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vivalabunbun · 4 months

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As We Are, We Will Be

Summary: A nonsensical question is proposed in one singular moment between a stoic and stoic face in one singular universe.

Word Count: 9k (It was supposed to be short and sweet-)

Tags: Alhaitham X Fem! Reader, Smut, NSFW, Fluff, a lot of fluff, slight angst, soulmate au, slow fic, established relationship, married life, Soft! Alhaitham, attempts at comedy, mentions of aging, slightly jealous! Alhaitham, mutual pinning, soft sex, vanilla, safe sex (wrap it up), riding (cowgirl), fingering, slow sex, making love, really bad expatiations of scientific theories and math, just two nerds in love.

Authors Note: Happy belated birthday and Valentine's Day to my favorite dendro nerd. A continuation of this piece, one I hold dear. A thought experiment based on nothing more than the feverish delirium of love.

It was just for a moment.

A mere pasting instance in the contentious momentum of time when a glimmer caught your eyes in the muddled chatter of a crowd, a silver shimmer like starlight.

Interrupting your contemplation as your eyes impulsively search for the source.

A late morning on a Saturday, the markets and stalls were lively with families replenishing a week's worth of groceries. Bodies veering and easing through the bustle of the busty streets.

The wide breadth of life that moved all around you. Like a collection of small dots within the vastness of a universe.

But amid the vast collection of blurry faces were the flicker of silvery locks refracting the late morning light. Originating from a pair, an elderly lady and an elderly man, their aged hands intertwined.

Time had made her marks upon them, and gravity had pulled down on their wrinkled faces. Yet, the ends of their lips were pointed toward the sky. The corners of their eyes wrinkled as their gazes held each other's faces.

From their view, do they not see the starlight hue of their hair? Instead, do they still see the vibrancy and youth of their locks which age had stolen from them?

The image of each other reflected in their irises, was it from a time before the hands of gravity pulled on their creased skin and bowed bones? Would you ever be able to find out?

“I wasn’t aware you had a hobby of people-watching.” A baritone voice ghosts over your ear.

Jolting your head to your right, you come face to face with the interruption. Or perhaps, your mind finally registered Alhaitham’s presence just off to the side of you. His arms were weighted down with various bags.

Oh, that’s right, the markets and stalls were lively on the weekend with families restocking groceries for the upcoming week. You and Alhaitham were no different.

Glancing up at his ashen trestles and then scanning back at the starlight locks of the elderly couple, and then back to your husband.

“Hmm, not quite. Just noting the fact your hair is the same color as an old man’s, Haitham.” You catch the subtle twitch of his brow.

“Is that so? I hope you are aware you’re not immune to the inevitably of aging, wife,” Alhaitham returns your jest.

“Well, with your hair color and grumpiness, I’d say you’re already halfway there.”

“I needn’t expound on your equivalent levels of grumpiness, it won’t be long before your locks share the same ashen hue.”

“I guess that’s why we get along then, dear husband.”

“That’s one theory,” he huffs, a simple tone lacking any bite.

You pan your face back toward the crowd, partly because it’s getting harder to hold the neutral position of your lips, partly because your curiosity aches for an untold conclusion.

However, when your gaze returned to the ever-bustling sea of people, the pair of starlight hues were nowhere to be found. It was regrettable, but expected, the elderly couple were nothing more than a pair of strangers in a crowd full of unfamiliar faces.

They were just a brief scene that disappeared into the moving tides of people.

Leaving you with your unresolved musings.

“Is there anything else we need for the week?”

Alhaitham’s voice reels your consciousness back, swiftly you check the crinkled slip of parchment within your hand. Scanning down the list of written items, all with a neat little line crossed through their immaculately penned letters.

“It looks like we got everything we need.” You tuck the list into your pocket.

“Then it’s best we get home before our groceries are spoiled by the heat.” Alhaitham readjusts the bags in his hands.

A hum takes its place as your response. Pivoting your body in the direction of your shared home. From the corner of your field of view, his strides were paced to coincide with your shorter steps.

Studying the numerous bags occupying his hands, you can’t help but think it’s quite convenient to have someone as robust as your husband. Maybe it's these weekly grocery runs that are the secret behind his physique.

Discreetly, your hand slowly slips between the gap of his arm and body, linking your elbows together. So that your frame and his could withstand the push and pull of the crowd’s contentious momentum.

The neutrality of your lips had long slipped away, softened by the familiarity of his warmth. Even as your eyes were pointed on the path ahead, you had an inkling that a similar occurrence was mirrored on his lips as well.

An inquiry your curiosity didn’t need to peek to resolve.

That ache for an untold conclusion morphed into a new musing by the afternoon.

The silver shimmer from that elderly couple’s hair truly was like starlight. Perhaps that’s the correlation that steered your thoughts down this winding path of pondering.

Everyone, from those taking their first stumbling steps of youth to the slowed cane-assisted tramps in their golden years, is technically billions of years old. Or more accurately, the atoms and minerals in everyone are billions of years old.

The carbon in muscles, the calcium in bones, and the iron in blood were all forged in the hearts of bygone stars. When those bright beacons burned out they exploded in one last finale, expelling those materials across interstellar space. Stardust that found its way here.

Here within you, and here within the slow breaths of the man in front of you.

After being around for billions of years, does stardust ever get exhausted?

That would be a sensible explanation for why Alhaitham had snuck away amidst hanging up freshly washed laundry.

His tall frame stretched the expanse of the couch as his starlight lashes were shut, shamelessly relishing in a nap under the streams of sunlight trickled in from the window.

Squatting down you observe the guiltless expression plastered over his resting face, still deep in the trenches of sleep, a small huff passes through your lips. Well, this morning you did have him carry all the groceries from the market back home.

Your husband does deserve this little nap.

Trailing your eyes down his neck you note the lack of a pillow, then as your gaze travels further you note the absence of a blanket as well. Internally, your mind tsks at this forgetful habit of his.

Although his body and yours still have youth coursing through your veins, it doesn’t mean they’ll remain as impervious as they are now later down the line, especially if preventative measures aren’t taken.

Like having a pillow to support one’s neck, or a blanket to prevent chills from plaguing the body.

Standing back to full height, you retrieved the missing artifacts, returning with a plush pillow and light comforter.

Even when his head was momentarily lifted to make space for the pillow, and when the spare comforter was draped over him, Alhaitham didn’t stir one bit. At times you can’t determine if he’s a light sleeper or if his stubbornness refuses to leave the plain of dreams.

It’s a true wonder of life how Alhaitham’s able to sleep so soundly at night given his extensive naps.

The vivid sunlight illuminated patterns upon his cheeks and trestles, causing the ashen strands to dazzle in their refraction of the afternoon light. A sight your eyes just couldn’t help but be enraptured by.

Maybe you could blame the warmth of the sunlight, or maybe the serenity of this quiet Saturday afternoon, or perhaps even these fickle inquiries about his naps for the yawn that left your lips. Now might be the prime time for some research.

Lifting up the comforter just enough for an opportunity to slip through, your body settles in the space right against his. It’s crowded on the couch, the cushions unprepared for two bodies to occupy its entirety, the open edge looming against your back.

Even after all the shuffling and pressing against his dozing frame, your husband didn’t budge a bit.

Leaden lashes still shut and lips set in that all too familiar line, chest rhythmically rising and falling in time with yours. The very image of unperturbedness under the blessing of sleep.

“You really are like an old man.”

At that mere jab, the corners of his lips tugged down while his eyes remained closed. A quick slip that confirmed your earlier suspicions.

“Who knew you were so talented in acting, Haitham,” you snicker.

A muscular arm soon enveloped your form, further pressing you against his chest as if to silence any more sardonic quips from entering his ears.

It was quite the challenge to stifle those giggles before they could erupt from your lips. Peeking up, there’s an ever-so-subtle lift at the corners of his mouth. An express which yours mirrored.

Studying the details of the lips just a breath away, a new musing worms its way into your thoughts:

When the hands of gravity and time start to pull down on his skin and yours the same, leaving wrinkles and creases in their wake, will the edges of his lips still curl like this?

Would yours mirror the same?

A second yawn sneaks past your lips as your lashes grow heavier with each fluttering blink. Claiming a corner of the pillow to lay your head upon, the seconds between each subsequent blink grew longer and longer until your lids were too heavy to lift.

Perhaps the stardust in your bones was exhausted, craving a short rest in his warmth.

--------------------------------

There’s something against your back and your legs are tangled in something, sensations which gradually alert your dozing sense back from the fog of slumber.

At first, you only had the strength to peek open one lid, then promptly shut it. But in the nothingness behind your eyelids, something was halting your limps from stretching the weariness out from themselves.

You tried again, this time fluttering both sets of lashes apart ever so slightly. There’s a dry film coating your throat and mouth, feeling the impressions of the couch cushions and bundled comforter imprinted into your skin.

What time was it?

Blinking away the haze of sleep just enough to notice how the golden rays of a star were missing. A gray overlay was plastered over the living room despite the ticking clock hands displaying that it was late afternoon.

Peering back through the window behind, observing the congregating insipid clouds blocking out the azure sky.

A sure sign of rain despite the morning forecast. Rain… wasn’t there something left unfinished on the clotheslines outside? The groggy recollection of responsibilities creeps into the forefront of your mind.

The reign of your weary limbs slowly returns, and your legs languidly attempt to stretch out from the reveal they were caught in. However, their movements only caused a pair of longer limbs to ensnarl them further.

Alhaitham’s legs promptly caught yours, stifling any prospect of escape.

Your displeased whine was responded with a disgruntled groan by the man keeping your body locked against his.

Wasn’t your back looming just about the edge of the couch when you fell asleep? So why are you in this position now?

Your body wedged between the plush backing of the couch and his solid frame, the comforter swaddling you also didn’t aid in your immobility. Brawny arm draped over your waist, halting your feeble squirms at freedom.

“The laundry,” you mumble.

“Later.” A blunt interjection from a groggy voice.

“It’s going to rain.”

“Less than a 30% chance.”

“Haitham…”

Your husband simply burrows his head deeper into the leveled pillow, likely an attempt to leverage the cushy material to block out your grievances. His ashen lashes still stubbornly shut, much to your displeasure.

“Alhaitham.”

No fluctuations in your volume nor tone, but it was enough for one teal eye to peek out from under ashen lashes. Trailing up to a subtle frown to the furrow between your brow, then finally meeting your unamused stare.

“Laundry,” you try again.

A silent stare down, one stone face gazing upon an equally stoic face, like an immovable object pressed against an equally immovable object.

Which one will defend their title of most stubborn today?

His chest expands with a deep breath, grasp enclosing around your waist before his teal gaze shamelessly vanishes behind closed lashes. Robust frame pinning you further to the back of the couch as he continues to ignore your huffy floundering.

“Release me, don’t you dare-”

Your grievance was soon muffled by a gentle hand pressing your cheek into his palatial chest. A move that stupefies the irksomeness bubbling within until it falls defeated into placidness.

“Whether it be now or later, they’ll be clean regardless, it’s quite comfortable right here.” The resonance of his voice vibrates in his chest.

You respond with a humbled grunt. In terms of strength you’d always lose to your feeble husband, wouldn’t you?

There’s no point in peering up, for the pleased satisfaction of his resting face would bring a sour taste to your tongue. Thus, you merely adjust your limbs, coiling your arms around to his back and pulling his form closer.

It’s crowded on the couch, it’ll be troublesome if Alhaitham were to slip off the edge if his back were to stray any further.

At this distance, entangled so closely together, the soft beats of his heart in time with yours like a rhythmic lullaby beckons the heavy to return to your eyelids.

The gentle drumming of his heartbeat coaxes out a final sigh from you, lashes descending down as your vision dims back into the realm of slumber.

Slow breaths and heartbeats homogenize into a tender duet, tranquil enough to distract from the sporadic pattering against the glass and gradually increase in consistency.

A less than 30% chance of rain doesn’t mean that there’s a greater than 70% chance of no rain. It’s merely a statistical probability of 0.01 units of more precipitation at a given area in the given forecast area in the time period specified.

Known as the precipitation probability, calculated based on two factors:

The forecaster's certainty that precipitation will form or move into the area X The areal coverage of precipitation that is expected, then multiplied by 100.

Thus, if the forecaster were 90% certain that 30% of the forecast area would receive rain, then the forecast displayed on screens would read as a 27% chance of rain.

A crucial bit of information that seemed to have slipped his mind midst a quiet afternoon.

A troublesome miscalculation Alhaitham tsks at internally as he wrings out the pillowcase into a sink before tossing it back into the washing machine. Button-down shirts and blouses, wrinkled from the process of twisting out as much rainwater as possible, sat in damp piles awaiting their turn to be rewashed.

As he measures out the detergent he can hear the rattles and clanks of the pot and pans from the kitchen. A late dinner in preparation, a task which was supposed to be his this week.

When he woke up to the pattering of rain drumming against the window panes, the afternoon long gone, it stirred an ever-so-sinking pit of dread. Second only to the unamused stare of his wife as she replicated an overconfident statement:

“Less than a 30% chance, Alhaitham?”

How unfortunate it all was, that the area where this quaint house resides was part of that 30% of the forecasted area.

Teal eyes watch the bedsheets whirl and fumble as they spin in the wash, contemplating the circumstance and further action.

There is only one spare bedding set in the closet, so it’d be wise to allow you to have it for tonight as all the sheets and covers get rewashed and dried.

Your bed is about the same size as his, so two bodies wouldn’t have an issue fitting. At this rate, the two of you just slept in whichever bed was the most convenient.

However, given the current state of things, Alhaitham wonders if he should prepare himself to brave tonight on his bare mattress with a flimsy spare blanket and pillow.

He might as well return to the couch for tonight if that was the case.

The accumulation of all the years of science, mathematics, and research, Alhaitham wonders if there was ever a bright mind who came up with a formula to calculate how displeased one’s wife is.

