#writing that won’t let go

[the-most-humble-blog]

I still dream of you. Not you now— the you that could’ve loved me back.

Reblog if you ever felt like someone belonged to you in another life… and cursed this one for forgetting.

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION // BLACKSITE POETRY: MULTIVERSE LOVE EULOGY -->

&lt;div style="white-space:pre-wrap"&gt;

&lt;meta soulmate-thread="frayed"&gt;

&lt;script&gt;

ARCHIVE_TAG="LOVE_THROUGH_TIMELINES::SOUL_COLLISION_POETRY"

EFFECT: nostalgia recursion, emotional timeline bleed, multiverse ache

TRIGGER_WARNING="existential sadness, poetic intimacy, soulmate theory collapse"

&lt;/script&gt;

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “IN ANOTHER LIFE, YOU LOVED ME.”

In another life,

we were lovers.

Not the kind that fights over texts or dinner plans—

but the kind that *woke up grateful*

just to see each other blink.

We laughed until our ribs hurt,

cried when the world cracked,

and died—

still holding hands.

We were so in love

the stars tried to orbit *us.*

—

But not this time.

In this life,

you’re just a stranger

with ***familiar eyes.***

A voice that jolts something in me

I’m not allowed to name.

You pass me like gravity never existed.

Like our atoms don’t remember.

Like I don’t still flinch

at the sound of your laugh

from three people away.

—

What is love?

Is it this singular thread

we keep dragging through dimensions?

Or is it different every time—

rewritten

by the needs of each universe?

Maybe soulmates don’t exist.

Maybe they’re just

cosmic improvisations—

two spirits rehearsing loyalty

across timelines,

never quite landing

in sync.

—

Still…

I like to imagine:

In some variant of existence

we didn’t call each other names that cut.

Didn’t flinch when we saw each other online.

Didn’t recoil from old photos like they burned.

Maybe we built a life.

Maybe we stayed.

Maybe we ***held each other through the end.***

And maybe,

just maybe,

*that version of us*

still smiles

in a universe

that never knew heartbreak.

—

I guess I’m just

a timeline away

from you loving me.

And that hurts more

than anything

you ever said

in this one.

🧠 Read more mythic heartbreak and soulmate autopsies at:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Timeline bleed. Cosmic ache. Poetry for the emotionally doomed.

🚪 Warning: This post may cause psychic déjà vu and longing that won’t go away.

📊 MULTIVERSE HEARTBREAK STATS 📊

• Lives where we made it: at least one

• Versions of me still in love: all of them

• Soulmate misfires in this timeline: confirmed

• Healing acquired from closure: 0

• Universes where you stayed: redacted

• Chance I ever stop wondering: negligible

&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;!-- END TRANSMISSION [A TIMELINE AWAY FROM FOREVER.] --&gt;

[kingkatsuki]

Thinking about a random villain attack happening in the city one Friday night when you’re out partying with friends at a local dive bar, and you end up getting caught in the crossfire when a blast knocks a chunk of a wall crashes down around you and traps your leg. Knocking your head when it hits the pavement as you cry out in pain, and people act like they can’t even see you as they flee the scene.

But Bakugou and Kirishima happen to be at another bar across the street, off duty after a long double shift as the carnage happens. Racing outside to assist the other sidekicks and Pro’s that are now on the scene as Bakugou spots you laying trapped beneath the rubble.

And usually he would’ve left you to someone else, another hero or sidekick can race over to check that you’re okay and reassure you that ambulances are on the way— but he sees the look of fear in your eyes and he finds himself racing over to you. Moving the rubble from your leg with ease, but not attempting to move you as he crouches down beside you, lifting your head from the ground as he winces at the wetness that sticks to his palm as he cradles your head so delicately.

“Hey, hey—” He rasps, his voice harsh as he tries to get you to calm down, “You’re gonna be okay, yeah.”

“Please don’t leave me.” Tears tumble down your temples now as the medics circle around you, assessing your injuries before moving you onto a stretcher.

Bakugou’s never heard that request from someone before, he’s never stuck around someone long enough for the medics to arrive and move someone onto a stretcher.

And he can feel the slight grip you keep on his hand as the stretcher begins to roll, his feet following beside it as if on instinct as he walks towards the ambulance with you until you reach the open doors.

