#tsv fic

[gammija]

Ik heb warempel de tweede aflevering ook helemaal vertaald - Faulkner is zo leuk. kleine psychopaat <3

[niwolah]

I did 2023 and 2024 and now, I want to go back in time.

2021 is actually a prolific year. I just didn't post the giant thing I started end of 2020. That WIP is still waiting for me to get back on it.

I did post 9 stories, thanks to hyperfixating on Twoset Violin (who stepped back from social media at the end of last year, dammit).

Life with an aging backwards husband was fun to write. I just don't like how I ended it, I should have kept it gen but eh, too bad. People like it, that's all I'll keep in mind.

My favourite, though, is (Bubble tea) Flavour. I only wrote it to write a detailed kiss. That's it. A sort of experience, an excercice, if you will. And I'm proud of this one.

---

It's funny because I wrote more in 2022 but in only 3 stories. All because the people favourite and my favourite are around 10K each.

I started Evolution kinda on a whim. I thought what if then I was gone. It's my first and only JDox so far and I searched a lot about them because I didn't really watched the series as I only glanced to the TV once in a while when my Boyfriend was watching it. On two seperate times.

A did a lot of research too for Scissors, paper, rock, kiss. I needed to know what kind of kiss meant what and I cross-searched to be accurate and- what an awful lot of work for basically nothing! I mean, I still used so many kisses that I couldn't write that word anymore without thinking Is that right? but, you know. I love how it turned out.

[unbloodiedmartyr]

reluctant post-apocalyptic roadtrip to a place thats already gone besties

[lights-at-night]

hi everyone do any of you want to know more about the vaguely canon-compliant history i concocted in my head for the saint electric

[cream-and-tea]

it must be said that i’m always on some level thinking about mercer and gage can we talk some more about mercer and gage i feel like we all moved on too quickly from mercer and gage

[thermodynamic-comedian]

ok i'll bite. why are there no fics that include adjudicator shrue on ao3

[venusiancarbondioxide]

starting the silt verses from the beginning and do you think felix ever hears about hayward's season two and three shenanigans. like, imagine: you're felix, and you work this shitty dispatch job, and one day your favorite coworker (or, at least, a coworker you're clearly on good terms with) straight up defects and is now formally a traitor to the government. already a bad time. and then your country starts a war that it is super going to lose. a worse time! then it turns out that oh, the dangerous new cult you're hearing about on the news? yeah, he's like, that cult's second-in-command. he actually helped birth this new god. the cultists all call him rootkeeper. you frequently had to remind this man not to forget his gun in the car. what is your life anymore.

[ianthewife]

paige body horror is calling to me like a beautiful and terrible lighthouse among the storm……. wait for me my prophet im coming

[new-hyperfixation-every-month]

happy sibling rane saturday :]

spoilers for chapter 44!! enjoyyy

[omegamoo]

some niki drawings from the past week! the last one is niki in her belle costume from my theatre au!

[darkwater-reservoir]

Panic

Pairings: none

Content Waring: panic attacks, dissociation, blood

Notes: TSV is referred to as Tyler as that is my headcanon name for him, nat uses she/they, characters speak some Spanish in this (it is translated to English in parenthesis) but i used Google translate for it bc I cannot speak any Spanish so uh. I'm sorry if it's gibberish

Summary: nat has a panic attack and tucker does his best to calm her down.

Nat nervously taps her fingers against the wood of the lunch table. It's been a week and Tyler hasn't come back from his mission. He should have been back by now, he promised he would be, but he isn't. No one else at the camp has heard from his group and neither she nor Tucker have heard from him in a few hours.

Hours. It's only 7 hours since his last message so he's probably ok. He has to be because if he isn't...

No, she isn't going to think about that. She has to stay positive. Tyler's fine he'll be back in an hour or so and be just fine. But what if he wasn't? What if the strobe killed him? What if she never saw him again? And then what? What if the strobes got to the camp? What if she lost Tucker too?

Suddenly Nat can't breathe. The weight of the air around them is too much and their hands are shaking. What if they lost both of their friends and was alone again? What if something happened to them and they couldn't stop it? They can't breathe. They mutter something about how suffocating the air was and the man next to them comments on it, but they can't hear what he's saying. His words are drowned out by the static in their head.

Suddenly a drop of water hits Nat's hand. It must be raining, but there are no clouds. It hasn't rained in years. When they look back down another drop hits their hand. Then another and another. It has to be raining. It has to be.

