chest, slithering your heart apart and burning the shreds into ashes. The room suddenly feels suffocating and stiff.

Disentangling his arms around your waist, you turn to finally face him. If you’re not only so emotionally invested with the confrontation, you could have stared at him and let your eyes admire every detail on his face until he shies away from your peer that cheeks bloom with crimson tint. Just like the old times.

But your chances have run out, moments have fleeted, your time with him is almost over. Your palms harshly wiping wet traces on your cheeks, refusing to cry in front of him. With a tilt of your chin up, he struck you with his sorrowful, pleading eyes.

“Do you really want someone like me? Someone who depends on you— financially, physically, emotionally? You meet a lot of successful women and I fear that I’m not gonna be enough for you. Joon, I’ll always worry and pick up fights with you.”

Tears brimmed on his eyes, shaking his head to stress his disagreement. “You are more than enough for me. I didn’t love you because of what you have. I fell in love with you because of what’s in here,” he points at your chest.

“Why, it’s you who has a pure soul. You have everything a man could have asked for. Any woman would fall at your feet to earn your attention,” your voice deteriorating as your head falling in morose, suddenly losing the ability to hold his stare with the facade of a strength you’re putting up. “You know, I’m so lucky to have you. I’ve always told you that. But now, things changed. You’re suffering because of me. It’s how I realized I have to let you go because I want you to be happy, again.”

He gathers your face with his palms, forcing you to look at him. “No, no, no. That’s not true. You make me happy.. Please, stop this, you’re everything to me…”

His warm breaths fanning your skin with his heavy, calculated breathing.

“It’s me,” you pause, “You’ve taught me how to love but I chose the wrong way, I loved you too much than what I’m capable of giving. Now I’m lost and I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He inches his face closer until his nose is touching your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I didn’t mean to change you. I thought I was doing the right thing for you. I want you to dream, I want to see you soar high with your chosen profession. Please, baby don’t leave me. We could fix this.”

No, he was getting the wrong impressions. You didn’t regret going back to college when he pleaded you to. You didn’t regret setting aside your passion for art to continue the education you once took up before you left ran away from home. None of the ugly thoughts poisoning your mind were his doing. It was you and your insecurities.

“It’s not your fault. You saved me, remember? I met you at the time I was drowning in grief. Then I started dreaming. And the day you confessed your feelings to me, you made my dream come true. That was more than enough for me, Joon. Every inch of you became my happiness and it pains me to see I’m the one making you suffer.”

“Listen to me, _____. You make me happy. There’s no perfect relationship. But you’re perfect to me. You’ve always kept me grounded, made me think of my future, made me thrive for our future. No woman has had me at my worst, they only want the good things in life. You’ve been through tough times. But the kindness in your heart remains immeasurable, do you hear me? You deserve everything I have offered and so much more, baby.”

His thumbs patiently brushing the tears away.

“I can’t keep dragging you with my downfall.”

“I don’t want us fighting but sometimes, it gets out of hand. I stay at an arm’s length but it doesn’t mean I want you gone. Because at the end of the day, I’d want to go home to you even when we’re not okay.”

Your eyes fluttered close, not bearing to see the tears free-flowing on his cheeks. Namjoon rarely cries in front of you. Even before when you were purposely trying to aim his heart with your sharp words, nothing could seem to break him down. It’s always you who’s end up losing. Crying.

Silence filled the air for a moment until you heard him shifted. Then you felt a pressure on the side of your thighs and when you caught up what he did, your knees almost gave out.

“Namjoon— w-what are you doing? Stand up!”

His fingers dug deep on the skin of your thighs, head hung long, “Don't leave,” he begs.

“No, stand up!” You sob in disbelief. He couldn’t do this when you should be the one begging for forgiveness for failing him.

Hurriedly, you shuffled on your knees, fisting his shirt as you sobbed on his chest.

His arms gave you warmth as they enveloped over your back. As the room starts to drown with your muffled cries, he cups your face and in a matter of second, Namjoon’s lips are on yours, swallowing your sobs and murmuring sweet I love you’s while keeping your connected lips with his.

Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours, your insides are a mess, dreading for the end of this moment. With his concern to your plan, he refuses to loosen his hold on you. Even when you urged him to lie down on the bed with you, he didn’t move not until you tugged his body down beside you.

The rhythmic brushes of your fingers on his hair have calmed him down but with his arm secured over your back. It was only when he finally fell asleep when the grip of his arm loosens.

It’s been hours. You haven’t gotten a wink of sleep, and the sun will soon rise in a matter of an hour or two.

It doesn’t resolve the issue. It won’t because you know the next day, things will be the same. Same insecurities will eat you up alive until you burst your anger at him. And then the fight starts, arguments will inevitably tear you two apart. It’s an unending cycle of toxicity that not even yourself can control. Not until you allow yourself to heal.

Until then, you deem yourself unworthy of his love.

You need to leave before he wakes up. You know, it wouldn’t take long before you regret your decision.

“Meeting you was the best thing that happened in my life. I’m sorry for failing you, for failing myself. I hope,” you choke as a lump forms in your throat, “... you’ll be proud of me when I get better even when you have found someone else.” You ended your parting words with your lips pressing gently on the back of his hand.

Your shoulders slightly shake, your hands tremble as sobs threaten to break from your throat.

Your thumb carefully caresses his knuckles, watching him sleep so peacefully with your blurry vision. Suddenly, you couldn’t find the strength in you to pull yourself up.

“Why is it so hard to leave?” You whisper, looking at his sleeping figure.

He is your strength. Your happiness. The owner of your heart. Your dream come true. Someday, you’ll return and take your heart back from him. But for now, you’ll have to start living without it.