But he hesitates — It’s as though all those memories from when he was a teenager come flooding back as he remembers everything that happened to him before.

So he just stands there and watches you get placed into the ambulance, stoic as the sirens cry out and the lights begin to flash.

“Hey man, you okay?” Kirishima claps his shoulder and Bakugou is still standing in place.

“M’fine.” He shrugs his shoulder to move Kirishima’s hand as he watches you drive away.

And he doesn’t sleep that night. Tossing and turning as your terrified face plays in his mind, the soft sound to your voice when you begged him to stay with you. He hates himself for not going.

He knows he should go to the hospital to check if you’re okay, to sit with you like you’d asked him to. But he’s got another shift in less than four hours, and he doesn’t even know your name.

He doesn’t even know if you’re still alive.

But even then he makes no attempt to move as he lays motionless in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to get the image of your terrified eyes peering up at him out of his head.

[ghostbeam]

Mech pilot yuuta and his mech that’s incredibly possessive over him. He takes to you as a handler almost immediately, excited for the help after his last few handlers were scared off. You’re not allowed inside, your constantly dodging malfunctioning limbs and faulty wires, but you’re not one to back down, and gaining her trust is just as important as gaining his.

Rika only realizes how important you are to Yuuta the day after you spend the night with him, and he’s left alone in the morning with an empty bed and a broken heart. You’re his handler. You’re not supposed to leave him. Not ever.

She lures you into her chest one night, faking some sort of lighting malfunction and allowing you inside for the first time. She keeps you inside all night, enduring all your yelling and banging on her insides to be let out, a nice gift for Yuuta.

[jojo-schmo]

Estas son las mañanitas

Que cantaba el rey David

Hoy, por ser tu cumpleaños

Te las cantamos aquí

Despierta, Jossie, despierta

Mira que ya amaneció

Ya los pajaritos cantan

La luna ya se metió~

🎶🎶🎶

[mochi-kitty]

The thing is.. I wonder if they could’ve found out the mole in their group sooner if Wally just trusted Bart more. Default Relationship Dynamics aside, Wally could’ve asked for help when he was doing the vibrate thing because Bart as a speedster can also do that (and I have to assume 4 hands are better than 2), but as Barts gotten his brain wiped he wouldn’t answer the call then Wally would’ve turned around and everyone’s attention would’ve been drawn to Bart dazed and holding his head while standing next to a creepy dude who wasn’t doing shit to help him.

I know Wally’s idea didn’t work in the end but still,,, idk I wonder

[semisolidmind]

been seeing some anthro designs of the current blorbos and i can’t stop thinking about an au for it. so, to get it outta my brain;

(i guess this is a college au?)

—dogday and catnap as adoptive brothers, with a big group of friends (the critters, who are mostly dogday’s friends that tolerate catnap), the cat is primarily mute and allows his brother to do the talking for the both of them.

—catnap was kidnapped when he and dogday were kids. he was 5, and he was missing for five years. to their credit, his family never gave up hope of finding him. when he was found, he was dazed, stumbling along the road, malnourished, and bleeding from shallow wounds on his arms and legs. his vocal chords had been fried through the forced inhalation of some strange drug, and he couldn't speak at all for a good long while after. catnap and his adopted family learned sign language (and though his voice healed somewhat as he got older, he still prefers not to use it). despite getting better, his voice maintains a raspy, whispery quality.

—catnap was obviously traumatized by his time away and refused to talk about it. it was deduced that he'd been taken by an infamous cult in the area and indoctrinated. a very close eye was kept on him throughout the rest of his grade school life. with no behavioral problems beyond a lack of speech and general closed-off attitude, most write off any weird behavior of his as a result of his trauma. he maintains a close relationship with his brother, he works nightshifts at a gas station, and stays out of trouble. supposedly.

—(catnap's a serial killer. he destroys anyone with a target placed on them by his god; a being the cult calls "the prototype." the cult conditioned him to be their executioner. catnap still smokes the opium-based drugs fed to him all those years ago, now sent to him discreetly by the cult; to help him "see what the prototype wants him to see," and "enact his will." his almost-full immunity allows him to use the smoke to knock out his victims by casually taking a drag and blowing it into their faces (he then either kills them right then or takes them to the cult to be sacrificed).

