#ic than the preview suggests?

[ctl-yuejie]

I adore WinTeam but P’Pruek is the true delight.

His face when Win told him and Dean that he had already slept with Team.

Truely the expression of a man who is well-meaning but about to smile very widely at the kind of psychological damage that has been suddenly unleashed on him

[maiverie]

THE RAIN HAS AN EDGE ╰ ﹙ ☁️ ﹚ft. park sunghoon ﹕ a oneshot ﹙ preview ﹚

you are the girl with an umbrella on a rainy day, and sunghoon is the boy at the bus stop drenched from head to toe.

in a nutshell ﹒ there’s a heavy downpour so you hold an umbrella over sunghoon and he looks at you like you’re crazy // 100% fluff

word count ﹒ preview is 1.5k; full ver ~6-7k

fic one of the chasing rainbows series ﹙ coming soon ! ﹚

“true, the sun and the wind inspire. but the rain has an edge. who, after all, dreams of dancing in the dust? or kissing in the bright sun?” — cynthia barnett

now playing ﹒ paris in the rain﹙ lauv ﹚

THE FIRST TIME you talk to park sunghoon, it’s raining, it’s cold, and jake had ditched you to “hang out” with chaewon, because he’s a crappy friend who pounces at any opportunity for female attention.

after your study session in the school library finishes, you find yourself standing at the school’s front entrance, grimacing at the downpour of rain in front of you. heavy pellets pummel from the sky like bullets, forming puddles in the divots of the ground and lowering the temperature enough to make you shiver. 

lucky for you, you remembered to bring your umbrella.

this was a habit of yours even on the sunniest of days, after spending five days bedridden with a fever following The Great Downpour of 2020.

when you reached for your backpack and unfurled your umbrella, it sprung to life and off you went, hopping down the cement paveway that led to the nearest bus stop.

you’re just about to slip in your earphones when you stop in your tracks, spotting a figure a few steps ahead of you. 

the person is crouching on the ground at the bus stop, hunched over and hugging their bookbag in an attempt at gathering warmth. 

the person is drenched and miserable.

and practically radiating angst and despair.  

because you’ve always been a totally (impulsive) caring and selfless person, you shuffle over and hold your umbrella over the person’s head.

they look up — and just when you encounter a cold gaze, dark brows and raven hair — you realise that the moody figure is none other than park sunghoon.

park sunghoon, the ridiculously good-looking senior everybody whispers about but doesn’t actually know anything about. 

park sunghoon, the guy who always wears a stoic, unsmiling expression that makes him the most unapproachable of his group of friends. 

and park sunghoon, the one who’s staring at you with a baffled and slightly distrustful expression on his face. 

oh.

you’re just standing here, staring at him like a creep. 

crap.

you should say something.

you open and shut your mouth a few times, trying to brainstorm what you might possibly say. you want to sound smart. and funny. and cool. so, naturally, the first thing that comes out of your mouth is a very intelligent and super profound, “it’s, uh. . . raining.”

sunghoon continues to stare, his brows slightly furrowed to suggest he was questioning your sanity. 

“it’s raining,” you stupidly repeat louder, as though he hadn’t heard you over the rain. 

“good catch,” he replies, his gruff voice coinciding with the slight dip of his lips. 

the rumors are so true. 

sunghoon definitely has a very grumpy, rather angsty demeanour. you’ve actually spotted him around school a few times (you may or may not follow him with your eyes every time he’s around. is that a crime? it can’t be! you’re not the only one in the student body who finds him extremely attractive and painfully enigmatic), but he’s not the kind of person you can approach so easily.

in fact, he’s been coined the nickname ice prince for a reason.

“yes, uh,” you struggle to string together a coherent set of words, especially because he stands to his feet now, and you have to make the effort to not be intimidated by his height. 

“what i meant to say is that it’s raining but you don’t have an umbrella,” you laughed awkwardly, wanting to whack your head and yell stupid, stupid, stupid for impulsively waddling over here and saying stupid things to park sunghoon of all people. “i-i mean, obviously it’s a free country and you can totally do whatever you want, but, as you might already know — and i’m sure you do because you’re one of the smartest kids in school — standing in the rain can get you sick, like, really sick, and i only know this because about three years ago i forgot my umbrella and — funny story — i ended up getting so sick that i had to take five days off school because my fever was so high.”

oh god.

you quickly slap the tips of your fingers over your lips to physically restrain yourself from talking. the motion makes sunghoon’s gaze quickly flit to your lips, before they bounce back up to your eyes.

his stare is so painfully emotionless that you cringe inwardly.

you wish he’d say something.

anything. literally anything.

but he’s silent.

well, of course he is — you basically just trauma dumped about your stupid fever story. boo-hoo, you were sick from the rain — who cares?

just when you think you’ve reached the death of the conversation, you’re surprised by the sound of his soft voice.

“. . . niki.”

huh?

you blink, leaning in slightly so that you can hear him better.

“. . . niki. my brother. he took the last umbrella.”

oh.

your lips form a small o as you nod in understanding. “oh, niki! that doesn’t surprise me. he’s in my class, you know, and he’s always playing pranks on our teacher. one time he actually hid the test papers so we got a whole extra day to study,” your voice lowers to a whisper, “can’t believe i still failed it though. . .”

sunghoon doesn’t say anything, and afraid of being submerged in awkward silence again, you rush to fill in the space. 

“so where’s niki now?”

he shrugs. “soccer practice, probably.”

“oh,” you frown. “wait, aren’t you part of the soccer team, too? you’re the goalie. you saved so many goals last season and helped the team to their first win in two years,” you say, though your eyes widen in panic as soon the words leave your mouth, “n-not that i’m a stalker, or anything,” you frantically add, “it’s just that everyone knows you’re the goalie because one, it’s common knowledge, and two, the game is coming up and we’re all on the edge of our seats to find out how it goes!” 

stupid stupid stupid. 

why are you rambling so much? 

sunghoon doesn’t seem to mind, though his lips flatten in a rather sour manner. “i quit the team, actually.”

you gasp. “you’re the person jake is replacing? he’s been so cocky ever since it was announced that he’d be on the team. what made you quit?”

he shrugs, “it got boring,” he mumbles, then his ears turn slightly red and he dips his head in an emotion you never imagined park sunghoon could wear — embarrassment. “and i accidentally sprained my ankle.”

you blinked in surprise. “how?”

he hesitates before answering. “i tripped.” 

you stifle a laugh at the irony, because while sunghoon was a lot of adjectives — tall, handsome, mysterious, brooding, kind of scary, even — you never thought he was clumsy.

you softly cackle, earning you a glare from the boy. 

“sorry,” you grin playfully, growing accustomed to his icy aura. “i just never pictured you as a klutz.”

“says you,” he grumbles, “weren’t you the one who tripped and fell in the cafeteria last week? ”

“what—” you choked, “you saw that?”

he exhaled through his nose in amusement. “who didn’t?” sunghoon raised a brow at you. “i’m pretty sure someone recorded and posted it. the caption was ‘dumbass fails to do simple task and ends up with food all over her clothes.’”

your eyes slammed shut before they shot open. “fucking jake,” you growled, gripping the umbrella tightly. “i’m going to kill him.”

sunghoon chuckled, and the sound made your heart beat a little faster. you caught a fleeting glimpse of his smile which — by the way — showcased the most emotion you had ever seen from the boy. it couldn’t be helped that your stomach mangled and twisted at his pearly-white boyish smile, one that made his cheeks bunch up his face and his eyes twinkle like stars.

how pretty.

his smile faded as quickly as it appeared, however, and you soon found yourself facing his usual blank expression again. 

you want to try say something that might make him smile or laugh again, but he suddenly steps outside of the cage of your umbrella and raises his hand, hailing down the incoming bus. 

it slowly stops by the road beside the two of you, marking the end of your little interaction. 

“oh, your bus is here,” you force a smile, rather disappointed. “i’ll, um, see you later, sunghoon.”

“get home safe,” he retrieves his bus card from his pocket, glancing over his shoulder before he boards his bus. “and thanks. for the umbrella.” 

“n-no problem!” you quickly smile, “and by the way, my name is—”

“i know your name,” he interjects, and you think your mind is playing tricks on you when you see the edges of his lips twitch upward. “see you around.” 

sunghoon disappears into the bus and it whizzes by you, though you stay frozen in your feet for what feels like forever. 

he knows your name.

he’ll see you around.

you tuck your lip between your teeth, cheeks and ears flaring up.

and he wants you to get home safe.

.

( to be continued )

this is a preview only ﹒ full fic is estimated 6-7k ﹒ taglist open — send an ask, dm, or reply !

a/n . btw this is a preview only. the full fic might come out next week ? anyway my first hoonie fic and it's 100% pure, unadulterated fluff <3 this is inspired by paris in the rain + the above quote + an exo fic i adore ^^ hope u all liked it :) see u in the full version maybe 🤓

[1800titz]

BEWARE THE WATER | merman/siren!Harry x reader

You’ll never forget it— the time when you suggested an outing. You were sitting around in your room with beer bottles on the off hours, you on your twin-sized mattress with your knees tucked to your chest. Skinny dipping. Like a kidhood pastime under the coat of nightfall. A fuddled proposal off your liquified tongue, spurned by the alcohol simmering your veins. You regretted it the moment it slinked from your mouth (the moment the weight of the silence lodged in the rational part of your brain, clinging through insobriety), but you doubled down. “…You’re crazy, rookie,” you remember one told you, eyes listing to the side, over the rubescent smear across the bridge of his nose. “Why not?” Curse of the North Shore, they called it. Call it. An urban legend— but the circles of their eyes shrink into the framing of white when they tell the story of men strewn across the coastline. Skins. Sapped down to the marrow, hollowed bones marred with scrapes, littered across the beach, the patch of rock shed off the cliffside. Spread all over. Eaten from the inside. A fable for grown men to chase, like a monster hiding in the coal-dark nooks under their cots. You stuck the lip of the beer bottle to your mouth and rolled your misty eyes. “Bullshit.”

preview

Your self-preservation scratches up, from beneath the surface of the sea’s hymn settling into your bones. Wrong. Dangerous. Go back. It carves a nick, like a scrape from under a layer of ice across the arctic pelagic, and fractures your mindless audacity. Your foolish gall. Leaves you blinking like you’re batting a haze of smoke off with your lashes, out on the rocks with your lantern swinging in your hand. 

It hits you all at once. Anxiety like storm surge. The sense of impending doom makes your throat tight when you swallow. Dry. What are you doing? Clotting up your lungs, waves slamming against the rocks you’ve trekked. The foundation under you quakes with the hairline fracture of your risk, and something tacky oozes in. Fear. Instinct. The consequence of your recklessness—

A moment too late. Moments. A moment too stupid, too uncalculated, too rash. Ill-advised, when you left the base and stepped out from behind the barricade of the dunes. You take slow, cautious steps back into the direction of the sand across the slippery eigengrau, shaking. Stupid, stupid— counting your steps, reaching for the stretch of land out of fingertip’s length.

(And really, there’s only so long you can dangle a filet out in front of an animal before it breaks and bites. Only so long you can lure something from the sea with a soft, fleshy silhouette over the surface of the water.)

The ocean is humming. Singing. Like it’s lapping in an echo of the word that shatters the calm of the reticence— “Soldier.”

Not quite a bark. No ire. But it’s louder than the water and makes your heart lurch to your throat when your head snaps over your shoulder. Your balance is threadbare, and the plummet of your stomach makes the string ripple. Your heel nearly slips across the jagged stone—

(Not rookie. Soldier. Shedding the moniker feels like molting a worn, second skin that’s started to crackle across the stretch of your appendages.)

Hindsight laughs at your irreparable, full fledged stupidity— you, ignoring every warning they handed out to you in the cup of their palm. 

(You were supposed to cradle them close, heed like the signs told you.)

Your unease is a vicious pulse across your throat, roaring in your ears, mottling the perfect tempo of the waves, when the lantern between your fingers sways to the craggy patch behind you, where you once stood. It casts ochreous light across the slippery tar-black of the stones. 

There’s a man in the water. Your lungs squeeze. Caught. Stuck. In stasis. 

Wet skin. Slippery, slick. Burnt orange catching on sinews, even with a patch of jagged stones between you, emphasizing your distance. 

You’ve never believed in fairy tales, not as a child. Not now. Never chased legends, and myths, imaginary friends and monsters under your bed. But something unspools inside of you. Unfurls in the pit of your belly. Instinctual. Like a sixth sense to save your skin. You still have a chance, a distance, muffled echo behind your skull hisses, you still—

But you’re glued onto the stone. Stagnant. Stalemating, with a chill stinging like shards across your veins, nausea lingering from the sharp bludgeon of being swung off kilter. 

A deer caught in headlights. 

(Game, staring across the plain at the looming predator.)

Fear tastes like heme and crushed ice. Your emotions are a farrago— terror, confusion, apprehension.

Dread. 

“You’re a soldier,” he asks— tells you, it feels like a statement— over the roaring sea, cadence honey smooth. Molasses heavy. A treacle across your ears that ghosts and melts across your earlobes. The scruff of your neck, where the peach fuzz bristles at attention. “Aren’t you?”

Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth. Bloated up in your mouth. From this distance, you can’t make out his face. Not the details— only the shape, and his gaze. Liquified tar. Glinting, coruscating like the peaks of the waves. 

Uncanny. Wrong. The echo of an urban legend— a mystical beast waiting to swallow you whole. 

You should run. Sprint across the rocks, let adrenaline aid in your coordination and pray for the best—

But you're stuck. Your brows notched, your ribcage rattling with your heart bursting behind it. Bounding, in place of your stubborn feet. 

“You— you’re not supposed to be out here,” you bluster. Ever the pedant (as if you are, mouthy, little hypocrite). Shoulders rigid like the stretch of nightfall limestone, chin high in your wavering merit. A soldier— a mask you wear as a cloak that can’t hide the quake in your fingers, and the burnt orange off the lantern jumps across the waves. 

It all feels pointless. Otiose— there is no warranted explanation when the unimaginable, unforeseen myth, blurs with reality and crumbles your expectations (your rationale) out from under you. 

His arms stretch across the stone. Lax. Languorous. The delineation of ease— and you can’t stop your eyes from roving across the breadth of his shoulders, the heft, the way the musculature there flexes when he moves. The way the water sticks to his skin. Glimmering obsidian roams you. Wanders. Strays. Drifts. Across every inch, every piece. Assessing. Contemplating. Absorbing.

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” he says, instead of answering you. 

The purr stuns you. Weaves across your logic, the congeries of your emotions— the fear— in ropework. Ties to an anchor, lugging you, luring you to drift further from the coastline, closer to him. Sediment from the ocean floor dredged under your feet when they nearly shuffle forward over the stone. 

The words sound wrong. Hungry. Like an omen— and the paradox of them, their tone, against your crumbling mettle, jars you back into survival-mode. Your head feels heavy. Clogged. Wading through a mist you can barely shake off—

“How did you get here?” you demand. Your teeth feel tight.

In the lack of immediate response, you know he’s staring at you. Inkblots roaming across your shape like the eyes of a carnivore over a meal. Incisors aching. It spills your resolve across your shoulders. A wave laps across your toes. He hums.

“Givin’ me a fuckin’ toothache, just looking at you,” he murmurs. A sawtooth dodge around your questions, the anger that bubbles off you in a broken defense mechanism— a vicious cat baring its teeth, swiping out with its little claws, backed into a corner. 

[stormhearty]

✨ pairings: eris x reader

🔮 preview: (Y/N) Vanserra was cunning, ambitious, and confident, all wrapped in a beauty that could rival Lady Autumn’s. For forty-nine years, she had been hidden away, in Autumn Court, much like a diamond, waiting for the day she could come out and shine. And so, when the threat of a Death-God loomed over Prythian and Beron slowly became a concern, (Y/N) uses her beauty and intelligence for a ploy bigger than herself — one that included sitting her husband down on the Autumn throne, Eris Vanserra.

📣 trigger warnings: Inner Circle bashing (I love the IC guys, but we’re in Autumn Court territory now)

🔎 rating: PG-13 | 🔏 word count: 5.6k+

💜 masterlist | series masterlist + notes: I thank my lovely nonnie from here for suggesting a Roxana-inspired reader from the manwha, How to Protect the Heroine’s Older Brother! I loved Roxana as a character and I found it very difficult (as many of you know, whom I’ve talked to about this story) to write a character who is cunning and intelligent as my character reference. This series was a beast to write (and I am still writing the other parts of it, so please do be patient) — I wanted it to stay canon as much as possible, but also give a story that would reveal the mysterious nature of Autumn Court. Please do give feedback about the first part of this series! I would love to hear your opinions and thoughts for the next part!

And I thank both @prythianpages & @thesunloveschips for their amazing help with this first part (I apologize to them profusely at times for bothering them)

“Be my eyes, be my ears. Be the wallflower that lurks in the breeze. Be the viper that stings all my enemies. We shall become one, to conquer our shared destiny.”

The burn of the bargain tattoo seared onto your skin, a ring of fire that surrounded your left ring finger. It took you a moment to look at it, admiring the dark ink that stained your skin before much larger hands enveloped yours. Looking up, you stared at familiar amber hues as he slipped the golden band on that finger, hiding the tattoo. Lifting your hand to his lips, he pressed a kiss on your knuckles his smirk widening slightly.

“You will be my secret, (Y/N)… My weapon within the walls of Autumn Court…”

“Do you know who she is, Az?” his High Lord’s voice echoed in his head as hazel eyes focused on the female that seemed to have garnered many lingering gazes.