With one last look, you stood up with all your might and let the tears fall mercilessly as you fought back the urge to run back to him.

~~~

That moment still remains vivid in your mind, as fresh as the wound in your heart a year later. If you could only turn back the time, you wish he was awake to stop you from leaving. Now, all you could do is watch him from afar at his favorite coffee shop with someone else. The same one he used to take you at. He looks genuinely happy. At least, the break up did him good.

Every time you stood up from your seat to leave, you keep reminding yourself it’s the last time you’ll hope for your paths to cross. Somehow when the pain gets too much to bear, you always find yourself coming back here. Hoping. For another chance. You have the answer to that now. Someone else has already taken your place in his heart.

Inside the coffee shop, the girl sitting across him huffs while watching you walk away out of the establishment. She shifts her gaze to the man in front of her whose attention has speechlessly zeroed in on your figure through the glass walls.

“When will you actually start talking to the girl? You’ve been dragging me here for over a month now. My time is precious, Kim. It’s so obvious you’re smitten for her!” She glares.

Namjoon didn’t answer, only because he doesn’t know how. How do I win her back?

mintseesaw © 2020

[sailorshadzter]

“why do i love you?” please!

this has been in my inbox foreverrr & im pretty sure it was a writing prompt request from something id reblogged. 

anyways im sure it’s not quite what you were expecting anon, but reading this ask prompted this drabble all the same. 

also, i took the idea of sansa listening to the wind from the talk of elizabeth of york & her mother, elizabeth woodville, being able to hear the water (the white queen, anyone?). i feel like i use wind & wolves a lot in my fics about sansa, so i guess it fits my own personal narrative of her. 

anyways, sorry for the long wait, i hope you see this, and i hope you enjoy!

send me prompts

She's awake in the night, pacing the room like a caged animal.

In the hearth, the fire burns brightly, casting the room into a golden glow, though the shadows on the wall haunt her like her nightmares. She hasn't slept in what feels like weeks, she hasn't eaten in what feels like days. Outside, the snow falls and the cold comes in through every crack, proving that it was as her father had always said... Winter is coming.

And yet... Winter wasn't coming, winter was already here.

Winter was here and they were playing the most dangerous of games. Within the walls of Winterfell slept the enemy, though it felt like she was the only one who knew. Daenerys Targaryen was not their savior, was not their rightful queen. She was a tyrant in a dress that threatened to burn anyone who did not bend to her will, who did not kiss the ground she walked upon.

Sansa has to wonder when she'll be next.

She crosses the room to stand at the window, hand raising up to press against the frosty pane of glass. She can't even feel the cold anymore. She wishes she could. Leaning in, she breathes against the glass and watches the droplets of water race down the window to drop to the floor at her feet, looking back up only a moment later so she can rub away the frost and the water to peer out into the darkness of the storm outside. The wind is raging and she swears she can hear it whispering to her. It is like a howl of a wolf, telling her to be viligant, to be safe, to be smart.

A knock on her door pulls her from her thoughts.

She knows only one person who would knock so late into the night and so when she opens the door, she's not surprised to see him standing there. Jon looks as sleepless as she feels and she beckons him inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. "I thought you might be asleep," he says as he steps into the center of the room, noting her still neatly made bed and the black gown she still wears. He recalls that afternoon in the great hall, when she had snapped at Daenerys like a warrior queen, with her red hair tied back in braids and her sapphire eyes sharper than steel.

"The storm kept me up," she says as she comes to stand in front of him, not quite lying, not quite telling the truth. "The wind is howling." She explains, listening yet again to the scream of the storm outside, as if she can hear the words it wants the world to know. The words that the world ignores. Jon glances over his shoulder to the window she had once been looking out, already covered in a thin sheet of frost and when he turns back, she's frowning. "You should be resting," she gestures for him to find a chair and she moves a few steps closer to the fire, the heat reminding her of the warmth of his embrace. "The battle..." She trails off, shaking her head as she turns away from him.

She feels his presence before anything else.

He's so close to her she can feel the heat of his body, far more intense than that of the fire she stands before. When his arms wrap around her, she cannot help but to give into his touch, so warm, so strong. She slides her hands into place against his forearms, tilting her head back just enough so his mouth can find hers if he wishes. He doesn't. She leans against him anyways, swaying in time with the storm outside. "Why do I love you?" She asks as tears cling to her lashes, the truth of her sleepless nights suddenly there on the tip of her tongue. Jon only tugs her closer though she's not certain how that's even possible. "When you so clearly love her?"

