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[janployshompoos]

How come everyone has your face? You’ll have to put up with it for a bit. It’s the side effect of the ritual. It’ll probably be gone in a few days. And then what? Fei… didn’t fill you in on what the ritual entails? I know that already. But I mean…

WU | EP5

[anexperimentallife]

Also applies to "AI" "artists" and "musicians."

[janployshompoos]

His brothers and sisters refuse to help him. He happens to have a history with Sira. He does. He and Niran don’t mix well. You’ll see.

WU | REACTION

[madam-kyoubin]

[janployshompoos]

Are you scared? No, I’m not. It wouldn’t be wrong to be scared. You just saw an evil force with your own eyes.

WU | EP1

[tgreatd]

What do you mean I have to wait another week to see the next Wu episode!!!!?

[spoonfullofdream]

Tomorrow 😭😭😭😭

[tgreatd]

ONe more daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!

[tgreatd]

When you write about trauma and pain so well, but nothing else.

You decided you can write a whole book for it.

INFJ and ESTP

Healer and his bodyguard

Sunshine and Sunshine protector

Or you could call them Fake sunshine and Fake grumpy.

Or the only one and the chosen one, but none of the situations are in their favor.

Title - Till the day we can (A death. A thread. A pledge)

Temporarily Available in Webnovel to read up to 52 chapters and is continuously updating.

[lostmysanitee]

🥹🥹🥹

q: do you think you've gotten to know sky more?

🐱: it definitely has increased. i know everything there is to know. i mean! i don't know if sky is like concealing/holding back anything or not but for me, i know sky as much as i can possibly know. i think i know a lot– know a lot already

👤: out of 100% what percentage do you know him?

🐱: as for me i believe i know him 100%

👥: euiiiii!!

🐱: but i don't know what percentage sky allows me to know ah he might have like 200% to him but as far as i'm concerned, even if sky has 200% then i'd consider myself to know all 200%

[crispywizardtale]

[tgreatd]

Romeo and Romeo ( Part 2)

Read Part 1 here https://www.tumblr.com/tgreatd/813347273844178944/romeo-and-romeo?source=share

He didn't know about the photograph until the next morning.

It was innocent though. Arnold's hand on Dean's elbow as he guided him through the theater's back door, both of them lit by the security light, Dean's face pale and Arnold's expression concerned. Someone had captured it from across the street, posted it to a fan account with a caption full of exclamation points and ship names.

Arnold and Dean??? After hours??? 👀👀👀

By noon, the theater group chat was buzzing and he ignored it. Of course people will buzz about something new and eventually it will die down. For better, in Dean’s eyes, this was a better promotion to the play. 

By 2PM, someone had written a three-thousand-word analysis of their "chemistry" in the one scene they shared. By 3PM, Dean had three missed calls from numbers he didn't recognize and a text from Jack that simply said: We need to talk.

He doesn’t see Tua's message until evening, buried in the flood of notifications: Heard you're busy. Don't worry about coffee tomorrow.

Dean stared at the screen, reading it three times. Don't worry about coffee. They'd been getting coffee every Tuesday for over 1 year. It was the one constant in Dean's increasingly unstable world, the one hour where he didn't have to perform.

He typed back: What do you mean? I'm free tomorrow

The reply came an hour later, cold and final: Doesn't seem like it. You just had to make sure that you own everyone, didn’t you? Even after knowing… You know what, have fun with your new friend.

Your new friend. Like Arnold was a replacement. Like Dean was collecting people, trading up, leaving Tua behind.

He called. Tua didn't answer.

He texted again: It's not what you think. I was sick. Arnold gave me a ride home. That's it. Tua I would never even think of anything else, you know this. It’s just delusional people making up things.

No response.

Dean sat on his unmade bed, phone heavy in his hand, and felt something crack open in his chest. The silence from Tua was worse than shouting, worse than accusations. It was the sound of someone giving up on him, and Dean couldn't even explain why he deserved another chance because he couldn't explain anything, he couldn't say the words, he couldn't make anyone understand what it was like to be running out of time while everyone around you kept living.

His throat burned. 

He opened his messages to Jack, typed Yeah, what do you want to talk about? then deleted it. What was there to say? I'm dying and Arnold caught me offguard? It sounded pathetic even in his head. It sounded like begging.