What would be the factors plugged into the equation? And how accurate would it be?

More specifics needed to be gathered, something the man couldn’t do in the refugee of the laundry room. Thus, Alhaitham must brave a journey into the kitchen. His slipper-clad footsteps are slow and methodical as the kitchen appears from around the corner of the hallway.

Sights honed in on your back as you stood by the stove, a rich aroma wafting through the air.

Sleep still dusted your hair, evident in the few unruly strands sticking up erratically on your head, you made no attempt at fixing it. One hand is too occupied with stirring the pot on the stove, and the other set upon your hip.

Your stance wasn’t exactly tipping the scales in his favor.

Cautiously, Alhaitham made his way to you. Stopping just a few paces as your eyes peer over your shoulder, stoic gaze halting him in place just a few paces away. The faded imprint of the crumpled blankets and couch cushions on your cheek.

His hand twitches with the urge to run his thumb along the impressions, but rationally warns him of the consequences.

“The laundry?” No discernable tone in your voice.

“Everything has been collected and wrung out, I’ll rewash everything tomorrow.” It’s best to answer your questions this time.

“Hmm, they were out in the rain for quite a while now. They were dripping out onto the floor when you brought them in.”

“I’ve mopped away any rain and mud tracked between the back door and laundry room.” Teal eyes quickly checked the aforementioned area to ensure they were pristine before returning to you.

“Hmm.” You turn back towards the stove.

The soft ticks of the clock accompany the waning drums of raindrops against the glass, the kitchen hood whirring as a ladle continues to stir in a pot. A quiet lull engulfed the home. Treading on the side of caution, Alhaitham inhales deeply.

Without opening the box, one will never be able to confirm to fate of Schrödinger's cat.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Hmm? Well, it’s raining tonight, what better to eat on a rainy night than some Sabz Meat Stew, no?”

He’s careful to not sigh too audibly, lest he goes to bed with a stomach half-full of instant noodles and that miffed stare of yours.

Alhaitham decides to hold his tongue as teal eyes continue to watch you add more spices to the pot. Studying how nicely the apron is tied around your waist.

But it wouldn’t be wise of him to stand so close when the fabric of his shirt was still damp with rainwater transferred to him by the soaked laundry and sky.

His chain of thought was interrupted by the chimes of your phone on the countertop, catching your eyes as well as his to peek at the over. A certain name is displayed across the screen. It’s as if the hands of fate wanted to throw more salt into his face.

Bahram (Manager)

It’s a Saturday night, for what reason would an employer need to contact an employee so late?

Alhaitham’s focus shifts to your gaze which is still honed in on the screen. A bitter tinge crawls up the tip of his tongue, threatening to spoil his appetite. Perhaps, he wouldn’t mind settling down in his bare bed with just a spare comforter without dinner tonight.

“Can you reject the call for me? He can wait until Monday to get me to resolve whatever he messed up,” you scoff before rolling your eyes back to the stove.

Swiftly he swipes to decline the call, let your voicemail remind Bahram of the concept of ‘off time’. The phone whirs again right after the first rejection, but he simply swipes decline again.

Pushing the device away with a bit too much satisfaction in his veins.

Glancing back at your frame, he lets out a sigh as he relents. Resting his head into the crook of your neck, careful to leave a bit of distance between your bodies and to not hamper your shoulder’s movement.

“Hm?” You hum expectantly.

“It was my oversight tonight.” A string of words a bit unfamiliar on his tongue, but stubbornness hasn’t been in his favor tonight.

“And?”

“I’ll be more cautious regarding naps.”

“Hmph.”

The lull returns, him resting his head on your shoulder and you continuing to watch over the stew. Teal eyes on you and your eyes on the stove. Until your shoulders raise with a deep inhale.

“Go get changed out of that wet shirt then set the table, this bastardized version of ‘soup’ will be ready in 20 minutes.” You reach for a skillet just off to the side.

He hums this time, the liberation from treading in suffocating lull tugs at the end of his lips. He surmises that laying his head against you for a few moments more won’t be so consequential.

The patter of raindrops still splattered against the glass panes of the window, drops which warped and blurred the scenery beyond the glass. Not that there’s any scenery to look at, not with the dreary clouds crowding the sky.

A heavy sigh huffs through your nose, curling onto your side as you adjust your pillow.

A filling dinner, a warm shower, and soft comforters. Factors that should contribute to a restful night’s sleep, or at the very least make your eyelids weary with the weight of lethargy.

Yes, perhaps those components should’ve granted you entry into the reprieve of a dream.

If it wasn’t for the fact you’ve intruded into the domain of slumber twice already today.

And the tempter who lured you to do so currently has his arm wrapped around your waist.

Alhaitham’s chest rises and falls against your back, soundly asleep without an ounce of guilt over the predicament he’s partly responsible for.

Lifting your head off the flattened pillow, your body twists around to fluff the stale stuffing back up before settling back to your position.

His body rested against yours just as it would any other night. But there’s a weight at the corners of your lips, one only grew heavier as your ears witnessed each content exhale resounding from the man who seemingly stole your sleep.

If you were crueler, you would’ve exiled Alhaitham to the couch or his barren mattress.

However, he’d probably sleep just fine regardless.

Canting your head up, you flip your pillow to the other side once more.

Your rolls and rhythm were abruptly interrupted by the clasp of two harsh hands pulling your hips into his, the contours of his rigor now digging into the plush of your ass. Forcing a stunned gasp up your throat.

“It seems like my wife has quite a bit of energy.” His timbre deeper from grogginess.

Ah, all the twisting and turning you did just to adjust the troublesome pillow must've disturbed him.

The softness of your ass cradled against his pelvis through the thin material of a button-down, an item borrowed from his closet that you’ve designated as sleepwear, and his sweatpants.

‘Serves him right.’

Your attempts to twist out from his iron-clad hold only ground your ass more against the stiffness, earning a grumble from his lips.

“Oh? And who’s fault is it?” You retort, still protesting in his hold.

Snaking one hand downwards Alhaitham presses against your lower stomach to arch your ass further into him. Leaning his face closer to yours.

“Do you want me to take responsibility?” His whisper ghosts over the shell of your ear.

You could feel the pads of his fingertips tracing under the loose button-down.

“Shouldn’t you resolve the issues you’ve caused?” A huff leaves you.

The outline of his shape pressed along your skin, the plushness of your bottom contrasting against the rigidity.

“I can say the same to you.”

The pads of his fingers trail up your heated skin, crawling along your torso, feathering touches alighting your senses like sparks. Massaging the tired yet restless muscles. You sigh in contentment.

The billowing button-down dragged up by his vascular hand, unveiling your skin to the cool sheets. Wandering touches slow as they rest in the valley of your breasts. His fingers enclose around one mount, gently twisting the defenseless nipple.

“H-hey! Hmph-“ Barely catching a moan before it fled past sealed lips.

“Hm?” His lips are now right next to your ears. “Surely you foresaw this, I’m just helping my wife with all her excess energy.”

His forgotten hand made its presence known as it kneaded your hips, cunning touches breaching under the feeble defenses of your panties. Effortlessly brushing them to the side, long fingers encroaching closer to their destination.

Your thighs react, squeezing together to prevent him from venturing further. Unfortunately, it was all in vain, for his fingertips already dipped into an all too familiar sap.

“See, you seem quite eager,” he taunts.

Stubbornly, your body attempts to buckle away from his influence. Face firmly pointed away from his lest he peeks at your heated cheeks.

Alhaitham abandons the perch on your breast, two large hands attempting to tame the bucks and rolls of your hips. He releases a slow sigh into the crook of your neck.

“Are you not feeling it tonight?” His hands remain where they were, but the strength missing.

At the lack of resistance, your hips seem to have lost interest in their writhing, staying within his yielding hold. Internally, you chiding your body for being so straightforward. The only thing blocking an answer from exiting your throat was that fickle ego of yours.

“Won’t you allow me to make up for my blunders today, wife?” He soothes his hand along your leg.

With that stubborn ego of yours still biting down on your tongue, you simply nod your head. Feeling the heat of your cheeks reflected to you by the pillow.

Permitting your thighs to give into the tow of his grasp. Allowing the grip of one large hand to pull your bent leg open, exposing your vulnerable cunt. Shielded from the view of the raindrops by a mere blanket.

The hand snaked under your waist took swift advantage of the oppurtunity. Sliding one firm finger down to part the fold of your slit as his warm hand cups your greed.

Alhaitham continued with the caresses of his fingers. Your lashes and lips pressed tightly shut, your leg still held in his tender hold. His slow breaths brush ghosting your skin.

He spreads the slick along your slit, the tips of his fingers ever so often knocking against the bud at the very top. Teal eyes catch the sudden jolts of your body every time it happens.

He moves his fingers downwards, slowly parting the now soft folds of your core. Feeling the subtle puckers of your entrance as his touch traced closer, more wetness dribbling out from the honeypot.

The tip of his finger now encircles the fluttering hole. Your hip subtly bucked into his hand, as if to lure him in a soundless plea.

Breaths getting deeper as your eyes follow his touch, the warm pad of his index finger twirling against your clit. Stoking a burgeoning fire with each slow circle. Your placid sighs fill the lull.

His middle finger ventures past the entrance of your satin walls welcomed with a lewd squelch. Curling his finger against slick walls to test the give, he wonders if this hidden oasis is etched into his shape yet.

Diligently, his digit continues to sink in and out of your weeping hole, making your teeth sink into the flesh of your bottom lip. The squelches increased in volume as trickles of nectar began pooling on the sheets. Walls clamping around a lonely finger, it wasn’t enough to quell that mounting heat within.

A second deft finger joined in, sliding past a hungry entrance. A tangled dance amongst gummy walls as they curled and stretched the space. The lewd squelches resounding in your ear, a whimper trapped in your throat. The heel of his warm palm now pressed flat against the soft mound of your cunt, every movement of his hand resulting in a grind against your clit.

Each grind causes a hot flash to shock throughout your body, starting from your curled toes to the very top of your head. The jostling of your hips and legs gradually expels the blanket off the bed.

“Mmph!” A whine from a sudden surge of bliss when his thick fingers curled against a spongy patch deep within.

“T-there! More there!”

Your body writhes, no longer docile under the white searing pleasure frying the ends of every nerve within your being.

He gladly obliges. Unrelenting rhythm slipping in and out of your convulsing walls. Ensuring to grind against that spongey patch.

Your body twitches and flails in reaction. Trying to find some way to handle this surcharge of sensations.

Legs instinctively wanting to shut together as if to cease this turbulent sensation, unfortunately, your pitiful strength gave no resistance against his rigid hold.

Piqued by the sweet tune, Alhaitham watches the scrunch in your trembling brows. He repeats his actions, another mewl leaves your lips as your head leans further into his shoulder.

The mellow pace of his fingers suddenly amps up, retreating out only to clap back in as his palm presses into the twitching bud.

“Ah! Haitham.”

A pressure mounting up, a sirens call beckoning you closer and closer to a hazardous cliff’s edge. The only foundation for your sanity is thousand-count fabric, thus you twist the silk fibers as tremors overtake your body.

Walls clamping down to trap his thick digits inside as it spasms. Muscles tensing and quivering as your back arches away from his chest, parted lips with nothing choking past them.

Three thick fingers sink deeper into your pussy without a hint of resistance, as a reward he makes sure to roll your overstimulated clit in firm circles with his palms. Judging from the violent tremors in your legs, it seemed you were almost there.

Just at the cusp of rapture when your hand tangles into his ashen-locks, canting your head back so that your panting lips could capture his. Alhaitham returns to gesture with just as much fervor in his kiss, swallowing down your sweet mewls for himself.

With a singular gasp, the siren’s call had beckoned your sanity to drown in the murky depths. It’s as if you lost control of your body to the possession of pleasure.

Eyes rolled back and lips broke away as breathy moans escaped the prison of your throat, a haze heavy over your thoughts, pride long lost amongst the gale of an orgasm.

The beckoning depths of euphoria welcome your descent.

Your limp frame rests against him. A light layer of sweat coating your panting chest, blurred vision merging and blending the details of the ceiling above the bed.

Alhaitham coaxes the contractions of your core, riding out the waves of their squeezes and sucks against his fingers. Earning an addictive whimper from you when his digits pulled away. Entranced by the glimmering string of nectar stretching between his fingers and your oasis.

Trailing back up to your face, he notes the return of your hazy irises from their ogle of the bedroom ceiling.

“Better?” Teal gaze watching the pants of your chest as they steady.

‘No, not at all’, a statement just at the tip of your tongue, but your lips were busy attempting to grasp deep breaths. The surplus of vigor festering into unquenchable desire. To be closer, deeper, more. You needed more.

Where words fail, action must take its place. Even before your mind finishes up the scheme brewing within, your lips catch him off guard, plush lips embracing his in a tender waltz.

Your body rolls back so that your breast can press against his chest through the thin fabric of his stolen shirt.

At the tender caress of your kiss, teal eyes disappear behind ashen lashes, the clasp of his grip loosening. Allowing you the mobility to finally pull your body on top of his, lips never once parting until you were finally settled atop his broad body.

A certain stiffness makes its reintroduction against your roused clit.

Breaking the seal of the kiss as a line of salvia stretches between your tongues, arms pushing against his firm chest to prop your body up as you gaze down at him.

“Still have too much energy?” Haughty eyes peer into yours, yet you can see the ardor oh so thinly concealed behind the brilliant teal.

“What do you mean? Aren’t you the eager one?” You hum, rolling your hips against the rigidness trapped behind the prison of sweatpants.

“Hmm.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth.

Large hands feel down along the plumpness of your ass as they drag a flimsy bit of fabric down your thighs. Daintier hands pull down the hem of sweatpants and briefs.