“I unfortunately do not, Rhys… My shadows do not whisper anything about her. I—-” there was hesitancy in his words, “I didn’t even know she existed.”

The Spymaster was stumped, to say the least.

In his centuries of being Night Court’s Spymaster, wielding shadows to his very will, Azriel had every confidence that he knew everything that happened in Prythian. Nothing was able to pass him nor his shadows — he knew all the intel, the gossip. He knew everything that might be deemed a threat to his court and used that knowledge to his advantage.

But it seemed like something slipped, because there was something… more like someone, that passed his shadows; and that was you who was on the arm of the Autumn Court Heir.

Azriel felt like he should have known you, should have heard the whisper of your existence at least. You were accompanying the Autumn Heir to Winter Solstice, for Mother’s sake! How could someone as vital as you slip passed his shadows.

He waited, waited for those slivers of darkness to whisper something… anything about you. Even just your name, the Spymaster would have been pleased to know.

But nothing.

His shadows lazily moved underneath him, not a care in the world about the female that seemed to have warped his mind in chaos.

You had become an enigma to the Spymaster.

And it was something he would go to the ends of the world to unravel.

He continued silently observing you from his position next to his High Lord on the dias, watching as you pressed yourself close to the Heir side, your hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, leading you through the throughs of people that packed themselves into the grand ballroom. He watched as your rouge dress, a stark contrast to the endless sea of black and blue, swayed around you — like a fire that danced in the darkness of the night. Even Eris stood out in his regality in a similar shade of rouge, Autumn Court colors seeping out from every inch of him.

The two of you maneuvered through the halls like flames blazing through the darkness — and Azriel was worried that you would burn his home down.

And when he watched you lean up to the Heir, whispering something into his ear before a boisterous laugh escaped the Autumn Heir, he sent his shadows across the floor, motioning them to listen in — and all the Spymaster hoped was to get a tidbit of anything relating to you; even just the sound of your voice would have been better than nothing.

However, hazel hues watched as his shadows retreated quickly as they had flocked. And it was only then did Azriel had seen it.

A barrier.

One that was so powerful and so thick that his shadows couldn’t even penetrate. He watched as the tendrils of darkness slithered away, retreating back to their master, hearing their cries of pain as they had attempted to break through the barrier.

That was the reason no one knew of your existence — why Azriel never heard of you, why his shadows never picked up your name.

You were a secret — Autumn Court’s well-kept secret.

The shimmer of the barrier caught the corner of your eye, watching it reflect different colors under the dim lighting. You raised a brow, eyes darting around before noticing the lonesome shadow retreating back to its master. You watched as that lonesome shadow slither through the crowd, slithering back to the Spymaster’s side.

“Did that bastard just —-”

You fought back a chuckle, gently squeezing Eris’ forearm — a silent confirmation about the attempted attack from the Night Court Spymaster. You felt him stiffen underneath your touch and you didn’t need to look to know that the Heir was pissed.

Beneath his mask of well-practiced composure, you felt his body thrum with rage and fire — it swirled and bubbled underneath his skin, radiating up to your palm that rested in the crook of his elbow.

Eris had always been quite overprotective over you, thus the millennial old barrier that had kept your existence a secret from all of Prythian — including from the nosy Spymaster of Night Court.

You were not surprised by the Shadowsinger’s actions — curiosity killed the cat, as many would say. And who wouldn’t be curious about you, the female that hung on the arm of the Autumn Court Heir? You had expected something similar to happen, but it seemed that the Spymaster sending his shadows to investigate you did not sit well with Eris.

No one dared to attack you while in his presence.

“Eris…”

The whisper of his name from your lips paused the rage that bubbled from the Heir — amber hues glancing your way. A delicate smile tugged onto your features, another melodic hum escaping your lips as you reached up and caressed his forearm — a gesture that showed you were perfectly unharmed — the barrier had done its job, keeping you safe. It was a gesture that always seemed to calm Eris down — especially when it came to your safety, a silent confirmation you were safe. You felt that bubble of rage and fire simmer, the Heir calming underneath your touch, and felt his hand slip on top of your own, his thumb gently caressing the gold band on your ring finger— a tall tell sign that he was holding himself back from confronting the Spymaster.

“Ah, Eris!”

Annoyance rolled off from the calm of Eris’ demeanor and you fought all urge to tease the male as you watched from the corner of your eye Keir making his way to the two of you, behind him his daughters in tow.

With a well-practiced smile, Eris gave a bow of his head towards the Steward, you mimicking his actions as surprise tugged on the Steward’s features, his steps paused to a halt at the sight of you at Eris’ side.

“Ah, Keir, pleasure to see you again. I thank you for inviting me to such festivities…” Eris greeted the male with a light smirk tugged onto his features — the normal look of arrogance from the Autumn Heir.

Keir had stiffened at the sound of his name, without any lordship from the Heir, as he bit back a reply with a strained smile, “Of course, Lord Eris. We are indeed partners… I had wanted to introduce you to my daughters—-” the male gestured to his side as his daughters gave a bow, their cheeks pink with a light rose color, evident even in the dim lighting.

You bit back a laugh, glancing up at Eris to watch that smile twitch at the corner of his lips — the annoyance very evident despite his mask of pleasantry.

“Unfortunately…” The Autumn Heir had cut off the Steward, giving the ladies a bow of his head. Eris, no matter what was taught to be a gentleman, especially to females. His mother taught him that. “I do not need a partner tonight for the dance… As you can see, I do have a lovely lady on my arm, and it would be such a shame to ignore her presence… don’t you think, Keir?”

A pleased smile tugged at the edge of your lips at the quip — not only did the Steward ignore greeting you, he had ignored the fact that you… without needing to be announced, would be the one accompanying the Heir for the evening’s festivities. And yet, there he was attempting to set up partnership with one of his daughters.

Keir’s eyes shifted from the Heir to you, his hues shaking as he looked at you.

“My apologizes… my lady, I was not informed that the Autumn Heir would be bringing a partner with him tonight—-”

“—-She has been with me the whole night, Keir… and she has not stepped away from my side. I would think, with your… keen eyesight, it would make it clear that I did not need a partner tonight.”

“—- Ah, yes… I apologize…” the stutter was evident in his tone as he quietly shooed away his daughters, watching longing gazes at the Eris before moving through the crowd. Keir straightened up and gave you a formal smile, before clearing his throat, “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady —- before the festivities start…” What a quick change of subject, “My High Lord would like to speak to you…. if you do not mind following me…”

And with that the Steward turned around, his cape bellowing behind him as he maneuvered his way through the crowd… towards the dias where the Inner Circle had perched themselves for the night.

You watched as Eris rolled his eyes, an annoyed sigh escaping his lips, while you let out an airy laugh, bracing yourself on his arm as you leaned up, your breath against his chin, “Tired of being the most eligible bachelor, Autumn Heir?” you teased him.

It had always amused you on how many marriage proposals Eris had throughout the time you were together, and how many he had thrown those letters into the hearth of your shared bedroom at Autumn Court. You had always teased him about it, much to his own dismay after being with you for several millennials — you always found something to tease him about.

Eris raised a brow, turning his head so that your breaths intermingled, “I had not been a bachelor for centuries, my butterfly… It pains me to pretend that I am every time I step outside Autumn Court.”

You gazed up at him, staring in those amber hues through your lush lashes, “Well… tonight we’ll make that clear, once and for all, won’t we?”

A wide smirk tugged onto his lips, as he let out a satisfied sound before straightening up and guiding you through the crowd, steps behind the Steward to the dias. The two of you were a perfect picture of Lord and Lady, graceful and regal in every way.

Pull… pull… pull…

Eyes snapped towards the dias, your body going ridged for a few moments as you felt the familiar magnetic tug — the call of the blade. Eris paused in mid-step, feeling you go still, his head snapping towards you as eyes betrayed his indifferent expression — worry pooling at its depths. No words needed to be communicated between the two of you, you had known each other for centuries… you were honed into each other’s emotions, habits, gestures… you two could read each other so easily, despite the mask you have learned to put on for centuries.

Your eyes shifted from each member of the Inner Circle, trying to find where the magic pull was coming from, landing on the velvet box that was in the lithe hands of a familiar fae — the eldest Made Archeron sister, Nesta. You felt your magic flicker underneath your skin, answering the pull from that velvet box. You knew that the blade was in that box — the whole reason why you had decided to accompany Eris to the Winter Solstice, stepping out of Autumn Court into the wider world of Prythian, risking your identity, and exposing your person to the Night Court. That box, that blade was your sole reason.

Regaining your composure, you pressed yourself against Eris’ arm, placing your hand on top of his own as you silently motioned him to continue moving forward. The Autumn Heir hesitated, but when he glanced into your eyes and saw the resolution in them, he couldn’t argue. He gently squeezed your hand and started to move forward again before leaning down, pressing a kiss on the side of your head to whisper, “Did you find it? The blade?”

You glanced up at him and just gave him a light smirk, gently squeezing his hand. Another laugh escaped him, drawing attention towards the two before he pressed another kiss on your cheek, “You are magnificent, my butterfly…”

The Autumn wind blew a chilled breeze through the large windows of the Forest House. The sky was still in orange, red, and yellow hues as the moon started to peak over the horizon — the seasonal courts never saw true nightfall, the skies still glittering with their court colors. It had just grown dark enough for sleep to fall on its inhabitants.

Slipping onto the large balcony of your shared bedroom, you pressed your hands against the cool marble railing as you watched a monarch butterfly flutter down from the skies. Magic wrapped its fragile wings as you allowed it to gently perch on your left eye, a sigh escaping your lips as you closed your eyes — allowing its magic to seep into you. Visions passed behind your eyes, your all-seeing gaze shifting from Autumn Court, zipping through the seasonal courts and into the depths of one particular solar court — Night Court.

A rusty hammer struck metal, sparks of light flying into the air as the loud ring echoed in your ears. You watched delicate, yet calloused fingers grip the hilt of a forged blade — a power from those very hands seeping into the metal, one that mimicked the ancient Cauldron, which was lost. The blade breathed fire, one so similar to your own that you felt it pulse, no… push against steel — calling out to you, as if it knew you were waiting, watching from afar.

Shifting your gaze from the mysterious Made blade, your eyes wandered to those fingers, traveling up their arm to their features — the eldest Made Archeron sister. You had heard of the eldest sister of the High Lady of Night, once a human, doused in Cauldron power that made her into fae. Her powers were unknown to all, and yet — here she was, creating a weapon from her unknown powers.

“It looks like she isn’t quite as lovely as the winds have whispered…” you murmured, mirth in your tone as you continued to watch the vision unfold before your eyes.

“Who isn’t as lovely?”

Arms wrapped around your middle, large sturdy hands pressing you against a much sturdier front. Another sigh escaped your lips, eyes fluttering open, breaking the connection of magic as you watched the butterfly disappear in a waft of red and orange mist. Your hand raised, swirling the colors in the air before it dissipated. Twisting your neck, you glanced up at the Autumn Heir, his features illuminated by the colorful autumn sky.

You had always thought he looked ethereal.

His complexion glowed something dark that always stirred something inside of you. How his auburn hair beautifully framed his chiseled features and how his amber hues glowed — his innate fire burning through those irises.

Those amber eyes caught your own, his brow raising as his question was left in the air. A chuckle was pulled out of you at his look, “The eldest Made Archeron…”

Eris’ brows scrunched in confusion, as your comment did little to answer his question. He knew that there was much more hidden behind your simple words about the Made fae, much more than you were willing to tell him without him prodding you more. You lifted a hand to gently smooth Eris’ brows, a feeble attempt at a distraction — for both you and him.

“What did your butterflies show you, (Y/N)?”

Eris was able to read you so easily, no matter how many walls you had put up, the Autumn Heir was able to see right through them. He had learned how to read you for centuries, ever since the two of you were children — ever since that fateful day.

You felt him grasp your hand, tugging it away from his face, giving your palm a caress, causing a sigh to escape your lips.

“She forged a blade that breathed fire, one similar to our own… I do not know the purpose of said blade, but I am quite sure it has to do with that bloody bargain you made with that High Lord…”

It was no secret to Eris that you had despised that bargain between the High Lord of Night — a bargain to help him claim the Autumn throne from his father. You understood that it was under stressful circumstances — the looming doom of war with Hybern, needing allies during the war. However, you had known that Eris didn’t need that bargain, not with anyone within the Forest House walls, especially not with pesky Night Court bats — not when he had you to help with the coup within Autumn wards.

You needed no help from overgrown bats with what you had promised Eris all those millennials ago.

“(Y/N)…” he called your name, pulling you from your thoughts. Eris held your waist and turned you in his arms, pushing you against that marble railing, forcing you to look up at him.

Raising a brow, you tilted your head up at him.

“If they made a blade for us… then we’ll use it — take advantage of it,” he asserted, “Let’s play into their little game for now. Make them think they’re on higher ground, that they have control — but when in reality, we’ve always known. And you never know…” A smirk tugged on his lips as he leaned down, his breath brushing against the apples of your cheeks, “That blade might be useful for our plan…”

A light, airy chuckle escaped your lips, “You’re asking me, Eris… out of all things… to act dumb in front of those bats?” amusement laced in your tone.

He chuckled as well, pressing his lips against your cheek, “I’m asking you, my butterfly… is to act dumb with me. We do better everything together, right?”

You hummed, eyes fluttering close, your lashes brushing against his cheeks. Your arms slid up his more muscular ones, hidden beneath his sleeping tunic, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing yourself against him, “Then that means, Autumn Heir… you will have to bring me to that Winter Solstice ball if you want me to act with you.”

Eris froze underneath your touch at the mention of Winter Solstice. He had mentioned it a few times to you in the past several weeks — especially when Keir kept sending secret correspondence, begging him to join the festivities. The correspondences had annoyed Eris completely, any chance the Heir had was to verbalize his annoyance to you about it — and you had been very amused to hear it each time. You were to let him go on his own to the Court of Nightmares — it was something you didn’t need to be a part of. You could remain in Autumn, continue to secretly monitor his father and brothers, gain followers, and be the wallflower that you have always acted as.

But, with this newfound information and the idea of the Night Court using the bargain against Eris, you knew you couldn’t just be passive with the invitation.

Opening your eyes, you looked up at Eris who had a conflicting look — you knew why he had been so hesitant.

You had never stepped outside of Autumn Court — no one knew of your existence outside of the Court. Despite being in Autumn Court for millennials, Prythian didn't know, the other Courts didn’t know of you. And yet, you were willing to sacrifice your identity, your role in his bigger plan to gain something as simple as a blade that a Cauldron Made Fae made.

Eris didn’t like the idea, it didn’t sit well in his thoughts.

Reaching up, you pressed your thumb between his brows, smoothing the skin there, “You will get wrinkles at this point, Eris…” you mumbled, eyes focusing on the skin there before catching his gaze, “I have done everything I can here, Eris…” your words were cryptic, you knew Eris would understand — you couldn’t risk it, not when the walls, trees, the winds in Autumn would listen and give away your plan.

“… I have asked you to use me, Eris. All those millennials ago, on that day… so use me. Make me the weapon I made myself into. I can't help you now if I'm in Autumn —-”

Sure, you had been the one to limit your influence solely on Autumn Court, but if Prythian called, then you are willing to step into the larger world.

Your eyes showed your determination, your willingness to devote your entirety to him as you've done for years.

A reluctant sigh escaped his lips as he forcibly pressed his lips on your forehead, “Alright. I will bring you… but you must remain by my side the whole night. No one will rip you away from me..”

An amused chuckle escaped your chest, leaning up to press your lips against his pulse, “So overprotective, Autumn Heir. It sounds like you're too fond of me…”

You felt Eris shake his head at your teasing, tugging you closer before maneuvering you back into your shared room for the night.

The bellow of Keir’s introduction pulled you out of your thoughts, watching the older male give a sweeping bow — overdramatic and with flair — his words of congratulations echoing throughout the large ballroom, the citizens echoing the same sentiments. As the elder male stepped aside, you stepped up along with the Autumn Heir, giving an elegant curtsy, while Eris gave a regal bow at his waist.

“And allow me to extend our congratulations, High Lady of Night, on behalf of my father and the entirety of Autumn Court…” Eris bellowed, his voice of regality, “A Fae child being conceived, what a miraculous announcement to give during Winter Solstice…”

You drowned out the conversation between Eris and the High Lord, barely focusing on the pageantry between them. It was rare for you to be so out of focus on the situation. Normally, you were in tune with your surroundings, focused on the now; however, all you and your magic could focus on was the call of the blade that thrummed inside that velvet box. You watched as lithe fingers grip the box tighter, and your eyes shifted to the eldest Archeron sister

“—- Before you go, Eris…” your delicate ears perked up, eyes shifting back to the High Lord who waved his hand allowing a dark wind to carry that velvet box through the air, handing it into Eris’ awaiting hand, “I offer you a gift, a solstice gift. A friendly token… between a High Lord to a future High Lord…”

Eris’ gripped the box tight in his large hand as you felt the muscles underneath regal clothes grow taunt.

A quip, from the High Lord. A disguised reminder of the bargain between the two of them.

Gently squeezing Eris’ forearm, you urged him to open the box, to ignore the jab from the older male. You felt those muscles relax underneath your squeeze, his mask of indifference returning onto his features as he opened the velvet box.