He opened his messages to Arnold, typed thanks again for yesterday, then deleted that too. The rumors were already bad enough. Dean couldn't afford to feed them, couldn't afford to look like he was attaching himself to the remaining Romeo out of desperation.

He opened his messages to Tua and stared at the empty text box until his screen went dark.

So he said nothing, and the silence grew, and Dean lay back on his pillow and listened to his own breathing, ragged disturbed with occasional coughs and drifting off to a restless sleep.

The theater was empty when he arrived the next day, two hours early because he couldn't stand the house being empty without Tua, because he knew he was being abandoned, because he knew it was better that he didn’t know but still couldn’t bear the silence.

He found his mark on stage, Paris's mark, not Romeo's, and stood there in the dark, looking out at rows of empty seats that would soon be full of people who didn't know they were watching a dead actor’s performance.

"You're early."

Dean was startled. Jack stood in the aisle, coffee in hand, wearing that same exhausted expression he'd worn for weeks.

"Couldn't sleep," Dean said.

Jack climbed the stage, stopping just outside Dean's personal space. They used to fit together. Dean remembered that now with the clarity of physical ache, how Jack's hand felt in his, how they could block scenes without speaking, how Jack had looked at him once like he was the only person in any room.

"Dean," Jack said, and his voice was so tired, so sad. "About the casting change—"

"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended, defensive. "I don't want to hear it. You made your choice."

"I didn't have a choice. Mrs. Vichaiyut—"

"—owns the funding. I know." Dean turned away, facing the empty seats. "You don't have to explain. I understand how the world works, Jack. I understand that some things are more important than... than whatever we were."

He felt Jack inch closer, close enough to touch. "What we were," Jack repeated quietly. "Past tense."

"Everything's past tense eventually."

Silence. Then, softer: "You're scaring me, Dean. The way you've been acting—"

"Don't." Dean's voice cracked, and he hated it, hated the vulnerability, hated that Jack could still draw it out of him. "Don't pretend you care. You gave away my role. You don't have to care about what happens to me after that."

"That's not fair."

Dean laughed, and it sounded wrong, broken. "Nothing's fair. That's the whole point."

He walked off stage before Jack could respond, before he could break down, before he could say something he couldn't take back. In the backstage, he pressed his forehead against the cool concrete wall and counted his breaths, counting down to Thursday, counting down to the moment when everything would change, counting down to a future he would hate.

Romeo and Romeo, he thought bitterly. 

His phone buzzed. A text from Arnold: You okay? Heard you and Jack were fighting.

Was someone eavesdropping? He looked around to find no other presence. 

Another buzz. The group chat: Someone sharing a new photo, Arnold's arm around Dean's waist at some party Dean didn't remember attending, the caption full of speculation.

Obviously made up with AI.

Another buzz. Tua, finally: Hope you're happy. You and Arnold look good together.

Dean turned off his phone and sat in the dark, alone with the weight of secrets he couldn't share, listening to the theater breathe around him like something waiting, like something ending, like the only home he had left.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The coffee shop was nearly empty at 10 AM on a Tuesday, their Tuesday, or it used to be. Dean spotted Tua in their usual corner, nursing an Americano. He was staring out the window at nothing, shoulders hunched in that way that meant he was trying to look smaller than he was.

Dean almost walked away. Almost turned around and accepted this as another loss in a growing list of losses. But then he thought of Thursday, thought of the silence that might follow.

The future that he may never be able to speak with him ever again.

"You said you won’t show up," Dean said. "For coffee. You said not to worry about it."

Tua didn't look at him. "I changed my mind."

"About coffee, or about me?"

Finally, those dark eyes turned his way, and Dean saw something that made his chest tighten, hurt, yes, but worse than that. Disappointment. The look of someone who had expected better and been let down.

"Why are you here, Dean?"

"To explain. About Arnold—"

"I don't want to hear it." Tua's voice was flat, final. "I know what I saw. I know what everyone saw."

"What you saw was someone giving me a ride home because I was sick. And that other image is obviously AI." Dean leaned forward, hands flat on the table, trying to make himself transparent, trying to break through that wall of coldness when his plan was to have a clean break from everyone and disappear without a hint. "That's it. Nothing happened. Nothing's happening."

Tua laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Sick. Right. You looked perfectly fine at rehearsal the next day."

"Because I rested—"

"Because you're a good actor." Tua finally set down his cup, turning fully to face him. "The best I've ever seen, actually. You can make anyone believe anything. You made me believe we were actually friends. You made Jack believe you actually loved him. You made the entire cast believe you were fine with playing Paris." He paused, something bitter flickering across his face. "So forgive me if I don't buy the sudden illness story."

