brainrot hours only

Just making it easier to find my stuff I guess since I use relatively eccentric tags

My AO3: fallingyams 

Fandoms on AO3: yuukoku no moriarty, argonavis, seventeen

 ----- TAGS -----

Personal stuff, non-writing etc: #the yams are falling

My writing snippets: #the yams are writing

Headcanons and rambles: #the thoughts are falling

Anything pertaining to my writing (including updates, announcements etc): #my writing 

-----

Main blog: @pretendingtobeawake

semi-defunct bird site: daddiestdino

Radiant, blinding and bright.

Without a compass I follow,

Not once letting you out of sight

As you point my heart due north.

Alas, heavy clouds roll forth

In fickle fortune's most twisted plight

And my curses I am forced to swallow

As the darkness envelopes the light

Of my beautiful star in the night.

Desperately I run and tumble and chase

Praying to the gods for a place where I might

Catch a glimpse of that smothered gleam

Worrying your constellation was merely a dream

Borne from my lonely madness.

My tear-streaked face against the sky,

All through the night I howl in anguish,

Pleading for this solitude to be vanquished,

Begging for my star to be returned

Only for earnest cries to be spurned.

Eventually the dawn breaks through

And revelation too strikes true

That the star I thought I had lost

Its actual nature I had glossed

For you were indeed the sun.

Star in the night

Radiant, blinding and bright.

You thought yourself a mere glimmer

When the truth could not be further

For my whole world revolved

The short answer? Yes

Hello! Thank you for reaching out. I'm happy that you enjoyed them :) the vampire AU was entirely self-indulgent lol since that's a trope I personally enjoy (and wanted to see more of). As far as vampire/mermaid AUs go, I think there are quite a few fics up on AO3 already by some fantastic writers!

The road is empty, dark and cold.

She feels her bones creak, brittle and old.

A figure beckons her towards the forest, and though she knows that shadow to be Death, she finds it so inviting, alluring, warm. It's been so long since she's known touch, that even the terrifying, inescapable hands of Death will suffice, so long as she can be held in an embrace once again.

But she shakes her head, knowing there is more she must do.

Places to see, people to meet, feelings to accrue.

Tired and alone she walks this path, her chest heaving with exhaustion, but determination in her gaze.

Again, she hears the comforting call of her name, a siren call luring her towards the forest. But she will not waver; she will not stray. As much as she wishes that Death would whisk her away, it is not yet her time.

The road is empty, dark and cold.

like wisps of smoke dissipating into the sky

---

She had suspected, of course, that they were still trapped in the hero's mind palace, held in place by the spell array they had stumbled into. But knowing something was far different from experiencing it for herself.

His gaze had landed upon her; except that it had looked right through her, completely devoid of that warmth she had come to expect. And though every last line of his smooth, pale face was familiar to her, his eyes didn't crinkle up with his silly little smile.

Their relationship had not been made known to the hero quite yet - a recent development that they had wanted to quietly bask in for a little while. It only made sense that the imitation figure of him would lack any sort of romantic feelings if he were reconstructed from the hero's own memories.

He wasn't hers. And yet her heart ached for this version of him who didn't recognise her. She yearned to reach out and touch him and hold him close like she had always done.

A terrible thought then struck her, suddenly, like a crack of lightning tearing through the skies and rending her emotions asunder. If they had no way out of the mind palace and were truly trapped for the rest of eternity, would she have to content herself with this void in her soul?

Did constructs of the mind feel emotions? Could he feel love? Not once daring to tear her gaze away from the man before her, she wondered if he could fall in love again. They wouldn't be the same; not at all. An exaggerated mannerism here and an odd verbal tic there - she could easily tell he was a pale imitation cobbled together from the patchwork of the hero's opinions and memories.

And yet.

Wouldn't that be enough? She wondered. To hold the cracked pieces of her heart together with a flimsy piece of tape, keeping its form. Could a figment of someone else's imagination be capable of loving her the same way he had loved her?

The clouds methought would open and show riches

Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked

I cried to dream again."

- The Tempest, Act 3, Scene 2

Sherlock is staring at him when his eyes flutter open in the morning, a warm dimpled grin stretching across his lips as he lays next to the blond in their shared bed.

He's no stranger to this dream.

It's nothing more than a recurring fantasy that has haunted him ever since their meeting aboard the Noahtic on that fateful day.