A fair exchange. Him helping you out of those ruined panties, and you freeing him from a compressed prison of cloth. Discarded and forgotten along the floorboards as the fog of passion obscured them from further consideration.

His vascular hands slide down the curves of your body, settling on your hip as your legs plant themselves on either side of his body. Alhaitham coaxes the hem of his stolen button-down just above your midriff. Sharp eyes surveying the puffiness of your clit, glistening with temptation.

Lowering your hips a breathy sigh leaves his lips and yours as the ridges of his cock drag against your slick folds. A few slow rolls starting from his leaking tip sliding down, thick veins skimming against your swollen clit. Precum mixing with arousal in a sinful concoction along his length.

Perhaps he should convince you to participate in more naps if he knew it’d make you this excitable.

“Oh,” you hum aloud, pausing your hips as you reach over to the bedside table.

Pulling open the drawer and rustling about a box followed by the crinkling of foil. Holding up the corner of the packet to your lip, tearing the foil while your gaze held his. Taking your time in dragging the condom out from its package. Easing it down his length while your fingers traced along, feeling each twitch and shudder.

“You sure do know how to test my patience.”

“Hmm?” You feign innocence.

A pair of shaky breaths mingle as Alhaitham helps position his engorged tip at your dripping entrance. Your hand guides him while raising your hips.

Other hand pressing his chest down for support as your thighs sink back down, a shameful squelch accompanying heavy breaths as your walls welcome his cock’s fat head.

Weeping pussy engulfing his girth in bit by bit until you clit kisses his pelvis. Sending jolts of searing pleasure that caused your satin walls to twitch and tighten.

Releasing a breathy sigh as you gather your senses.

Drawing out his cock inch by thick inch, sloppy trails of arousal caught on each ridge before dropping back down. Earning low grunts and sighs each time your satin walls swallowed his girth. The rhythm of your hips is paced and controlled despite how Alhaitham’s fingers dug into your skin.

A whine living your drooling lips with each slap of his skin against your clit. Pushing each tantalizing inch to stroke your starved walls until his skin claps against yours with a wet kiss. The bedframe creaks with each calculated movement, back and forth, back and forth the wood sings along.

Your head was light, intoxicated by a feverish potion of lust and desire. Feeling him reach the deepest depths, fat tip grinding against those spots which made your legs falter momentarily each time.

Utilizing the strength of both your arms now to support yourself. However, the jolts of pleasure that shot up your spine with each roll of your hips were too maddening to stop.

His calloused fingers massage circles into your hips. Squeezing the plush flesh to ground his sanity, watching your lewd face as you shamelessly bounced on him for your pleasure. Observing the subtle ripples with each slap of your hips and the jumps of your perky breast.

The ghostly touches of your fingers skim across his lips, prompting his eyes to connect with yours. Lush and glossy lips parted with your deep pants as your lust-hazed eyes peer down at him, unspoken plea inscribed within them. Who is he to not fulfill your desires?

Lurching his upper body up, he answers your plea, capturing your lips with his. Swiping his tongue against your bottom lip, deepening the kiss. A messy and feverish tangle as if to replace the air in your lungs with his.

Mewls and whimpers muffled by his skin, your hands moving to perch themselves on his broad shoulders. Your quivering legs grew limp as the strength of his hands took over. Barely processing the sweet nothings whispered as your core relishes in the fullness. Like an ache that’s been finally satisfied.

He wondered if tonight’s excessive vigor was fraying his control, or if your body was just this addictive.

By now any notion of decency and integrity has long left you, your hand clawing into his shoulders, marking him with the scars of rapture. A harsh thrust of his hips recoils through you, a wanton moan reverbing off the walls as it forces your tangled lips to part.

Tongue unable to produce anything other than strained moans, your head nods into his broad shoulder as your hips ground against his. The wet squelch announces the reciprocation of your walls.

The intervals of those unrelenting rams increasing between the tender thrusts, half-lidded eyes trained on the shivers of your body. Cock sliding against satin ridges of your wall. Grunts and pants reverberate through his throat, teeth clenching as your heat engulfs him again. Reaching deeper into your welcoming core as your lips fall open.

“Is this not enough?” You could feel the mirth in his whisper.

Closer, deeper, more. You want more. Walls aching for more, for his girth to jostle your core more, to extinguish this all-consuming heat within you. Hips floundering in harmony with breathy mewls.

Pressing libidinous kisses along his throat feeling the vibrations of his grunts and pants, a deep chuckle was soon felt against your lips.

“Good grief you are a greedy little thing aren’t you.”

A deafening slam of skin resounds through the heavy air, swiftly followed by another and another. A new tempo in this waltz of passion takes over like a wave sweeping both of you out to a sea of indulgence.

Possessed by the desperation of chasing a white light, your hand rakes deeper into his toned arms. Seizing anything to prevent your mind from abandoning your sinful body as his girth twitches within your velvety folds.

Sanity like a foolish sailor who’s beckoned by the lure of a siren’s voice, uncaring of the rocks which will sink them to the very bottom of the bemused tides. Keening against your husband shamelessly, a shameless wife on the cusp of her second fall into ecstasy.

The heavy scent of lust, the smothering heat, his unrelenting and unshakable thrusts amalgamating into the spark that lit your nerves alight. Toes arched into the air and eyes reaching the back of your head. Sobs and incoherent babbles resounding through the room.

Your devious walls clamped around his dick with maddening convulsions, gummy muscles suckling against his girth eager to quell your aching greed. It was too much.

His fingers claw into your soft hips, pressing your cunt flush against his hips with a sloppy slap of skin. The bulbous tip prodding against that weakness deep within you. Bruising grip holding your body in place as his lips crash back into yours.

Swallowing down his breathless groans with your sweet mewls and praddles.

A heat is spilled into the rubber, making your greedy walls quiver amidst the aftershocks of ecstasy. Alhaitham’s hips twitch with each subsequent rip of his orgasm, thrusting his length further into your crowded cavity with each one. The filthiness of it all prolongs your sinful depravity.

Chest expanding with pants, your lopsided shirt falling further down your shoulder. Your eyes return from seeing blinding white, exhaustion drenching each fiber of your body.

Limp figure crumbling against your husband as his back lays back on the creaking headboard. Even before your worn mind could conjure a coherent thought, your hands caress his starlight tresses.

As his own breath evades him Alhaitham releases one hand to cup your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your smoldering skin, guiding your lips back to his.

Basking in the warmth forged between your bodies, between drumming heartbeats and breathless lungs.

Two bodies lay under silken sheets, skin freshly wiped clean of sweat as the crisp breeze brushed against the curtains gradually erasing the sinful haze. The cool air aids your rising and falling chest to pace itself.

Muscles and bones heavy with fatigue, yet your eyes couldn’t bring themselves to retire behind shut lids. Not when those dreary clouds have finally retreated.

The moon hangs high in the sky, finally free from the shroud of rain clouds, she sits among the twinkling dots. Twinkling dots were in actuality brilliant stars, some even larger and brighter than the beloved sun.

Glimmering lustrously as they traverse through the contentious vacuum of space and past other nameless stars. A scene from a late-morning market trip wanders its way back from the depths of your memory, bringing its musings with it.

“Something on your mind?” A timbre voice beckons your conscious mind back from its trek.

Teal eyes set upon yours as your heads rest on plush pillows, just a breath away from one another.

“Hm, just senseless musings.” Your gaze shifts away from the window.

In a changed world with millions of hands will your hands and his find each other to make two pairs of hands?

In a different time with a million pairs of legs, will your steps and his steps still coincide in time with each other

In a new life with a sea of new faces, will a stoic face and another stoic face spot each other in the crowd?

What is the likelihood of those odds?

“If you keep letting your thoughts fester, it’ll only bring trouble upon yourself in the morning from sleep deprivation.” He shifts his position, supporting his cheek on his fist as he stares down at your face.

You sigh because he spoke exactly what those whispers of rationale were urging you, but the scoffs of pride had deemed these rampant inquiries ‘childish’. However, it’s a bit hard to avoid his eyes now.

“I was just musing about the soulmates concept again,” you confess.

Alhaitham hums in curiosity.

“Do you…” You take a deep breath, forcing the hard-to-vocalize question from your tongue. “Do you think we’ll only be together in this life?”

He’s silent. Just the muted chorus of Summer crickets rejoicing over the conclusion of a rainstorm resounding through the space.

“In a different time, a different universe, or the next life, do you think we’ll be soulmates again?” You muster together the courage to peer up at his face.

“I don’t recall ever reading an article or paper related to this topic, so it’ll be convoluted to get an answer.” He brings his other hand to his face, signifying his musings.

Right, there isn’t even a definitive answer for what happens after life passes, an afterlife, a cycle, or nothing, no one knows. Was this the only universe where life exists or are there infinitely many far out there in the stars? Does anyone know?

Your hand pulls your blanket up to your face, partially to cover the growing shame creeping up your face. That haughty voice within was right, these baseless questions are silly and childish. Perhaps even too morbid to bring up so unprompted on this weekend night.

What were you expecting Alhaitham to even do? Did you want him to give you an answer? What can he even do? A question you can’t even begin to understand, why would you even expect him to have some solution prepared?

What to do now? Can you just take back your previous words from his memory, so he’ll just forget what you said? Maybe just ask him to quell any more mindless musings from plaguing you tonight by placing his lips on your forehead? So that you could finally drift into the realm of slumber.

However, is that temporary solution enough? Enough to stifle the contentions and riddles clattering together into a clamorous ruckus in your head? Could sleep even spare you from their tumult?

“The Membrane Multiverse Theory or reincarnation, hm, do you have any personal theories you’d like to share?” The sensation of his fingers grasping yours brings you back to reality.

Glancing at him with a quirk in your brow, you wait for him to continue.

“Who knows, maybe we’ll be the first to publish something for this topic.” His thumb runs along your knuckles.

“So, is there a speculation or possible rationale you feel particular to?” Teal eyes reconnect with yours.

“Well…” You sigh, relishing in the warmth of his hand as you concoct a half-baked theory.

“There’s stardust from stars that had burst billions of years ago, that have somehow ended up on this planet. Subsequently, every being on earth has the atoms of stars in them. So, naturally by the law of conservation, the earth is where the atoms of the human body will return.”

“Based on the law that atoms cannot be created or destroyed?” He drones.

“Yes, they all had to come from something before them. The carbon in muscles, the calcium in bones, and the iron in blood. The atoms that make up you and I might become part of something else, or even of different people too.”

“Hm, that sounds probable.”

“But, then this brings up a whole new host of questions, such as, if the new people our atoms become a part of are even ‘us’? Will they ever meet? What if you become a tree and I a rock? What if the atoms of you end up on one side of Teyvat and I on the other end?”

You peer into his irises, but you were just searching for an answer that isn’t there.

For his beryl irises were impassive. But it was the impassive foundation you needed to ground your rambling thoughts and nonsensical musings into the desolate truth of it all.

The warmth of his hand slips away.

“Never mind, I suppose it’s the most logical to conclude that we’re just soulmates in this instance of time, in this universe, and only here.” Your hand closes over the empty space he left.

Maybe it’s wise to dismiss it as silly rambling and then withdraw from his indecipherable eyes. Is it too late to put this plan into motion now?

The weight of a muscular arm is draped over your waist, hand pulling you closer unlike your ploy to escape.

“But I have a few theories I haven’t shared yet.” He glances out toward the bedroom window.

“While the theory of reincarnation currently doesn’t have any solid scientific backing, in some way, the law of conservation of mass does give a bit of merit to that notion.” Alhaitham draws circles into the small of your back.

You hum in response.

“The atoms that created us will return to the earth after us and become a part of something or someone else’s molecular structure. A tree or a rock, a human or a beast, it’s all probable. However…” Beryl eyes return to meet yours.

“What’s stopping them from repeating the same molecular structures as right now?” He asks.

Maybe it was his turn to peer into your eyes to search for an answer, an answer currently brewing and forging between your united gazes.

“What’s stopping these atoms from returning to these exact molecular structures in the future? In a different time, the atoms of us now could one day in the far future come together again and make ‘us’ once more. Maybe just you, maybe just me, or maybe both at the same time.”

He frees his other hand from the duty of supporting his head, broad body settling down into the bed and blankets, allowing his face to move closer to your level upon his pillow.

“What’s the likelihood of those odds? Me and you again?” You ask.

Alhaitham pauses. All the bright minds of science, mathematics, and physics, have yet to come up with a formula to calculate such a thing.

What would be the factors plugged into the equation? And how accurate would it even be?

The ashen-haired man wasn’t sure, but there was at least a statistical observation that would provide some basis.

“A true 0% chance is an absolute impossibility, just as nothing can be proven absolutely 100%. Since we don't know the absolutes of time, existence, or physics. So, there’ll always be a non-zero chance.” Feeling the drums of your heartbeat against his chest.

“Then, when they do, I think I’ll spend my life pondering what could fit into the spaces between my fingers like this.” He slips his hand into the gaps of yours, intertwining them.

Then finally, he saw the smile he’d been yearning for rising on your lush lips. The ends of your eyes crinkle as it make its way to your irises as well. Your grip mirrors his as you nestle your face closer to his.

“You won’t get tired of this stoic face?” You taunt.

“Will you get tired of mine?” He counters.

Your shoulders quiver with stifled giggles.

“No, no I won’t,” you promise him.

“Then I won’t,” he promises back.

His larger hand brings yours closer to himself, all the while your attentive eyes watch failing to keep the curl of your lips under control.

“Any thoughts on the Membrane Multiverse Theory? How will your astute mind surmise the possibility of us laying like this somewhere else in the stars?” Honeyed-voice mimicking awe as your face inches closer.

“I believe I’ve shared enough, I’d much rather hear what your brilliant postulate is.” His tone casted with mirth, but the bite missing from teal eyes.