Inside that box, laid on plush pillows, was an ornate dagger — it was roughly the size of the Heir’s forearm, its handle weaved from iron as if it was cloth, an intricate design of wood and fire etched onto the metal.

One that was similar to the vision that you had seen weeks ago.

Eris picked up the blade by its serpentine handle, raising it, and watched the silver and jewels shine in the dim lighting. It was a beautiful blade — much more than you had seen in that vision. From the corner of your eye, the two of you locked gazes a light smirk tugging on his lips before the air around him flickers.

Eris’ magic throbbed in the air, as you watched flames appear around the blade — surprised screams echoed around you, as all eyes were on the pair of you — the center of attention. Eyes glanced at the Inner Circle, watching the guard dogs step in front of their masters to protect them, your keen gaze watching how the Captain pulled the eldest sister in his arms. A curious brow raised before you gazed back at Eris as he poured his power into that blade, disappearing into the silver in a flash of bright light.

A groan escaped the Autumn Heir, his head tilting back, a long breath escaping grinning lips. It took a moment’s breath before he regained his composure, rolling his shoulders back before his gaze returned to the blade, turning the blade in his hand as the metal changed, the color from a simple silver to a dark black — an obsidian color that swallowed up the light. A mixture of auburn and saffron tinted the onyx-colored blade, changing the way the light hit it — a blade mimicked a dark fire, swirling underneath the dim light.

Eris flipped the blade, holding it by the blade as he turned his body, facing you and staring at you with those brightly colored hues — flame and light within those irises — handling the blade to you, a nudge of his chin, gesturing you to take the blade.

A light chuckle escaped your lips, fighting the urge for your knees to buckle at the look on the Heir’s features — it was an alluring look on him, the power that raged in his eyes, in his veins — as your gaze shifted down the column of his throat and followed the patterns of his auburn suit to the blade in his hand. With lithe fingers, you grasped the hilt and you felt a shiver run up your spine — the mix of Eris’ power along with the power that already surged through the metal, Nesta’s power — no… the Cauldron’s power — was intoxicating. The call and pull of the magic that pulsed in the blade was strong and you felt your own magic answer the call, causing you to tilt your head slightly as you stared down at the blade, your magic pulsing underneath your skin.

What a dangerous weapon… You thought as you shifted slightly out of Eris’ hold to move the slit on your skirt, where an empty sheath was strapped onto your leg, sliding the blade into its new home — a perfect fit.

“I had been meaning to ask…” The High Lord’s voice reached your delicate ears as you glanced up, fingers trailing up your thigh before pressing yourself close to the Autumn Heir again.

“Who are you?”

Eris gently squeezed your waist, as you stepped out of his hold and you gave a sweeping curtsy, one as dramatic as Kier’s earlier.

“Late introductions, I apologize, High Lord of Night…” your tone had mirth and sarcasm tied underneath a layer of elegance and regality, “My name is (Y/N)… (Y/N) Vanserra.”

You glanced up at the High Lord through your lashes, watching his façade of arrogance and boredom shift into surprise — his face showing his thoughts:

Vanserra? Beron does not have any daughters.

Nor did he take up a second wife.

Vanserra? On the arm of the Autumn Heir…

Bright violet hues glanced between you and the Autumn Heir that stood behind you, before locking onto your gaze — your colored hues staring into violet hues. In defiance, you tilted your head up, as you straightened from your curtsy.

And that’s when you felt it — those tendrils of his powers creep near your mind, you couldn’t help but frown, your body stiffening, your hand gripping your gown tighter.

In your entire lifespan, you have never encountered a Daemati — especially one as strong as the High Lord; you had thought that the barrier would protect you from such intrusion of your mind, but it seemed, even that was futile against the power of a High Lord Daemanti.

Not breaking your eye connection with the High Lord, your eyes glowed an eerie ruby hue as you focused on that tether, that connection that he forged between your minds, to those coils of darkness that invaded your mind.

How. Dare. He.

And with a flick of your wrist, your mind grew walls of flame, surrounded by fire hounds who growled and attacked those shadows — successfully pushing him out of your mind. You heard a faint yell from the High Lord, and you saw his hands sear with flames, his hands combusting as he frantically tried to pat it down on his leathers. However, the feeling of lightheadedness started to cloud your mind, and you teetered on your heels before you felt Eris’ arms wrap around your waist, pressing your back against his chest. Eyes pinched close, panting, fighting off the heaviness you felt throughout your body.

It had been simple enough, you had thought, to push the High Lord’s power from your mind — but it seemed you had used too much power, in such a quick second that your delicate stature was giving up. Your mind grew hazy, spots of darkness appeared in your vision and you fought every urge to just pass out right there that you barely noticed the commotion that surrounded you.

Feeling Eris’ grip on you tighten as you heard him growl, “Did you just try to get into my wife’s head, Rhysand?! How fucking dare you!”

That had fully ticked off the Autumn Heir. Not only did the Spymaster attempt to attack you from afar, but now the High Lord tried to invade your mind. Two attempts at your life were too much for one night for Eris — and he threw his well-practiced self-control out the window.

Shrieks from the onlookers reached your ears as you peeked an eye open, noticing a bright light that illuminated the dark room. Heat radiated onto your skin, feeling Eris bring you closer to him, protecting you from the ring of fire that surrounded the both of you, separating the two of you from the Inner Circle. Blinking the haziness from your mind, you watched through the flames as the General and Shadowsinger stood in front of the High Lord and Lady, weapons drawn against the two of you.

“Eris…” you breathed out, grasping his Autumn colored suit, “Calm down…”

His head whipped towards you, that fiery gaze staring down at you, “But he tried to invade your mind, (Y/N)…”

A confirmed hum escaped your throat, straightening yourself in his hold, “I know… But I got him out. That’s all that mattered… And don’t blame the barrier,” you panted, blinking away the spots at the corner of your eyes, “His power is immune to it I guess…”

You stared up at him, your scarlet hues dimming back to your normal colored ones. Amber hues stared into them, assessing your condition, hesitation marred his features.

“Bring down the flames, Eris….” you softly commanded him.

His eyes flickered between you and the Inner Circle before he followed that command, the ring of fire flickering until it had gone out. You did not bother to appear composed — you could appear fragile — play into the heartstrings of the citizens of Hewn City.

The High Lord of Night Court attempted to invade the mind of Autumn Court Heir’s wife.

Word would spread throughout all of Prythian — sympathy and pity would be whispered your way while scrutinizing words would be thrown towards the High Lord.

Even if you despise showing such vulnerability to anyone let alone the Inner Circle, you can use it to your advantage.

You pressed yourself closer to Eris, playing the soft wife that just got attacked by a High Lord. Eris’ arms wrapped around you, as he bared his teeth against the Inner Circle.

“You attempt to attack my wife in your Court, Rhysand, and yet you have your dogs try to protect you? We have not laid a finger against you nor your Court, and you have weapons drawn against us,” anger vibrated in Eris’ tone. He knew how to play your games, he knew exactly how to play them with you — and yet the anger, the fury that lurked in his features were genuine, “You have no damn right to try to lurk in our heads, even if you are a High Lord.”

The General and the Spymaster shifted in their stance, their eyes foggy before stepping aside to reveal Rhysand, cradling his now scarred hands — that was what he got for trying to attack you in front of his people.

“…I…”

“I do not accept your apology if you ever were to have one, High Lord…” surprise tugging onto his features at your declaration, “Myself and my husband arrived on Night Court soil as guests, and yet we are treated as enemies. I have done nothing to you to cause you to try to invade my mind.”

Whispers surrounded you, words of ill-intent for their High Lord reaching your sensitive ears.

She’s right. They have done nothing to them, and yet he tried to hurt her.

The Autumn Heir had every right to act the way he did. It was to protect his wife from Rhysand.

I never did like him… He has trapped us here in the Mountain while he and his people live in Valeris.

He’s nothing but a hypocrite. He says that he welcomes all, but he hurts others as he sees fit.

You fought back a smirk, staring at the High Lord as his features flickered — his mind racing on trying how to turn the situation back to his favor. But you knew, both of you knew, it was too late for him to do anything.

Things have turned in your favor, much like you had hoped.

“I have no need to stay for the festivities any longer, Rhysand. You have attacked my wife twice in one night, your Shadowsinger earlier tonight and now you. I do not feel safe within the walls of your Court and I do not feel safe for my wife’s safety either…”

With a growl escaping his throat, he gently maneuvered you into his arms, lifting you bridal style, turning on his heels as he stepped out of the Court of Nightmares, the crowd parting to make way for him as flames surrounded the both of you. You felt him pause mid-step, and you glanced up at him with a raise of your brow. Eris looked down at you, his face contemplating for a moment before he looked over his shoulder, back at Rhysand.

“—-And the bargain between us is over High Lord… Especially after tonight. No one dares to hurt my wife in my presence.”

The Autumn Heir winnowed the both of you out of Night Court in a flash of fire and light.

And back into the depths of Autumn Court.

👑 General Tag List: @prythianpages @strangelygreat

🕯️Series Tag List: @imma-too-many-fandoms @assriels @kiarathace

[roosterforme]

A depraved Bradley story you say? Think we can get a little bit of a preview 👀

Just a tiny sample on a tiny spoon.

Two Scoops (Rooster x Reader)

Bradley knew you too well by this point. He knew the sound of your heavy breathing after he warned you that you were getting loud. He knew the supple feel of your inner thigh against his fingers as he fucked you in the back of his Bronco. He knew that every inch of your skin tasted so much sweeter than any flavor of ice cream, and he loved licking you from his lips. But his friends didn't know that he knew any of those things, and he needed to keep it that way. Because he absolutely shouldn't be privy to any of it.

"Hello, sir. What can I get for you?"

There was an innocent smile on your face, and you were looking directly at Bradley even though he wasn't alone. Nat, Jake and Javy started to peruse the flavors in the freezer case while Bradley took in the sight of your body in that stupid shirt you had to wear. The double-o in the word SCOOPS was printed right across your tits, and it was almost impossible to look anywhere else. He wondered if you were even wearing a bra today. You weren't last night.

He made sure his friends were distracted by the rocky road at the far end of the case, and he leaned on the counter and cleared his throat softly. "Sir? Yeah, I'm going to need you to keep calling me that. And you already know what I want."

"Oops," you told him with a cute little pout. "We only serve that after we close for the night." 

Your words went right to his cock, just like you intended. When Nat shuffled closer, he cleared his throat again and said, "Uhhh... so what do you recommend?"

He inhaled the smell of hot fudge and strawberries while your pout turned into a little grin. If he was blushing right now, he knew he would hear about it later. You studied his face slowly, and not for the first time, he wondered if you were about to out whatever this was to his friends. But you simply pushed away from the counter and said, "I always find two scoops are better than one. And you're a big guy, so I bet you'll keep coming back for more."

Bradley nodded and kept his eyes on yours. "Two scoops then. And which flavor would you suggest I try?"

"Hmm... well you don't seem much like a vanilla guy, but the peach is very good." You turned your back to him and strutted along to get a tiny spoon from the massive jar on the counter, letting him get a good look at your rear end. "I could give you a sample," you told him, turning to look over your shoulder. "A small taste?"

Bradley was contemplating hopping over the counter to get to you when Nat asked, "Could I actually try a sample of the Cookie Monster?" 

You licked your lips before tearing your eyes away from Bradley, and you headed for the freezer case with one of the little spoons. "Of course. That's one of my favorites."

[thisismeracing]

mick schumi + 🛞

☕️

A helping hand | MS47 (Preview)

⸺ the one where she's new in the country, her car breaks in the middle of the night, and he's the only person around she knows. ✓ none I guess, except that it was 1k words again hehe sorryy.

⁕ lovers, players, and racers blurb night (open) ⁕ my masterlist and my taglist

"Mhm...hi, Mick, it's-" your voice was uncertain.

"Yn, hey, is everything ok?" he sounded as if you had just woken him up, and you hated it. Hated the fact that your best friend's brother was the only person in town you knew, the only person in the country. But from all the possible days and times, your car decided to break tonight, making Mick Schumacher your only option.

"Well..I'm not so sure. I'm sorry for waking you up, Mick, but my car broke down on a desert road, I have no idea where exactly, my battery is about to die, and I don't know what to do since I've been living here for less than a week," your rant was indication enough that you were more nervous than you were able to admit, yet it wasn't a problem for the youngest Schumacher. He was the epitome of calmness, his voice rarely raising, his eyes always attentive, and he was always ready to help, especially help you.

That's how the German found himself on a dimly lit road still wearing his pajamas and with his phone still connected to your call, not ready to leave you alone in the dark.

...

"What happened?" it was the second time that night he asked that.

"It's nothing, just an ice cream place."

"I have never tried this one, shall we?" his smooth yet still raspy voice suggested.

"This late at night?"

"It's never too late to ice cream," he grins. "You're the one that said that, remember?"

And you sure did remember when you went on vacation with the Schumachers. You spent most of the time with your friend G, but Mick joined the girls club one night and you ended up at an ice cream place eating an unhealthy amount of the dessert. Coming to think about it, that was probably the day you started to realize your feelings for him weren't exactly the feelings you had for best friend's brothers.

Read the whole blurb here!

[lavellenchanted]

The Courtship of Peggy Carter (fic coming soon)

When Steve returns to the 1940s, he knows he wants to be with Peggy, but he can't help but worry about how the years they have both lived through have changed them - so he proposes that they start dating and get to know each other again. But Peggy has her own ideas about how their courtship will go, and is a woman determined to get what she wants. Namely Steve. In her bed. Sooner than he seems to be planning to get there.

Happy holidays @margarethcarter! I'm your Secret Santa this year - I'm so sorry your gift is so ridiculously late, but this month has just been incredibly full on. I am hoping to get your gift finished and up soon, but I didn't want to end the year without you getting anything.

You said you prefer post-Endgame time period and mentioned Peggy finding out that Steve's acquired some game since she last saw him, which what inspired this fic, so I hope when it's finally finished you will enjoy it, but in the meantime here is a little preview for you!

***

“And this . . . you being here . . . is it for good? Or do you have to go back?”

Steve held her gaze, serious and steady, the way he always did whenever he wanted her to know that what he was about to say was something he had thought over carefully.

“I’d like it to be. I came back because this place, this time, is where I belong. I wanted to come home, to have the life I never got a chance to have. And I want, very much, for that life to be with you.” 

For a moment Peggy felt as if she had forgotten how to breathe, her chest tight and her heart beating painfully hard against her ribs. She opened her mouth to tell him yes, that she wanted a life with him as well, but before the words could form he had brought a finger to her lips to keep her from speaking.

“But,” he continued softly, a tenderness in his expression that made her glow with warmth, “I don’t think that’s a decision either of us should be making right now.”

A faint frown creased Peggy’s forehead. “Why not?”

“Because of how good this feels.”

She couldn’t help quirking an eyebrow, one corner of her mouth curling upwards. “That’s a bad thing, is it?”

Steve chuckled. “No. I just mean . . . I’ve dreamed about being here with you for so long, it would be easy to rush into this. To forget that . . . a lot of time has passed, for both of us. And that we’re probably both different people than we were when I went into the ice.”

Peggy let out a slow breath. Part of her - the part that for the last four years had been filled with grief, sorrow and longing whenever she thought of Steve - was afraid, terrified that this moment of joy in finding him again was going to be cut short, and leave her with nothing but echoing silence of his absence once more. She wanted to cling on to him as tightly as she could, to hold him to her so she didn’t have to face the pain of losing him again.

Another, regrettably more sensible part of her, recognised that what he was saying was true. The four years she had spent being overlooked at the SSR had left their mark as surely as the war had, and now she was reinventing herself again as the Director of SHIELD. She felt very far from the young agent that had worked on Project Rebirth. 

And Steve . . . right now she could only guess at the sort of things Steve had lived through, the reasons for the weariness that lurked at the back of his eyes, the sadness  that seemed etched into his face, mingling with his joy when he had asked her if he could finally claim his dance.

“So what are you suggesting?” she asked, forcing a calmness she didn’t entirely feel. 

But to her surprise - and a little to her relief - Steve smiled.

“I’m suggesting that we date. Like we would have - should have - if things had gone the way we planned. Get to know each other as we are now. And if after we’ve dated for a while, we’re both sure this is still something we want . . .  well, then we can talk about what’s next.” 

Peggy almost wanted to laugh. “Are you telling me you travelled back nearly a century in time just to ask me on a date?”

His smile widened to a grin. “To start with, anyway.”

[reashot]

Spoiler for my next RWBY fanfic project:

(We all know it's going to be Jaune so don't ask who's it supposed to be.)

Sorry if it seems long because I have to do some little world building (I lied. I have to create RWBY from scratch because the lore are non-sensical & made no sense.) Because I want to provide my reader better quality story telling.

Some changes I made is as follows:

- Grimm are stronger now. The heroes will have to work harder to even beat a beowulf. With a few special one able to gain self awareness and have some "slight" reality altering power. Think the witches from Madoka magica franchise.

- Of course with the Grimm getting stronger. So does the Huntsman. With someone like Qrow or pretty much any Huntsman older than the main cast no longer be a pushover.

- Rank System for the Huntsman.

- More (named) students at Beacon.

- Huntsman are treated like a Rock stars.

- There will not just be four relics but hundreds of them. Each with varying degrees of power. And most are monopolized by the state.

- Don't know what to do with the maidens though. Any suggestions?

- Grimm no longer feed on negative human emotion. Biggest reason for the removal is that it contradict the Faunus Racism subplot. And I don't know about you but I think racism is one heck of a negative emotion. (They still want people dead though)

- Faunus Racism subplot will be handled much better.