At her words, he releases her, turning her so he can force her to look at him. "I told you... I don't love her." He whispers, anguished, his hands now on her shoulders. "I don't love her." Her repeats with a shake of his dark head, as if those four words were enough to make her understand. I love you, those are the only three words he needs to say, the only ones she needs to hear. So why won't they come?

He's afraid, in truth.

He's afraid of what happens tomorrow, of what happens the next day. He's afraid of what Daenerys will do to her, she's already on the edge when it comes to Sansa... He can't imagine what she will do if she found out the truth about them. He's afraid of what happens if he dies in the fight against the Night King and leaves her alone in the world. Jon knows that she loves him and part of her already knows he loves her back... And yet, neither of them have ever felt more lonely.

"What is the storm saying?" He asks instead and she draws back, head tilting, red hair a cascade of waves over a shoulder. "I can't hear it like you do." This is true- she hears whispers, he hears wind. She hears howls, he hears the sound of rustling trees.

"That you're making a mistake." Her stoic words make him blink and it's as if she's in a trance, staring at him but he knows she isn't really seeing him. "She'll burn it all." He knows she means Daenerys and he longs to hear more, but she's the one who blinks now, a look of confusion appearing. "The storm has stopped." She pushes past him to stand at the window as she had done before his arrival, though this time she forces it open, the rush of cold air bringing goosebumps to her skin. "Why..." Her voice is soft, trailing off as she turns back aound to face him, though the window remains open behind her. "I'm afraid for you," she admits softly and Jon closes the gap between them, pulling her into his embrace before she can utter another word.

He holds onto her as she cries into his shoulder, speaking soft words of comfort as he strokes her long red hair. They stand there for what could be hours or days, he loses track of time with her, until she is the one who pulls back and wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her gown. "I don't love her, Sansa." He says again, this time with force, this time with meaning. Her blue eyes, now swollen and red, are still so beautiful. "When the battle is over... When I come back to you... I will tell you the truth." For several beats of silence she merely stares back at him until she softens, she understands. She always does.

She nods.

And he goes back to holding her, for what else can he do?

[ x x x ]

The night after the battle, after the feast, he finds himself at her chamber door again.

Before he can knock, she's opening the door, standing there in her scaled gown with the firelight framing her from behind. "Sansa..." Her name has never sounded lovelier than when he's whispering it. She steps back, giving him the space to come inside, and she shuts the door behind him a moment before his hands are upon her.

His kiss is hungry, his kiss is full of hundreds of unspoken things between them.

When he breaks it, finally, it's to tilt his forehead against hers, lips so close he can feel when hers curve with a smile. "The wind told me," she whispers, leaning into the warmth of his embrace. "It told me you would live." The wind had howled so loudly she could hear it in the crypts, she could hear it over the soft crying of the women and children. No one else could hear it, but she could. She heard it say over and over again, he will live because you love him, he will live only to come back to you.  

"I told you I would come back to tell you the truth," he reminds her, tightening his hold on her hips.

"What's the truth?"

He smiles, slow and true, his heart beating fast in his chest. "That I love you," he says, his breath warm against the hell of her ear as he leans back in, breathing in the scent of rose water on her hair. "I love you, Sansa, no matter how it's seemed since I've come home." She's sinking into him and he can feel her steady pulse against his lips as he kisses her neck, thankful for the warmth of her skin against his palm.

He's thankful to hold her, to touch her, to feel her. He's thankful to kiss her, to love her, to know her. In an instant, it all could have been taken from him. When he had stepped out onto that battlefield, anything could have happened, any one of the enemies could have been the one to claim his life. And her... It could have been her down there in the crypts, dead by the blade of her own dead ancestor. Her own brother had raised a blade to a child in his reanimated state and it could have been her. It could have been her.

"Jon..." Her soft voice brings him back and he leans in, kissing her once again.

After all, it's the only thing that feels right.

[robotslovedeath]

“Where are your pants?” Bc Aaravos conformed has no pants on. We see them starry thighs And “Put me down” Tall Aavaros, Small Gren, what more is there to say I have returned from studying for a quick tdp break ;)

SO SORRY THIS TOOK LONG I STARTED BUT NEVER FINISHED :( SO HAVE A NEVER ENDING DRABBLE HHH IM SO SORRY, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO WRITE NEXT