Letting a soft hum, your mind rifling through all the paragraphs and journals your hands had ever thumbed through.

The soft rhythm of his breaths kept time. Stringing the words together on your tongue, you hope this monologue of yours will provide some amusement for him.

“If universes are randomly put into 2 boxes of ‘yes’ and ‘no’, then on average the number of universes in each box would be the same. For every universe I’m not with you, there’ll be equally as many where I am with you.”

A coin toss, perhaps it was all just a coin toss after all. Whether or not the Akasha paired a stoic face with another stoic face, for the gaps of your fingers to fit his so perfectly.

It could have all been a coin toss, for one half to stumble upon the other half cruelly parted from them by the hands of unseen gods.

“Something akin to a bijection existing between both sets of universes?” He cross-examines.

“Maybe… If we were to assign one type ‘yes’ to a positive integer, and the other type ‘no’ to a negative integer, then perhaps we can construct a bijection from the positive and negative integers.” Your brow furrows in contemplation.

“If we submit this theory do you think the Akademiya would publish it?”

“Not likely, bijections are usually made between sets of elements like numbers, not sure if bijections can be applied to something like whole universes. I’m just hypothesising nonsense,” you sigh.

“But they did publish the nonsense known as The Lifespan of Love,” he interjects.

“Hm, then maybe there’s a non-zero chance they’ll publish our nonsense too.” You stifle a scoff.

“Hm,” Alhaitham hums in amused agreement.

His free hand pulls the covers further up over your frame then smoothing out the wrinkles. Observing the growing delays between your slowing blinks.

“Only you and I would turn pillow talk into an academic deliberation.” You couldn’t hold back the giggle any longer.

He sighs in agreement, nestling his head closer to yours on the plush pillows, teal gaze never once leaving yours.

“It’ll make any romantic keel over and die from how dry it is, wouldn’t it, Haitham?”

“I say let them.”

Scoffing and shaking your head at his crude declaration as a yawn slips past your lips, a conclusion to this nonsensical academic deliberation.

With one hand still intertwined in the tender grasp of another you pull Alhaitham closer. So that the spaces of your body could lay against the spaces of his.

The warmth of his skin mingling with the warmth of yours, pressed against one another. You drawing mindless shapes into his back, his hand tracing senseless ruins into yours.

Perhaps, an illogical attempt to echt memories into the stardust in your bodies.

So he and you could imprint the memory of each other into the very fibers of your beings. Then maybe someday when these atoms return to these exact molecular structures, they’ll remember this too.

The law of conservation of mass, the probabilities upon probabilities, and bijections used in an inconsequential pseudo-academic ramblings to no one but an audience of silent stars.

Alhaitham’s certain no academic publisher would spare a glance at them.

But this nonsensical instance in the continuum of time, feeling the rhythm of your heart on the other side of his chest next to his own, is his most precious epiphany.

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS.

#vivalabunbunfics #alhaitham smut #genshin smut #alhaitham x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #alhaitham fanfic #genshin impact x you #alhaitham x y/n #alhaitham fluff #alhaitham x you #alhaitham x female reader #genshin x reader smut #alhaitham x reader smut #alhaitham x yn #alhaitham x you smut #genshin fluff #genshin x reader fluff #genshin soulmates au

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ember-amber · 5 months

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From Sofware has this habit of coming up with ideas in a certain context, making it make sense in that context, and then liking that idea so much that they use it with the same name in other games, that don't have that context in their story.

For instance, fog walls. Mighty odd mechanic in dark souls isn't it? Just some random patches of unexplained fog, in later games they give it a different name like "nightmare wall" or "wall of golden light". But in the souls series it's just fog walls, in games where fog hold no special significance. Well, they were created in demon's souls, a game where a fog is slowly consuming the world, and it is emitted by demons. Those fog walls are places where the fog grows thicker, and because big demons release it, there is often a boss behind it.

Another smaller example is summoning in Elden Ring. Elden Ring doesn't take place in a decayed timeline with many alternate dimensions and ruined time, which used to explain how you summon ancient heroes and alternate chosen undeads in dark souls, but the game still uses "invading another world" and "phantom has returned to their world", with barely a few new words to explain it. What the hell does Host of Fingers even imply, it doesn't seem as important as Host of Embers, "host of the thing every ashen one wants".

And finally the one example I know from a different FS series. Assault armor. This isn't armor in any way, i'm pretty sure it does not block bullets, it's literally an explosion, why is it CALLED ARMOR. Well, "Assault Armor" originated in Armored Core:For Answer. There, the acs have a thing called "Primal Armor", a radioactive force field that dissolves most bullets. Assault armor is a move that empties your primal armor, releasing it as an explosion. You are ASSAULTING them with your ARMOR.

Like they are going "you know what this is, we don't need to explain it again". It's cute but it creates some very confusing situations

#armored core #armored core 6 #elden ring #demon's souls #armored core for answer

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toskarin · 1 month

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To celebrate Bandcamp Friday, I've updated both of my tabletop soundtrack packs, OMEN/CONSTANCE and NOMAD/VIRTUE

In a nice little twist of fate, both albums now have a similar runtime, clocking in at just over an hour each! I'm honestly just as surprised as anyone else is

Whether you're diving into the writhing abyss where eyed-things dare not crawl or warming your hands with the fire surging from your rival's overclocked heatblade, Ri47 Heavy Industries is proud to soundtrack your most memorable adventures

As is tradition, I've also knocked a little bit off of both albums' price tags. If you already own either album, you already own both of these updates for free

So what's on the menu? Check below the break!

[Featured Track: Primordial Leviathans and the Vanishing Shore]

OMEN/CONSTANCE: Update 1 takes your table into places far from the light of the sun, featuring three new songs and two new ambient worldscapes themed around pelagic horror and the cruel tide.

With the authentic sounds of survival horror at your side, let the unspeakable sea erode the walls of a normal life, leaving nothing but the smell of salt and bygone rot in its many-mouthed wake.

Whether you would uncover secrets that ought to have been left beneath their shrouds or cling desperately to the side of some great and horrible truth, let OMEN/CONSTANCE - Soundtrack for Oneiric Roleplaying be your most ardent of accompaniments as you plunge boots-first into strangling darkness.

...and whispering water.

[Featured Track: Schimmelreiter]

NOMAD/VIRTUE: Farewell Update stands wreathed in the fires of triumph, featuring three new songs themed around a grand finale and the sacrifices made to forge it, to see this mission to its end — come hell or high explosives.

The Farewell Update is intended for use as a multi-staged encounter theme for the culminating battle of your campaign. To this end, the Farewell Update includes a traditional overpowered encounter theme, a surrealistic fanfare for the last desperate push towards victory, and a bittersweet epilogue track for tying up those loose ends before your ride into the ashen sunset.

Whether you cling to hot iron and force just one more moment's advantage, steady yourself against the shearing wind to pull the trigger one last time, or fall from the arms of a loving orbit to save just one life, let NOMAD/VIRTUE - Soundtrack for Mechanised Roleplaying be your copilot as you tear yourself free, rising from the wreckage to defy the best laid plans of mechanised gods and electronic devils.

Just over half a year from the album's original release date, after two free updates and well into its sequel's lifespan, Ri47 Heavy Industries decided to prepare a third and final update to our debut soundtrack as a surprise to those who got us here in the first place

From our house to yours, thank you for your continued support. - Rin

#ttrpg music #ttrpg resources #beam saber #LANCER #lancer rpg #vtm #call of cthulhu #vampire the masquerade #ttrpg #mecha #dnd

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leonaquitaine · 2 years

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GPose Guide: Dark-skinned characters

I got some questions about how to work with dark-skinned characters - and also heard some comments on how hard it is to gpose them. So here's a compilation of use cases, some techniques, and setups!

Posing in dark settings

This is where dark-skinned characters shine, pun intended. Point lights give a lot of flexibility, and character/environment lights are great tools to give volume and detach characters from the background.

In this example, 3-point sources are used to provide volume to the characters, without relying on character brightness at all. The Neneko Nikuman preset gives excellent brightness, contrast, and depth of field (DoF) options.

Posing in bright settings

Contrast is a powerful tool, and dark-skinned (and dark-clad) characters can use that to their great advantage.

In the following example, a hard white light is positioned to create a strong rim light for volume, with a support gold source for tone and a light purple point to bring up the character's face. The Neneko Cocktail preset gives rich metal tones and excellent contrast.

The second example is about color. The same preset (Neneko Cocktail) is used, with ADOF+BOKEH and ADOF+BLUR enabled to give a dreamy quality to the background. Light sources emulate the sky.

Colorful/Pastel clothing/scenario

You may have heard that dark-skinned characters don't go well with certain colors, like pink or white. That is not true: Dark skin palettes have as much width as pale ones, just in a different range - and light sources can bring them up.

The first example uses a very colorful background, with Neneko Lux driving the hue and brightness up. Instead of fighting it, we use the scenario colors to our advantage by projecting them around the character.

The second example is a portrait where we again use the scenario to provide hints about the light sources. Neneko Melonpan gives an excellent, smooth pastel treatment. Let's see the step-by-step from the original state to the final result.

The first light is placed to emulate a cyan reflection from the water. The second emulates the bluish reflection from the sky, and The third is pretty near and creates a sunny rim light.

With everything in place, we can enable the preset - and play around with DoF to decide how much we want to detach it from the scenario, taking away attention from the background and popping the character.

Posing together with fair-skinned characters

We can borrow some practices from real-life photography. The most important: position your light sources around the dark-skinned character. This will give you enough contrast to play with, and lessen the amount that reaches the other.

Composition (Extreme)

Compositions with lots of glow elements make it hard to pop the character features: since armor and weapons don't emit real light, everything needs to be compensated with the three-point lights, plus character and manual scene brightness.

In this case, the character is positioned in such a way as to hide frontal reflections while still bringing his expression out a bit with well-defined rim lights.

Comment: The default in-game lighting leaves much to be desired

This is certainly true to an extent. The in-game settings are apparently tuned towards a common denominator between wildly different form factors (i.e. PC, Playstation 3-5), so a muted palette is used.

This results in ashen colors and small gradient differences between dark tones in certain situations; keep that in mind if you're looking for locations. Again, lighting can be used to remediate - but not eliminate - these limitations.

Final Thoughts

This isn't, by any means, a comprehensive guide. Dark-skinned characters come in a glorious amount of shades and tones, so I tried to keep it simple and discuss some basic aspects.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask! It'll help others that may stumble over this thread.

And thank you for your patience!

#ffxiv #gpose #gposeguide #gposers #gshade #ffxiv guide #gpose guide

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dropout-if · 9 months

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Dropout Customization

Due to some questions about MC customization, I have decided to compile all the physical and personality aspects that are selectable about the Dropout.

A reminder that this is all subject to change and that new things may be added (or deleted). Feedback and ideas to further develop MC are encouraged.

Main Ideas

Name Surname Nickname

Sex, Gender, Pronouns (it's possible to customise them), Breast/Pecs, Penis/Vagina (If MC is transgender, their transition takes place while they're away) Title (Ms. / Mr. / Mx.)

Virginity or lack thereof.

If MC is trans (when they realized about it [high school, middle school, college] and if they told their family // the ROs already know, as MC told Uma and J, and word spread).

Birthday which establishes the Dropout's age as either 21 or 22 depending on the season (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

Major (Engineering, Biology, Chemistry, Computer science, Law, Economics, Education (in relation to science/maths/etc), Mathematics, Physics, Psychology). The Dropout's Major affects flavor text. These options are the ones approved by the Dropout's parents, though it's possible for MC to express interest in other degrees/topics (music, art, English, anthropology, archeology, classical studies, history).

Reason behind dropping out (MC got kicked out (they were caught cheating) MC didn't get a high enough GPA and dropped out / MC never even wanted to go to college and ultimately decided they wanted out / MC didn't fit in (they were discriminated, lonely, etc) though they really liked college / MC originally liked their degree and college but gradually lost interest in the entire thing / MC never liked their degree and decided to drop out / Something specifically related to mental health (mainly anxiety) / Impostor's syndrome.) This affects flavor text.

2 Coping Mechanisms (Alcohol, Tobacco, Drugs, Sleeping around, Avoidance, Overspending, Humor, *Hobby (overworking self) [Anger, Fake/forced happiness, Sadness, Indifference].) Each coping mechanism opens a variable and a storyline. You can choose two, though choosing one related to emotional responses [between brackets] automatically blocks out the others.

2 Hobbies (Singing, playing an instrument, songwriting, creative writing, drawing, sketching, sculpting, acting, photography, soccer, football, swimming, basketball, gymnastics, boxing, judo, karate, taekwondo, kickboxing, going to the gym, cooking/baking, dancing [ballet, contemporary dance, modern], yoga.) This affects flavor text and scenes.

Job (Bartender [Wanda, Statler is also around often], Cashier [Statler], Columnist [J (+Kai if poly)], Caregiver [Kai], Waiter/Waitress [Uma (+Travis if poly)], Tutor [Travis]) Each job gives you more time with a certain RO, as well as unlocking a storyline.

Personality Stats

Playful/Serious Honest/Dishonest Friendly/Rude Introverted/Extroverted Laid-back/Uptight Cynical/Idealistic Flirty/Reserved Family oriented/Individualistic

Others: Insomnia, Migraines

Physical Appearance

*It's possible to choose MC's appearance as a high schooler as well. This affects flavor text.

Height (very tall, talk, average, short, very short)

Skin tone (ebony, dark brown, light brown, russet, golden, olive, honey, tawny, tanned, fair, rosy, ivory.) Choosing any skin tone gives you the possibility of choosing to be a poc (idea I stole from Mila, @beyondthegame)

*Build (scrawny, skinny, lithe, lean, muscular, chubby, curvy, hourglass).