- Salem still can't be killed but she can be sealed. With her needing to be sealed every few decades or so.

- Grimm will appear less frequently and only starts appearing more and more when the seal around Salem starts to weaken.

- There will be a cult dedicated to bring back Salem and serves as the primary antagonist.

- Of course everybody favorite part of prequel trilogy. Politics. But it mostly be in the background until it isn't & the heroes are then forced to make a choice.

- There are other group beside the Huntsman fighting Grimms and they hate their guts.

- The event of Ice Queendom is mostly canon and even part of the Grimm Eclipse. Because I needed something to pad out the world building.

& there's more but I would like to keep some a secret for now.

And yes many character's story will be expanded or in a few case rewritten. Adam especially will be rewritten to better reflect the freedom fighter he supposed to represent. He's angry at the world but not an a-hole.

And that's about it I'm already halfway in and I will post the 5k fanfic soon as a form of early preview.

[triptychgrip]

Preview of my Yuri!!! on Ice x Fruits Basket crossover fic

Because you just know that a meeting between Viktor Nikiforov and Ayame Sohma (i.e. The Battle Of Who Is More Extra) would be all kinds of epic, I had to share a preview of the Yuri!!! on Ice x Fruits Basket crossover fic idea that has recently grabbed ahold of my every waking thought. The basic premise is one where a scheming Okukawa Minako contacts Ayame and Mine about potentially designing figure skating costumes for an ice show that Viktor and Yuuri will be hosting the following year. As of now, it'll be told first from Yuri Plisetsky's POV, and then from Yuki Sohma's POV (who would honestly be kindred spirits when it comes to their chagrin with most everything happening in this story lol).

I can see this story going in many different directions but a few things I already know will happen:

1) Viktor immediately gets jealous when he sees how Yuuri looks at Ayame with stars in his eyes ("Yuuuurrriiiiii, is it because his hair is thicker than mine?! That could be a wig for all we know!")

2) Ayame is absolutely delighted at the idea of developing costumes centered around Viktor/Yuuri's love story, and proceeds to suggest all kinds of outlandish ideas for these designs (i.e. which Yuki will summarily shoot down, since he is interning at Ayame's shop for the summer while home from college)

3) Yuuri and Mine will bond in their shared exasperation/fondness for their extremely exuberant husbands, while Yurio and Yuki will similarly share lament to one another about the antics of their elder brothers (and yes, while Yurio and Viktor aren't biologically related, I think it's pretty safe to say in a post-canon world that Yuuri/Viktor assume the role of his "embarrassing" older brothers)

More than anything, I think the hardest part will be how to keep this thing streamlined, since I'm finding the ideas flowing rather easily with this concept, LOL.

Oh, and my working title is "Like the pot calling the kettle Ayame" which is probably self-explanatory if folks are familiar with the similarities in Viktor and Ayame's personalities...

[atxxzist]

a choice to be made | c.s, c.jh (preview)

summary: you've come face to face with your hardest dilemma, yet; stuck in the middle between the one who came first and the one who came later, both of them incredibly special to you in their own ways but there's only one choice to be made

pairing: choi san x f!reader, choi jongho x f!reader

genre: angst, fluff, love triangle-ish, suggestive, etc

release date: tbd

a/n: i usually like working on oneshots discreetly but i've made this one an exception and will be accepting a taglist if anyone wants in on it. again, this is a oneshot only.

jongho’s known you for a long time.

he’s known you since the fourth grade when he found you huddled in the corner with doe and scared eyes after the teacher sent all you nine years old to go find a partner for a small assignment.

watching as your much smaller hands curled together at the front, all kinds of nervous and uneasiness on you playing for him as a witness that he couldn’t help but to feel extremely bad.

so quiet and reserved you were; he hadn’t even realized you were in his class until the very moment.

he had politely excused himself from his friends, telling the two they were fine to partner up without him and made way toward your smaller frame, the pout on you as if you were about to give up on anyone asking until you caught him in a short staring contest.

“would you like to be my partner?” he asked, even from that age conscious of the fact he had to be gentle as to not scare you away–contented when you nodded with the lightest smile gracing your lips.

“what’s your name?” he tried breaking the ice, sitting at the desk beside you that the teacher had told the kids to put together.

“y/n…” you answered, short of a whisper and so shy, you refused to look him in the eyes which made a giggle bubble out of him as you could only stare at the kind boy who saved you.

“nice to meet you, y/n. i’m jongho.”

and you had surely thought that it would a one time thing; that after the task of having to name a bunch of a things based on categories with him doing 70% of the work was finished, he would never want to speak to you again.

but jongho with his determination to get to know you and become friends, never left you alone a single day in your life after the first meeting, his persistence to start small conversations or include you in everything never failing because you started coming out of your shell bit by bit.

by the time you two entered fifth grade, you were practically friends even if you wouldn’t admit it at the time, jongho could see the new changes and eagerness that wasn’t there before.

he saw smiles you would try to fight and laughters with attempts to hide them, sometimes even courageous enough to return snarky replies that took him by surprise in the greatest way possible.

he knew he wanted to be friends with you for a long time.

you weren’t only full of surprises, but you were genuinely a good person. someone he wanted to be around despite some obvious differences as humans, nonetheless, able to be held together by similar morals and ethics that carried the relationship to high school; the starting realization that you understood and got him even more than his friends.

you became a safe space for him; a place of comfort where he never felt judged or like he had to be perfect.

he would cycle his lunch and free times between you and his friends, often than not favoring the time spent with you because you were still too shy around people who wasn’t him, but mainly because he was tired of hearing his friends’ teases and remarks.

comments about him having a crush on you that he would passionately deny every time, trying to persuade his friends and himself to an extent that he only saw you as a friend and no more.

even going as far as to disagree with them you looked good the day you started to put more efforts into your appearance just so he could prove a point and show you didn’t have an effect on him.

unfortunately much to his dismay and failed act, he wasn’t even offended his friends called him a pussy, his mind unable to rid of the statement that was only said in a lighthearted manner that if he doesn’t step up his game, he’s gonna be sorry for it one day if someone else comes along.

[blackwendigo13]

Return of the King (preview)

USS Enterprise. Captain's Personal Log: It has been forty-eight hours since the Enterprise was first requested to aid the USS Aquarius in the Theta quadrant. The smaller Starfleet vessel was called to assist with repairs on Starbase Polaris, but their journey here hasn’t been easy. One week ago, the ship was assailed by two unidentified shuttles, suffering minor damage across some of the lower decks before it could raise its shields. It is still not known why this happened nor who the attackers could be. My best guess is that it was an opportunistic attack on Starfleet. Petty vandalism. Something along those lines.

James Kirk drew a glass to his lips, thinking over the frantic message he had received after the attack. He had half expected there to be no ship left to rescue by the time he got there.

He smiled into the glass as he remembered the expression on Captain Singh’s face. He had never seen someone look so relieved.

The ice in his whiskey clinked against the glass as he set it down again.

The crew are admittedly quite shaken up by this encounter, but the USS Aquarius managed to escape fairly unscathed. Our engineers are over there at the moment making sure everything goes smoothly - though, I am of the opinion that they are probably just there to offer moral support. The Aquarius crew is more than capable of supporting themselves. That being said, I am concerned that this unfortunate set back may have given weight to a pervasive myth among the crew of both ships. It is the Captain’s first outing, but the Aquarius has somewhat of an unfortunate reputation, particularly among those who remember its maiden voyage.

He grimaced.

I don’t believe in superstitions; I like to think we have outgrown the need for magic and myth in this age, and yet, I find myself hesitant to outright deny the aura of bad luck that follows that ship around.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter.” Said Kirk.

The door opened and Spock stepped inside, his hands folded behind his back, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Captain, but Captain Singh has requested to speak to you personally.”

“I'll take the call here.”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible.” Spock said, sparing a glance over his shoulder at the closed door. “She's already onboard.”

Kirk let out a sigh, “Alright, fine. I'll meet her in the briefing room.”

Spock pursed his lips.

“Let me guess,” Kirk rolled his head to the side, “She's already on the bridge.”

“You would be correct.” Spock nodded, “Very astute.”

“And what is it this time?”

Spock stepped away from the door, cutting a slow, elegant path towards the windows on the bulkhead. The bright blue of a nearby nebula was painted across the black expanse outside.

“Permission to speak freely, sir.”

Kirk made a little waving gesture with his hand, “Sure, go ahead.”

“I believe Captain Singh is seeking an excuse to be anywhere other than onboard the Aquarius.”

Kirk cast his eyes over Spock critically. He was still facing the window but his posture had relaxed slightly, as if the strings holding him upright had slackened.

“Really? Why’s that?”

“I thought you were aware of-”

“No, Spock,” Kirk smiled faintly, examining his nearly empty glass as the ice slid across the bottom. “I know why I think she’s here, but I want to hear what you think.”

Spock stiffened, “I don’t think there’s any merit to-”

“Relax, relax.” Holding up his free hand, Kirk shrugged. “I’m not suggesting you actually believe the stories, I just- Well, I’d rather hear it from you before I have to relay this whole incident to an Admiral.”

The tension slowly ebbed out of Spock’s shoulders. “Oh. I see.”

“So?”

“One must admit that the frequency of misfortunes associated with the Aquarius is higher than those of the average Starfleet vessel.”

“Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know,” Kirk rotated his hand thoughtfully, “We get into enough scrapes for fifty ships-”

“So it would be unfair to pass judgement on others?”

“Exactly.”

“Even so,” Spock sighed, “The Enterprise is equipped with long-range missions in mind which somewhat necessitate that the crew will eventually encounter danger. The Aquarius, however, is not.”

Kirk made a noise of acknowledgement.

“In four years,” Spock continued, “That ship has encountered no less than eight dire emergencies; two of which lead directly to the death of the previous Captains, the first of which occurred on the ship’s maiden voyage.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“From what I have observed, there seems to be a particular negative connotation with misfortune on a maiden voyage.” Spock’s eyes scanned the ceiling thoughtfully, “One might make the assessment that a ‘bad start’, as it were, indicates an undesirable outlook for the future.”

“And what do you think?”

Spock blinked, turning his gaze to the Captain. As he opened his mouth, Sulu’s voice echoed out from the communicator at the door.

“Sulu to Captain Kirk.”

“Hold that thought.” Kirk set his glass down and crossed to the door, “Yes, Sulu.”

“Captain Singh is here. She says she wants to speak with you.”

“I thought as much. Don’t worry, I’m on my way. Kirk out.” He smiled apologetically at Spock, “We can have this conversation another time.”

“Please.” Spock nodded, “I find human superstitions to be a most intriguing matter of discussion.”

“Then let’s find out if this one holds any water.”

[myloveforhergoeson]

ch 31 preview bc i feel bad for not posting in so long yayy

“Mr. Rocque, Kelly, please,” Roxanne pleaded, shaking fingers threaded, palms pressed together. She would’ve gotten down on her knees to beg if she, the band, and their two bosses weren’t already in the back of the limousine headed to Brand New Day’s album release party. “The Big Time Rush booking fee is for interviews and photoshoots, and- and millionaire’s birthday parties. Not for an advertising campaign for a band no one has ever heard of!” 

Though she winced at her desperate tone of voice, she hoped one final appeal would make the two adults change their minds. Despite spending the last 24 hours making similar statements since Gustavo’s call at the movie theater, neither of them had budged in their decision for the band to attend the party. She’d even taken the fight all the way to Griffin’s office, sitting atop the Rocque Records building and adorned in the strangest taxidermy the assistant had ever seen, hoping that even he would think it an odd request. 

Turns out that had been a mistake; Roxy had severely underestimated how much Griffin seemed to like her. America’s fourth most powerful CEO was no better than his money-hungry adversaries and deep down she knew that… She just wanted someone other than her friends to take her feelings into account just this once. 

With Griffin’s word as law, and whatever Gustavo was afraid of in Obdul’s briefcase when the tall man tapped on it, the band was set to attend the gathering and adhere to Brand New Day’s request. 

When Kelly sighed, shifting her gaze from the soft glow of her BlackBerry in the back of the dark limo to the writer, she just slowly shook her head. “You heard Griffin earlier, Roxy. They’re paying customers and Rocque Records has a contract to fulfil. As much as you dislike these boys-”

“These two,” The assistant automatically corrected, feeling James’ hand slide onto her shoulder as the limo turned a corner. “These two,” Kelly continued after a brief pause, “There’s a lot of money at stake here.”

That was the same answer the talent scout had given her all day - the same corporate talk about contract fulfillment, legal obligation, and reputation. Bullshit. 

 “Griffin said we have to,” Gustavo added in a flat tone, red glasses matching the tint of a neon sign zooming by outside the window behind him, suggesting that he wasn’t all too thrilled with the night before them either. “So we have to. Set aside whatever crap has you all up in a twist about this party! It’s only a few hours, okay?” 

With a huff, Roxy crossed her arms and pushed back into her seat, watching the endless stream of cars out the window beside the man’s head. Most of the time she and Gustavo were on the same page, especially when it came to breaking down emotional barriers in the writer’s room. If he was able to help her draw out the words to place on the page when she was struggling in the past, why was he so incapable of seeing her irritation now? 

“We’ll be okay, Rox!” From across the way, Carlos reached out to pat her knee, welcome warm contact on skin that felt as cold as ice. The charm from the bracelet she’d made him for Christmas jingled around his wrist. “The night will be over before you know it!”

Carlos’ optimism never ceased to amaze Roxy; She wished she could feel even a small portion of it at the present, but her confusing amalgamation of fear and anger had been too busy building up in her system all day. Too much time had already been wasted worrying about Mag and Dani since they’d moved to Hollywood. Past memories playing in her head like a bad movie plagued her dreams, causing her to reach out for James in the darkness of her room, only to feel the emptiness creep in when she remembered a few walls separated them in 2-H and 2-J. Horrible flashes of whatever may transpire tonight took hold of her imagination when she was awake, only fueling the fire of emotions rooted in her belly. 

And even that felt ridiculous to her because Mag and Dani were just people she used to be friends with, not the supervillains of epic proportions her mind was making them out to be. The hurt and confusion then mingled with shame for expecting the worst from them, dragging up situations in which they’d looked out for her at local gigs or sat up and listened to her complain on the phone all hours of the night while she tried to work out a new tune or melody. All the fun they’d had playing together, advertising for their band wherever they could, and drawing up big plans to hit the big time together.

Then, the cycle of emotions started anew, because if they were such great people, how could they so easily take her work and pass it off as their own? How could they be Brand New Day without her?

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Roxy tilted her head back into the hard headrest, focusing on the silence in the car since she’d been too fatigued to pick a radio station, and took a deep breath in an attempt to stave off the emotional overload.

Beside Carlos, messing with the material of his lap belt, Kendall nodded at his friend’s words. “Just a few photos for the news outlets and some social media posts saying how much we love the new album, then we’re so far out of here and everyone will forget about Brand New Day in a week.”

Though the both of them knew that last part probably wouldn't be true, Roxy wanted to believe it anyway. Internally, she cursed her past self for all the time and effort she’d put into promoting their band to friends, strangers, and whoever would listen, and all the wishes on shooting stars in clear Minnesota skies that one day they’d blow up and get to move out of their nothing town. 

Too little, too late, the girl thought, feeling the unpleasant sting of her nails cutting into her palm as they balled into tight fists in her lap. At least we all got what we wanted in the end.

James must have noticed her discomfort; The hand on her shoulder trailed down her arm to unwind the mess she might have made of her palm with her fresh manicure. 

“You also… Don’t have to come…” Logan tried to add but quickly winced when Roxy countered his comment with a nasty glare. 

“Are you kidding me? I’m the only one who knows what those two are like! This is all part of their big scheme to-” 

“Roxanne.” Gustavo cut her off with a grating exhale of her name. For a few seconds, the humming of the engine was the only sound heard between the seven. “Being in the entertainment industry means sometimes you have to do things you don’t like to do. Do you think I enjoy playing babysitter for the five of you? No! But if I want to stay Hollywood’s number one producer, that’s what I have to do!”

“Oh, stop it Gustavo, you flatter us too much!” Kendall said with a sarcastic smile in a clear attempt to ease some of the tension radiating off of his boss and assistant, which calmed Roxy only slightly. At least one of them was able to keep a level head at the present. “We all know you love us too much but simply can’t admit it - out loud or otherwise.”

Grumbling something under his breath, Gustavo turned to look at Kelly’s BlackBerry, signifying Kendall had won that part of the conversation for now. 

The frontman looked over to her too, for approval or something else she wasn’t sure, but she did catch the upward quirk of his lips. Momentarily, some of the tension left her body and she finally let her head rest on her boyfriend’s shoulder. If there was one thing she could count on tonight, it was her four friends. 

Like it or not, this was happening, so she might as well suck it up and be the bigger person. In public at least; The big tub of chocolate chip ice cream in her freezer and the floor of her kitchen were already calling her name no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. 

Even if it wasn’t his intention, Roxy found comfort in Kendall’s subtle smirk. As good as friends Mag and Dani had been to her in the past, their bond didn’t even come close to the one she shared with the Big Time Rush boys and her new friends at the Palm Woods. So, she took it as a sign. One that screamed “We’ve got your back, Roxy! Always!” in bright, flashy colors, big enough to rival the magnitude of the Hollywood sign looking out over the city they so loved. 