—dogday is a bright, happy fella who makes friends with almost anyone. he's a favorite on campus, a sweet guy who radiates sunshine and maintains a large group of friends. he has a massive crush on y/n, a newcomer to his school, and immediately integrates them into his circle (he calls them angel, something about them "saving" him from some accident? no one is really sure what happened there). he's terrible at hiding just how smitten he is, and his friends tease him when y/n isn't around. dogday swears he'll confess, but he gets so flustered and nervous about messing up their relationship. it doesn't help that his angel is so oblivious to his love (bobby does her best to try and nudge y/n towards dogday, but it never seems to click). y/n and dogday are very close despite all this tension.

—catnap likes y/n too, in his quiet way. he'll stand with them when the group is together, resting his chin on the top of their head or leaning on them while everyone stands around and talks. he sits next to them in the library while bubba tutors dogday in math, resting his head on the desk and watching y/n read out of his peripheral. he likes how quiet they are. they're so...so gentle with him, without being condescending or infantalizing him. he appreciates the care they show him. he wants all the attention they'll give him.

he also likes that they're a little scared of him.

some more ideas:

—both boys are close to y/n and spend a lot of time with them, without the rest of their friends.

—y/n becomes one of the only people catnap won't kill. he's gotten attached.

—happening in a universe where monsters and humans coexist. not a ton of division, but there's a monster side of town (where the buildings are much bigger to accommodate larger bodies) and a human side.

—you think catnap is the only dangerous one until you see how dogday reacts to y/n being harmed in some way. like catnap is the obviously dangerous one you don't take your eyes off of but then you catch dogday outta your peripheral about to clock you with a pipe

—dogday is an absolutely wonderful partner, so devoted and loyal, and willing to throw hands if given a reason to (a big surprise to anyone who thinks he's just the "nice" one). y/n isn't completely oblivious to his affection, but is hesitant to act on any feelings they have; while most monsters don't mind human/monster relationships, there are plenty of humans that disapprove. they don't want dogday to be harassed because of them.

—a scene where catnap forcefully shotguns red smoke into y/n’s mouth to knock them out cause he thinks it’d make them happier to not have to “worry so much" and take a nap w/ him (also he wants a lil kiss and can't be normal about it). or maybe he's tryna kidnap them or smth. y/n doesn't really remember much when catnap does this, and writes it off as catnap's drowsy nature rubbing off on them when they wake up after an unexpected snooze.

—catnap doesn't like being touched usually. his brother and y/n are the exceptions.

—it's very subtle, and noone would notice if they weren't watching them closely, but both catnap's and dogday's pupils get a bit bigger when looking at y/n. two overgrown, lovesick housepets.

[coalitiongirl]

Regina cuts her off, her stomach roiling. “You talk about me with Henry?” Emma shrugs. “You come up sometimes. He really does care about you. And I think you care about him.” “You think?” Regina demands, and her fists tighten. “You think?” Emma turns away from her, focuses on Henry on his swing. Regina follows suit, letting the sight of him calm her. He’s going higher and higher, and he kicks off his shoes when he’s at the top of the swing, sending them flying across the playground. It’s so normal, so much like a scene from a year ago, before everything had fallen apart. “I wasn’t sure,” she says. “I didn’t know if you…if you saw him as something to have. Or if you really loved him.” Regina seethes. Something in her chest withers and dies. She’s furious. She isn’t hurt, because she will never give Emma Swan the power to hurt her again. “This town still stands only because Henry is inside of it. And you think that I don’t love him?” Emma doesn’t respond to the threat, which had been stupid and will set Regina’s time with Henry back again, she’s sure. “You didn’t kiss him. When he was…after he ate that turnover. You didn’t even try to kiss him awake.” Regina had sat in the hospital room and wept, had felt the world falling apart around her, and no, she had not kissed Henry as Emma had. How arrogant it is, to believe that a kiss can work magic. How privileged it is for the laws of the world to break only for you. “I am no Charming,” she spits. “I don’t get beautiful fairytales, and I don’t expect them. Forgive me for being a realist.” Emma is silent. When Regina turns, Emma is watching her again, and there is a lingering something in her eyes. Not quite pity, not quite sorrow. But understanding, and Regina hates seeing it more than anything else. Hates the way that her heart leaps, and the next few breaths hitch and don’t emerge right.