*Hair color (max 3 tones, 1 base and other 2) (possible to return home with a mess of dye for Maude to fix. NATURAL (Ashen blonde, Sunflower blonde, Strawberry blonde, Caramel, Honey brown, Chocolate brown, Copper, Auburn, Ruby red, Midnight brown, Jet black, Ebony black) NON-NATURAL (Pink, Violet, Lilac, Blue jade, Vermilion red, Snowy white, Silver, Emerald green, Canary yellow, Bleached).

Hair texture (kinky, very coiled, coiled, curly, wavy, slightly wavy, straight)

*Hair length (ear-length, chin-length, shoulder-length, below shoulder-length, chest-length, waist-length)

*Hair style (SHORT/MEDIUM: natural, side-parted, mullet, layered, bob, ponytail, twin ponytails, buzz fade, slick back, messy, wolf cut, bun. LONG: natural, high/low ponytail, messy, shaggy, California waves, a half updo, side-swept, bun, braid, twin braids, twin ponytails).

*Eye color (albino red, dark blue, light blue, dark green, light green, hazel, amber, chestnut brown, chocolate brown, black, grey).

Others

*It's possible to choose MC's appearance as a high schooler as well. This affects flavor text.

*Glasses (yes, no, contacts)

*Facial hair (No/shaved. Stubble, full beard, goatee, ducktail,van dyke, garibaldi, mustache, soul patch, light beard).

Scars, can choose as many as possible (Back, chest, abdomen, upper and lower arm, thigh, knees, calf, mouth area, neck, cheek, hands, eye area, shoulder)

*Tattoos (One big in X body area, patch-like bodysuit, bodysuit, one/two sleeves, just legs, a few tattoos all over, a small in X place).

*Piercings (Ears [helix, lobe, industrial], navel, tongue, nose ring and septum, eyebrow, lips, smiley, nipples, genital)

Dimples

Braces

Freckles (face, body, both)

Beauty mark, multiple (under eye, over lip, neck, body)

*Outfit/Style (streetwear, alternative, cute, preppy, casual, formal, business casual, dark academia, messy, boho/eclectic, comfortable)

*Bedroom, at family home and at new apartment (messy, colorful, emo, basic, boho, modern, industrial, vintage, minimalist, cute)

*Diet (vegan, vegetarian, pescetarian, keto, meat-eater, lactose intolerant)

Family pet (small/large dog, cat, fish tank, hamster/rabbit/guinea pig, cockatiel/parrot/canaries)

Characters

Closeness to all family members (tight-knit, close, so-so, cold, barely any relationship)

Same with the friend group

Crush on Statler during high school (yes/no)

'Popularity' during high school and college (popular, social butterfly [got along with many people but wasn't part of the popular groups], normal, loner, outcast [somewhat antagonistic in a way/rebel].)

#dropout if #dropout #cog wip #cog #choice script #hosted games #interactive fiction wip #interactive fiction #mc #gameplay

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syzygyzip · 4 months

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The Soul Still Burns: Analysis of the Lords of Cinder (DS3)

What follows is a short essay on the Lords of Cinder from Dark Souls 3, exploring their symbolism on spiritual and metatextual levels. After that is a related reading of Slave Knight Gael, the final adversary of the Dark Souls trilogy.

The Lords of Cinder are in many ways the primary adversaries of Dark Souls 3. This title they share, “Lord of Cinder,” refers to a personage who has rekindled the first flame, keeping the cycle of light and dark going.

Cinder is a substance which continues to burn without the presence of fire but does not reduce to ash. So euphemistically, it seems that the Lords are somehow stuck in their process of purification, and the game suggests that the world is stuck along with them; this is why it is the Ashen One’s task to “set them upon their thrones”—to hurry them along and thus allow the world to follow its natural decline. As individual characters, each of these Lords represents a different attitude that complicates and prolongs the cycle.

Through these stubborn Lords the game is commenting on at least two things. On the metaphysical level, it reflects the Buddhist idea that certain attitudes keep people reincarnating over and over again, unable to extricate themselves from the material world of suffering (samsara). While on the metatextual level, the game is suggesting that certain attitudes keep players coming back to Dark Souls again and again, starting new games, making new builds and revisiting old files.

The idea there on the metaphysical side finds an easy analogy in Buddhist doctrine: the “three poisons,” the three root causes of suffering. These are hatred, greed, and delusion. What’s interesting is that these essential vices also fit pretty easily onto the different types of players that are being caricatured by the Lords. We’ll break these correspondences down in a second.

But First: Why Do They Correspond? So we have these sets of three. Three lords, three poisons in Buddhism, three types of Souls players. How convenient. When we analyze art, we sometimes ask, “Huh, is this structure really there, or am I projecting it into the material?” And if the structure is really there, baked into the work, that doesn’t mean that it’s due to developer intention. Archetypal forms sometimes show up in work via an unconscious influence, be it due to the cultural milieu, personal psychology, or some a priori biological disposition of the human being.

And the thing about Dark Souls is that it’s an unusually honest piece of art, in that its creative team allows their own free associations and intuitions to show up in the work without too much self-censorship or questioning. They make space for a mystery to show up on its own terms, and in leaving its riddles unanswered, there is more space for discovery by the people who play it.

It should also be said that cultural ideas persist for a reason. Beneath the ethics and ideology of the people who originally named the Buddhist “three poisons,” there may be something timeless, something perennially descriptive of human nature. If that is the case, then it would make sense for this same triplicity to unfurl itself in other cultural products. So for one reason or another, these three poisons, these addictions, show up diegetically in the characters and are also expressed in player psychology.

I say all this just because sometimes I feel very aware of the disconnect between much of Souls lore discourse and the broader field of mythological study. Since we are gamers first, there may be this tendency to want to “solve” the lore, but that’s not what we’re doing here. Myth functions because it elaborates our experience of the world through affective resonance; it attaches images and characters and stories which help us anchor our own prelinguistic impressions of the world, cultivating our sensitivity there.

Anyway, let’s look at these Lords.

Abyss Watchers Poison: Hatred The lore of the Abyss Watchers is pretty clear: they have an obsessive fixation on the abyss, and are ready to raze an entire town if they suspect abyssal encroachment. This obsession has literally possessed them, as they are now “abyss touched.” Gaze too much into the abyss, etc. They carry such strong contempt for the disavowed object that they don’t care what comes between it and their sword. This is clearly demonstrated by the fact that they are a brotherhood yet are unhesitatingly slaughtering themselves again and again. Hatred has made them blind, and has also caused them to resign their individuality (they are identical, mere instruments of a transpersonal grudge). They cannot die, their hatred keeps them locked in combat.

Type of Player: competitive | Interest: combat The Abyss Watchers are a representation of PvP addicts. They have no powers other than tenacity; they perform the same combos repeatedly. When you are really gripped by a PvP binge in Souls, you often end up doing the same thing again and again. The fight takes place in a mausoleum, on top of many chambers filled with human remains. The fact that this boss fight is instructional about combat, specifically about looking for tells (a cloud of dust always signifies the end of their combos) might be another clue. There is no limit to how good you get at Souls PvP; every foe is an opportunity to improve timing and strategy. You can just keep stacking anonymous bodies under yourself.

Aldrich Poison: Greed Aldrich invokes the concept of supremacy many times: he is in the supreme area from Dark Souls 1; in the supreme boss room of that area; he wears as a crown the former supreme lord of that area. This is because he devours lords; he tries to take prestige upon himself through acquisition and incorporation—greed.

Type of Player: completionist | Interest: content Aldrich is a commentary on completionist players. He is someone who “plays the game to death”, acquiring every object, reaching every achievement, devouring the soul of the game through taking everything into himself. He becomes bloated by consuming as much of the game’s content as possible. The old God whose likeness he has adopted is Gwyndolin, who was, in narrative terms, the one pulling the strings in the land of the Gods. And in gameplay terms, he is a secret boss. So on both counts we have someone who is elusive, and exists more or less at the boundary of the gameworld. When a player tries to see every last little morsel of a game, they become somewhat like Gwyndolin, a manipulator of a virtual world. If you know too much about a game, you have the risk of being less immmersed.

Yhorm Posion: Delusion In Buddhism, the poison of delusion secretly underlies the other two poisons, as the impulse toward hatred and greed are ultimately born of some false view about reality. This is akin to how the profaned capital sits below the rest of the kingdoms. To beat Yhorm you essentially have to “play pretend” with him, picking up a fake super-weapon, or fighting alongside Siegward, a knight who appears to be somewhat deluded about the state of the world, enthralled in the same fantasy as Yhorm himself.

Type of Player: lore researcher | Interest: meaning The profaned capital is full of statues—fixed images of myth; and empty goblets—treasures with no utility. Not to mention the area with the swamp which is full of symbolic imagery, but serves no narrative or mechanical purpose. The entire profaned capital challenges us to make sense of it; it is the ultimate temptation of lorekeepers in DS3. It throws at us a disproportionate amount of reference to DS2, which is famous among Souls players as the least thematically sensible Souls game. The Greatshield of Glory is found right outside Yhorm’s room, in a conspicuous room full of treasure, and yet it is a very impractical shield and offers very little lore value. If a lore-minded player picks it up, it directs them to a legendary personage from the War of Giants, which raises far more questions than it answers. The same is true of much of this area—the Eleanora, the Monstrosities, the Profaned Flame itself—they are all there to get you to speculate. These are the players who come to Souls games again and again, trying to find the “ultimate meaning.” They seek the grail, claim to find it, and then chuck in a pile with the others.

Yhorm's story also imitates the primordial Artorias myth: forsaking his shield in preservation of something more valuable. Other than that Yhorm is largely a cipher when it comes to biography, with a void for a face, which itself epitomizes what must remain at the center of mythology and storytelling: mystery.

Sit Down and Seek Guidance So we have the three reasons that people become fixated on Souls: the combat, the achievements, and the mystery. But there is a fourth lord of cinder boss, who is conceptually apart from these three: the Lothric Twins. They represent yet another kind of person who must keep playing Dark Souls: the developers. Lothric is striving to produce “a worthy heir,” a proper sequel to Dark Souls 1. The Princes are bound to their chamber as the developers are bound to their project, as that is their curse—“but you may rest here too, if you like.” In this context we can see their duality as the dual nature of having to work on the game and also play it to death. The privilege and the loftiness of the promise of a great piece of art (Lothric), and also having to go back "into the trenches" of the work itself (Lorian). Notably, neither of them can walk, they just teleport around. They are stuck at work, trying to bring the new world into being. Also I can’t go this whole essay without mentioning the obvious: that the Ashen One is bringing Lords to their thrones, and we players and developers have to assume our little chairs and couches when we access this world.

Playing Beyond the Point of Pleasure Of course the most extreme example of someone stubbornly remaining in the world no matter what is Slave Knight Gael. He is looking for pigment, which seems to be a euphemism for the substance of humanity (the Dark Soul). He wants to give it to the painter, the world-creator, so that a new world can be made. He is willing to indulge in a wasteland of abject violence for as long as it takes in order to renew something. Ironic that he is probably only prolonging the current world in his obsessive drive to recycle it faster.

Let’s examine the relationship between the figure of the painter and her relationship to Gael. That she is a spiritual entity is obvious: we never see her touch the ground, she is always in an upper room and lifted on a piece of furniture. Among other things, she is a clear metaphor for life springing eternally. A creative child who continues to paint despite kidnapping and imprisonment. She is the heart of the painted world, itself a place that symbolizes the idea of the representation of reality.

I want to make sure this is clear, because it is a bit of a kaleidoscope to consider. Any subject in Dark Souls stands for many things, but something that the painted world specifically represents is the very concept of representation. So of course the places in our imaginations are painted worlds, but so is this physical world of appearance, the maya of mundane reality. Not to mention that a work of art is a painted world, and the game we’re discussing is a painted world. When a work of art is able to recreate itself in itself, we can see this funny effect of mirrors reflecting mirrors infinitely. This results in seemingly inexhaustible symbolic content—there is so much potential to find meaning and create connections. Because Moby Dick represents a work of literature; the Tempest represents a play; Twin Peaks represents a TV show, these works can offer extensive insights not only into their medium but into the nature of reality. In these and other examples, the representation of the medium within the work may or may not be a single subject, but since Dark Souls is formally a game about levels and level design, the painted world is the heart of its self-reflexivity. The painted world can be pointed to as the summary of this fractal device. And the personification of that device, its ambassador to the player, is the painter.

The miracle or divine child is also an archetype familiar to us from Lothric, in their struggle to produce the “worthy heir.” Reality seeks salvation through the appearance of grace. They want it in a clear, incontestable form—to be able to point at it and say, "thank goodness we went through all that, because look, now here is the meaning, here is that which validates all that came before." In the world of Dark Souls 3 the religion of the masses is the Lothric stuff; meanwhile knowledge of the painted world is much more obscure. Lothric’s religion is obviously regulated and hierarchical, while Gael’s devotion to the painter is highly personal and private: he carries around a scrap of painting; he prostrates to a hidden idol in a small chapel; he considers the painter his family. He is emotionally close to the object of his worship.

But whether it’s Lothric or Ariandel, they are anticipating the divine child to redeem the world. As an archetype, the child ultimately represents surprise. The possibility of being delighted by life in its creative novelty. The child as an archetype appears in our own behavior when we do something without any sort of contrivance or mental interference, doing something in the world which doesn’t seem to have come from who we conceive ourselves to be. This is miraculous. Such an action enchants the world, and there is no explaining it, even if it may weave all kinds of stories around itself, retroactively framing things that have led up to it as portents or promises. (Though not exclusive to him, this trait is well-known in characterizations of Christ, and DS3 is clearly indebted to Christian iconography, so do with that what you will). Regardless of the specific cultural invocation, the divine child is a personification of something that happens within the human spirit. TFW you are renewed by a fresh and spontaneous engagement with life.