Maybe James had noticed it too, his hand tightening in hers before pressing a light kiss into her hair. The two savored the last bit of physical contact they’d have before the prying eyes of everyone at the party, because neither of them needed to add a potential relationship exposé to the list of things that might happen that evening. “Everything will be alright, baby. I promise.”

[velnica]

FFXIV Write 2023: #26 Last

Explicit | Sanson/Guydelot | 1691 words

A/N: Part of Singing Along to the Start of Forever, my Modern AU. Mentions of sexting, sending nudes and delicious things the boys get up to when they can’t sleep in the same bed.

The first time Sanson had sent him a mildly suggestive pic, Guydelot’s heart rate had jumped several beats. He’d been away on a concert tour in Thanalan and missing Sanson terribly that the mere sight of Sanson’s bare chest, grainy and poorly-lit, nearly sent him into a complete tailspin. Of course he’d joked about partners sending their musician boyfriends something nice while they were away, but never in a million years did he imagine Sanson would actually do it.

There was decidedly a lot of sexting in their chat history that night, raising the bar for their long distance sex life.

The first time Sanson sent him an actual nude was the first time they had video sex. It was Sanson’s turn to spend a few days away for an interview. Not far, just to Castrum Oriens in Ala Mhigo for a research piece on the Autumn War. Guydelot had been throwing some bachelor’s dinner together of pies and chips when a picture of Sanson, clearly naked in his hotel bed, appeared on his screen. Immediately he pressed the video call button and needless to say his dinner was cold by the time he ate it.

The first time Sanson had sent him a lewd photo, he was on stage in Ishgard and didn’t see it until well past bedtime. Worse, he couldn’t do anything about it on account of sharing a room with Estinien and Aymeric—he’d never live it down if they found out. The earliest he could be alone was before lunch the next day, when he furiously stroked himself to a picture of Sanson gripping his cock until he came hard under the warm shower. When he saw Heustienne in a cafe nearby afterwards, she'd just looked at his flushed face and teased him until the tips of his ears were on fire.

Sisterly instinct was a terrifying thing indeed.

That night he sent back an equally explicit picture and a new tradition was born: for every night that they were apart they would take turns sending a photo, and the recipient would either have to video call back if their time zones aligned, or they'd have to describe—in great detail—their reaction.

Well, it turned out that Sanson, if he really wished to, would make a great erotica writer. So much for him thinking he had no gift for verses—each successive line he sent made Guydelot's collar hotter and hotter and by the time he finished reading he couldn’t even remember what good sex felt like before Sanson entered his life.

They continued this tradition for a while, both enjoying this new phase of their relationship, until that one fateful day when Guydelot thought he was going to have a stroke in broad daylight.

It was far too early in the morning and they’d just arrived at their hotel in Kugane. Fjora was talking—in perfect Hingan—to the concierge whilst everyone else slouched on the available sofas after more than half a day of flying. Guydelot had collapsed next to Ysayle, who was trying her best to fan herself with her boarding pass. True to her nickname, the ice queen was having decidedly less than great time dealing with the sweltering Hingan summer. Only Estinien seemed to be wholly unbothered by it though he’d kept his hair up in a bun anyway to combat the heat.

Fjora’s voice suddenly sounded a little tight and Guydelot grimaced, though he had no idea what was happening, it was clear that there was an issue or two about their rooms. With a sigh he pulled out his phone and connected it to the free hotel wi-fi; might as well browse some trashy news while he waited for everything to get sorted.

The connection had scarcely been established when his phone suddenly buzzed. ‘Don’t open until you’re alone’ the message had said. It then buzzed again and a blurry preview image came up. He grinned. Right, he’d been away technically overnight, and Sanson obviously couldn’t wait to send this picture. Oh, this should be good. He debated excusing himself away but one: he had his back towards a wall and two: everyone else was too busy browsing their phones too so he angled himself even more away from his bandmates, threw caution to the wind and clicked on the preview.

A loading bar appeared and Guydelot realised it was a video instead of a photo. Well, this was new, Sanson had never sent him one before; he always maintained that he didn’t like hearing his voice recorded. The bar filled up a few seconds later and it started playing automatically, showing a close-up of Sanson’s very much naked body.

His choker suddenly felt a size too small.

The camera shook for a moment as Sanson fiddled with it. Once he was happy with the position he moved away, showing Guydelot a backdrop of their bedroom. They’d finally decided to move Guydelot proper into Sanson’s room, and sealed the deal by going bed shopping together. Warmth seeped into Guydelot’s chest as he remembered how he’d flopped onto their new mattress, giddy at finally having enough space for his limbs to spread and stretch only to find Sanson looking at him with deep adoring eyes. He had smiled then and in return Sanson climbed atop him and kissed him thoroughly until he lost all sense of time.

They baptised their new bed multiple times that night.

Sanson re-entered the frame and sat on the bed. He straightened his legs, showing Guydelot a perfect view of his toned abs and thighs… and his proud, erect cock.

Guydelot’s cheeks burned and he wished his uncomfortably tight jeans could magically disappear right then.

There was a flutter of noises as Sanson rummaged for something behind him and when his hand came back into view, Guydelot audibly choked. Sanson was holding a turquoise-coloured dildo, which glistened with lube in the low light of their bedside table. Slowly he reached down between his legs with his other hand, slipping his fingers into himself with a sigh, stretching and prepping so he could comfortably take on the sizeable toy. His mouth dropped open in pleasure and when they moved, Guydelot could hear his name clearly as if Sanson was right there—

He turned his screen off and slammed his phone down, heart racing a malm a minute. His breaths came out hard and hot through his nose and his face felt like it was on fire. His throat was drier than the desert. His nerve endings buzzed incessantly, like he had far too much energy and no outlet for it to go.

Gods, what the fuck was Sanson thinking? How could Guydelot act like a normal person after seeing… after seeing THAT.

Next to him Ysayle scrunched her brows in concern. “You alright? You look like you just ran a bloody marathon.”

Aymeric piped up, “Did Sanson send you an angry message or something? That was him, right?”

Fuck fuck fuck, he forgot to lower his volume—

Hearing their voices Estinien perked up. He scanned Guydelot up and down, zeroed in on his extremely flushed cheeks, noticed the way he’d put away his phone as if he’d been burned and then smirked.

“Oh, he wished he was running a marathon right now.”

Guydelot wanted to glare at Estinien but all he could muster in his frazzled state was a squeak. Shite, he’d definitely given himself away now.

Estinien’s smirk deepened and he opened his mouth for another teasing, but thank every deity in the universe, Fjora walked in at that exact moment, delaying Guydelot’s doom.

“Managed to convince them to speed up our check in for a reasonable fee. I’m sure you’re all dying to get in the warm shower—what’s so funny Esti?”

“Oh nothing,” Estinien snickered, “Hey Aymeric, mind if I crash in your room for a minute? Need to see if your upgraded pad is worth the money for next time.”

Aymeric stared at him confusedly, “Uh, sure.”

“Excellent. So which room key is whose?” he asked Fjora, who just tilted her head in pure confusion but handed out the keys anyway. Ysayle had her own room, whilst Fjora and Haurchefant had theirs. Guydelot and Estinien were bunking together whilst Aymeric decided to splash out this one time and got a room with a view. All set up the group piled into the lift.

Just before it stopped on their floor, Estinien slung one arm around Guydelot’s shoulder and whispered mischievously into his ear, “You owe me one.”

Guydelot nodded his thanks, hoping he didn’t look far too eager doing it. Estinien just released and pushed him towards the door with a wink. “If you’re gonna have a shower, it better be free when I get back.”

“If that’s the case, don’t get back for another hour—at least,” he clapped back. The last thing he heard before the elevator closed was Estinien’s howling laugh, and Ysayle chiding him for making excessive noise this early in the morning.

As soon as he was alone, Guydelot sprinted towards their room. Hurriedly he opened the door before throwing his bag onto the luggage bench atop his already delivered suitcase. His shoes and clothes followed and then he dove into bed, phone clutched tightly in his hand like a lifeline. Heart still racing he turned the screen on and was greeted by the lovely view again. He wound back a few seconds and pressed play, and this time there was no need to hide anything.

“Guydelot…” Sanson moaned as he pumped his fingers in preparation.

Guydelot gulped loudly and grabbed his own cock. He wondered why Sanson didn’t like hearing his own voice so much, to him it sounded like the most beautiful music ever created. Another moan rumbled through the speaker and he let himself be carried away towards bliss. Oh, Sanson needs to reenact this video in person when Guydelot gets home, he’d beg if he had to.

The dildo came into view again and a brilliant idea popped into his head. Guydelot smirked wickedly.

He was definitely gifting Sanson a silicone moulding kit for their anniversary.

[peterstamatin]

Corona Australis, Tension, and the Sisters

(by caspiancomic)

After spending 35 cycles and several real-world hours in the Void, harvesting Colour, feeding Sisters, and murdering Brothers, the Spirt fills himself to bursting with Colour, achieving a state of Turgor, and performs the Rite of Devotio by drawing the Glyph of Breakthrough on a Sister with four open hearts, ascending her to the Upper Limit. The Sister, nude, floats up and out of the Void. The Sleeper, responding to this transcendence, vomits up the last of its Colour in either an involuntary muscular spasm or a deliberate childish tantrum, and dies. What follows is a ghostly trek through the Upper Limit, modified to reflect the Colours of the chosen Sister, in the earliest stages of adapting to her presence and becoming the world she was destined to create. Over this tantalizing preview of the new world in its infancy, a narrator reads us a single verse of poetry. Then: credits. This is the ending of The Void. True to the game that preceded it, it is almost impenetrably opaque, will make precious little sense to a first time player, is open to a great deal of interpretation, and will have different significance to every player.

The verses that are read are by Maximilian Voloshin, a 20th Century Russian poet who even receives a “poetry” credit. They are from his Corona Australis cycle, verses 2 through 12 of 14. Exactly what they mean in the context of the game is delightfully unclear, although the consensus would suggest that each verse is meant to be interpreted as an abstract representation of the world created by the ascended Sister. Let me put my cards on the table right away: I disagree with the consensus. Although I think elements of the verses can be interpreted as being of particular relevance to the ascended Sister, and may in some cases serve as an abstracted description of their own worlds, I believe that the true significance of the verses is much broader than that.

It is my belief that Voloshin’s Corona Australis cycle represents the earliest germination of the ideas that would eventually become Tension. I think that a critical analysis of the poem will reveal that someone from Ice-Pick Lodge almost certainly was inspired to create the game based on the contents of the poem, and returned to the poem many times for guidance during the creation of the game. The plot, the characters, the tone, even the mechanics of the game can be found in a foetal state in Voloshin’s poem. People have tended to interpret the verses individually, and as reflective of the end of the game. It’s my belief that the poem is best interpreted as a whole, and as reflective of the beginning of the game- not the start of the narrative, but the very inception of Tension. To that end, in this article, I will be taking the poem’s utilized verses and be attempting to suss out how they manifest themselves in the finished version of the story and game.

But, let’s be honest, that would only be a partially complete article. Although it’s my belief that Corona Australis is best understood as the inspiration for The Void, it would be academically negligent to ignore the fact that the verses were selected to be read over the finale of the game, and that individual verses were assigned to specific Sisters. And besides, certain verses of the poem align themselves beautifully with their associated Sisters, so perfectly that they cry out for critical analysis. As if that wasn’t enough, many verses of the poem contain very little content that made it into the finished version of the game. So, for the purposes of this article, I will be analyzing the verses of the poem one at a time, attempting to determine either their affect on the finished game, their relevance to their associated Sister, or if I can manage it, both. I originally planned on performing both spheres of analysis on every verse, but my intellect was simply not up to the task. If you have a piercing insight on how any given verse relates to either the game as a whole or a Sister specifically- in other words, if you can pick up where I left off- I’d love to hear your ideas in the comments.

Before we begin properly, a point of clarification. Since my central thesis is that these verses served as broad sources of inspiration for The Void, any analysis of them is going to be a bit all over the map. Many of the verses will seem to be about one particular recognizable element from the finished game, before shifting gears entirely and describing something unrelated, sometimes in the middle of a sentence or even the middle of a line. Some verses will contain lines that seem to have nothing to do with the finished game, others will have lines that seem to encompass every facet of the game. It’s important to keep in mind as we progress that these poems are not about the game, of course, but merely inspired it. For this reason, while some poems will seems to have an almost prescient knowledge of The Void, others will seem thematically muddy or unclear, and others still will seem totally unlinked. Inspiration is a strange thing, and if Ice-Pick Lodge’s team was inspired more by one element of the poem than another, or if one line inspired many elements of the game while another inspired none, then that’s what happened and it couldn’t have happened any other way. I will do my best to keep the analogies between the poem and the game as clear as possible, but in some instances the connection between the two will be vague or incomplete. Please don’t interpret this as my excuse for being incompetent as an interpreter of poetry.

Right then, let’s get down to it.

We never heard again once we departed. The sinner’s prayer is sound and discord. An earthly god’s communion is reward from priests in temples never started. The dreams of madness change our saviour. We are as bees abandoned by the hive. Like the men of fallen Troy we now strive and flames predict the time of our failure. By breathing gusts we are lead in dissolution, long paths unfolding, roads we’ve never walked we stroll in blindness as a herdless flock, rolling thunder, earth and lightning fusion exploding fires of doubt and disdain- our dream’s meaning, the world will never gain.

This verse has two major driving themes that are relevant to The Void: religion, and abandonment. The two not only operate autonomously, but also fuse into each other to form a discrete third theme of religious abandonment. The religious imagery is reminiscent of the dogmatic Brothers, whose fanaticism is the core of their organization. Almost all of the Brothers’ interactions with the Spirit are coloured by their religious beliefs, and most of the time the Brothers only deign to speak to the Guest when he has broken one of their arbitrary taboos. Abandonment is probably expressed most clearly in the absence of Colour at the beginning of the game. Since we know Colour is sentient, its absence from the Void could be said to be tantamount to a purposeful abandonment- although, in fairness, it is unclear whether Colour chooses not to appear or has become incapable of appearing. Since Colour in its Lympha form is worshipped by the Brothers, Colour’s disappearance from the Void also ties into the specific religious abandonment themes in the verse.

Let’s begin making sense of some specific lines of the poem. Who is “the sinner?” According to the verse, it would have to be a character who prays. The only characters who pray are the Brothers (to Colour) so it is interesting that here they are categorized as “sinners”- by all accounts they hold everyone in the Void but themselves to be the “sinners.” The next two lines, I believe, refer to the Spirit’s relationship to the Sisters. Here the Spirit is both the “earthly god” (possibly supporting the theory that the Guest came to the Void from above) and the “priest,” and his “communion” would be Colour. In Catholicism at least, communion is believed to be the body and blood of Christ, which draws a direct parallel between Jesus and the Taboo Breaker- the Sisters and brothers both refer to Colour as being his “blood”, and it is stored in his hearts. The “temples never started” would then be the Sister’s chambers- just as the Sisters exist but are not yet alive, their chambers both exist and do not exist, as the Void is prelife and afterlife simultaneously. Since the line about communion has conflated Golden Eyes with Jesus Christ, that would mean the Spirit is the saviour who is changed by “dreams of madness.” The Sisters are often referred to as being the Sleeper’s “dreams,” specifically dreams of the surface. If we believe Master Colour’s assertion that Golden Eyes is the soul of the Void, that would mean the Void itself is changed by the Sisters, and is complicit and even an active participant in its own change- although quite why they are considered “mad” is unclear, if that element of the verse even manifests itself in the final game.

After this we begin to see the themes of abandonment take over from the religious imagery. We have established that the entity doing the abandoning is Colour, so the remainder of the verse would describe the effect Colour’s absence has had on the Void, as well as giving us a better sense of what Colour truly means to the Sleeper. The Nameless Sister refers to Colour as being both food and fuel, but here the verse suggests that Colour used to be so much more. It was the “hive” that has abandoned its bees- not just an external force harvested for its nutrients, but actually an element that permeated the entirety of the Void, so tightly linked to the very environment that its citizens could be said to be living “in” or at least “among” Colour. This makes its disappearance that much more devastating. In this verse we also have the first mention of “blindness,” which here we will recognize as being a clear reference to the Brothers. Again, the Brothers’ perception of themselves is challenged by the verse: first though they consider themselves saints, the poem suggests they are the sinners; here they consider themselves the Sisters’ shepherds, but the poem instead calls them the flock.

Our dream’s meaning the Earth will never dash when morning murmurs meld in single chorus, and silken dawns dissolve before us. The foul scythe will then be burnt to ash, the rippling grey will crush to diamond dust, the regrets drowned in the silent ocean, our spirits liberated by devotion. The false sun’s glitter will fade at last. We are neither stunned by midday desert splendour nor to the jewels our will surrender, no; we are dead for golden coin’s sake. And robed in silken moon rays we are dressed, by suns that shine at midnight we are blessed, and at the darkest hour… we are awake.

Sister Ava’s verse seems tailored to her character, particularly those elements of her personality she seeks to obscure from the Spirit, and maybe even herself. In my last essay regarding the Sisters, I alluded to Ava having a deceptively deep personality as evidenced by the presence of candles in her Soul Obscura, and her verse seems to support the theory that Ava hides a more vulnerable part of herself. Her candle fixation is here expressed as recurring fire imagery, especially solar images. Interestingly, the poem with the strongest fire imagery has been reserved for Ava, not Una. Fire is not all that links this verse to Ava, though, there is also a recurring theme of treasure: Ava’s richly (arguably garishly) decorated alcove is almost uniformly gilded, and draped in rich silks. Finally, as I hope to demonstrate, Ava’s verse seems to deal with what happens to the Sleeper after Breakthrough. The Void itself is obliquely referred to by many previously unused nicknames, which seems to be possible thanks to Ava’s taste for violet’s inspiration.