[mediumgayitalian]

y’all i cannot stop fucking thinking about it. will with his big blue eyes, youngest of them all, completely musically untalented and rhythmically challenged but by the gods does he understand the human body. following lee around holding his quiver and rattling off whatever he just learned from watching michael in the infirmary. doted on by his big siblings. talking for hours about a galaxy far far away with heroes who choose to save the world, aren’t forced to, hey, they’re heroes, just like you, lee! and his siblings have dreams, they know the prophecies, they look at their little brother and they know he will be alone. they don’t know why or how yet but they can feel in their very soul that he will be out in the stupid world with all its hatred and violence and he will have to defend himself. and he can’t shoot straight and he cries when he hurts someone in training, and all he wants to do is help, and he doesn’t understand that people can be cruel and they will take his kindness and bleed him dry. and a war is coming. they can feel it. do you think they would be desperate? for themselves as much as will? i don’t know how long i will live. i don’t know how long i have left. but you will be there, son of phoebus. i know you will. remember me, okay? remember how i loved you. remember how we loved each other, remember how we healed and fought and cared. please. please, will, remember us. and remember how we loved you.

[scarletsinsblog]

idk why it needs to be said, but Kimiko and Frenchie have never been platonic 😭 since that finale, I’ve seen mostly positivity about their confession/kiss, but I have also seen people claiming that the writers are “pandering to a minority” by making them a couple…??? THEY HAVE BEEN BUILDING UP TO THAT SINCE THE MOMENT THEY MET!

Frenchie has always been queer, yes, but it’s SO obvious that he’s been pining for Kimiko since the very beginning. and when she told him he was “family,” it didn’t necessarily negate their romantic vibe. family is simply comfortability and love between two or more people, and it isn’t reserved to platonic relationships.

and for those who claim they were “more like siblings,” I beg of you to answer this: what does your relationship with YOUR siblings look like?! because if it looks anything like the dynamic between Kimiko and Frenchie…that’s concerning.

he literally calls her “my heart” exclusively for the better part of three seasons. which, in French, is typically a romantic endearment.

needed to speak my truth because I’m tired of this debate and the strangely purist takes people have expressed about these two and their relationship. they are allowed to like each other as more than friends, and I’m not sure why it’s such a taboo thing for two fucked up people to find their soulmate in one another. 🤷‍♀️

[wroteclassicaly]

When you’re on the cusp of sleep and Eddie says, “Let’s get these panties off.”

You’re mewling a little, nodding sleepily, eyes closed, face pressed into the blue laundered fabric of Steve’s pillow. Steve Harrington, your shared boyfriend & partner, currently to your right, helping Eddie by taking the left side of your panties above defined digits and pulling. Once at your ankles, you help them slide off, immediately allowing your legs to fall open, wetness clicking as your folds separate noisily, messily.

“Jesus H. Christ, what a whore,” Eddie mumbles, already undoing his belt to relieve some friction.

“Explains why she slept topless for us to get home and find her, huh, Munson?” Steve responds, amused, eyes glazed over and sparkling beneath the reflective moonlight of the room, also lit up by streetlights.

You’d kept the window open to let in one of the last cool night’s summer breezes, eagerly approaching fall temperatures. The sweat of all day work lingers on your boyfriend’s, combined with outside, and that little bit remaining of a candle you’d lit for your night time bath. A present they’d gotten you at a vintage thrift shop, cedarwood, apple, and a little blended maple.

As they take their places beside you, eager to indulge in your body, you thank everything in this universe that they’re yours.

[chaosinstigator]

anyone saying daniel is quitting needs to go outside and touch some grass fr

do you know nothing about him? did you pay any attention the last fucking what four years?? hell his whole career that man has showed he’s a fighter to the very fucking end he’s proved that time and time again ffs please give him that respect

[babyboywilson]

I don’t know how much longer I can be held back.

Life growing, mind and body changing.

A picture in a frame that is fading.

Every day I find a better version of myself.

I’m rising above like a balloon released into the Sky.