The man says something to her. She hears it, but she can't respond. The air around her is too thick. If she speaks she might waste air. It feels like she's dying. The man asks her again in Spanish. It's clear he's not well versed in the language with how shaky his words are, but she understands him.

"Estás...bien?"

("Are you ok?")

She doesn't know how to respond. She doesn't even remember why she got so scared in the first place. Nat shakes her head.

No, she's not ok.

"No puedo respirar..."

("I can't breathe...")

The man curses under his breath and speaks again, "Qué puedes...ver a tu...alrededor?"

("What can you see around you?")

Nat looks up and sees the man in front of her. He's wearing a white hoodie and a pair blood stained khakis. His scarred hands are anxiously fidgeting with the strings on his hoodie and his hazel eyes are full of fear and concern. He has a scar on his lip and claw marks on the side of his neck. She recognizes him. It's Tucker.

Te veo...Tucker estoy asustada..."

("I see you...Tucker, I'm scared...)

Tucker sighs and pulls at the strings on his hoodie tightly, his leg bouncing nervously. "I know, I know. You're ok, Nat. You're gonna be ok. Is English ok? I'm still not great at Spanish."

Nat nods, their hands still shaking and their mind still racing. Tucker loosens the hood on his hoodie and returns to fidgeting with its strings. "Ok, what do you hear around you?"

Nat focuses on the noises of the camp. They can hear the low hum of the alien ship and the indistinct chatter of the soldiers. She can hear a mother comfort her child not too far off. "I hear the ship and...people..."

Tucker smiles, "good. That's good. What can you feel?"

The rough, hard wood of the bench beneath them, the soft fabric of their sweater, and the cool, wet tears on their face. Their breathing starts to slow. "The table and my sweater."

"What can you smell-"

Nat hugged him tightly. "Thank you, Tuck." Tucker hugged them back, "don't mention it."

Nat started to cry again, "I'm sorry. I...I should be stronger. This is so stupid."

Tucker sighs, "no it's not. You had a panic attack and that's totally normal. Don't beat yourself up over it, ok kid?" Nat nods and wipes their face, and their attention shifts to some commotion at the other end of the camp. Nat's heart sinks as they watch Tyler emerge from the crowd of people.

He's covered in bright blue and crimson blood and his black hoodie is torn in many places. As he gets closer, she can see a sadness in his eyes that told her everything she needed to know. He killed the strobe and survived, but his hope sure as hell didn't.

[gammija]

Hoofdstuk VII: Het duldt weinig, verdrinkt menigeen

Aan de andere kant van de grens met de Doolstraten begint een jonge leidinggevende in marketing steeds meer te botsen met haar werkgevers omschakelingstraject.

[melandrops]

hey btw i wrote a tsv fic

[spoondrifts]

a quick charity tsv character study, because oh how she intrigues me <3 full fic under the cut, reblogs appreciated :)

Every name in this world has two meanings, one buried. Charity keeps her name’s first meaning on the tip of her tongue, wrapping herself in it like a fine cloth: kindness and tolerance in judgment. It is the first thing people think when she introduces herself, her first impression. In Marcel’s Crossing, when they venture into town on those rare occasions that they need something the forest cannot provide, the clerks and cashiers and vendors would smile warmly at the rosy-cheeked young thing who proudly named herself Charity, cooing sweetly, saying, “A pretty name for a pretty little girl”, and her parents would also smile, knowing.

Charity grows and learns the forest like her own skin, lives within it much the same. By the time she’s ten years old, she can navigate Penda’s Slake alone and mapless, sensing her way by the shudder of the birch trees and the crackling of the brush beneath small, pattering feet. The snare-dogs slither white and sinuous in the corner of her eyes, jaws splitting, snapping, protecting her.

The god of the Slake cradles her, its budding, blooming hunter.

* * *

The chapel in the woods is rotted and abandoned, but it hums with holiness. Her parents take her there every day and teach her to scrawl the hallway’s prayer marks, never entering, never risking their own hallowing, but instructing from safety, from a distance.

Her mother tells the same story, every time they go. “My grandfather found our god here, at Penda’s Slake,” she says in low, lyrical tones. The name of the forest always rang sweetest in her mouth. “A god of leading and chasing. Of hunting, and being hunted. A god that was both predator and prey.” She shifts Charity in her arms, encouraging her to look up at the collapsed chapel. “My grandfather learned those prayer marks from hunting here.”