Almost immediately in the poem two elements of Ava’s personality are fused into one with the description of “silken dawns” dissolving. The four lines that follow this appear to have some relevance to the fate of the Void after Breakthrough. Here both the “rippling grey” (grey being absence of colour, ie, the Void) and the “silent ocean” could be read as references to the Sleeper. It is “crushed to diamond dust,” destroyed by the act of ascension, and in it regrets are “drowned.” Whether the “regrets” are Ava’s fellow Sisters, or whether this line refers to Ava’s own regrets being left behind so that they will not impare her on the surface is up for interpretation. After this, it is also possible to interpret the “false sun” as being representative of the Void: after all, the Void does “fade at last” after Breakthrough. I believe the lines that follow represent Ava discovering hidden depths of strength: the “midday desert splendour” could be the Void (Nameless Sister even calls the Void a “desert on the threshold of death”), and the “jewels” are Colour, and that these lines represent Ava casting off her more materialistic impulses and lethargic nature. Although the line that follows immediately about being dead for “golden coin” seems to suggest she has retained some of her materialism, here it is important to remember that gold is in the Void the Colour of trust.

The final line I want to draw attention to is “our spirits liberated by devotion.” Here the “spirits” could be either the Spirit himself, or specifically Ava’s spirit, or even the spirits of all the Sisters. What is most interesting though is the mention of “devotion,” which for our purposes is equivalent to the Rite of Devotio. This line can be most straightforwardly interpreted as the Sisters being freed from the Void through the Rite of Devotio, which is probably how this line manifests itself in the game. It also, however, lends itself to the interpretation that somehow all the Sisters are positively affected by Breakthrough (the pluralized use of the word “spirits” allows this), or even that Breakthrough will somehow “liberate” the Spirit rather than kill him. Sister Yani makes an allusion to this as her hearts are opened, suggesting that even after performing Breakthrough, the Guest “won’t die forever.”

By suns that shine at midnight we are blessed. Keen rays descend through mortared spires, the universe’s race is paced with fire. The nebulae, the stars, the voided depths, from Canis Major to Vega and to Beta, to Ursa Major and sad Pleiades, they cross the skies as sage deities, creating planets like divine excreta. Oh dust of worlds, oh pure holy swarm, I measured, checked, adapted, scaled, and formed, gave names, drew maps, and specified the order, but starry horror will not let us go. It makes us call to foul, primal woe, when will we know the bliss of Lethe’s waters?

Like Sister Ava, Uta’s poem seems both suited to her personality and a lens through which we can see elements of her character she didn’t reveal during the game. Uta’s poem is appropriate for her due to its strong astronomical focus, which is reflected in Uta’s stargazing frigidity. The verse highlights both the external relationship Uta has with the stars (and her peculiar cycloptic moon), as well as the hitherto unseen internal significance the celestial bodies hold for Uta. Uta’s intense skyward focus has been difficult to fully interpret before now: in my previous article I suggested her little staring contest with the moon was the result of her oppression at the hands of Brother Mantid, which may yet be true, or a part of the truth. Now, though, we can see that Uta has an almost scientific fascination with the stars. The verse not only mentions by name several real constellations and star systems (and gets one wrong in the process: here I’ve corrected the reference to “Canis Major” that the game mistakenly and artlessly calls “Alpha Dog”), but also refers to the process of categorizing and organizing the star systems. This fascination also cycles back into Uta’s potential motivation at the hands of fear, though, suggesting “starry horror will not let us go.” Although she puts up a brave face through the game, Uta is followed by fear wherever she goes.

Uta’s fascination with the stars is interesting enough at face value, but is even more telling if her stargazing is interpreted as a longing for the surface. If her longing for the stars is extrapolated into an otherwise unexpressed desire to see the Upper Limit, we learn even more about Sister Uta. Already we have seen how the subtle differences between her physical form and her Soul Obscura have suggested that Uta is more alert and invested than she lets on. Now, we can see how in spite of her apparent ambivalence, Uta may truly desire to achieve Breakthrough. Quite why she would hide such an intense desire is unclear, but it could tie into her desire for emerald. She has hidden away and protected her true desire, for whatever reason. Fear of repercussions from her tyrannical Brother? Shame? Uncertainty? Perhaps she is afraid the Spirit will not select her for Breakthrough, and so decides against revealing her desire to him?

The final line of significance is also somewhat telling: “when will we know the bliss of Lethe’s waters?” In Greek mythology, Lethe was one of the rivers of Hades, and drinking from its waters caused complete forgetfulness. Why should Uta, who spends her every waking hour ceaselessly categorizing the constellations of the Upper Limit, so desire to forget?

Why don’t I know the bliss of Lethe’s waters? Why does my spirit cry into the night? It knows not the taste of burning spite. It pleads not to Satan’s wily daughters. The circle is broken, and the chants dispelled, while everyone is bathed in brilliant rays rejoicing in the wine of passing days we’re drawn to lights beyond the blue sky’s shell. The rustling grass, the shimmer of the swamps, a lazy wind plays out a vain romp and carries the shade of Persephone to the hundredfold glowing, who gazes through the gust. Yet my spirit has a sad mistrust, crying as I contemplate antiquity.

Appropriately for cryptic Sister Echo, this verse of Corona Australis is difficult to understand as either an influence on the finished game or a send-off to its assigned Sister. With regards to Tension, there are some ideas that could be said to be analogous to concepts from the finished game, but the connections here are at their most tenuous and broad. And as a companion piece for Echo, it is ambiguous and unclear- probably exactly how Echo would like it.

Echo’s verse is deeply reflective, as summarized by the final line about “contemplating antiquity.” My attention is drawn first to the lines which begin “the circle is broken…” This, it seems to me, can be interpreted as a reminiscence on the Void as it used to be, apparently from an outsider’s perspective. I came to this conclusion through the mention of “wine,” which for our purposes is almost certainly Colour, and since it is accompanying “rejoicing” in “passing days,” these lines probably refer to a period when Colour was plentiful. But, our narrator is “drawn to lights beyond the blue sky’s shell.” Rather than partaking of the wine (wine imagery will crop up again, so keep it in mind), our narrator yearns for something more. For our purposes, this yearning could only possibly be for the Upper Limit.

Does this suggest that even before the Void’s death, there are Sisters who desired ascension all the same? There are Sisters who it is easy to imagine would be comfortable in the Void if not for the famine of Colour- hedonistic Sister Ava, or headstrong Sister Eli, for example. But maybe other Sisters strive for improvement or perfection regardless of their objective circumstances. That Echo would desire Breakthrough in and of itself, not merely as a means of escaping the Void, is reinforced by her wandering nature. Echo could be said to have wanderlust, desiring to move on and explore not just because her circumstances are dire, but because it is a part of her very personality.

There are a few more things I’d like to make note of before we move on. The first is the reference to Satan. We’ve seen that the poem analogizes the Spirit to Jesus, so who could be Satan? The Brothers? Although the Brothers’ relationship with the Sisters is complicated, the Sisters are never suggested to be their children (neither literally nor metaphorically.) Perhaps Master Colour is Satan, and his daughters are the individual Colours? Colour is “pleaded” to by the Brothers, after all. But, as we have seen, Colour is an unambiguously masculine presence. What is most likely is that this reference has many indirect, but no direct, manifestations in the game. Second, there is an error in the game’s narration of this passage. The narration reads “a lazy wind plays out a vain romp and carries the shade of Persephone to Pleiades.” Above, I have corrected the line to read “the shade of Persephone to the hundredfold glowing.”

My spirit cries, entangled by the weeds. They grew from seeds nourished by blackness, their poison stuns they bind in shackles like horrors sealed in the pyramids, but neither fire-born marble nor granite can make a frame immune to the power of the flows of ageless, primal lava, that runs through our veins and fills us with might. The tomb of suns, the urn of dead world’s ash, the corpse of moon and saturn’s lifeless flesh is set in mind and taken by the heart. In dying stars, life is born anew, but spirit’s force is granted to a few who hold life’s transcendent pains apart.

Of course Sister Aya’s verse would follow directly from Echo’s, but what is most interesting to me in this passage is that rather than simply inheriting the end of the previous verse for its own beginning, Aya’s beginning alters the meaning of Echo’s ending. Where Echo’s poem ends with her spirit (or possibly the Spirit) crying as it “contemplates antiquity,” here it is “entangled by the weeds.” The change in wording serves to suggest that Echo’s nostalgia for how the Void used to be has no place in Aya’s emotional wheelhouse. For Aya, looking back on the past is tantamount to falling into a trap, and history is compared to blackness, poison, shackles, and horrors. Aya’s strongly forward-thinking temperament may make her a fine candidate for ascension after all.

More than Aya, though, this verse holds many “seeds,” as it were, of ideas that would blossom in Tension. First, the imagery of “ageless, primal lava, that flows through our veins.” For our purposes, we will recognize this as a reference to Colour, specifically the way it flows through the Guest’s body as his blood. Here it is said to “fill us with might,” which could be what inspired the idea of the Colour in Golden Eyes’ hearts altering his strengths. To fill the Spirit up with crimson is to literally fill him with might, after all.

There is also a glorious zygotic reference to the process that would become Breakthrough in Aya’s verse. Beginning with the line “in dying stars…” we can see a reference to life being “born anew,” the importance of a “spirit” and his “force,” (understood here to be Colour) and the idea that it is granted to “a few” (one, or even zero, although apparently plans existed in the earlier stages of development to allow two Sisters to ascend. Yani has leftover dialogue referring to the process, suggesting that only two Sisters who “share a Colour” will be allowed to live.) Although the idea of the Sisters (and other denizens of the Void) being neither alive nor dead is not present in this verse, there is an early reference to the concept of taking something that is dying and creating life from it. This could have inspired the idea of the dead Void ejecting a living Sister and world into the Upper Limit, or it could have informed the concept of the Sisters existing but not being alive, or perhaps both.

We hold life’s transcendent pains apart. We bear grief and disappointment’s fire. But the banner of our sorrow’s ire flutters in the winds of the departed Let the biting flames poison our spirit! Singing spirits smothered by corpses like Laocoon tangled in knotted snakes, straining to break free, yet keeping silent. But no bliss will ever change this pain, the dignity of this restraint, the tension, this ecstasy of hopeless prison. For the balm of Lethe’s oblivion, we rain a grail of sorrows on the world, we exiles, wanderers and poets!

The first thing that will catch the reader’s attention in this passage is the use of the word tension. This is almost certainly where Ice-Pick Lodge first got the name for their project. In the game, the word “tension” is used specifically to describe Turgor, the state of being filled to bursting with Colour: it is said to be “unbearable tension.” The state of Turgor is necessary for Breakthrough, and although the tension is agonizing, it is through that agony that a Sister will be given the chance to ascend. It is to become a dangerously tightened bow, capable of loosing its arrow clear into the next world, but destroying itself in the process. In Eli’s verse, tension is described as a “dignified restraint,” and a “hopeless prison.” The phrase “hopeless prison” will have some thematic resonance here, as it could be applied to the Void itself. Tension is also tied up (so to speak) with the mythological figure Laocoon, who is famously depicted in a Hellenistic sculpture being captured and assaulted by snakes alongside his similarly punished sons. Laocoon is described here as “straining to break free, yet keeping silent.” Silent Laocoon here becomes analogous to the mute Devastator, so the implication here is that the Spirit wishes to escape the Void himself- and who could blame him?

Also important to note is that there are two mentions of a “spirit” or “spirits” here, which are always worth noting as potential references to the Guest. First there is a reference to “biting flames” poisoning the spirit. In the poem it is an early reference to Laocoon, but its relation to the Void is ambiguous. There are substances said to be poisonous in the Void: each Sister has two specific Colours which will poison her, and the Brothers refer to Nerva as a poison. Neither of these would be considered poisonous to the Spirit, however, so it’s likely that it was merely the concept and language of poisons that made it to the final version of the game. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that an early draft of the game had poisons for the Spirit to be wary of. The second use of the word “spirit” immediately follows the first, and refers to “singing spirits smothered by corpses.” The Guest is unable to sing, since he is mute, but since no other character from the Void sings, this concept is probably unused in the final game. “Smothered by corpses” is interesting, though. The implication in Eli’s verse seems to be that the Spirit desires to ascend himself, so the “corpses” are probably the non-living Sisters, smothering him with their hunger, their need for attention, their reliance on him, and rendering him unable to ascend.

Finally, just something interesting that may have manifested itself as a mechanic of the game. The final three lines of the passage begin with another reference to “Lethe’s oblivion,” the amnesiac waters of one of the rivers of Hades. What is suggested here is that in order to forget, the subject of the poem would “rain a grail of sorrows on the world.” To me, “raining a grail of sorrows” suggests the consequences of painting with Colour. Throughout the game, the more Colour you spend, the more you damage the Void, and as you progress it is possible to actually kill chambers by spending too much Colour. Performing Breakthrough will outright destroy the Void, and is said to require all of its Colour. What I believe this verse is trying to suggest is that after achieving ascension, the Sister will not remember her experiences in the Void.

We exiles, wanderers and poets- who yearned to be but failed to become. Where birds have nests, beasts their lair homes, our lot is a staff and beggar’s hovel. The duty is failed, the promises are broken, the path unwalked, and our doom is nigh. Dreams of such roads drowning in a sigh of songs unsung and poems never spoken. in shards of will it is so hard to find your own true self, so hard to confine the foolish pride, so hard to enter another’s marquee, and to beg for bread- hard for the vanguard’s soul to render alive that never has been truly dead.

Ima’s passage contains within it maybe the most dense collection of imagery and inspiration that would eventually find its way into Tension. Its contents range from the general, sketching broadly what would become the tone and themes of the finished game, to the specific, including phrases used almost verbatim and gameplay mechanics described in almost prescient detail.

Let’s begin with the widest focus and get narrower as we go along. The first line echoes Sister Eli’s verse’s finale, as the structure of Voloshin’s poem has dictated so far. Worth noting here, again, is the reference to the word “wanderer,” one of Aya’s nicknames for the Spirit. As early as the second line the broad strokes of The Void are being laid down. “Who yearned to be but failed to become-” could this line refer to anything but the Sisters, toiling in existence without life? The lines that follow will inform the atmosphere of the Void as a location: “our lot is a staff and beggar’s hovel.” The concept of begging is important to the Void, as the Sisters are required to plead for their sustenance. This is also not the last reference to begging we will find in Ima’s verse.

The lines which follow this are possibly a reference to the concept that the Brothers were originally intended to be proper guardians of the Sisters, but have strayed from their path. “The duty is failed, the promises are broken,” etc, suggest that the Sisters are supposed to ascend, and the Brothers know it, but have “broken their promises” and failed in their duty- devolving instead into self-righteousness, hypocrisy, and tyranny.

From here the verse transitions into more specific phrasing that appear to have made it into the finished product almost totally intact. To begin with, the line “it is so hard to find your own true self” is reminiscent of the endgame quest to collect the Guest’s “one true heart-” the Heart of Breakthrough. It is, in fact, so hard: it is being hoarded by Brother Montgolfier, who will defend it with his life. From there we find lines about entering “another’s marquee” to “beg for bread.” By now we will recognize that any reference to sustenance is necessarily an allegory for Colour. That it is here linked with the concept of begging- mentioned in Ima’s poem for the second time- makes the connection even stronger. Entering “another’s marquee” is related to the Spirit entering the Sisters’ chambers, although interestingly according to the poem it would then be the Spirit who is begging the Sisters, instead of the other way around.

The real heart (so to speak) of Ima’s verse, though, is the final couplet. Here Tension’s true goal, its whole thesis, is alluded to in its earliest incarnation. On the face of it, it is a mention of “rendering alive” something that “never has been truly dead.” To our eyes, clearly a reference to Breakthrough. It helps tip the scales that the entity said to be doing the rendering is a “vanguard’s soul,” or our very own Spirit. Furthermore, specific mention is made of the difficulty of the task, which said by many sources within the Void to be impossible. The most interesting observation for me, however, is the suggestion that the Sisters have never been “truly dead.” This could be an early phase of the concept of the Sisters having an existence without life, or it could also be a comment on the Void’s nebulously defined “afterlife” status.

They’re not alive, but neither are they dead. They’re deaf to words, and their touch is senseless. They’re blunt to smell and their pain is endless. Their doom unaltered by any event, is sealed in darkness, but light-giver Phoebus bestows the blind with overwhelming awe in sight of God, and the concealed cave is turned to Christmas den by holy vortex, the primal night who bore him in her womb. The offspring sent to her by miser father is carrying her gifts to fateful brother, the one by solar rage who was entombed, who has become the toy of fateless play, who is alive, yet destined to be fey.

Una’s poem will by now be recognizable as a clear inspiration for the Brothers, and in fact the word “brother” is used specifically towards the verse’s end. The first line follows Ima’s last, and while in the context of Ima’s verse it seemed a clear reference to the Sisters, in Una’s verse it seems to also describe the Brothers. Also worth mentioning is that “they’re not alive, but neither are they dead” is almost exactly how the Nameless Sister describes Predators to the Spirit. Between the Sisters, the Brothers, the Predators, and the Guest, it seems that the only denizen of the Void not straddlling the line between life and death is Colour, and even Colour seems to be clinging to existence in the Void by the merest thread.