Get ready, get set,

let go.

[lanternlightss]

dewdrop leaves

> this was written for day 3: immortality/corruption! and of course i could not pass up the opportunity to write a corrupted venti, and bard’s reaction to it <3

Though Venti does not necessarily feel the sensations such as “warmth” or “cold,” the sheer thickness of Dragonspine’s chill tries its hardest to threaten that motion. It clings to him, weaving around and through the fabrics of his clothing, wrapping his limbs. Frost dapples at the tip of his nose, extending to his cheeks. It coats his clothing, too, the material starting to crinkle, turn firmer, and rigid.

(During his flight to here, his hat had been tossed off, and his cape’s bow had been torn unevenly….. how he quite liked those….)

When he lands, sprawled out onto all fours, sinking into the snow and feeling how it gives in, the beginnings of ice fall from him in clumps, sloughing. He extends his wings, fluttering them, and watches as even more are flicked off from the action.

Going to stand, a sharp pain pulls at his chest, seeming to bounce off of the space where a rib-cage would be, before it spreads throughout the rest of him, pinpricks of blazing flares. He doubles over from it, his forehead and bangs pressing into sparkly white (his braids choosing to sprawl across them instead.)

Making the decision to fully lay his upper half onto the snow, and partly burrow there, wings folding to slide more onto his form, it—for a moment, upon the first touch—feels almost soothing. Rubs at the itchiness lying beneath this imitation flesh, one that strikes and tears and shrieks at him every passing minute that goes by. Each louder, more vicious, than the last.

Venti grimaces.

With a tremble, he pushes himself up, crawling forward to fresher snow—areas where he did not mess with. Raises his hand, watching as the deep blue (nearly a shade close to the night sky, dotted with small magentas) covering his fingers and palm reaches up, up, up, a little past his wrist, in splotches. Racing alongside the blue, is deep, fracturing golden lines and cracks, painted across in random strokes. He flexes his hand, wincing, and noting he has his talons, as well.

(There is a prickle on his back, too, where feathers begin to sprout, beneath the pair of wings he already has out.)

He huffs a breath and continues to stand, shaking off the snow when completely upright. Crouches slightly, one foot forward, stancing for a flight into the sky once more—for as much as he would like to, Venti cannot stay here, it is too close to Mondstadt still, and there is a concerning pressure building within him, one that he fears may blast away everything here.

Wings flap, he leans. Snow then scatters and sprays in various directions, from his take-off.

The corruption worsens as his journey continues—that accursed statue, but its situation was becoming harrowing—sending shocks so severe that it has his wings beating harshly to keep himself righted. Even more terribly is when the ruins of Old Mondstadt come into view, and the extra wings find this the perfect time to sprout in full, snapping out, and colliding against the ones above them.

That has him stumbling into one of the many strong currents dotted around; where he allows them to spin him in a lift, and he dips towards the ground when they let go, upon where he forces his wings to untangle, opening and catching wind. He twists, pivoting, aiming towards the ground, his surroundings a blur—and lands onto a patch in a cloud of dust. Once it has cleared, he remains in his position, sitting on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of them as he leans slightly forward.

(Belatedly, he realizes he has lost his cape, and shoes.)

Venti heaves. The pressure from before is unbearable now. The blue-gold has creeped up his arm, the splotches trailing off in fading dots when it reaches where his archon form’s gloves would end, and he presumes it is the same for his legs—though, he can feel a weight at the back of his head, half-formed, in what could only be a halo. Go and break him down to his more divine forms, why don’t they!!

Bubbling. Too much of it, his grasp on everything fraying, thinning, even as he scrambles in an attempt to keep it locked shut, fingers twisting and flailing—the threads of wind, patches of time, the weather, it slips, becoming fuzzy. A gratitude undercuts it, a vague thankfulness that the ruins have sunken enough to fit the wrath of a thrashing God, a vague thankfulness that Dvalin had been sent away beforehand, before it is overrun by the thoughts—what if this is not enough? Will they fall, to his hands, just as the tyrant had done to them? Will he lose what he has fought to protect, what he has set everything to prevail for?

He cannot lose anyone again—

His imitation heart splinters and spills, the corruption truly sinking in. His vision blurs around the edges, flashes of gold tracing them, his breaths coming out labored..