“What did he hunt?” Charity asks.

“Rabbit, elk, deer, anything that fled. And when he split them open, their blood soaked the soil and grew beautiful flowers, and inside these flowers he read the words of our god’s hymns.”

Then Charity follows her father’s steady hands as he practices the marks in the grass, drawing with thick whorls of elk’s blood dipped from a glass jar. The snare-dogs loll about in the clearing around the three of them, rolling in the rustling grass and panting in the evening summer heat. Loyal beasts, when they were sated.

“Here,” her father says, guiding her small fingers into the cooled blood. “Go on.”

Charity traces the prayer marks dutifully. Her parents’ pride warbles between them like a livewire, hot and comforting. Globs of shining red cling to her fingertips and slick down her hand, dripping onto her pale wrist. She thinks about putting her tongue to it and lapping it up.

* * *

The sacrifices usually struggle; not because they don’t understand what’s happening to them, but because they do.

Charity is fifteen. This is her first sacrifice alone, her first gift to her god that is truly hers. The man whimpers and trembles under his sackcloth, moaning senselessly in agony; his wrists are bound with barbed wire, seeping blood, his ankles chained together with wrought iron.

He staggers, nearly tripping, but she yanks him back upright. She’s strong and fit from hours of racing through the trees alongside the snare-dogs, dodging their drooling fangs when they got too zealous and began nipping at her ankles, from hours of clambering up swaying birches, hugging the trees with her whole body, listening to the shrill cicada-song in the eaves of the world.

“Please, please,” the sacrifice cries, voice muffled and quashed by the sackcloth. His fear sweetens the air like a fragrant perfume, makes her shiver with anticipation.

She shushes him. Penda’s Slake is still and silent. Waiting. Hungry. She opens herself up to the nearing chase, its thrilling heat settling like gnawing teeth around her throat, and begins to sing her favorite hymn: “We will bring you terror, and you will bring us meat. You will make me savage, we will make you fleet...”

The sacrifice cries out and starts to struggle in earnest now, but it doesn’t matter—they’ve arrived at the chapel.

The hunt begins.

* * *

Charity is eighteen and her parents are weakening, growing ill and lame. Her mother struggles up and down the front porch stairs on ailing legs; her father’s hands spasm uncontrollably when he winds his traps. There comes a day when they sit her down in their living room, hands clasped, and tell her what must be done.

And because she has a responsibility, she does it.

The snare-dogs, when they finally catch her mother and her father, rend their transfigured bodies with razor teeth, spilling the meat of them into the grass and howling with twinned mourning and rapture, jaws gaping and glistening crimson. Charity is crying when she gets down on her hands and knees, wild, chasing, euphoric, and her face unfurls like a brilliant red flower as she sinks her new spooling jaws into her mother’s elk-boned throat.

* * *

Charity’s god has a thirst that must be quenched.

The people of Marcel’s Crossing are too jaded, too suspicious to follow her into the woods any longer; she sets her sights on the larger towns to the north, where the people know nothing of true woodland and even less of true divinity.

She packs her bags like a naive young woman might, with moleskin journals and soft, colorful dresses and big round glasses that make her look cross-eyed and gently bewildered at all times. She leaves her hunting rifle, her sleek steel knives, her book of hymns. She practices a smile in the mirror that is stupid instead of feral.

She wanders for three days in the town of Vanderwelt. She spends three irritating days asking stupid passersby for directions, taking meaningless tours of dull museums, and chewing on tasteless croissants on street corners before a man named Gareth buys her a coffee one morning and she knows she’s struck gold.

Gareth is perfect. He falls for her hair-twirling, forgetful mask like a gormless rodent stepping right into the maw of a greater beast. She looks up his name’s first meaning when he isn’t around and has to laugh. Chivalrous. Modest. Gentle. He would certainly like to see himself that way. The librarian has to ask her to be quiet or leave.

When he asks her to move in with him, she acquiesces with fluttering lashes and a carefully-curated grateful stammer. She polishes the art of “forgetting” her glasses in his flat so that he feels competent when he guides her from place to place, pointing out treacherous curbs or rising steps that she cannot see. They have dates in the shittiest little diners, eating food that’s always rubbery and bland because he likes to share, to feel like he’s providing for her, and he prefers his steaks well done. Charity bears this indignity with twisty little smiles that Gareth can interpret any way he wants.

He’s terrible in bed.