The grace of the miraculous often comes to us through play. Play is more of an attitude than an activity; the feeling of play may come to us through making a painting, or chatting with a friend, or moving around in a video game. We can play video games idly, competitively, experimentally, creatively, studiously, whatever, the feeling of “play” can show up regardless. We can sit there playing a certain game from a certain motivation, and feel totally rote and joyless, and question, “Why am I doing this?” Or we might sit there and play the same game with the same motivation, feeling totally lit up by it, its purpose to us obvious and self-validating. We are not even questioning why we are doing it, we are enjoying life.

This is really the ground that the miraculous tends to land on. Grace, meaning, and an immanent love of life are more likely to show up when we are in flow and not exercising our capacity for self-assessment. But like everything in life, we mistake the images and objects around us for the feeling of grace. Any given object might only be the catalyst once; it’s not about the object. This is extremely easy to see in cases of acute nostalgia; adults chase enchantment through collecting Zelda memorabilia or going to Disneyland, in pursuit of what kindled their spirit as a child. It was never really the game or the character that was doing it, it was what they were able to access within themselves.

So anyway Gael has yet to realize this. He thinks the Dark Soul is out there in something else. That it will be yielded as a drop if he just kills the right enemy, or 10,000 enemies, or goes to the right place at the right time. You can see that this is something of a synthesis of all the other Buddhist defilements: there are elements of completionism/greed, violence/hatred, mysticism/delusion. There is even the suggestion of the developer of these games again, in that Gael is a “slave,” forced into participation in the world to assist some creative apotheosis. (Isn’t it funny that his weapon is a worn-down executioner’s sword?—whether the person coding or the person playing, we are all “executing” command after command). The thing that really keeps him on the wheel is something beyond any of the player types and their vices; it is almost some sort of pure, amoral automatism, a churning drive that on one side resembles wanton nihilism, and on another side single-minded piousness. Is one disguised as the other, or has Gael somehow stepped beyond this binary? Yet another dichotomy in Dark Souls that begs to be reconciled, but whose tension creates the opportunity to participate creatively in its expansive mythology. When things are held apart we can move between them.

To really understand Gael, we have to contend with the question of a person’s relationship to their own soul, since that relationship is so plainly suggested by Gael and the painter. (This question, by the way, is much elaborated in Elden Ring, with its repeated foregrounding of the image of the maiden or “consort”). If we were to see Gael and the painter as partitions within one person--whether she is his soul, or his inner life, or his better nature, whatever—then in any case Gael is the side which goes out into the world and experiences it. He is the creative extension into the world as its active participant and realizer. Yet he is clothed as the warrior, the executioner. While the one who is dressed as the artist, the painter, just stays in her room and imagines the world—but this is where the magic of creation is really felt. We involve ourselves in life, or in a game, but we are only really changed and renewed when that exterior experience is “brought home” into the inner life. We do something “in the game,” but the act of “painting,” in renewing the world through our creative interpretation, is a decidedly interior experience.

#dark souls #dark souls 3 #lords of cinder #game entrainment #dark souls analysis #dark souls lore #ariandel #slave knight gael #the painted world

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ptn-imagines · 3 months

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I bloody hope you aren't overwhelmed with numerous requests yet (please take care of yourself and rest well!) but may I please request a one shot telling how Adela wants to help her beloved (female sinner as well) get rid of her unpleasant remembrances via a haircut but the sinner refuses to cut her hair as it now holds the most precious and charming memories as well – the ones about Adela? Thank you very much in advance.

Here you go, anon! This is my very first imagine for this blog, so I hope it was worth the wait! I feel like I fell off towards the end, but eh... You know what they say about being your own worst critic.

THE PRICE OF FORSAKEN MEMORIES [ sinner reader x adela ]

rating. teen and up audiences cws. depictions of ptsd and disassociation, implicit hallucinations (visual and audible) word count. 1,683 words.

Mania, among those afflicted, was primarily characterized by the suffering it wrought. Blood, sweat and tears; these were the things that the illness seemed to feed on, the things it was most skilled at drawing out. Mania would bleed a person's heart dry, and then, and only then, would it allow the withered husk left behind to depart from the world. It was a brutal and sadistic inevitability, and even Sinners knew they simply had more time than the rest. Still, amid all the misery and pain, there were good days; days where the Mania was quiet, and the afflicted could play at being “normal.” Healthy. Uninfected. Something other than the refuse of society.

Today, for you, was not one of those days.

You'd buried yourself underneath every duvet you owned to stave off the frigid chill that seeped into your bones. Now, your skin sweltered, drops of sweat pouring down your forehead; and yet, your teeth continued to chatter as shivers wracked your body, fragile in a way known only to the Mania-ridden.

You could feel your blood sprinting through your veins like it had places to be, your treacherous heart spurred into an overtime frenzy. Reason and past experience told you you weren't going to die here – but oh, it certainly felt as though the last grain of sand in the hourglass had fallen for you.

At least I'm not coughing blood this time. A macabre musing that claws its way to the surface of the muck. It carves a smile onto your lips, half-delirious with pain as you are.

You keep your eyes shut. Nothing can muffle the whispers, then the shouts and the screams – but you can blind yourself to the hazy shadows that lurk in the corners, turn your back to the memories that vie for you to bring them to life. No. Not today.

Your body shudders. A cough spills from your throat. If you spoke, would you know your own voice? Nightmares thread with reality as you lay there, a prisoner with no chains, shackled to that day, both your origin and your ending.

A bell rings through the apartment, sharp enough to cut through the empty haze. A bell, a bell, what did it mean again? Your mind struggles under the weight of your half-buried past as Mania tries to claw you back into its wretched grasp. A bell…

Adela. The thought is a lantern shining through the oppressive gloom. Your eyes snap open, the specters fleeing from the light she has brought to the tiny apartment. Your heart still beats to an uneven tempo, but it's no longer the sickness making you dizzy.

“Dearest, are you in here?” Her voice, sweet and silvery like birdsong, is muffled, but you can hear her footsteps approach. You're still too weak to get up, so you wait, a little smile on your lips. It's been a long day. You can't wait to see her.

The door creaks open – you were supposed to call someone about that, weren't you? – and Adela's beautiful face peers into the bedroom. You offer her a little wave, and she breaks out into a radiant smile.

At least, until she notices your ashen-faced features; her smile melts into a worried frown, and she's at your side in a moment. She feels your forehead for a temperature, fretting like a mother hen. She always does this. It never gets any less adorable.

“Are you alright, dear?” she worries, scanning you for obvious signs of malady. “You have a fever… Are you sick?”

You giggle a bit despite how it scrapes at your raw throat, leaning into her tender touch. You are sick, but not in the way she means. “Just a bad day,” you whisper, reaching to intertwine your fingers, and you see the moment realization dawns on her. Of course, she knows; she's a Sinner too, after all. She cannot remember what trauma triggered her change like you can, but Mania finds its ways to torment her even so.

“Oh, my beloved…” Adela's free hand goes to your cheek, gently caressing your face. “I'm sorry. I should have been here.” She's always like this; always blaming herself for things she couldn't possibly control. You don't think you'll ever change this about her, not for lack of trying.

Still, you don't want to let her dwell on it, so you shake your head, rasping a reply: “You're here now, ‘dela. That's… what matters most to me.” You give her the best smile you can, comforting her in the only way you currently know how.

Adela blinks a few times, as though she's surprised you're not blaming her. She probably is; the silly woman takes so much of others’ burdens onto her own shoulders that she's forgotten what it's like not to be responsible for somebody else's woes. “...Thank you, dearest,” she finally manages to say, giving your hand a little squeeze. “Still, forgive my saying this, but you look truly awful. How can I help?”

Your eyes flutter close as you let out a considering hum. “Tea. Then cuddles.”

A few minutes later, you're sipping at a cup of Adela's special tea blend while sitting in your girlfriend's lap. Her hands stroke through your hair, so gentle and kind, and her warmth combined with the sweet and delicate aroma of the drink banishes the darkness that yet lingers. A contented silence settles over the pair of you, basking in the safety and adoration of one another.

…No, not quite contented. Something's on Adela's mind; you can tell by the way her hands occasionally pause before resuming their stroking. You think about asking her about it, but she beats you to it; a gentle sigh passes her lips, and she speaks.

“It was a very bad day for you, wasn't it?” she asks quietly. You glance at the mirror on the wall and see that Adela is fixated on a particular spot on your back. You can imagine what she's seeing, even if it's only in her mind; tresses of twisted, mangy hair spilling over your shoulders, the embodiment of your stress and your anxiety. You wonder how long it is after today.

You can't deny it, so you give an affirmative hum. Adela leans forward to slowly rest against your back, eyes meeting yours in the mirror as she rubs gentle circles into your shoulders. It's a blissful sensation, and only the prospect of the upcoming conversation keeps you present in the moment.

“I don't know why you don't let me cut it away, my love,” she whispers, her breath tickling your ear. You don't remember quite exactly how you found out about Mad Shears; you suspect Adela tampered with those memories. Nevertheless, you'd remembered enough to find your way back to the hairdresser, even after she fled to another neighborhood. She'd been shocked, but… that was years ago now, and you didn't like to think of it much. It had led to a beautiful love blossoming between the two of you, and that's all you cared to dwell on.

“You're in so much pain,” Adela continues, and you remain silent, trying to gather together the words to say. Adela takes that as a cue to keep talking. “I could fix it all for you. Dearest, why won't you let me help you?”

You sit up properly, and do your best to ignore the twinge of your heart at Adela's little disappointed sigh. “My pain… It's not just tied to the day I became a Sinner, is it?” you answer, your eyes never leaving those of your most beloved in the mirror. “It's entrenched in my Mania. You'd have to wipe my memory completely to erase it, and even then, there's a chance traces of it could linger, right?”

Adela was silent for a moment, hesitant in the face of the flaws in her ability. Her eyes lowered, gaze once again falling your hallucinatory locks of hair; by the way her fingers twisted around nothing, she was fruitlessly attempting to comb out the mess of worries. “But you'd still feel much better than you do now,” she murmured. “Isn't it worth a try?”

“It's a short-term solution to a long-term problem, Adela.” You finally turned around to face your girlfriend properly; her shocked gaze lifted up to your face, and you reached out to stroke her cheeks, smiling. “Besides, even if I was happier for a little bit… I'd eventually just end up even more miserable. Do you know why?”

Adela is silent for a long while, her gaze on you feeling like flames licking your skin. Eventually, ever so slowly, she shakes her head, looking lost. “I don't know. Please tell me.”

“Because… I'd be losing you, the person I love more than anyone or anything.” Adela's eyes widen with shock; even though you feel this should be plain to see, it's clear that such an answer hadn't ever crossed her mind. “Adela, my love, you're the reason I ultimately get up each morning; you're why I haven't curled up and died yet. Without you… I'd be swallowed by my Mania sooner or later, memories or no.”

The other Sinner stared at you as though she was seeing you in a whole new light. Wonder was the one word to describe her expression. Eventually, she shook herself out of it, features curling into the heartfelt smile you adored so much. “I can't say I understand, but… I do trust you. When you say these things… I can't help but feel they must be true.”

“That's good enough for me.” You hold out your arms, and Adela melts into them. She's deceptively strong, but right now, with her body curled against yours, she reminds you of a weak and fragile baby animal. You hold her closer. “You don't have to understand, love. As long as you don't go all Mad Shears on me in my sleep.”

It's a joke, and Adela must know it, judging by the light giggle she lets out. Still, her reply, almost inaudible, is in earnest.

“I promise, my dearest.”

#ptn #path to nowhere #ptn adela #path to nowhere adela #adela #ptn imagines #path to nowhere imagines #imagines

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calicoquiltedtranshag · 7 months

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I wanna spend a moment on Ivanovich, head of the crime family Goncharov, Katya, and Andrey are all a part of.

First off, Willem Dafoe. Brilliantly cast. There’s a light in Ivan’s eyes that I don’t think you could get from anyone else, and his delivery is always just...spot on.

But about the man now.

Ivan is a monarch without a kingdom. A patriarch evicted from his home. Throughout his screen time on film, he tries to portray it as otherwise, describing the family's move as a "tactical choice", a "financially driven decision" - it's all a front. He hasn't been able to go from being the USSR's biggest and meanest arms smuggler to a cafe owner humbly.

For some members of his group, this is a chance at a new life. Even has Ivan schemes and plans to angle himself to power in Venice, people like Katya, Goncharov, and Andrey are all living their own lives for a bit. Goncharov works the bar. Katya is a journalist. Andrey is picking up being a Gondolier. For Ivan, the idea that any of them have a genuine desire to leave this game of power never crosses his mind. He's always looking for the next job, the next domino to topple.

He treats Goncharov like a son, frequently outright stating so as well. This behavior, of course, only lasts as long as Goncharov obeys his orders and agrees to carry out his plans without question - and at the start of this extremely long film, that's what he does. Although Goncharov enjoys his life as a barista, he has no illusions about it being a way of life - there are jobs to be done. Pieces to take off the board - and Ivan knows the game.

At least, Ivan thinks he does.

After our introduction to our main tragic heroes, Gonch, Katya, Sofia and Andrey, we are led to Ivan's office. The level of faux power here is...palpable. A delicately carved wooden chair and desk set in a room with peeling wallpaper and cracked windows. A bookshelves filled with a handful of titles - all charred from the burning of the Family's manor. It's the same with everything else around the room. Paintings with blackened frames and shattered glass, ornate chests spattered with dried blood from the firefight as they left.

For all intents and purposes, their lives ended that day - but Ivan refuses to let go of the past.

His original speech is an impassioned rally to his most loyal inner circle - asking them to begin slipping into the local government and people. See what is needed, what is wanted, and who can supply -

And as he raises his arms, proclaiming the Family's rebirth from fire...

He's shot through the gut. More blood across the ashen chests and books.