(He knew, when Dvalin had been corrupted by the Abyss, that he was hurting—if it was to this extent, he wishes he could have soothed away everything.)

Around him, the wind races, becoming erratic, kicking at any surface it can find, zipping across in uneven lines. He leans further, wings curling, and the distant sounds of this place are doused, muffled, becoming white noise—a consistent ringing, overlapping

Underneath his hands and legs, the ground shrivels. The wind grows harsher, rocks being scraped across, propelling into the air and torn asunder, the glowing crystals diminishing to mere crumbles of rock. Both the dirt and grass are dragged from the ground, plucked and ripped. The intensity continues to ramp, the noises becoming overwhelming, ringing in his ears pitching, finding that his hands have raised to grip at hair, that his wings seem to wrap around him completely as he—

As rapidly as it had seemed to start, it feels as though something grabs hold of him and yanks to a halt. Venti gasps, cut hair strands falling around him.

The winds stutter, and the ringing fades. He jerks up, hands still embedded into his hair, and finds that… the place he landed in was not so deserted. Their tree stands, swaying, waving hello.

And, that everything had truly come to a messy standstill; threads of teals dipped in a bleeding mixture of a blue-gold suspended in a whirling vortex, a few parts of the wreckage they had caused gently floating besides in its grasps. The threads are not all the same, some of them cutting in dotted lines as they zoom, some of them having their lines wavering to point it threatens dispersing, some of them are thoroughly solid, some of them are splitting into branches, teal twisting and curling, and—

And—

And…

Blue eyes blink, fluttering as if just awoken.

He rubs a hand at the right one, brows furrowing at his surroundings the more aware he becomes of them. Pure raven-black braids sway, as he swivels his head, and Venti notes with a whirlwind in his mind, that the locks have stray strands flicking out from not only the braids, but the bangs, and hair that frames the face. Windswept. The clothes, as well, are missing the tear in the bottoms of the shorts, the tops of his boots, and his right sleeve. If he were to turn, there would certainly be holes in his cloak, too.

But—if he does not have those, then how is he…?

A gale is thrown into the cliff, repeatedly, tearing apart the ground, as they respond to Venti’s dread.

His eyes widen, then narrow.

No, no, no, no, no. Stop looking at him like that.

Venti hunches into himself, talons clenching and shredding more strands of hair. The gale intensifies, lashing behind him, carving out chunks and causing the ground to rumble in its fury. He bares his teeth—wanting to shriek, to grab at his head and!!!!

Stop looking at him like that!

(Why wouldn't he?

A wind out of control? A wind that slices, destruction in every path? Why would he not back away from it?)

He tilts his head, starting to stand, and his expression shifts at Venti flinching away from his approach, the wind whipping to a higher degree with the flinch. He goes to take a step forward, the grass he steps upon having a simmering, bubbling line of a thread hovering there—and there is a quiet screeching as the threads are forced away, unraveling in spools and flinging out towards the cliffs; it has him jolting away from it, one step taken back, boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust.

His gaze snaps up to Venti’s.

(He has a fleeting thought, a moment where the minuscule inch of himself that the corruption has not touched speaks; that he should fix everything, that this mess has gotten severely out of hand, to fly off deeper into the ruins before he does something truly regretful.

But it is just that—fleeting.

Because at the attempt to follow through with the ideas laid out, the corruption rushes to overtake that last final inch, smothering and snuffing it out without regard. It halts Venti’s hands when he tries to wave them, refusing to let them budge the Bard in front of him, dark blue and gold chaining them to remain where they currently are. You do not truly want that, do you? It whispers, false care and comfort in its voice. You wish for him to stay, so here he will stay.)

That gaze of his shifts once more, briefly scrutinizing, then the ever so slightest of widened eyes, before reaching a blankness. It seems that something has clicked. He tries again, purposefully angling his path to the swirling threads, and Venti grits his teeth as he moves them away, hooking a finger round them and pulling, so that no interactions happen between them and him.

(And, how during this, he sees—for a moment—a glimmer of something magenta across his form.)

And blast it all—

Venti raises himself and situates his legs into a crouch, his wings flaring unraveling from around his form. And bounds.