She hums the melodies of her hymns as she combs her fingers through his hair. He tilts his head, raising a curious eyebrow.

“That’s a pretty tune. What’s that from?”

Charity pets the side of his soft face and imagines what he might look like with birch-white flesh. “Oh, I don’t know. I must have heard it on the radio.”

* * *

She mentions Penda’s Slake only in passing, enough to seed intrigue without forcing the issue. And, predictably, Gareth pretends as though it’s his idea to visit her childhood home, his idea to take a hiking trip through her sacred woods, his idea to map a loop to the freshwater springs that stem from the White Gull River.

Charity pretends to be charmed to hide her slavering hunger.

* * *

That woman—that desecrating, defiling, disrespectful bitch—perches on the roof of Charity’s chapel like a greasy crow, orange flames welling up beneath and behind her as the blaze swallows up sacred ground like so much kindling. Charity’s heart fractures in her chest and she feels the raw sting of loss like the gore of a stag’s antlers, the snare-dogs howling all around her in abject grief, wretched, distraught—she turns and plunges back into the darkness of the treeline, vanishing from the desecrator’s sight.

She won’t let this violation be a painless one. She can feel herself changing, growing wild with fury, eyes sharpening in the gloom, buckling to her hands and knees, teeth itching. Her god wails inside her skull and she wails back in the thin, shrieking tones of the elks of birch and bone.

When the blasphemer tries to scramble for the car, that metal monstrosity in the midst of her lovely woods, Charity lunges and closes her splayed jaws around the bitch’s ankle. She screams and Charity is dizzy with the taste of her blood, fangs clamped like vices in yielding flesh, ready to jerk her head and drag the squalling prey into the dirt, ready to rend the soft flesh of its stomach into the open air with her hands and bare its steaming, soupy insides to the watchful trees, ready to chase and claw and kill and KILL—

The heel of a boot slams into Charity’s vulnerable throat with a lash of sharp pain and throws her backwards into the grass. She chokes, splutters, jaws closing and working helplessly around the taste of mud and silt, and in her moment of disorientation the car roars and accelerates into the dark, past the flaming chapel, vanishing back out onto the road.

Charity writhes in the grass, gasping for breath. The snare-dogs whine in a chorus of splitting wood, a thousand felled trees; the sonorous groan of the chapel collapsing into ashes rings in her ears in a terrible cacophony.

“My god, my god,” she moans to the open air. Beseeching. Apologizing. The agony of her god’s displeasure lances through her like a physical wound. Terror sings in her bones. “Please. Please.”

The snare-dogs have begun to snarl menacingly all around her. They have been denied something tonight, and they will have their fill.

Charity shuts her eyes. Feels the roles shifting. There’s them that lead and there’s them that chase. She has failed to chase. The Slake begs for a recasting in its time-honored performance.

Panting, sobbing breathlessly, she climbs to her feet. The snare-dogs rumble with primal excitement.

There’s them that lead, and there’s them that chase.

Charity races into the trees.

She leads.

[lights-at-night]

is there any character in the silt verses you would've liked to have a different ending/appear again, and if so what would that be/what would their role be?

i think charity was an interesting character and i would've loved to see more of her. i honestly don't know how she'd fit into the narrative in a natural way, but i'd have liked to learn more about the god of penda's slake because that episode was SO COOL. glad she got a cameo in season 3 tho

as for a different ending i'm sad but altogether satisfied with how things ended. maybe greve shouldve lived so she could talk shit about faulkner in the verses, or something to that degree.

honorary mention to the saint electric. she is fascinating to me and i wish we got more information about her bc tsv is more focused on the church electric than her. she isnt a character but i wish she was. i have sent a question to the qna asking for any lore on her and am currently planning a fic set in the siltverses version of the industrial revolution to explain her backstory

[eyesteeth]

it's not going to happen given the remaining timeframe but for a while my dream carpenter-faulkner reunion scenario was faulkner getting kidnapped by the tree gang as a political bargaining chip (later turning into shenanigans when they realize he's no longer valuable since greave has already promised the withermark without him) and carpenter keeping an eye on him because he can't be trusted to not drown them or himself if left to his own devices (wouldn't be the first time her brother did that anyway) and this leaves plenty of time for them to be alone together... arguments to have... confessions of guilt... potentially eventual reconciliation? siblings time again?? just in time for the war to get worse??? upped emotional stakes???? did you bond with your sibling just in time to face a potentially parallel death to another sibling you lost????? tune in to find out!!