He survives this unfortunately - but I think the fact that he still doesn't back down, even wounded, speaks volumes about the man. He's going into shock and he's still giving orders, telling Goncharov to tighten security, tasking Andrey with gathering info about possible enemies, and asking Katya to interrogate the family for moles.

That stubbornness, that need for control - it ends up being the death of him. When Gonch eventually defies him, leaving Icepick Joe alive, Ivan completely loses it. Sofia and Andrey both lose their lives by his hand - *and he frames Gonch before tossing him into the fucking ocean.* When both he and Katya come to confront him, leaving a trail of blood and bullets in their wake...we see what Ivan looks like without all of his bravado.

So much of Ivan's pomp and cruelty is driven by the idea that *he is on top*. Even someone as dangerous, as efficient, and unstoppable as GONCHAROV follows his every order - he MUST be powerful. Unconquerable.

And then....he isn't. When they find him, he is rummaging through his desk looking for a gun - we've seen it a couple times. Ivan's had a couple moments of "weakness" as he calls it. Where the memories of losing his wife, his home - his legacy - overwhelm him and he considers taking himself out - and it's another one of those moments.

He has no one in his corner to catch him. No one to keep him safe. No one who trusts him.

It was...cathartic, almost, watching him crawl on his hands and knees, begging his former bodyguards for mercy. Making empty promises, crying, wailing - Gonch has none of it.

Without a word, Goncharov picks him up. Grabs him by his wounded side and sits him on his makeshift throne. Tidies Ivan's suit with a gun to his head and puts his hat on - and then Gonch goes back to join Katya.

We don't know who eventually fires. There's not a word said for a whole five minutes. Our last moments with Ivan...we see the fires through his eyes. Reliving his worst moments, watching everything he cared about being ripped away from him, over and over again - mirroring what he's done to Katya and Gonch.

And then a gun is fired, and the story of Ivan ends.

The man, ultimately, is a monster who chose to inflict his suffering upon those around him. He HAD family still, people he trusted, people who cared about him - and though his words were always honeyed, he was never afraid to put those who loved him in his line of fire.

#Ivanovich #Goncharov #Goncharov x andrey #goncharov x katya #Katya x sofia #Unreality #tw unreality #cw unreality #martin scorsese #willem dafoe

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vgilantee · 1 year

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dear devoted delicate {xavier thorpe}

xavier thorpe x reader

requested: by my beloved julie @websterss <3

words: 2.2k

a/n: the reader is an outcast of an unknown type, but not a werewolf. i love werewolves, but because of some of the setup, it's gotta be a non-werewolf reader. also i went a little off-prompt but it's still the same in essence, and all the important bits are included, just shuffled up a little. oh and yes the title is a line from the song older, but i used it mostly because dear is a sweet petname, and butterflies have delicate wings. i think i'm clever. oh and if you're new here, i hate writing dialogue and it shows in this also if you want to see some really cool drawings of poisonous plants, send me an ask (please) because one of my favourite things ever are vintage botanical drawings (this will make sense in a minute dw)

warnings: n/a. just some sweetness. there is swearing though so idk if that counts as a warning

pronouns: she/her (maybe she/they? i can't remember if i threw in a 'they' lmao)

Once a month - sometimes twice if you were incredibly unlucky - you were kicked out of your room for two days while your roommate had a handful of her younger cousins over.

Before Nevermore, you loved the full moon. Now you had a love-hate relationship. You still loved the moon itself, but you never enjoyed showing up at your friend’s dorm, backpack over your shoulder and sleeping bag tucked under your arm, sheepishly asking if you could once again sleep on their floor. You could, in theory, go back to your room to sleep as your roommate and cousins wouldn’t be there, instead transformed into wolves and galavanting around the woods. But in your second month at Nevermore, you did that, and woke up to a room full of the less-than-dressed human werewolves, some of whom had chosen your bed to curl up on, with you still in it. Never again.

Full moons on the weekend were the worst. With no classes to occupy your time, you often found yourself moving from place to place around campus to find somewhere you could hide out before getting bored and moving on.

Xavier watched as you jogged past the archery field, headphones in and running shoes muddied. It wasn’t unusual to see you go past during club practice, though you tended to avoid it after a downpour. He’d asked you about it once, after seeing you in the library one rainy Saturday afternoon.

“My room already smells like wet dog at the best of times, I’m not going to add to that.” Your voice was light with humour; you adored Sofi and she always made sure to not bring in any smells with her. But the comment stuck with Xavier and the next time you were sat next to each other in Torture through History, he sketched out a wolf before moving his hand to bring it out of the page. You giggled quietly as the ashen wolf shook itself, small flecks mimicking water coming off, then curled up next to your hand. You had smiled down at it fondly as it fell asleep before dissolving into charcoal dust, leaving a light smudge on your hand. Xavier watched you and pretended not to notice the warmth that came to his face as you looked up at him, the fond look still in your eyes.

“Xavier, are you going to take your shot? Or you just going to keep staring at ‘em?” He shot up a middle finger over his shoulder before turning to follow its movement to see his club mates smirking over at him.

After ducking into Ash’s room to change into more comfortable clothes, you make your way down to the library. Ash was generally the most reliable for having space on their floor for you to crash, the thin roll-out mattress a permanent feature in the beanbag corner of the dorm.

On your way, you detour to your room to kick your muddy runners under your bed, though not before making an ‘I’m watching you’ motion toward a curled-up Sofi with a smile.

It wasn’t uncommon for couples to be hidden away in the library, especially not on an overcast weekend. But the Grimmstone library was the only library on campus that held an original copy of an 1800s toxic botany encyclopaedia.

After a few false turns with quick apologies to the interrupted couples, you finally found the right - and luckily empty - aisle. With your forefinger running gently along the worn spines, you made your way down the rows of books, glancing at the names of authors until you found the one you were looking for.

After carefully sliding the hardcover book off the shelf - nearly dropping it as the loose plastic dust cover slipped - you sat down at one of the desks lining the centre of the room and began flicking through. You flicked the book to the back, finger running down the yellowed page until you reached the name you were looking for: aconitum.

----

“Big scary werewolf and you’re afraid of a little butterfly?” You laughed as you wandered into Plant Toxicology with Sofi.

“It flew right into my face!” She waved her free hand in front of her, mimicking the butterfly’s movements.

“And you squealed!” As you laughed, Sofi gently hip-checked you, nudging you toward your usual desk, before laughing with a shake of her head and walking toward her own. You nodded hello to Yoko as you sat beside her.

“Alight, class. Group paper time.” The sounds of groans and heads hitting tables bounced around the room. “I know, I know. Now, rows one and three, turn around and give a little wave to your partner.”

----

You were hours early to meet your study buddy, but it was a non-issue. The time alone allowed you to make meticulous notes on the plant before worrying about formatting them into a presentable paper.

The notes you made were messy, quick dot points from the encyclopaedia that could make into a decent assessment. The paper was only short anyway, the first report of the semester that was more of a benchmark than a large percentage of your grade.

Headphones in, it wasn’t long until you found yourself with your feet up on the seat and book resting open on your thighs, reaching around your bent knees to occasionally take notes.

You were in the middle of triple-checking the spelling of a latin nomenclature when a flit of grey out the corner of your eye caught your attention. But as you turned your head to see what it was, all you could see was another couple darting down an aisle, whispering to each other. You shook your head with an amused exhale before turning back to your note-taking.

Just as you leaned forward to take a note, you saw the grey again. But this time, instead of a moment at the side of your vision, the grey moved in front of you just long enough to make out the shape of a butterfly before it landed on the tip of your nose.

Cross-eyed to stare at the charcoal insect, you pulled out the headphones slowly, trying not to disturb it. You knew it wasn’t real, recognising the trademark sketch lines of Xavier’s art.

Another pair of butterflies began to flutter in front of you, bouncing off of each other with tiny plumes of dust. You let out a small giggle and the bug on your nose darted away, flying right into the other two where all three of them exploded into a shower of dark powder onto the desk. Once the last of the dust landed, you turned quickly to look over your shoulders, dropping your feet to the floor, trying to find the artist.

You met Xavier’s eye as he folded his sketchbook closed in his right hand. His head was tilted with a smile as he made his way toward you, backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Howdy, howdy partner.” You wriggled your fingers to wave as he pulled out the chair beside you, dropping down and letting his bag fall to the floor. As he did, you noticed that Xavier’s pulled-back hair was a messy damp, the kind that comes with being caught in the rain.

“Started the fun without me.” He gestured lazily to your notebook and the two thick library books in front of you (at some point during your research you wandered back to the shelf and found a second book with information on the deadly plant).

“Wanted to make you jealous, of course.” You shot him a wink with a small giggle, turning back to your book just in time to miss the tips of Xavier’s ears go pink. “The butterflies were definitely a welcome distraction though,” you thanked, turning in your chair to face him fully, “I felt like I was going cross-eyed staring at these pages.”

“I’m happy to distract.” Xavier sent you a dopey smile and raised one hand to flatten down flyaways, and you bit the inside of your lip while ignoring the warmth that grew on your face. In your attempt to break eye-contact and hopefully get rid of the blush, your gaze flicked down to his mouth and caught him licking his lips.

Almost in sync, you and Xavier looked away from each other and as you looked over at the textbook, you heard him clear his throat.

“Okay, so,” Xavier broke the silence after a moment, “what have you got so far?”

You quickly delved into giving him a rundown of the notes you had made so far, explaining ideas you had come up with for it. However, you made a point of not looking up at him. It was a little awkward at times, where you would catch yourself beginning to look at him but quickly found a drawing of the purple flower far too important to not look over at.

Neither of you noticed that the sun had set until the howls of classmates made their way from this distance, the sound causing both of you to turn and look out the window.

“Shit, I didn’t realise how late it had gotten.” During the week, there was an 8pm curfew, but over the weekend library hours were extended and they were a little more lenient with the time you had to be back at your dorm giving you until midnight to be back. There was just one downside to being in the library late.

“Oh my god we missed dinner.” Xavier sounded devastated at the realisation, and you looked over to see him with the back of his hand pressed dramatically to his forehead.

“You hungry?” It wasn’t long past dinnertime, but because of the routine that came with living at Nevermore, you knew the answer would be yes. “I may or may not have some snacks hidden in my dorm.” He perked up, and though he would never tell, he was more than a little excited to be spending more time alone with you.

---

Xavier sat awkwardly on your bed as you kicked off your shoes and began to pull a box out from under your bed. Pushing some heavy clothing out of the way, you pulled out a bag of chips and a couple of packets of sweets.

“It’s not really a dinner, but it’s food.” You showed him the food you had stashed, offering it weakly. Xavier scooched himself onto the floor, patting the space beside him and you sat yourself down cross-legged.

As Xavier pulled open the chip bag, you sent Ash a message saying you might be over late, but would try to be as quiet as possible. They sent back a thumbs up, and you shoved away your phone just in time for the chips to be held out in front of you.

Between the sweets and bag of chips, you and Xavier managed to talk about anything that came to mind as time quickly moved by. During your time, both of you got more relaxed, losing any vague semblance of good posture and leaned against the side of your bed. And maybe closer to each other, but only maybe.

Xavier pulled his sketchbook out of his backpack and leaned forward, listening to you talk as he drew. He hid his sketchbook from you as you tried leaning over him, giggling into his ear as you did.

You let your body flop onto the ground beside him, staring up leaning on your hand as he readjusted how he was sitting to keep hiding what he was drawing from you. Then he tucked his pencil behind his ear and held his hand above the page.

Lifting up with a rain of dust, a dozen small butterflies began to flit around your room. They bounced off each other, spinning in circles as they danced.

Much like the interruption of howls earlier in the evening, you are brought back into reality by the buzzing of your phone against the hardwood floor.

“I don’t mean to stop you from whatever you’re doing,” Ash skipped the greeting as you answer the call, “but if you’re sleeping here tonight you might want to think about showing up soon.”

“Hello to you too.” Sitting up properly, you watched Xavier as he turned on his phone screen and showed you the time, and you widened your eyes. “Oh fuck. Okay, thanks, Ash. Be there soon.” Xavier stood first, offering you a hand to pull you up which you happily took pretending not to notice the way he squeezed your hand shortly when you stood.

“I can walk you over if you want.” You were already shaking your head at the offer, knowing that you would be cutting it thin getting to Ash’s dorm and Xavier’s dorm house was in the opposite direction.

“No, it’s okay. I don’t want to be the reason you get in trouble.” He held the door open for you, leaning on the outer frame. As he pulled it shut his arm brushed your side.

There was a beat of silence as neither of you wanted to move. Although you had spent the night hanging out, the softness in that moment was different and not something you wanted to break.

Steeling yourself for a moment, you darted forward and kissed Xavier on the cheek, turning and beginning to walk away before you could see how he reacted.

Xavier watched as you moved quickly away, his cheeks and ears pink, He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times trying to figure out how to react. Once you disappeared around the corner, he let out a breath and sheepishly smiled to himself.

comments and reblogs are appreciated! as are asks about the fic!

rambles, feel free to ignore: this fic isn't… okay so i hold myself to very high standards which is a problem with my brain and things, and i need to stop doing that because i end up giving up on things that aren't perfect instead of appreciating that i have made something and it's mine and from my brain. again, a problem i need to sort out. but all this being said!! by my self-imposed standards this isn't amazing, and really i'm posting it as a "here! it's done! take it before i take it back and destroy it!" and that's only happening because it was a request from a mutual.

tl;dr: these rambles are more to say that i like this fic, and i'm happy enough with it, but my standards are so high that i don't think it's good enough. which is a common thing with creatives and just know that what you make is good because it's yours and you made it, and that's all that matters!

#char rambles #char writes #xavier thorpe x reader #xavier thorpe x you #xavier thorpe x y/n #reader insert fic #xavier thorpe fanfic #xavier thorpe oneshot #xavier thorpe blurb #char's mutuals #˚:✧｡• julie #xavier thorpe reader insert

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revelisms · 20 days

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It was never the performance itself that drew him in.