He crosses the distance between the two of them in seconds. Nose mere centimeters away from his, Venti grits his teeth, watches as the other blinks owlishly at him, as if not expecting to be approached so suddenly, especially not like this, Venti poised in a manner similar to that of a cat pouncing still.

“Keep off from those,” he nearly growls, “Can you not see that they—”

Hands shoot out, to place themselves on his cheeks. Venti falters, words dying in his throat.

“What has happened to you?” He murmurs, gently tipping Venti’s head up, to the side, checking the dark-blue that has climbed up to his face, “Your teal… where has it gone? Have you always had gold?”

He swallows. A twitch goes throughout him, one that does not go unnoticed by him.

And, oh. That was what had clicked.

The words build, his tongue bubbling, bitterness and sweetness coating it. A name he has not said for centuries, a name he has kept clutched close to him, hidden in the palms of his hands, in the place where a heart would be beat.

Venti’s mouth opens, and croaks: “Cecil….?”

He pauses, meeting Venti’s eyes.

“Hello, little bird,” Cecil replies, softness in every feature of his. “Ah—I suppose you would be an angel now, hm? How much you have grown…”

The softness does not last long, his brows knitting as he thinks, a frown replacing that wondrous smile of his. His fingers trace the edges of the colors, outlining them, almost, a silent fury and puzzlement to the actions. “But, my friend—why are these… like veins? Why do you hurt? Did someone else do this to you?”

(I will hurt you, I will hurt you, you need to get away from me—)

“No one. This is my own doing, you see,” he says, offering a reassuring look, “I am not hurting at all.”

And—that is true, if partly. There is no stabbing prodding at him any more, attempting to wrench him towards the ground so he stays there. It aches most certainly, however, the wind underneath his skin thrumming as it races incessantly.

Cecil’s brows scrunch.

He steps forward to pull Venti closer, his right hand falling down to his waist, tracing a tear in his clothing, and… ah. Ah. He revokes everything he had said about snow and their so-called “soothing effects” beforehand, this is so much better than it, he curses them and nearly purrs at the feeling of his friend being a breath away from him, his touch curling into his bare skin so softly, lovingly.

Venti chases it.

All but lunging into him, Venti dives his head into Cecil’s chest, careful of the halo behind his hair—do not want to slam it against him. The rest of his body follows suit, his arms encircling around Cecil’s torso (with his hands carefully closed, knuckles pressing into the fabric of the green vest), knocking their legs together so that he can hook it around one of his dear’s, and his wings complete it all by flaring out to then snake around and envelop them both. Feathers brushing against skin and cloth with every other breath.

(The wind has gone still.)

“Oh,” Cecil gasps, startling at something, “you have six wings? I only saw four… have your limbs been multiplied, too??”

Does he? Venti thinks dazedly. It must have happened when the pain was ramping up, he could not distinguish it under all the other sensations attacking him. He had wondered how far the transformation would go—his most divine form has much more than four wings and a halo.

He does not give Cecil a response. Choosing to nuzzle into his clavicle instead, head going even fuzzier, thoughts narrowing to Safe safe safe, stay stay stay, love love love, here here here.

And—what an idea.

Cecil’s chest expands, as he inhales, exhales. It takes a moment, but he begins to reciprocate, an arm going around Venti’s back, between the middle wings and bottom ones. The other arm lifts to the space above Venti’s shoulders, near his nape, pulling him further into himself. He rubs at those places, in small, circle-like motions, and it has the God wholly melting in his arms.

“Is this alright?” He asks, “Is this helping?”

“Mmmmmhmmmm…..”

Gradually, the threads dissipate, dropping closer to the ground, and having the wreckages they carry collapse against the water around the tree, the dirt and rocks. Twist higher into the air at the end, then wobbling, and falling apart. He watches it all, a steady thrumming sounding in the air the longer he holds onto Venti. For one of them, he tests, to see; what would happen if he nuzzled into Venti’s cheek, patting at his back? The answer: it causes the threads to speed up, swooshing so swiftly, that he hardly has time to blink before the teal is fading.