Dean felt the words like physical blows. "We are friends. That wasn't acting."

"Then why Arnold?" Tua's voice cracked on the name, just slightly, enough to reveal what he'd been hiding. "Of all people? You know, Dean. I told you everything. How I felt about him, how I was too scared to say anything, how I was waiting for the right moment. And you—" He stopped, jaw tight. "You always said you'd help. You always said you'd set us up. Was that just something you said to make me feel better while you made your own move?"

"No." The denial came out desperate, raw. "Tua, no. I swear to you, I have no romantic interest in Arnold. None."

"Then what?" Tua demanded. "Because you don't do anything without a reason. You don't attach yourself to people unless there's something in it for you. So what is it? Publicity? Followers? Getting your face back in the papers after Jack took away your role?"

Dean stared at him, stunned by the calculation in Tua's words. Every denial would sound like another performance. Every truth was trapped behind a wall of silence he couldn't breach.

"I needed help," he said finally, quietly. "I wasn't feeling well. Arnold was there. That's all."

"And you couldn't call me?"

I didn’t call him.

"I didn't call him," Dean admitted. "He was just there.”

Tua's expression flickered, something like disgust, quickly suppressed. "Dean. Maybe you're always going to be the person who takes what he needs no matter what it costs for the others."

"That's not—" Dean reached out, hand hovering over Tua's on the table. "Please. You know me better than that. Or you did. Before this week."

"I thought I knew you." Tua pulled his hand away, stood up, and threw a few bills on the table. 

"I have to go. Work."

"Tua—"

"Get better, Dean. Or stay sick. I honestly can't tell the difference anymore."

The door chimed. He was gone.

Dean sat alone at their table, surrounded by empty chairs and the ghost of conversations they'd never have again.

[tgreatd]

Romeo and Romeo ( Part 2)

Read Part 1 here https://www.tumblr.com/tgreatd/813347273844178944/romeo-and-romeo?source=share

He didn't know about the photograph until the next morning.

It was innocent though. Arnold's hand on Dean's elbow as he guided him through the theater's back door, both of them lit by the security light, Dean's face pale and Arnold's expression concerned. Someone had captured it from across the street, posted it to a fan account with a caption full of exclamation points and ship names.

Arnold and Dean??? After hours??? 👀👀👀

By noon, the theater group chat was buzzing and he ignored it. Of course people will buzz about something new and eventually it will die down. For better, in Dean’s eyes, this was a better promotion to the play. 

By 2PM, someone had written a three-thousand-word analysis of their "chemistry" in the one scene they shared. By 3PM, Dean had three missed calls from numbers he didn't recognize and a text from Jack that simply said: We need to talk.

He doesn’t see Tua's message until evening, buried in the flood of notifications: Heard you're busy. Don't worry about coffee tomorrow.

Dean stared at the screen, reading it three times. Don't worry about coffee. They'd been getting coffee every Tuesday for over 1 year. It was the one constant in Dean's increasingly unstable world, the one hour where he didn't have to perform.

He typed back: What do you mean? I'm free tomorrow

The reply came an hour later, cold and final: Doesn't seem like it. You just had to make sure that you own everyone, didn’t you? Even after knowing… You know what, have fun with your new friend.

Your new friend. Like Arnold was a replacement. Like Dean was collecting people, trading up, leaving Tua behind.

He called. Tua didn't answer.

He texted again: It's not what you think. I was sick. Arnold gave me a ride home. That's it. Tua I would never even think of anything else, you know this. It’s just delusional people making up things.

No response.

Dean sat on his unmade bed, phone heavy in his hand, and felt something crack open in his chest. The silence from Tua was worse than shouting, worse than accusations. It was the sound of someone giving up on him, and Dean couldn't even explain why he deserved another chance because he couldn't explain anything, he couldn't say the words, he couldn't make anyone understand what it was like to be running out of time while everyone around you kept living.

His throat burned. 

He opened his messages to Jack, typed Yeah, what do you want to talk about? then deleted it. What was there to say? I'm dying and Arnold caught me offguard? It sounded pathetic even in his head. It sounded like begging.

He opened his messages to Arnold, typed thanks again for yesterday, then deleted that too. The rumors were already bad enough. Dean couldn't afford to feed them, couldn't afford to look like he was attaching himself to the remaining Romeo out of desperation.