From this point on for a while into the poem, the lines will seem to refer almost exclusively to the Brothers. They can be said to be “deaf to words” because they are zealous and dogmatic, but it is also worth noting that they could be called “deaf to words” because the Spirit is mute. The Brothers’ “pain,” said here to be “endless,” is off-handedly referred to by Brother Tyrant, who suggests that the Brothers’ monstrous forms are a result of their agonizing climb from out of the Nightmare. Following this there is the most direct connection to the Brothers we have seen yet: “light-giver Phoebus bestows the blind with overwhelming awe in sight of God.” The dual reference here to blindness and religious zeal almost certainly directly inspired the conception of the Brothers.

After this, we have a reference to a “holy vortex,” which I believe can be said to be analogous to the Sleeper, and tellingly a mention of a womb. In my Beginner’s Guide to the Void, I hypothesized that the aesthetics of the Void’s “world map,” such as it is, are deliberately uterine, and that the Void as a whole can be said to be a “womb” in which the possibility for life (expressed in the Sisters) slumbers, waiting for a chance to be realized. This line provides a bit of corroboration for my theory, giving it less of a “crackpot” feel, which I quite appreciate.

The final sentiments expressed by Una’s verse are dense and knotty, and I’m not ashamed to admit I have difficulty understanding them. It’s tempting to interpret the “offspring” as being the Sisters, who at least have the potential to be considered “children” of a sort. However, the offspring are being sent to a female recipient, and the Sisters are the only feminine presence in the Void. “Miser father” is probably safely interpreted as an early incarnation of Master Colour, and we will see references to a father figure again in Sister Ole’s poem. The final lines also suggest that the Brothers are “entombed,” and are “destined to be fey.” Most confusingly of all, it suggests they are “alive,” which as we’ve already seen is somewhere between unlikely and impossible. My best estimation is that these sentiments either did not survive the development process, getting weeded out somewhere during the game’s production, or that whatever meaning that is there to be had is simply outside my reach.

Entombed, he is destined to be fey, yet sun’s hot bark is clear to his sight. From sepulchre that arises from midnight he sees the land. Wheat splayed in the rays, mules approach, scythes crop, a flail beats the ear, rafts drift, beasts sleep, flitting birds make nests, and from his shroud’s folds, he sees the fest of days and nights that spill into the years. Without joy, without tears and pain, he watches over human’s idle fates with no black thought, without asking why. Beyond existence, will, or any wish in knowing peace unknown to you and I; for to the earth, we are forever banished.

Ire’s passage is among the more mysterious, as its pastoral and serene imagery seems to be at odds with the barren realities of the Void. More that half of the poem conjures images of hot sun, rich agricultural success, animal husbandry, and industrial locals. However, the only “animals” to be found in the Void are the aggressive Predators, and the denizens of the Void are the stagnant Brothers and the imprisoned Sisters. Surely Ire’s entire verse is falsified. A hallucination, a daydream perhaps, or maybe even a memory or a premonition? It is difficult as well to determine who’s point of view is being represented here. The speaker is masculine, but that only rules out the Sisters. It could be that the idyllic scene is a Brother’s warped perspective of the Sleeper, and that this verse inspired the concept of the Brothers believing the Void to be some kind of paradise.

It is also possible, though, that the verse is related to the Taboo Breaker. This theory is supported by the lines beginning “without joy, without tears and pain…” and continues to the end of the passage. The idea here is that the Spirit watches over the “humans” (necessarily the Sisters), and adheres to his duties without fail. “Without asking why,” because the Spirit literally cannot ask. The Spirit does not seek “peace unknown to you and I,” that is to say, he doesn’t seek to ascend, and desires only to ascend a Sister (although self-ascension is possible, any player hearing this message will have chosen to ascend Ire, so the point is moot.) Most interestingly, the final line suggests both “banishment” and “the Earth.” Whether this is a negative spin on the process of Breakthrough, or whether for our purposes “the Earth” is actually a reference to the Void is unclear.

Its relation to the world of the game is tenuous, and its relationship to Sister Ire is difficult to determine as well. The closest analogue to my mind that can be drawn between Ire and her poem is that it could have inspired Ire’s fixation on gardens and trees. Ire straddles a dead tree in her Soul Obscura, suggesting she has a deep, rich connection with the earth, and it is Ire who teaches the Spirit in detail many of the mechanics behind the planting of gardens. Ire’s chamber- her pond- also has a very strong natural influence, even going so far as to feature seemingly living plant life.

Those, to earth, who are forever hurled, cannot enjoy the vastness of the fields as time’s each passing moment yields the dancing shadows of other worlds. The soul sees the flicker far and vague as on the surface of this ancient regret one tried to read the holy alphabet, but lost the pattern in his own plague. And so he walks the dust of earthly sod an apostate, a self forgotten god. In things familiar he seeks forbidden codes. His flesh, immortal, is shrouded in flames, and to him, even Death does simply nod, him, who saw the dreams, and knew the names.

Yani’s poem seems tailored to her specifically, although in the broadest possible terms it has ramifications for all the denizens of the Void. Although the poem seems to follow her after Breakthrough (seemingly adhering to the popular notion that the poems describe the Sisters’ lives after ascending to the Surface), the attitude it describes has more in common with Yani’s early, fearful, self-denying nature, instead of the relatively optimistic spirit she becomes as her hearts are opened. But, I’m getting ahead of myself: my reasoning that Yani’s verse describes her experiences in the Upper Limit hinges on the first line’s use of the word “earth.” The Upper Limit can be interpreted as “earth,” (and in fact, Ice-Pick Lodge’s own Igor Pokrovsky said as much in an email to me that “the Upper Limit was intended to be our world”) and that the “hurling” being described is a Sister being hurled from the Sleeper to the Surface. However, if we subscribe to the belief that the Sisters came to the Void from above (Yani herself especially has very strong connections to the Upper Limit), it’s possible that “earth” here actually refers to the Void, and that those “hurled to earth” are those spirits who linger in the Void after death (not unlike the Guest.)

Either interpretation, though, transition into similar themes: being unable to adapt to the world because the “shadows of other worlds” leave you uneasy. The connection here to Yani is strong and immediate, for a change, since Yani explicitly complained to the Devastator that she was perturbed by her close proximity to the Upper Limit, and appears to be frightened by the memories of her last visit there. If we interpret the verse as being about Yani’s ascension, this verse becomes tragic: even in ascension, Yani cannot find peace, she still “sees the flicker far and vague.” Selfishly enough, it is probably mere distaste for the idea that Yani would be miserable above that leads me to favour the belief that this verse is related to Yani’s attitude as it was in the Void.

Interestingly, it’s my belief that the final few lines are told from the perspective of the Spirit. During the writing process of this article, I had to reassess and reevaluate my own opinions and theses regarding the meaning of these verses, and one theory I started developing was the idea that the verses were the Spirit’s reflections on the Sisters after they had left the Void. It was an idea I ultimately didn’t follow to fruition, but here I think the idea has a bit more strength. After Yani’s ascension, then, the Spirit would “walk the dust of earthly sod” (here the use of the word “earthly” to refer to the Void would be reinforced), and we see that without Yani’s spark of carefully hidden, delicately protected creativity, the Guest finds himself going about his business with a kind of malaise, seeking “forbidden codes” that might give him some indication of how his chosen Sister was faring in the world above. In the end, I suppose it was a bit too romantic even for my tastes.

The ones who saw the dreams and knew the names, who heard the grasses talking to each other, who learned the will of their ancient father, and listened to the songs of tidal waves, the ones whose souls have been purified, the ones harnessed to the pain of challenge, who lit the mystic candles on the fringe, who became a pure shade of darkest nights, who didn’t squeeze their grape to sinful glass, and didn’t seek the joys of earthly leisure, not in the priestess’ dances, nor in the pleasure, but who descended into hell’s morass to meet their shadow at the very bottom- they don’t expect hearts with love to blossom.

Perhaps appropriately, Sister Ole’s poem is one of the most dense and intensely knotted of the verses. It seems to be referring to multiple parties from the Void, either all at once or cycling through each of them. Again, it is important to keep in mind that the verses merely inspired The Void, and are not directly analogous to the story of the game or the characters in their final incarnations. For this verse to make sense, we have to keep track of the final line the poem is building to: “they don’t expect hearts with love to blossom.” For the purposes of our Void-inspired reading, this line almost certainly refers to Breakthrough. So, in theory, whichever party the verse is about does not expect this process to be possible- or expects it to be possible, but unrealistic, or overly optimistic, or hopelessly unlikely.

This pessimistic outlook could belong to the Brothers, and it could certainly belong to some of the Sisters individually, if not to the Sisters as a whole. From player to player this could also refer to the Guest, as it is possible for him to fail his purpose and either become Brother Doppelganger or ascend himself. If this poem was recited for the Spirit’s ending, I would be particularly open to this interpretation. Since it is read for Sister Ole, though, I think any analysis of this verse will favour the conclusion that it is about the Brothers, but I will attempt to interpret the verse from the Spirit’s perspective as well.

Several lines from the poem suggest that it could be about the Brothers. The mentions of souls being “purified” and “harnessed to the pain of challenge” are reminiscent of how the Brothers describe themselves, particularly regarding their difficult and permanently scarring ascent from the Nightmare. Similarly, relative to the other denizens of the Void, the Brothers are best described as “a pure shade of darkest night.” The most revealing lines of the poem, to me, are those that begin “who didn’t squeeze their grape to sinful glass.” In the context of The Void, “squeezing grape to sinful glass” is analogous to wasting Colour. The “sinful glass” referred to is probably the Sisters in this context, as the Brothers consider it sinful to feed them with Colour. The Brothers also certainly don’t seek the “leisure” of the “priestesses’ dances.” If the priestesses are the Sisters, and their “dances” their reactions to having their hearts opened, the Brothers certainly don’t seek those particular joys. Regarding the Brothers, “descending into Hell’s morass to meet their shadow at the very bottom” probably refers to their relationship with the Nightmare. The phrase “very bottom” evokes the sense of “Absolute Death” the Nameless Sister warns us about, and it is also where the Brothers were apparently born. Finally, the Brothers certainly don’t expect hearts with love to blossom- they believe the Sisters are manipulative, hedonistic infidels, in all likelihood incapable of love, and under their control completely incapable of Breakthrough.

If we interpret the verse with the Spirit in mind, certain other aspects of the poem come into focus that couldn’t make sense viewed through the lens of the Brothers. Immediately, the lines about hearing “the grasses talking to each other” and listening to “the songs of tidal waves” can be understood as the Spirit hearing and understanding the voice of Colour- after all, the Spirit literally hears the voice emanating from the grassy wild sprigs that populate the chambers. The “ancient father” mentioned here probably refers to Master Colour, then, and learning his will becomes tantamount to discovering the Rite of Devotio and the act of Breakthrough. The “mystic candles on the fringe” could refer to the Sisters, whom the Taboo Breaker “lights” with Colour- they are said to be “on the fringe” because they are all of them capable of ascending to the Upper Limit. After this, we get to the lines about “squeezing grape to sinful glass.” In a nutshell, if the Guest does not “squeeze his grape to sinful glass”- if he follows the commandments of the Brothers and does not spend his Colour on the Sisters- he must not “expect hearts with love to blossom.” In other words, if the player decides to ascend the Spirit, he must believe that the Sisters are either unable or unwilling to successfully create the world above. In a Spirit-focused interpretation of Ole’s verse, “descending into Hell’s morass” refers not to the Nightmare, but to the Void: it suggests the Spirit came down to the Void from above.

As for which of these interpretations can be said to be most accurate? Well, that argument is pointless. Since we are talking about pure inspiration, in all likelihood both interpretation are correct, and the verse inspired the characterization of the Brothers and the Spirit simultaneously. Although the two meanings appear to conflict, seeing as how the single verse is unlikely to be referring to two antagonistic parties, it is perfectly likely that the one verse served as an inspiration for both parties. In fact, the line about “descending into Hell’s morass” could be interpreted from the Sister’s perspective as well: certain Sisters imply that they have been to the Upper Limit, and may even be from there (Yani explicates this, and Sister Una claims she wants to go to the surface “again” when her third heart is opened).

So there you have it. Although part of the beauty of the Void’s use of Voloshin’s Corona Australis lies with its ambiguity, part of the fun of the game is attempting to extract meaning from that decision. While I very much doubt I’ve come close to anything resembling an “answer,” (if such a thing could be said to exist) I hope I’ve at least managed to enrich your own understanding of what the poems might mean, or might have meant in their original context, or what they mean to other players. If I slacked off when it came to an analysis of your favourite Sister’s poem, I can’t apologize enough, although I encourage you to let me know if you have anything to add to or challenge in my own little analysis.

This being my final entry in my Void series for now, I suppose it would be appropriate to write some sort of conclusive, ruminating send-off. And yet, it would betray the very nature of Tension to wrap things up concretely and move on, so instead I’ll offer a final nugget of navel-gazery. While The Void is thick with atmospheric misery, crushing bleakness, back-bending and often impossible seeming labour, and a pervasive air of melancholy, it couldn’t actually “depress” me. I have a confession to make: this entire article came about because I thought the traditional interpretation of these verses (as an abstract representation of the Sisters’ created worlds) was too depressing. For no other reason than because it made me sad to think of Sister Ole failing to allow “hearts with love to blossom” or little Yani not “enjoying the vastness of the fields,” I embarked on an eight thousand word crusade of Modernist Russian poetry analysis (frankly, tantamount to self-abuse.) Here’s a question that I could consider from now until rapture and probably never come up with a satisfying answer: how did a game so apparently bleak nevertheless inspire so much care, such a strong emotional investment, so much genuine sympathy, and so much optimism? That particular line of questioning is, for once, left as an exercise for the reader.

[neko-naruto]

Nostalgias dial tone

Summary: Living alone was fine, but he can't even imagine going back to it now that he's had Sapnap living with him for a couple weeks; every last drop of having a housemate is amazing as he recovers. But, life likes to throw wrenches in the complex cogs of his plans for living out life, even short term ones, like surviving until he's able to live all on his own.

He can't ignore the fact that the notions of slipping down the same spiral to death all over again sounds amazing when Dream is offering it to him much to his dismay.

Warnings: Emotional turmoil, malnourishment, body image, suggestive themes, check tags for further warnings, or here.

Authors Note: FUCK EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING BECAUSE THIS MARKS 53K WORDS OF SAPNOTFOUND THAT I'VE WRITTEN, BUST OUT THE CONFETTI CAUSE HERE'S TO ANOTHER 50K. Anyways, festivities aside, @sobredunia, cause I subjected you to snippets of this, @samathekittycat, cause I subjected you to the previews, @h3xt0r because I subjected your partner to this, and @plutoprophecy, because I am pretty sure I subjected you to snippets of this. Also this is like, a sequel, to this fic, you can find the full thing here on Ao3. Tagging aside, a reblog would be nice if you managed to sit through the entire thing.

Warmth engulfs Georges midsection, hands slipping from just below his shoulder to rest at his abdomen. He hums in contentment as Sapnap leans on him, the heat of his partner seeps into his bones and eradicates the mycelia still resting inside of him. He likes to tell himself it does at least, it gives him an excuse to seek out the contact his partner willingly provides. He knows logically the fungus that contaminated his body and home is just dying off with the release of his emotions.

But, he knows that this just feels nice.

"So," George began calmly, the spores that once encased his mouth have faded to the point he can enunciate again, "When exactly do you plan on buying a ticket to go home?"

Sapnap said nothing, he only gave a muffled sound that sounded like never- George didn't mind.

George only gives a hum of amusement, "Okay," he leans back against Sapnap a little bit, the hands resting on his abdomen glide upwards to prod at his rib cage. The nourishment he was lacking for so long as starting to return (you could still differ most of his ribs).

Sapnap runs his fingers over top the cotton, George still feels like ice, and despite knowing it takes time to recover, he liked it better when George was just as warm as he is. He drops his hands to the hem of Georges shirt, playing with the edge of the fabric, waiting patiently for a 'no' he didn't get. He slipped his hands underneath the fabric, the almost scaly feel the spores caused had faded out fully- the roots of mycelia did not. George tensed under the feeling but he still didn't say to stop as heat like fire trailed across where the mycelium tended to bulge around his ribs. The undernourishment still showed to a disheartening amount, of course, he hadn't exactly been eating much of anything that nourishing either.

"When do you plan on eating real food again?" Sapnap asked quietly, his voice barely above a rough whisper and it catches George off guard.

George can't get out an answer as fast as he'd like to, especially not with the abrupt constriction in his chest, "When you decide to go out and buy food," Sapnap groaned in annoyance at the notion as he pulled away from George who nearly whined at the sudden lack of contact- instead he coughed.

His coughing wasn't as agonizing as it once was, but it still hurt his throat which at this point might as well be permanently raw. The spores that escape are old and dying, the amount of red that comes out with the mildew and neon is a lot less than before as well. Chunks of coral mushroom and bits of mycena still spill out from time to time, but he's let go now, they don't grow anymore. He's pretty sure at least, the terms of having the purgatory end are unclear, and mushrooms root deep anyways (who knows how much is left in his system).

"An entire store full of Brits? George, just because I can handle one Brit doesn't mean I can handle any Brit- you're different," Sapnap explained in slight annoyance, unfazed at the blood in his partners hands, George looked to him and raised a brow, "You're my friend."