Eyes wandering, they slide to—

Ah! Cannot have that, can we? Venti blocks his view with his right most top wing, fluttering the appendage to truly catch his attention, making his dear jolt in surprise. See, if Cecil is to stay by Venti’s side, then it should be away from here—the safest spot is the Tower, but he would not like that very much. Perhaps they should cross to the Dandelion Sea?

“Venti?”

“Hmm..?”

Cecil raises his hand up, to tap to the back of his head, his knuckles briefly brushing against the halo. He lets it stay there, for long enough that he can weave strands of hair around his fingers, to light tug at them—a non-serious scolding, for the blocking he did. They drop to rubbing circles on his nape after. “How are you feeling?”

Right, right—conversation happening.

He shuffles backwards, only a few inches, so that his dear is not forced to let go of his grasps—skin still tingling and fizzing with that loveliness. Tilts his head, then, to where Cecil gazes at him, a quiet concern and pure curiosity to his eyes, now.

Another wave of winds zip by them, these ones far lighter, livelier, and peppy than the others from earlier were—however, still the same mix of colors, if slightly more solid, slightly lukewarm in temperature. They swirl around them, teasing at hair and cloth, dancing in chiming sweeps and dives; that of which distracts Cecil for a moment, his hair blowing into his face, a muffled sound of a “wuh” escaping from him when it has strays loosing from the braids he wears. He shakes his head to rid of them, glaring halfheartedly.

A beaming grin tugs at him, at the sight. One that lifts the bottoms of his into soft crescents, slowly revealing how his teeth have grown sharper canines. His pupil—still a lovely teal, though, now captured around blue-gold—shines, constricting to a thin slit, as a glittering gleam dances across his gaze. He hums, unclenching his hands from fists to press the palms of them more firmly into Cecil, scraping the talons across his vest.

“Much better,” he says, a lilting, distorted pitch to it. Extends his right’s hand index finger, while he talks, to prod at his back—tracing a symbol there, one that causes Cecil to minutely shiver from it, unexpecting the action. “Thank you.”

And perhaps it is that, that has Cecil truly understand what has happened; that Venti is really not so much hurt as he is a far, far worse thing, that there is something gripping at him. Or perhaps it is the way he looks upon him, as though he were the sun, a gleeful, thrilled and eager gleam to his gaze. Or perhaps it is the way his wings gradually tighten around his form, not constricting him, yet he suddenly feels the reason they continue to be folded (and twitching, fluttering, so often) is not that Venti just wishes to hold him with everything he has.

Whichever it is, whether it be a combination of all of them, it has him widening his eyes, a near whisper of “Oh,” trailing into the winds. Winds that take the words greedily into their hands, rolling them over—winds that tell him murmurs, almost frantically, a gentle urging in the way the threads crowd further around them both, hushed jingling of bells accompanying it: stay, stay, stay, stay?

Oh.

[cherry-pop-elf]

Small Mouthwashing Break

Hey guys. I know so many of you are hyped and excited for another mouthwashing fic/update to my series but the whole RussianBot situation just. I can’t

I’ve seen things that have left me painfully traumatized. Its made me scared to even open this app. I’ve seen things no one deserves to see. Enough where I won’t even mention what they are

Until the situation is solved I just can’t be part of the fandom atm. I’m already painfully traumatized as is. I have enough going on in life. I don’t need more shit like this

It’s genuinely given me nightmares and taken a toll on my health, since fibromyalgia reacts to stress. What a way to start my thanksgiving break. Just peachy huh?

I’m super sorry to everyone that’s so eager to see more of my content, who want updates, to have asks left unanswered, but I deserve to take care of myself

Hopefully a few days away will make the situation resolve itself on its own. Maybe tumblr will actually do something. Who knows

Just know I’m super sorry, but I gotta take care of myself. I love the mouthwashing fandom/game but Jesus Christ those Russian Bots man

Keep me updated on if that stupid thing gets solved. If things go get fixed. That it’ll be safe to return

I wanna keep posting and doing what I love after all. Don’t we all?

Love yall

[corazondebeskar-reads]

working on the last chapter for of rage and ruin

(other than the epilogue)

[luxurystark-jackson]

supernatural really said hey what if we put jack on his knees in front of dean asking to be killed in the season 14 finale. it’s almost like this happened back in the season 10 finale where dean held a scythe above sam while sam asked to be killed. hmm.