Sometimes he'd imagine accompanying the detective on his cases, solving mysteries together like they had done aboard the train once. They would tease and jibe and compete to find evidence, stretching their intellectual muscles to the fullest extent in a battle of wits, and giggle like schoolchildren when their thoughts overlapped.

Other times, it'd be scenes like this, of them blissful and at peace, sharing a life together. Of him tucked beneath a blanket and reading a book or two while Sherlock tinkered with his experiments in the corner of the room.

He knows exactly how this dream goes, the same as it has all those times before. Sherlock would stretch and wrap his arms around William's waist, all while whispering a morning greeting.

He can almost see the double bar lines of the repeat symbol on this sheet of music as they dance along to the melody that he's heard too many times before.

William isn't ashamed to admit his fondness for the odd detective, nor is he abashed by his feelings and desires.

He is, however, a little wistful at the impossibility of these dreams.

Dream William blinks away the sleep from his eyes and reaches a hand towards the other, cupping his cheeks gently, savouring the imaginary warmth of the skin beneath his fingertips. There's just a bit of stubble beginning to grow, and he wonders if it'd feel prickly and rough as Sherlock nuzzles into his hand.

Sometimes he wonders what he would give to turn this dream into reality.

After all, he knows that his feelings aren't quite one-sided. Sherlock hasn't been too subtle about his reciprocation, what with his puppy dog eyes and deep fascination with William. It would be so easy to simply give in and-

Thoughts of the Moriarty plan flit through his mind and he quashes his wishful thinking

-no, it wouldn't be fair to Sherlock at all.

William is a man destined for death, and he will not be selfish enough to leave him in mourning.

Neither can he be selfish enough to abandon the plan that they have so painstakingly enacted.

(And he knows that his brothers would agree to abandon it in a heartbeat for the sake of his happiness if he so much as hinted at it, somehow still convinced that someone as unclean as him deserved to be happy)

"Mornin', Professor-" he thinks that Sherlock tries to say, but the words come out muffled and garbled

And just like clockwork, the image of Sherlock before him slowly fades away with the sunlight, forcing the illusion to crumble into dust like the last of his sleep.

With a deep breath and forlorn smile, William allows himself to savour that smug grin one last time, impressing that deep ocean gaze into memory before he gives in to the calling of wakefulness.

It is nothing more than a fantasy borne from his wishful imagination.

But it will have to be enough.

---

//Coda.

Sherly is staring at him when his eyes flutter open in the morning, a warm dimpled grin stretching across his lips as he lays next to the blond in their shared bed.

But this time, it's not a dream.

"-see you're finally awake, Sleepy-head," the detective murmurs, voice rough from sleep.

This time, when he reaches his hand to touch the other, the warmth seeps into his fingertips and chases the morning chill away.

Fin.

---

Have you ever had a dream so good or so real that you couldn't help but lie there trying to savour the lingering feeling even after you've woken up? I honestly think it's one of the best feelings in the world.

Thank you for dropping by to read this silly little thing. I was just a little inspired by the idea of dreams and I thought that William must have definitely dreamed of Sherlock at some point because of his feelings so he just clings to these dreams because they're the only thing he has. (The unfortunate side effect of being a major criminal lol)

Think about it. William is raised around people full of lies and deception and appearances. The noblemen are all about keeping up pretences and good relations and reputation. So meeting Sherlock with his honest and brazen attitude must have been a breath of fresh air.

Sherlock picks apart his entire thought process, laying out an analysis of clues about William's habits and profession. By any standard, this might be considered somewhat rude, especially to do this to a stranger you've just met. (And Sherlock isn't humble about it either lol)

And I can't help but wonder if this is why William was so enraptured from the first moment - he manages to do it right back to Sherlock (even sniffing him) and perhaps this was the moment that he realised that he doesn't need to have his guard up around this man.

Sherlock is brutally honest and can't be bothered with pretences. (He'll pick them apart anyway)

And so, around Sherlock, perhaps for the first time in a long while, William realises that he doesn't need to put on pretences in front of him.

With Sherlock, he doesn't need to be the second son of Moriarty. He doesn't need to be the lord of crime. He doesn't need to be any of these roles that he performs from day to day.

At least in front of this refreshingly honest man, perhaps Liam feels like he can just be

And then I couldn't help but think, what if Sherliam...?

I mean yes I know it's meant to be symbolic of his guilt and that he feels unclean both inside and out BUT STILL maybe the smell of smoke reminds Liam of Sherlock (because no one else around him really smokes except for Moran)