George sighed, "There are plenty of Brits you could be friends with out there! I assure you, not all of them are stuck up tightwads," George sounded almost chiding as he spoke, but he leaned in and gently kissed Sapnap on the cheek, he swatted away the contact almost playfully.

Sapnap took two steps to the fridge before swinging open the near empty appliance, all that remained was leftover takeout from god knows when, "I guess I could go to the store and buy some food, but I think I'll get scammed after being thoroughly made fun of for my stupid accent," Sapnap sighed a bit as he spoke, already trying to change how he carried his syllables, George smiled.

"Stupid accent? You're completely wrong, I think it's simply adorable- and if anyone tries to make fun of you just cuss 'em out with your accent, lay it on thick," George said, Sapnap stifled a chuckle at the notion.

"George I'm not cussing someone out at the grocery store, or do you call it something else in England? How uneducated am I?" Sapnap asked dramatically, George heaved an almost annoyed sigh.

"They'll know what you mean, it's pretty damn obvious you aren't from around here," George watched patiently as Sapnap closed the fridge and leaned against it, he spoke again, "I could write down a list of stuff to make biscuits if you want to do some baking."

Sapnap took a moment to speak, "Now when you say biscuits do you mean biscuits biscuits or cookies biscuits?" George suppressed a bit of a laugh at the question.

"You really think I'm not courteous enough to suppress my British ways so you can understand what I'm saying?" Sapnap kind of gave him a blank look, "I mean biscuits as in savory Sapnap."

"Right, right, yeah I could go pick up some ingredients for that," Sapnap said, he almost sounded sheepish, aware of the fact that he could've just looked at the shopping list he was given and take an educated guess.

George gave him a bit of a sweet smile, "What kind of biscuits do you want to make then?"

Sapnap paused, "Savory?"

George couldn't help the laugh escaping him, his breath had a tint of spores on it and his laughter devolved into cough, but not enough to push the chunks of saprophyte to his lips. He wiped down his mouth and swallowed hard to get rid of the chunk at the back of his throat before speaking, "Do cheese biscuits sound good? Or would you prefer an herb biscuit, those take longer to make though."

"Cheese, absolutely, all the way, I love the stuff," Sapnap said confidently, watching as George started to search through drawers for a piece of paper and a pen- he came up with the blank side of a receipt and a sharpie.

George took a moment, trying to recall the recipe. He placed the paper on the counter, recently wiped clean of residual spores they couldn't catch, "So we need sharp cheddar, dried basil, flour, we'll need milk and baking powder? Maybe it was baking soda, we'll need one or both of those- just grab that stuff and anything else you think we might need," He scribbles down the items as he speaks, his writing is barely readable. He holds it up, rereading the list two times just to be sure, he places it down again, "Eggs."

Sapnap had the paper shoved into his hands, he glanced over it, he wasn't exactly a master baker, but it looked complete. He pocketed it as he spoke, "So where exactly is the store?"

"Looking up and finding a map would be easier than me trying to explain it to you," George said, Sapnap stayed silent, "Do you want to get lost?"

"Not really, but I do like listening to you talk," Sapnap said, a ghost of a smirk painted onto his expression.

George sighed, he smiled a bit, "Sapnap, getting lost in England is a horrible idea, you don't know the place well enough to find your way back," Sapnap shrugged, still wearing a bit of a smirk, "Just use a map, you can listen to me ramble all you want when you get back."

Sapnap hummed, as though mulling over the thought in his head, "You have some British money on hand right? I'm not so sure they'll take my American money."

"You've been here for three weeks now, and you still don't have any pounds?" George almost sounds agitated as he speaks, Sapnap shoves his hands in his pockets, he pulls out coins and bills, not much, but enough to emphasize his point.

"Does it look like I do?" Sapnap places what little money he has the table, in America it wouldn't be worth much, in Britain, it's worth nothing to a somewhat literal extent.

George simply counted the dollars, wow, even if it was converted to British money it still wouldn't be enough, "No, it really doesn't look like you have any money- I think some places might take a credit card from America, but don't take my word for it."

"So, we're fucked for fresh ingredients unless you decide to come out of your cave," Sapnap said.

"Just because I'm mostly better I still don't want anyone to see me looking like this," George said, raising the hem of his shirt and gesturing vaguely to where the Saprophytis hit him the hardest, his ribs visible under skin and his lips still shattered and consistently bloody, his hands still semi-scaled and his hair still a washed out hue, only a vague semblance of what he once was, "I look like shit."

Sapnap sidled up next to him as he dropped his shirt back over his torso, "What? You look amazing," he was ready to shower George with affection, praise, and enough of it to kill a horse. He simply chose to place a single kiss to his partners cheek instead, watching his face flare up crimson, "I get why you don't want to go out yet."

"Thanks," George muttered it barely loud enough for Sapnap to hear, but a smile crept up on his face at the word.

"Exactly, now give me some money so I can go get groceries," Sapnap said, nuzzling into George as he spoke, his body heat sunk into George like an anchor to water, it oozed into his system and kept him ground in reality- he loved it.

George stifled a laugh at the abruptness of Sapnaps request, "Obviously, you can just borrow my credit card man," he took a moment to rifle through his pockets, it was more habitual than conscious. He would've moved to actually find where he put his wallet but that would mean surrendering the warmth that Sapnap emanates.

"Great! I'll go find it, if you're okay with me looking through your stuff that is," Sapnap said, backpedaling on his words just in case; better to play it safe than sorry.

George almost whined, wrapping an arm around Sapnaps side, his fingers rest along a mottled cotton fabric and the warmth he so desires doesn't come across as clearly as it usually does, "Can we just, stay like this for a bit longer?" He doesn't even notice the way he leans into Sapnap, or the way his fingers dig themselves into the fabric, searching aimlessly for that warmth.

Sapnap nodded, but briefly pulled away anyways, yanking off his hoodie and tossing it the side, "It's really, really hot in here," his excuse is cheap, he just relishes in the touch against his side.

George leans back into Sapnap, the sudden lack of a layer makes a worlds difference. The heat seeps into him with twice as much speed, if he could purr he would be purring up a storm. He still feels the telltale signs of a rumble in his chest, he pays no mind to it until it shakes his bones entirely. His bones feel hollow now that they vibrate a little bit, a jittering and rumbling sensation shooting through his muscles. He has no clue why or how, but it makes his lungs feel better, like it's shaking out the fungus.

"Are you," Sapnap started, he had to pause, glancing at George with a quirked brow, "Are you purring?"

George shrugged, "Feels nice," he wraps arms around Sapnaps midsection, blunted nails digging into the fabric as he purrs; deep vibrations drilling into wherever Georges torso meets any of Sapnap.

Sapnap hums in agreement, "Yeah," He leans into George, he hesitantly brings hand to his head, running fingers through brunette locks (they were brown now, a deep tone compared to what they were mere weeks ago).

The purring in Georges chest starts up again, louder, in reaction to the touch, he's too intrigued to be embarrassed, "I don't know how to turn it off," A weak chuckle laces his voice.

Sapnap shrugs, "Fine by me," he lowers his hand down to rest at the small of Georges back, he trails it back up to rest at his shoulder blades, where the vibrations are the strongest.

They simply stand there contentedly, a peaceful sense of belonging rested between them and their intimacy. It's nice, and the notions of George being dead if Sapnap hadn't decided to fly on over escape the both of them in the moment. George rests his head on Sapnaps shoulder contentedly, nuzzling into the shorters neck a bit, the cat like traits were almost uncanny. Sapnap leaned his head on top of Georges, he pressed more of his weight onto the counter than the Brit.

As much as George was recovering, he was still frail, his bones were still hollow- he was still damaged goods. He was still broken and never to fully recover from the effects physically, maybe emotionally as well, but that didn't matter much to Sapnap. The flaw makes the masterpiece doesn't it? And George, well, with how many flaws Saprophytis has given him, he must be a masterpiece amplified beyond reason. Through Sapnaps eyes, the Brit has just gotten stronger through this, more resilient, anyone else would see him as weaker for falling prey to an emotional parasite. Not Sapnap, he loves to look at George through rosy shades, but those have shattered, now he can see that the red he was trying to avoid seeing was raw emotion (and blood, lot's of it at that, on his hands in his mouth).

George hummed, "You should go buy some food if you really wanna do some baking," He loosened his grip on Sapnap a little bit

"This is better than baking," Sapnap shot back in almost lazy tone, the intimacy was a sedative and he wouldn't mind soaking in the warmth of comfort.

"Yeah, but I wanna make biscuits," George said, he pulled away from Sapnap who leaned into him again with a smirk on his face, "Dude."

"Yeah?" Sapnap asked, opening his eyes to look up at George.

"Go get some food man, credit card is by the keys," George instructed, Sapnap reluctantly pulled away with a groan.

"Fine, don't do anything stupid while I'm gone though," Sapnap said as he made his way to leave, "If I get lost make sure to mention it was your fault on my tombstone."

"I will," George shouted at Sapnap as his partner left, he heard the door open and then close.

The sudden silence was uncomfortable for George. He was so used to living in silence, but it's a lot harder now that's he's gotten used to living with Sapnap. He's used to chatting and laughing and living, but this silence? It just makes him feel dead again, as dead as he was when he was near bedridden- it makes him feel ill. He needs something, he pulls out his phone and turns on some music, a white noise to focus on instead of the fact he's alone again.

He knows it won't be for long, but it still makes him feel wrong again, he knows it's to get something to eat. He knows it won't last much longer than forty minutes if that long, but he still feels empty. It's one set of footsteps instead of two, it's the cooling air instead of warm touches, it's the drone of silence instead of Sapnaps voice intermingling with his own.

He just doesn't like this, being alone. Now that he has a comparison he can't stand it. He finds himself lounged on the couch, waiting patiently for something to happen. His phone starts to ring and he answers it before he can read whose calling.

"Hi George,"

Georges blood turns to ice in mere seconds at the voice he's greeted with. His posture forces itself straight, every single muscle in his body stiffening. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out at first.

"Hi Dream," His voice is cracking just barely and he holds the phone to his ear, waiting with bated breath for whatever is next to come, "How have you been doing?"

"Good, news came out that you caught Saprophytis," Dream said, his voice was low and nothing was behind it, it made George scared.

"Who told you?" George asked faster than he could stop himself.

Dream gave a laugh, "Sapnap, obviously."

"That gossipy bitch," George snarled, Dream gave a hum of agreement.

"He can be like that sometimes, I'm not like that though," Dream said.

George swallowed audibly, "Liar- you got a pair of loose lips Dream, who knows what you'll spill next."

"I've changed George," Dream said, "It's possible, you know that don't you?"

"Of course you've changed, only after I was fucking dying and you did nothing to bother checking in," George shot back, venom on his voice despite how tense he was. Just a facade, just a false shell, he just has to sound firm enough in himself until Dream decides to hang up.

"You could've told me you were dying," Dream stated, George felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach.

"It's, it's already happened, I can't go back and do something else," George said, grasping for straws and excuses, the slight stutter hopefully went unnoticed.

"Good point, but you could choose me now," Dream offered.

George wanted to take it up, George wanted to choose Dream, to get put back into a near death state again. It'd be attention from Dream, it'd be attention from his best friend, it'd be what he was dying over and now he has a chance to get it. His grip on the fabric of the couch cushions tightens, "I'll pass," His voice is strained as he speaks because the echo of his bedridden self wants it so badly.

"Alright, have it your way," Dream said, a tinge of agitation on his voice, "Don't come crying to me when he breaks your heart."

"Sapnap would never-!" George exclaimed, practically shouting into the receiver, he could himself short at the click signalling Dream had hung up.

George slumped back into the couch, hand falling to his side, his grip on his phone didn't falter though. He felt all messed up inside again, he was sure that was over when he told Sapnap he wanted Dream to just pay attention. But that was what he wanted, he got exactly what he wanted, how come he hates the way its making him feel?

He gives a groan of annoyance as he sprawls himself out on the couch, facing in because it hurts. Of course Dream would decide to call him up now that he's decided to be mature and move on, he's a grown ass man, he could've moved on so much sooner. But he didn't he held out and got hurt in ways he couldn't imagine, and Sapnap swooped in last second to fix him. He fixed him with duck tape and showers of praise, laughs and raw passion, mended his mind with whatever he could get his hands on in Britain with his pitiful amount of American money.

And for some reason George wouldn't mind begging at Dreams feet even though he knows it'll undo all that hard work.

He hears the door open but he can't bother to move from his place on the couch, front facing the back of it. He can't just leave his stomach on display, that's where his organs are, he's aware he could get killed from behind just as easy, but he feels a bit safer. It's just words, he knows that it's just words that are bringing him an encroaching sense of agony; it still hurts. His head is pressed against the cushion and his arms are wrapped around his torso a bit. His breathing is even and he isn't crying but he feels that same pressure building up in his throat and it aches.

Sapnap places down the plastic bags at the door, full of stuff only for the baking they planned on, and drops the keys in the dish. He walked over to George, a bar of chocolate in hand, his smile disappeared in seconds at Georges state. He instantly dropped down beside his partner and placed a hand on his head, running fingers through brown locks, the matting had gone down. George pushed himself into the gentle touch, purring as he did so, he still looked miserable though.

"What happened while I was gone?" Sapnap asked, "Or is your blood sugar really low? Could be either."

"Dream called," George said, he sounded a little bit choked up.

"Oh, bro that sucks," Sapnap said softly, George pulled himself up from his position before flopping back down again, this time most of his weight on Sapnap, "Want some chocolate?"

George nodded, "Yeah."

"I wasn't sure if you wanted salted stuff or caramel, so I sorta, went with my gut," Sapnap unwrapped the bar as he spoke, breaking off a piece and handing it to George, "It's dark."

"Fine by me- bitter like my soul," George said, smirking a bit as he laid on the dramatics.

"Bitter like your soul? I'm sorry but you're way too cute to have a bitter soul, and considering how much you latch onto me? Gogy, I love you dearly, but don't lie man," Sapnap said, a bit of a laugh on his voice as he spoke, George gave a groan.

"Shut up, I'm trying to be cinematic," George said, waving off Sapnaps comment.

"Good luck trying when I'm around," Sapnap said, bringing a hand to toy at Georges hair again, the Brit tried to shrug him off and Sapnap gladly did as instructed.

George turned himself until he was staring up at Sapnap, he couldn't help the laugh, "Man, I never thought I'd be looking up at you."

Sapnap stumbled over his words, "Shut up- you can't talk anyways, don't forget about those times after passing 'round the Jesus Juice."

George quirked a brow, "Jesus Juice?"

"Wine, wine, fuck I mean wine," Sapnap said, "That was not supposed to come out like that."

George gives a stifled laugh, "Jesus Juice, I'm gonna start saying that now."

"Cutting to the chase and bringing us back to the point: you are consistently on the bottom when we-" Sapnap tried to say, smirking as he did so, George brought a hand to cover his mouth.

"Aside from that, no where else has me being on the bottom happened; besides, I'm always in control, so does it really count?" George asked, tactfully going over each word as he spoke, red shot directly to Sapnaps face, "Point proven."

"I thought we weren't gonna talk about that bro," Sapnap said, groaning in embarrassment, it was the two of them, but jeez, he didn't always like to recount how much control George consistently had no matter what happened behind closed doors.

George gave a hum, as though mulling over the thought, "Changed my mind- you're too fucking adorable when you're flustered to pass up on the chance."

"Fuck off, but really, wanna bake, or," Sapnap pauses, watching George quirk a brow, "Wanna bone?"

George breaks out laughing at the way Sapnap delivers the line, he has to clutch his stomach. He nearly rolls off of the couch as he laughs, he has to wipe away tears from his eyes. He sits up fully this time, to be at eye level with Sapnap for the most part, "We can go make those biscuits."

Sapnap hums, grabbing George again, "Ten more minutes on the couch."

"Be that way then," He pulls himself up to place a kiss to Sapnaps lips.

"If it means kisses I most definitely will," Sapnap shot back with.

[thrillingdetectivetales]

A preview of coming attractions:

Adrian looked over at him with wide, curious eyes. His tongue was poking out of the corner of his mouth, the way it sometimes did when he was concentrating especially hard. Chris cleared his throat again and reached for his beer, gaze skimming over the dark, polished wood of the table. His face was hot. Someone really ought to adjust the fucking thermostat in here. If it kept fluctuating like this it was totally going to ruin the ambiance for all the real couples hoping to enjoy a romantic evening together. "I, um - " Chris started, raising his glass. "We should do a toast." "Oh," Adrian blinked. He set his fork down, cake and ice cream slopping back onto the plate. "Um, sure." He picked his beer up too and canted his head to one side. "What are we toasting?" "I don't fucking know, man," Chris shrugged, feeling irritable and harassed, despite the fact that he was the one who'd suggested a toast in the first place. "I mean, we're still alive. That's worth celebrating, probably, given the year we've had." "Okay," Adrian agreed with an easy grin, hoisting his glass a little higher. "Here's to surviving an alien invasion." He considered for a second and added in an embittered mutter, "Even if Economos totally stole my chance to kill a space gorilla with a chainsaw." That had Chris squinting at him across the table. "The gorilla wasn't from space," he pointed out. "Maybe not," Adrian allowed, "but the bug controlling its brain definitely was, so I'm pretty sure it still counts." Chris couldn't argue this—or, he probably could, but it was more trouble than it was worth to attempt to get Adrian to cede any ground when he'd already made his mind up about something—so he nodded his acquiescence and reached across the table to clink their glasses together.