He opened his messages to Tua and stared at the empty text box until his screen went dark.

So he said nothing, and the silence grew, and Dean lay back on his pillow and listened to his own breathing, ragged disturbed with occasional coughs and drifting off to a restless sleep.

The theater was empty when he arrived the next day, two hours early because he couldn't stand the house being empty without Tua, because he knew he was being abandoned, because he knew it was better that he didn’t know but still couldn’t bear the silence.

He found his mark on stage, Paris's mark, not Romeo's, and stood there in the dark, looking out at rows of empty seats that would soon be full of people who didn't know they were watching a dead actor’s performance.

"You're early."

Dean was startled. Jack stood in the aisle, coffee in hand, wearing that same exhausted expression he'd worn for weeks.

"Couldn't sleep," Dean said.

Jack climbed the stage, stopping just outside Dean's personal space. They used to fit together. Dean remembered that now with the clarity of physical ache, how Jack's hand felt in his, how they could block scenes without speaking, how Jack had looked at him once like he was the only person in any room.

"Dean," Jack said, and his voice was so tired, so sad. "About the casting change—"

"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended, defensive. "I don't want to hear it. You made your choice."

"I didn't have a choice. Mrs. Vichaiyut—"

"—owns the funding. I know." Dean turned away, facing the empty seats. "You don't have to explain. I understand how the world works, Jack. I understand that some things are more important than... than whatever we were."

He felt Jack inch closer, close enough to touch. "What we were," Jack repeated quietly. "Past tense."

"Everything's past tense eventually."

Silence. Then, softer: "You're scaring me, Dean. The way you've been acting—"

"Don't." Dean's voice cracked, and he hated it, hated the vulnerability, hated that Jack could still draw it out of him. "Don't pretend you care. You gave away my role. You don't have to care about what happens to me after that."

"That's not fair."

Dean laughed, and it sounded wrong, broken. "Nothing's fair. That's the whole point."

He walked off stage before Jack could respond, before he could break down, before he could say something he couldn't take back. In the backstage, he pressed his forehead against the cool concrete wall and counted his breaths, counting down to Thursday, counting down to the moment when everything would change, counting down to a future he would hate.

Romeo and Romeo, he thought bitterly. 

His phone buzzed. A text from Arnold: You okay? Heard you and Jack were fighting.

Was someone eavesdropping? He looked around to find no other presence. 

Another buzz. The group chat: Someone sharing a new photo, Arnold's arm around Dean's waist at some party Dean didn't remember attending, the caption full of speculation.

Obviously made up with AI.

Another buzz. Tua, finally: Hope you're happy. You and Arnold look good together.

Dean turned off his phone and sat in the dark, alone with the weight of secrets he couldn't share, listening to the theater breathe around him like something waiting, like something ending, like the only home he had left.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The coffee shop was nearly empty at 10 AM on a Tuesday, their Tuesday, or it used to be. Dean spotted Tua in their usual corner, nursing an Americano. He was staring out the window at nothing, shoulders hunched in that way that meant he was trying to look smaller than he was.

Dean almost walked away. Almost turned around and accepted this as another loss in a growing list of losses. But then he thought of Thursday, thought of the silence that might follow.

The future that he may never be able to speak with him ever again.

"You said you won’t show up," Dean said. "For coffee. You said not to worry about it."

Tua didn't look at him. "I changed my mind."

"About coffee, or about me?"

Finally, those dark eyes turned his way, and Dean saw something that made his chest tighten, hurt, yes, but worse than that. Disappointment. The look of someone who had expected better and been let down.

"Why are you here, Dean?"

"To explain. About Arnold—"

"I don't want to hear it." Tua's voice was flat, final. "I know what I saw. I know what everyone saw."

"What you saw was someone giving me a ride home because I was sick. And that other image is obviously AI." Dean leaned forward, hands flat on the table, trying to make himself transparent, trying to break through that wall of coldness when his plan was to have a clean break from everyone and disappear without a hint. "That's it. Nothing happened. Nothing's happening."

Tua laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Sick. Right. You looked perfectly fine at rehearsal the next day."

"Because I rested—"

"Because you're a good actor." Tua finally set down his cup, turning fully to face him. "The best I've ever seen, actually. You can make anyone believe anything. You made me believe we were actually friends. You made Jack believe you actually loved him. You made the entire cast believe you were fine with playing Paris." He paused, something bitter flickering across his face. "So forgive me if I don't buy the sudden illness story."