~~~

Viren had rushed to the dungeons, coming across the Commander once more. His jokes were getting worse by the second as Viren desperately seeked answers from the magic elf. It only took one more joke to trigger him.

"Lord Viren! Hello!"

The look on his face didn't look at all pleasant.

"What is it now? You're unusually happy today."

Gren had only had a small nap, until he was woken up by a strange voice coming from the room the Lord always locked himself in.

"Uhh, why are you always in there? It's not good to isolate yourself from the world, what if Soren and Claudia want-"

"QUIET! Do not ever pronounce their names. I'm warning you now, Commander."

He had walked away from Gren, his temper clearly lost and anger increasing by the second. Freeing Gren wasn't a bad idea- although Amaya would find out and start problems.

~~~

"Eurk! Where are your pants?"

The Startouch elf turned around, surprised but nothing out of the ordinary.

"Pants are for humans. I'm obviously not one."

It had been settled that his plan to find out more about Aaravos was today. And he wouldn't let anything get in the way. It was now or never. Viren wouldn't let that opportunity go to waste. Placing the worm back in its jar, the man silently walked away.

"Pleasure talking to you."

Viren left the room, door unlocked after being too lazy to do such a thing anymore and way too pissed at Gren to even do anything. He had to get him out before he lost his mind.

"Commander, you're free to go. Be grateful and tell nobody about this. You will pay the consequences if my wishes are ignored. Good day."

"You're.. really gonna let me go? But why?"

"Naive child."

"Understandable-"

Ow, did the chains leave a mark on his wrists. It wasn't useful for a 25* year old man to be chained down (up) for so long, not even useful if all the food/drink he got given was merely just hot brown morning potion. He couldn't complain though, it wasn't that bad.

A creak of a door and Gren found himself in the small room, a table with a strange looking green jar and some other unusual things for the Lord to be in possession of. With that, came a mirror. Now Gren couldn't help but reveal what was behind the cloth.

The most gorgeous elf he had ever seen.

"I- What.. who are you?" His voice came with a tremble as his knees were beginning to weaken. Nobody had ever made him feel such a way. Why him?

The elf didn't speak nor blink. Curiosity filled the man, unsure and hesitant towards the redhead. He couldn't be so shy now, but on the other hand, he couldn't be so trusty towards someone Viren could possibly be foes with. It didn't make sense.

"Aaravos." He mouthed. Never hinting that he needed the worm to communicate.

"Hm? I cannot hear you."

He flicked his ear, pointing at the jar next to him. So that was what it was for.

Although Gren was uncertain this was even possible, his hand had already made the move to grab it out the jar. The tingling sensation of the worm made Gren uncomfortable, pulling his face into quite the disgusted look. You could see Aaravos laughing quietly in the mirror.

"Speak, lil' red."

Gren was in shock, it wasn't everyday he could meet someone as beautiful as him. He turned around, to your surprise just like Viren and started doubting his whole decision of finding the truth. He also couldn't always talk to people. Knowing he was locked up for however days/months/years it's been. Who knows.

"Huh? Me? Commander Gren! I'm the Commander of my General. General Amaya to be precise.. haha."

"Relax, angel cake. You're in safe hands. I need to ask you a favor, dear. Do you believe that could be possible?"

A favor? Right this instant? He had just met him, for god's sake! What else could go wrong?

"I understand if your royal Commander isn't happy with this. Or if you're just scared to talk. It's okay, I don't bite, sweetheart."

"A-alright, go ahead.."

"I want you to get me out of this mirror. This place that I'm unaware of, it means nothing to me."

How could the Commander do such a thing? It wasn’t like him to fall for such a trick when be barely trusted anyone so easily. Specifically a good looking elf stuck in a mirror. Maybe something decent would actually come from freeing the elf, supposedly called Aaravos (Gren had figured it out after trying to decipher it, since he was both good at ASL and reading mouthed words).

“..How? I have no idea how to get you out, Aaravos!” Perhaps he spoke too soon?

“Huh.. Commander, you never told me how good you were at reading lips. Impressive.”

“I.. yes. Thank you.” Man, was he smooth with words.

This.. elf. How could he get Gren in his pocket so easily? Aaravos could manipulate him with just a simply favor, and.. looks.

~~~

It took a bit of time for Gren to get a hang of what Aaravos was doing. Some strange magic and spells were recited, the redhead not knowing what was actually happening. It also took awhile for the commander to realise the glass in between them disappeared. While Gren was uncertain this actually worked, he still placed his hand forward, wanting to help the elf out.

“You're a star, how may I serve you?” His face was covered with stars, which twinkled from time to time. Gren was amazed, he was also.. so tall. Being 6’1 was great but he could never imagine being as tall as Aaravos.

“I don't know..” Hesitation was his best friend. Nothing came to his mind; nothing at all.

I wasn't mentally prepared for this!! What could I possibly want from him??

“Hm. Let me show you something that humans have always seeked to witness.” Quite so, Aaravos had strengthened the grip of Gren’s hand, nearly throwing him in the air to simply just carrying him bridal style. It wasn't ideal, but Aaravos didn't complain.

“H-hey! Put me down!” He wasn't really one to shout, except.. this kinda felt nice? For some strange reason.

“This is what you wanted, no? Close your eyes for me.”  Aaravos whispered, so close yet so far from the Commander’s face. He had to make this embarrassing, didn’t he? You could probably feel bad for the poor redhead’s heart. A fragile and sensitive one when he felt shy.

~~~

They had finally arrived, a silence from both of them during the journey which seemed to never last. Gren for once was.. satisfied with it. Eventually, the low, familiar voice spoke again.

“Open your eyes now, it won’t hurt, poppy seed.”

What was up with him and the nicknames? They were so out of the ordinary, and sounded like he was close with the commander, when they had just barely met.

He and the Commander were outside, cool breeze hitting Aaravos' exposed skin, and Gren's blushing face. As the night fell into complete darkness, the Startouched elf, also turning silent, unexpectedly started glowing. Little stars that shun in alignment with those above them, twinkling in the black emits of the endless twilight.

Gren stared in surprised, both amazed and confused as to why he had brung him here. Again, it wasn't everyday he met up with an elf. Let alone a Startouch elf, probably the first a human had seen for a while. Told and admired by thousands, Startouch elves were mentioned in books of ancient times, a history that both Gren and Aaravos himself had read.

"What do you think?" A low murmur had rung besides the Commander's ear, quiet enough for only, and only, Gren to hear. It was to be taken almost sensually, the redhead not used to it enough to be taken as a compliment.

"It's.. it's beautiful."

But not as beautiful as you.. What am I thinking? You just met him! A stranger! An elf! What's up with you, suddenly???