Dean felt the words like physical blows. "We are friends. That wasn't acting."

"Then why Arnold?" Tua's voice cracked on the name, just slightly, enough to reveal what he'd been hiding. "Of all people? You know, Dean. I told you everything. How I felt about him, how I was too scared to say anything, how I was waiting for the right moment. And you—" He stopped, jaw tight. "You always said you'd help. You always said you'd set us up. Was that just something you said to make me feel better while you made your own move?"

"No." The denial came out desperate, raw. "Tua, no. I swear to you, I have no romantic interest in Arnold. None."

"Then what?" Tua demanded. "Because you don't do anything without a reason. You don't attach yourself to people unless there's something in it for you. So what is it? Publicity? Followers? Getting your face back in the papers after Jack took away your role?"

Dean stared at him, stunned by the calculation in Tua's words. Every denial would sound like another performance. Every truth was trapped behind a wall of silence he couldn't breach.

"I needed help," he said finally, quietly. "I wasn't feeling well. Arnold was there. That's all."

"And you couldn't call me?"

I didn’t call him.

"I didn't call him," Dean admitted. "He was just there.”

Tua's expression flickered, something like disgust, quickly suppressed. "Dean. Maybe you're always going to be the person who takes what he needs no matter what it costs for the others."

"That's not—" Dean reached out, hand hovering over Tua's on the table. "Please. You know me better than that. Or you did. Before this week."

"I thought I knew you." Tua pulled his hand away, stood up, and threw a few bills on the table. 

"I have to go. Work."

"Tua—"

"Get better, Dean. Or stay sick. I honestly can't tell the difference anymore."

The door chimed. He was gone.

Dean sat alone at their table, surrounded by empty chairs and the ghost of conversations they'd never have again.

[tgreatd]

Romeo and Romeo (Part 1)

The dimming lights of the theater buzzed with their usual migraine-inducing hum, but Dean barely noticed anymore. He sat on the edge of the stage, swinging his legs over the void, watching the crew transform the empty space into a replica of history. His fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against the wood, the kind of nervous energy that made people edge away from him in hallways.

"Dean." Jack's voice cut through the noise, sharp and too professional in his ears. "You're late for rehearsal."

Dean didn't turn around. "I'm right here, aren't I?"

A pause. He could feel Jack's hesitation like a physical thing, that familiar sense of unspoken history pressing between them. They'd been good at silence once, back when they were something to each other. Now silence was all they had left, and Dean was filling it with barbed wire.

"Five minutes," Jack said finally, footsteps retreating across the stage.

Dean pulled out his phone and scrolled through nothing, waiting for his hands to stop shaking.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The announcement had come three days ago.

Raffy's mother—Mrs. Vichaiyut, patron of the arts, savior of small theaters, destroyer of any other talent than her little Raffy, had swept into rehearsal like she owned the place. Which, technically, she now did.

"Raffy has such a presence," she'd said, smiling that smile that cost more than Dean's monthly income. "Don't you think he'd make a wonderful Romeo?"

Jack had looked at Dean then. Just a look, apologetic, helpless, betrayed by his own production. Dean had read the entire conversation in that single glance: I'm sorry, I tried, there's nothing I can do, please understand.

Dean had walked out without a word.

Now he was the character Paris. The obstacle. The guy 2nd Romeo’s parents wanted him to marry, the one the audience was supposed to hate. 

"You're not even going to fight for it?" Arnold had asked him yesterday, leaning against the prop table with that easy, open posture that made Dean want to punch something. Arnold, who still had his Romeo character. Arnold, who had no idea how precarious any of this was or how weak he was against the presence of money.

"Why bother?" Dean had snapped. "Some people get to be Romeo. Some people get to be the guy Romeo kills. That's just how the story goes."

Arnold held his hands up in surrender and disappeared.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bathroom tile was cold against his back.

Dean had made it to the second stall before his body betrayed him, hands gripping the toilet paper dispenser, knees buckling, that familiar burning rising in his throat like swallowed glass.

The cough started small, a tickle, then built into something violent, something that felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside. He pressed his head back against the metal wall and tried to breathe through it, counting backwards from ten, then twenty, then losing count entirely.

"Dean?"

No. No no no.

The stall door rattled. "Dean, I heard you. Are you okay?"

Arnold. Of course it was Arnold. The lucky guy who landed a precious role without even knowing how to act. The universe had a sense of humor that Dean was no longer finding funny.

"I'm fine," he managed, but the words came out shredded, barely recognizable. Another cough tore through him, and he felt something warm and coppery at the back of his throat. He swallowed it down. 

Don't think about it. Don't think about the appointment on Thursday. Don't think about what the doctor said. You are okay. You are okay. Just a symptom.

"You're not fine." Arnold's voice was closer now, worried in that sincere way that made Dean's chest hurt worse than the coughing. "That sounds bad. Like, really bad. Do you need water? Should I get Jack?"

Jack. The name hit like a baseball bat to his heart. "Don't," Dean gasped, finally getting the coughing under control. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, checked for blood. None visible, good, and unlocked the stall door. "Don't… get Jack. I'm f-ne. It's jus… stress."

Arnold's face swam into view, all concern and long eyelashes and stupid perfect health. "You look like a wrangled out carpet."

"Thanks."

"I mean it. Are you sure you are okay? I can take you to the nurse."

Dean pushed past him to the sink, ran water over his hands, splashed some on his face. The mirror showed a stranger, hollow cheeks, dark circles, the kind of desperation that couldn't be hidden with stage makeup. He looked like someone who was falling apart. He looked like someone who knew.

"Dean—"

"It's stress," he repeated, meeting Arnold's eyes in the mirror. "Opening night's in two weeks. I'm stressed. That's all."

Arnold didn't believe him. Dean could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he hovered like he wanted to do something useful and had no idea what. It should have been annoying. It was annoying. It was also, inexplicably, making Dean's eyes burn with something that wasn't quite tears.

"Let me take you home," Arnold said. Dean hadn’t seen him give rides to anyone except Tua. He must be super worried.

"That's not necessary."

"I'm doing it anyway."

Dean wanted to argue. He wanted to push and snarl and drive away anyone stupid enough to care about him right now. But his legs were still shaking, and the thought of the bus, the crowds, the noise, the forty-minute ride trying not to cough on strangers made him want to disappear entirely.

"Fine," he said. "But I'm not good company."

Arnold grinned. "Nobody asked you to be.” Dean almost stumbled two or three times on the way that Arnold had to lend his hand to make him steady.

Two days back, Arnold had shifted from his bike to a small reused car. They didn't talk much during the ride. Arnold drove some vintage sedan that smelled like vanilla air freshener and old books, and Dean let the silence wrap around him like a blanket he didn't deserve. The city blurred past, all neon and rain-slicked streets, and he found himself cataloging details with the desperate intensity of someone trying to memorize a place they might be leaving.

The way the streetlights hit the windshield. The sound of Arnold's breathing. The faint hum of the heater.

"You're staring," Arnold said at a red light.

"You're driving."

"That doesn't explain the staring."

Dean rolled his eyes before looking away and sighed. "Sorry. I'm... not myself lately."

"I noticed." Arnold's voice was gentle, nonjudgmental. It made Dean want to scream. "You've been different since the cast change. I know that was hard for you."

"You don't know anything."

"Then tell me."

I have cancer. I'm probably going to lose my voice. I might be dead in a year and nobody knows and I can't tell anyone because if I say it out loud it becomes real and I'm not ready for it to be real.

"I just need to get through the show," Dean said instead. "That's all."

Arnold nodded, accepting. Maybe for him, it did. 

They pulled up to Tua’s house he shared with Dean. He gathered his bag with hands that only shook a little.

"Thanks for the ride," he said, not looking at Arnold. "Don't tell anyone about... you know. The bathroom. I don't need people thinking I'm falling apart."

"Your secret's safe with me." Arnold paused, then added, "But Dean? If you ever do want to talk... I'm here. No agenda. Just... here."

Dean nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and escaped into the rain.

He didn't know about the photos until the next morning.

Part 2 - https://www.tumblr.com/tgreatd/813518558995808256/romeo-and-romeo-part-2?source=share

And I accept commission work for fics at your request. Just drop a msg.

[tgreatd]

When you write a Whump first book

The only thing I have written beautifully in this book, are the whump scenes. 😅

"I knew that, you know-it-all."