~~~

I ONLY WROTE THIS MUCH AND SJBDB HOPE U LIKE IT!!!

[itsteaveetime]

Hey, if you're still taking prompts, can I request Mike T. getting his wisdom teeth out, based on the video of Mike W. getting his out on Instagram?

//Send me a prompt, get a drabble/one-shot.  Always accepting prompts.  Hopefully not supplying fics that completely suck.//

Mike Teavee is not cuddly.He never has been. Not even really as a baby, despite Ethel’s tendency to view his pre-walking, talking, and texting years through rosy tinted nostalgic glasses. He had (in Ethel’s biased opinion) been adorable, of course: thick dark hair and huge blue eyes, but he spent a lot more time crying and drooling than cooing sweetly at her than she likes to admit.A little like how he is drooling now, ironically. Of course now there’s more blood.

She presses a towel wrapped around a package of frozen peas to her son’s mouth. His head is propped up by pillows, but he’s still mostly out of it. Tears still cling to his long dark lashes.She secretly enjoys these moments, just a little bit.  Not his pain, of course.  But under normal circumstances he wouldn’t allow her to hover so close. He would be annoyed if she tried to brush the hair off of his forehead. She can look at his face for as long as she likes when he’s like this, without him twisting it up in disgust. At least: until the drugs wear off.Michael has to be sedated for every dental visit. Even for something as simple as a cleaning. That’s been the deal ever since he punched one of the dentists out for ‘lying’ (“He said it wasn’t gonna hurt and it hurt”). Even at 14 they have to dope him up, knock him out, and strap him down.  It’s far from the only place where certain precautions are taken due to her son being…her son. But the dentist’s is the only one that leaves her with such a pliable little boy; one who answers to 'Mikey’, and doesn’t remember that he did so later, and as such doesn’t punish her in any way for upsetting his 'street cred’ (or whatever the kids today call it).  And Mike does need a lot of dental work.  He isn’t very diligent about brushing and he grinds his teeth like a horse, even on an SSRI.But nothing about Mike comes completely without complications. She keeps one eye on her son.  She keeps the other on his phone.She isn’t sure how (particularly because of his temporary loss of fine motor skills), but in the time between when he first comes to, and they allow her to collect him, he always manages to text or tweet at or FaceTime someone. She has, over the years, ended up apologizing on his behalf to a wide variety of people. From local businesses to the presidents of small nations. She’s never able to explain how he manages to get their numbers: he just does. That’s just Mike.Today is unlikely to be an exception.  Today has not been a simple cleaning.  

There is always the chance she will be fielding a complaint from Jerry Jubilee’s publicist shortly, but lately (at least, since regaining his height after visiting Wonka’s factory), Mike tends to limit his drugged contacts to a smaller and more familiar circle.Some time last year he sent a long rambling missive to Mrs. Gloop (specifically Mrs. Gloop, not her son) full of half hysterical sobbing about jello molds (Ethel has no idea what that’s about, her casseroles are just fine), and wildly complimenting her ability to knit. Michael has no idea why he suddenly began receiving regular care packages full of sweaters and scarves from Germany, and Ethel isn’t about to tell him because oddly enough: he actually wears them. Mrs. Gloop knows a boy’s color palate when she sees it, and all of her offerings are acceptably black on black, with maybe a touch of neon.  Ethel had not been previously aware that one could knit an iPad cover, but Mike is particularly pleased with that creation.  Although Ethel privately suspects the device never really has the chance to get cold.Slightly more recently, well…she had rather liked it when Oleg Salt had rung up, even though he had insisted on calling her 'Mrs. Television’. Ethel has and has had her hands too full with Mike to even think about re-entering the dating scene, but she’s not dead: the Russian oligarch is a looker. She’s still not exactly sure what Mike might have said to him or his daughter, but she wouldn’t entirely mind if Mr. Salt had to call again.  A lady can have her dreams on those cold Idaho nights. Whoever Mike has bothered this time is taking their time saying anything about it.  There’s probably some way of finding out who they are, but she couldn’t possibly.  His little computer phone intimidates her: it has no buttons.  Best to just sit and wait and enjoy her son’s heavily drugged company and hope whoever she ends up having to speak to speaks English.