Xal's ears burned. He shut his eyes, not to block out the light, but to avoid Kian's stupid, smug face. He visualized the gesture: index finger and middle finger to his lips, the whispered chant, then pressing them to his earring. When he opened his eyes, the world had become brighter again. The floating threads still drifted through his vision, red, blue, yellow, insistent and annoying.

He blinked until his eyes adjusted, then looked at Kian.

"You changed the color of your tattoo?"

Kian's hand twitched toward his own, where black ink had once curled across his knuckles. Now something darker lived there. Not quite red. The color of an angry, darkened red under the skin.

Kian's arm shot out to cover it, then froze. Too late.

"This…" His throat worked. "This isn't a tattoo. A burn mark, I guess." A hollow smile. "I got it the day someone died."

"Because of me."

He couldn't look at Xal. His gaze fixed on the floor as if he were studying evidence at a crime scene, and Xal thought of Tera, of the way Kian had carried that failure like a stone in his chest, heavy enough to drown in.

There was no world where this man killed anyone deliberately.

"Because of you?"

Kian exhaled slowly.

“I was asked to cure this girl. Her father’s spirit came to me.” His fingers twitched faintly at his side. “I told him it was too late. I told him I couldn’t save her.”

“But he kept begging. He just… wanted her to live one more day. So she wouldn’t die alone.”

His voice thinned.

“He followed me everywhere, pleading.”

A pause.

“I was exhausted, but I’ve handled worse. I—”

The words cut off. Kian knew the feeling too well. The sudden urge to tear something off his own body, anything, to balance the weight of a life lost because of his decision.

His fingers twitched toward his collarbone, hovering over the fabric.

Xal watched curiosity calcify into worry.

Kian's breath caught. The body gave up before his mind. His torso convulsed, once, twice, jerking upward as if his body were trying to shrug off its own skeleton. The spasms made it impossible to pull in enough air. His lungs hitched and stalled.

"Hey." Xal was standing, tension snapping through his voice like a wire pulled too tight. "Hey, you don't have to talk about it. It's okay."

Kian managed something resembling a smile. His upper body kept shuddering, each spasm driving the air from him in sharp, useless bursts.

"Sorry. Need- outside."

He stumbled through the door leading outside. Slammed it. Collapsed on to the floor and finally, finally, let his body take over.

Xal didn't follow.

The gratitude for that lasted only a moment before the coughing started. Wet, desperate sounds tearing up from his chest while his muscles seized, clawing into themselves, turning his arms and back into knots of fire.

He gasped. Choked. Curled inward until his forehead pressed to the floor beneath, and still his lungs wouldn't cooperate, still the panic kept winding tighter.

Then, slowly, it stopped.

He felt his jaw unclenched, teeth aching from the pressure. Then his fingers, one by one, stopped their desperate grip on his own arms. The worst of the trembling faded into something softer, a static feeling rather than a convulsion.

His breathing found a rhythm, shallow and careful, each inhale tested like a foot on thin ice.

Kian melted into the floorboards, boneless and hollowed out. The wood was cool against his cheek. Exhaustion clung to him like wet wool, settling into the spaces between his ribs where the panic had been.

He stared at nothing and catalogued his options: pretend this hadn't happened, or face whatever came next. The fear crept in sideways. He might have already disappointed Xal by being so weak, not being able to admit his mistake, and own up to his actions. Kian slowly got up, lethargic, making up his mind to face either criticism for a healer who failed to save a life or to see the empty kitchen.

His hand found the door handle. Gripped until the metal left angry red marks, until he could feel the shape of it imprinted on his palm. Stepped inside.

Xal hadn't moved. He sat exactly where Kian had left him, eyes fixed on the door, and something in Kian's chest crumpled at the sight. He had waited, he actually waited, even as he forced his gaze to the floor.

He did not want to talk about this. But if he didn't do it now, he never would.

He sat. Locked his trembling hands between his knees. Stared at the scuffed leather of his boots until the grain blurred.

Xal cleared his throat making him jump

You can read it in WebNovel - https://www.webnovel.com/book/34851070300997305

[tgreatd]

A whole book for trauma, hurt and comfort? Sign me up.

Available in Webnovel - https://www.webnovel.com/book/34851070300997305

[tgreatd]

When you write about trauma and pain so well, but nothing else.

You decided you can write a whole book for it.

INFJ and ESTP

Healer and his bodyguard

Sunshine and Sunshine protector

Or you could call them Fake sunshine and Fake grumpy.

Or the only one and the chosen one, but none of the situations are in their favor.

Title - Till the day we can (A death. A thread. A pledge)

Temporarily Available in Webnovel to read up to 52 chapters and is continuously updating.

[tgreatd]

When you write a Whump first book

The only thing I have written beautifully in this book, are the whump scenes. 😅

"I knew that, you know-it-all."

Xal's ears burned. He shut his eyes, not to block out the light, but to avoid Kian's stupid, smug face. He visualized the gesture: index finger and middle finger to his lips, the whispered chant, then pressing them to his earring. When he opened his eyes, the world had become brighter again. The floating threads still drifted through his vision, red, blue, yellow, insistent and annoying.

He blinked until his eyes adjusted, then looked at Kian.

"You changed the color of your tattoo?"

Kian's hand twitched toward his own, where black ink had once curled across his knuckles. Now something darker lived there. Not quite red. The color of an angry, darkened red under the skin.

Kian's arm shot out to cover it, then froze. Too late.

"This…" His throat worked. "This isn't a tattoo. A burn mark, I guess." A hollow smile. "I got it the day someone died."

"Because of me."

He couldn't look at Xal. His gaze fixed on the floor as if he were studying evidence at a crime scene, and Xal thought of Tera, of the way Kian had carried that failure like a stone in his chest, heavy enough to drown in.

There was no world where this man killed anyone deliberately.

"Because of you?"

Kian exhaled slowly.

“I was asked to cure this girl. Her father’s spirit came to me.” His fingers twitched faintly at his side. “I told him it was too late. I told him I couldn’t save her.”

“But he kept begging. He just… wanted her to live one more day. So she wouldn’t die alone.”

His voice thinned.

“He followed me everywhere, pleading.”

A pause.

“I was exhausted, but I’ve handled worse. I—”

The words cut off. Kian knew the feeling too well. The sudden urge to tear something off his own body, anything, to balance the weight of a life lost because of his decision.

His fingers twitched toward his collarbone, hovering over the fabric.

Xal watched curiosity calcify into worry.

Kian's breath caught. The body gave up before his mind. His torso convulsed, once, twice, jerking upward as if his body were trying to shrug off its own skeleton. The spasms made it impossible to pull in enough air. His lungs hitched and stalled.

"Hey." Xal was standing, tension snapping through his voice like a wire pulled too tight. "Hey, you don't have to talk about it. It's okay."

Kian managed something resembling a smile. His upper body kept shuddering, each spasm driving the air from him in sharp, useless bursts.

"Sorry. Need- outside."

He stumbled through the door leading outside. Slammed it. Collapsed on to the floor and finally, finally, let his body take over.

Xal didn't follow.

The gratitude for that lasted only a moment before the coughing started. Wet, desperate sounds tearing up from his chest while his muscles seized, clawing into themselves, turning his arms and back into knots of fire.

He gasped. Choked. Curled inward until his forehead pressed to the floor beneath, and still his lungs wouldn't cooperate, still the panic kept winding tighter.

Then, slowly, it stopped.

He felt his jaw unclenched, teeth aching from the pressure. Then his fingers, one by one, stopped their desperate grip on his own arms. The worst of the trembling faded into something softer, a static feeling rather than a convulsion.

His breathing found a rhythm, shallow and careful, each inhale tested like a foot on thin ice.

Kian melted into the floorboards, boneless and hollowed out. The wood was cool against his cheek. Exhaustion clung to him like wet wool, settling into the spaces between his ribs where the panic had been.

He stared at nothing and catalogued his options: pretend this hadn't happened, or face whatever came next. The fear crept in sideways. He might have already disappointed Xal by being so weak, not being able to admit his mistake, and own up to his actions. Kian slowly got up, lethargic, making up his mind to face either criticism for a healer who failed to save a life or to see the empty kitchen.

His hand found the door handle. Gripped until the metal left angry red marks, until he could feel the shape of it imprinted on his palm. Stepped inside.

Xal hadn't moved. He sat exactly where Kian had left him, eyes fixed on the door, and something in Kian's chest crumpled at the sight. He had waited, he actually waited, even as he forced his gaze to the floor.

He did not want to talk about this. But if he didn't do it now, he never would.

He sat. Locked his trembling hands between his knees. Stared at the scuffed leather of his boots until the grain blurred.

Xal cleared his throat making him jump

You can read it in WebNovel - https://www.webnovel.com/book/34851070300997305