Mike’s head has lolled onto her shoulder, and Ethel is feeling particularly maternal, despite the fact that Mike has definitely already ruined her blouse, when his phone buzzes to life.

“Phooooooooone,” he mumbles into her neck.

“Oh.  I…right,” Ethel says, to the phone mostly.  “I just…”

She manages to retrieve the device without sending him tumbling to the floor, and then to wrangle one of his limp hands into activating the device, by placing his thumb over the little circle at the bottom herself.  The phone is…alive now, but she has missed the call.  She did see that the number was labelled something: Old Man.  Her heart screeches to a stop for a second, like a needle across a record, but it couldn’t possibly be: Mike does not speak to his father.  He would never have the man’s number saved in his phone, would he?

The device begins to vibrate in her hand again.

“Phone,” Mike mumbles.

“…Hello?” Ethel says, dubiously.

“Hello Mrs. T., I have some concerns,” the voice on the other end of the line (although Ethel supposes they don’t really use lines anymore) says.

She doesn’t know how he knows so quickly that it is her: this is Michael’s phone.  Most people are at least a little confused when she answers it (which she does rarely, because when alert Michael does not allow her to touch his phone).  It seems unlikely that he might have recognized her voice, although she recognizes his instantly.  As if she could forget it.

“Mr. Wonka,” Ethel begins.  “…whatever Michael did, I’m so sorry, but it really wasn’t his fault this time.” 

“He’s sent me twenty-seven video messages, and I don’t mean to alarm you, but I suspect he may have gotten into some of your, uh, ‘lemonade’,” Wonka tells her.

“Oh, no,” Ethel protests.  “I would never let him do that.”

Wouldn’t she?  No, she wouldn’t.  Not that Ethel isn’t a cool mom, but she needs that ‘lemonade’ for herself. 

“Tell ‘im he’s old,” Mike tells her hair.  “S’important an’ he needs to know.”

“He’s had his wisdom teeth out,” Ethel says, hoping Wonka cannot hear what Michael is saying.

“…oh,” Wonka replies.  

The man sounds strangely small on the other end of the phone.  Ethel supposes chocolatiers and dentists may be some sort of natural enemies, but she’s not sure that quite accounts for how he sounds.

“Mo-om,” Michael is saying in her ear, over and over.  She can feel drool dripping down her back.  At least, she hopes it is just drool.

“Also tell him he’s my friend.”

Michael is crying softly now, which is just sort of how coming off of meds like these goes.  She knows better than to think it means anything.

“Heeeeeee’s my friend and it’s too late he just is,” Mike sobs.

She would place her hand over the receiver if this was any sort of normal phone, but Mike’s little black box doesn’t have one that she can find.

“It’s just the medication,” Ethel continues, apologetically over her son’s sobs.  “They make him…like this, and he won’t remember it tomorrow, and I’m sure he’d appreciate if you didn’t say anything about it.”

There’s a thoughtful moment of silence from Wonka.

“My lips are sealed,” he finally says, which Ethel considers surprisingly mature of him, until the chocolatier goes on to say:

“I’ll just save these somewhere for future blackmail.”

Ethel rolls her eyes, but that does sound more like the Wonka she knows.  Not that she knows him.  Not, apparently, like Michael knows him.

“I should get back to him,” she says.

Mike is clinging to her waist. 

“Of course,” Wonka says.  And then: “…you know what they say, though: in vino veritas.  Well, good-bye.”

Ethel does know that they say that.  Of course she of all people would.  It’s not something she puts much stock in.

But as her son puts his head in her lap and lets her stroke his hair (something he does secretly like even when he is sober) and mumbles something that sounds very much like ‘I love you’, she cannot help but hope that Wonka has a point.