He'd aways been more moth than songbird; a winged thing that gravitated to light and life, to the beauty of souls reaching across the realm to become one with Those below.

He was the first, though, and so had laid his precedents: a patchwork legacy few could ignore;

That there is always a sleeve of myrrh hidden between the sticks of sandalwood and frankincense; the ashen coolness of cigarette smoke in their storerooms.

That there is greenery in the chapel windows and fresh-cut gardenias in the welcome hall, and songs of Olde sung lower than they were written, because the depth of such resonance was one he preferred.

That his brothers (the second, the third) and half-brother (the fourth) stand in off-kiltered lines, often, as though waiting for the loping strides of his pointed boots and velvet-crested shoulders.

That their congregation's siblings know his family's appointed title of Nonna more than the origin of his own name.

That Papa Emeritus the Second shuffled strangely when taking the pulpit, as though trying to fit into a misfitten pair of clothes—uncomfortable, now, after so many years spent in his brother's shadow.

That Papa Emeritus the Third often nosed into his office with coffee in hand, or chocolate-kissed biscotti, or tears hidden behind a painted smirk.

That Papa Emeritus the Fourth spoke of him kindly—of all of them kindly—no matter how they may have treated him, how they may have scorned him, their worldly forms now memorialized in stone.

Primo, in his living days, hadn't cared to worry over it.

He'd stepped down from a lifetime of rituals and tours with a joint behind his ear and a plait weaved through his silvered hair, his gnarled hands fitted with rings fit for a goddess—and he'd smiled, wry and wrinkled, lashlines creasing at the corners.

"You don't have to call me that, you know," he'd chided, when siblings bumbled over the formalities of Monsignor and Your Esteemed Grace and all else the Church had pompously chosen to title him with.

"You know what the little ones called me, mh?" he'd whisper on, winking a moon-white eye. "Rude shits. Peh! They could make the dictionary blush, my dear." And he'd lean closer, shoulder-to-shoulder, his words rumbled and silken. "Don't you worry about those other things. Just call me what you want, heh?"

So they did.

He treasured the ones who spoke his language of flowers; saw similar beauties in leaf-green eyes and petal-pink cheeks, in hair lovely as daffodils and soft as roses.

His brothers never shared the same admiration. But, then again—they did, in their own ways.

Secondo, in his nostalgia for the scent of gardenias.

Terzo, in his scuffed-heeled silence in a greenhouse sunlit but empty.

Copia, in the jewels sewn through his silks and the velvet gleaning off his suits.

Maybe from below, Primo had always kept his eye on them, with his laughter that hissed like snakes. Maybe it's where he'd always been meant to be: one again with the Aether below. A living giant, blossomed and brilliant and beautiful.

"He, eh...would have liked this, right?" Copia mumbles, wrist-deep in fresh soil, planting bulbs of bluebells in the cloister flowerbeds.

The question is meant for Sister Aris, kneeled and smiling beside him.

But in the corner of his eye, he sees a haze of shadow—a whisper of nothingness. The Bridge beyond, that he has always seen since his oath-taking; has always been.

It feels like Terzo, at first. Eyes piercing, and brow pinched, a stiffness in lips unpainted.

A soul that felt wild to him.

Wild, harsh, endless, like a cliffside gale swept over one's body. A viper-tongued beast with a fox's grin, and cleverness to match.

But the feeling warms, gradually. Not sunset-pink, the taste of incense—but violet, indigo, earthen.

A touch of soundless heels on damp earth.

"You don't have to ask, little one," Primo's voice utters over him, gentle as a prayer. And he smiles, like he'd always done. Wry, and wrinkled, and wondrous. "Of course I do." His bony hand, even if only in spirit, settles a cool touch on his shoulder. "Of course I do."

But that hand isn't there, not really. He knows it.

Just a moth-winged thing gravitated to the light.

What they all had always been.

Secondo, the pyre. Terzo, the star. Copia, the unearthed glow of Hell itself.

And Primo—

Primo had been the moonlight shining down on them. A guiding path through the night.

The hand on his shoulder pats him, softly, before it slides away.

"He would have," Sister Aris answers him.

Copia swallows, blinks, twitches a smile.

"I know," he whispers. Before him, bluebells gleam. "I know."

primo / on legacies

#the band ghost #ghost band fanfic #ficlet #cw: grief #papa emeritus i #papa i #papa primo #primo #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #papa iv #popia #writing #prose #am i off rambling about these four again #you know i am

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izvmimi · 9 months

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cw: fluff. college au!nrc. reader wears a dress and heels. multiple original characters are mentioned (without names but with traits) and will likely show up in later fics! ~2.3k words. a/n: one mention of the word 'pale' and to clarify pale is not a specific word for pale or light-colored skin, dark-skinned people can be pale in the sense of looking grayed out or ashen.

It is your first ball at Night Raven College - really your first ball ever - and you have no date. The simple fact doesn’t upset you, after all, you are only a first year and are acquainted but not close to many in your year or even your house, but it does feel a bit awkward to know that you are the only one out of your friends who won’t be going with an escort.

You’ve always done well on your own however, and while your goal is to look striking on arrival at first, you plan to blend naturally into the background, exchange a few words with your friends, and disappear back into your dorm by the end of the night. As you make sure to add the finishing touches to your makeup in the vanity mirror, you consider that perhaps the neckline of your dress is a little too low, wondering if you should pin the wings of your cape to the front to preserve a bit of modesty. The dress is a deep forest green that is almost black, shimmering like diamond in the light, and the clustered rose-shaped emerald jewelry dangling from your ear is heavy. You look expensive, and you are expensive, having blown quite a few of your savings on this outfit. You rarely offer yourself anything nice, so you try to keep the price out of your mind as you apply black lipstick, then opt for a wine red instead. As you rise, stabilizing yourself on high stilettos, your slightly awkward gait aided by the high slit of the side of your dress, you wonder if you’re representing Diasomnia a bit too well.

For someone who hates attention, you far too often look like you’re trying to garner it. You consider sending a text to your friend in Octavinelle or your friend in Pomefiore but you imagine they’re trying to coordinate with their dates. The mermaid particularly is probably sucking face with Rook so intensely it will be hours until she remembers her phone.

Perhaps you should have asked…

You shake out the thought. He did not ask you and you would have looked ridiculous if you asked your upperclassman to take you to the ball, no matter how much attention he gives you. If he had wanted to, he would have asked, you remind yourself as you reach for a black lace clutch. Malleus doesn’t exactly keep his desires to himself and is not exactly used to being told ‘no’.

When your door swings open, you are nearly shocked to see Malleus himself, enough that your heart almost stops. His appearance is not usually this startling to you (unlike most of the student body) and for a moment you wonder if he might take offense, but he’s still busy taking in your presence just as much as you’re taking in his. He looks… handsome, you have to admit (as if it were hard to admit, as if it weren’t terribly plain to see), dorm uniform exchanged for a swallowtail coat in brilliant golden and green hues, obsidian studs shiny enough to see your reflection in adorning his pointed ears. He bows when he sees you, as though he’s picked it up from an old movie. You almost find yourself mimicking a curtsy before you remind yourself that you’re in modern times and he has no reason to be standing outside your door like a haunting.

“Malleus, what are you doing here?”

You pause and wait for Lilia to appear out of nowhere to tell you be nice in that teasing lilt of his, but Lilia is nowhere to be found; in fact, all of Diasomnia is quiet, it seems, appearing that everyone has headed off to the ball already.

“I didn’t see you leave so I wanted to make sure you were going,” he asks. Before you can tell him that it wasn’t necessary, he adds, “you look breathtaking. I’ve always loved you in dark colors.”

Your heart skips a beat as you think of something witty to say, but you can come up with nothing more than, “you look nice, as well.”

Nice. He looks far better than nice, a voice tells you in the back of your head. Ignoring it, you step forward then turn to lock your bedroom door. Fiddling with the handle so that you have something to look at while you buy time, you say,

“I’ll see you at the ball later then.”

When you don’t get a reply and look up, Malleus is tilting his head. “Are you sending me off?”

Yes, you are, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. You clear your throat.

“The festivities have already started probably,” you say, quickening your pace. Walking too quickly, you stumble on unsteady heels and he catches you by the arm; the very sensation of his fingers on your upper arm, despite the cape that covers it, seems to drive electricity throughout your body. You curse under your breath, hoping that he cannot hear you.

But he’s fae. Of course he can.

“If you are going to be so upset about tripping, you should probably be more careful,” he says. It’s direct, not rude, and he’s smiling. The glittering emeralds in his suit buttons add to the fact that his outfit likely costs more than your life.

“I’m not upset!”

He takes your hand and places it around his elbow.

“Let me accompany you.”

Arguing with him gets you nowhere usually, Malleus is both patient and hardheaded at once, you’ve learned in your short time together, and you still cannot understand why he’s taking such interest in you. It’s the greatest mystery of your life and yet Malleus consistently finds a way to act as though he, Housewarden, soon to be graduate, soon to be King, is somehow not too good for you.

“You know, because of you, no one asked me to the ball.”

Malleus continues his stride, slowed naturally to match yours, the clatter of your heels loud as you both amble down the halls. He doesn’t look down towards you, smiling to himself as he looks forward, a gentle glint of green in his eyes.

“Good.”

—

You move in time to the music in a slow waltz, your hands resting on his shoulders, and Malleus looks genuinely happier, something a little more than the amused smile he keeps on his face per default. With every turn, you hold your breath, only released when Malleus reminds you to breathe in a gentle voice, pressing his cheek against yours.

Your cheeks are warm again, and it’s not because of the remainder of the attendees who watch you with interest, but because Malleus really seems to act like you’re the only one in the room. His face is cold against yours, and his hand grips your fingers more gently than you’d anticipate from someone who supposedly crushes rocks for fun.

“Everyone’s looking,” you whisper.

“They usually do,” he replies.

You can’t argue with that.

You twirl longer, light on your heels, but self-consciousness starts to weigh heavy on you as you catch more and more glimpses of the curious body of students that have started to gather close, wondering if the rumors are really true, that Diasomnia’s most terrifying student is in love with a first year. You try not to look and toss your head away from the biggest crowd of people, but just in the corner, you can see your friend disappearing suddenly and you move to leave and follow them, but Malleus quickly reminds you that Vil is close behind. Just as he says, Pomefiore’s diva is right on their heels, and while your heart still breaks for your friend, Malleus reminds you that you’re much more likely to be interrupting whatever emotional conversation they’re likely to have.

They and Vil have some complicated history, you’d say not unlike yours.

But as you look up to Malleus, you remember that it’s not that complicated. You simply have to accept his attention, even if you don’t see yourself as the impossibly cute human he seems to imagine as the apple of his eye.

“My feet hurt,” you whisper suddenly, leaning in close enough that you can smell his perfume. He really went all out today, you think, trying not to let the scent linger in your psyche.

“Would you like to be carried?” he asks. The deadpan in his voice is in sharp contrast with yours, as you shout his name.

“Malleus, are you for real?”

He blinks.

“It would solve the problem, would it not?”

You shake your head, exasperated but unable to be truly annoyed with him, and take a single small step back. He looks at you curiously, as one would an abstract piece of art, then lets his hands rest at his side.

“I’m going to go check on my friends,” you say. He pauses but nods slowly, and watches you go.

The first person you go visit is the lady in a burgundy dress that somehow only accentuates her burgundy hair. She’s in a dip with Rook once you arrive to that section, and almost doesn’t notice you approaching until you wave. Rook sees you first, bringing the mermaid to a standing position quickly enough to make her dizzy, and waves excitedly in the way he greets everyone, out of proportion to their own energy.

“Ah! Bonsoir, Mademoiselle L’astucieuse! Where is your shadow, Roi de Dragons?” he asks. You narrow your eyes at him, then face your friend who giggles at his flamboyant greeting before letting her hazel eyes set on you.

“Are you fleeing Malleus? I saw you looked a little too in love over there, so I expected you to start running soon.”

“No,” you murmur, but that’s exactly what you’re doing. “Actually-” you pause, then motion to Rook, “can I cut in for a second, I need to borrow her.”

Rook looks surprised but steps back, perhaps to look for Vil again, and you take your friend’s finely manicured hands and engage her in a dance. Moving in close, you whisper,

“I saw ___ leave.”

She stops.

“Wait, why aren’t we chasing her?”

You turn in time with the music. “Vil’s following her.”

“Oh,” is all she responds. The two of you move again in time, and you can see that she’s distracted again, looking over your shoulder.

“You already are trying to leave me for Rook,” you whine.

“Actually, it’s more Malleus standing there, aimlessly, like an NPC.”

A chill runs down your spine, and you turn and he’s there, waving, two drinks in hand. Part of you feels guilty, and the other part of you looks desperately for the rest of Diasomnia to occupy him.

You love Malleus’ company, terribly so, but something about what you feel for him is too much, all at once. And he seems to know everything - the fact that you’d wait for him to take you to the ball, that if he asked to kiss you, you would accept without hesitation, although you can’t really verbalize those feelings right now. You’ve read the history books. Faes are not meant to like humans. Plus, faes live longer. You might as well be livestock or a beloved pet to him.

“Go back to him,” your friend whispers.

You blow air from your nose, whisper ‘fine’ and twirl her one more time before motioning Rook to come back and reclaim his date.

Malleus reaches out to offer you something colorless in a martini glass and you’re surprised to realize it actually is just water. You blink.

“You look like you’re pale. I want to make sure you stay hydrated,” he asks. He drinks water as well, then takes your hand again. You hesitate but then let his hand envelop yours.

Something warms in your chest as though the drink was enchanted, but perhaps that’s the magic of the love you’ve been holding in.

“I’m surprised no one’s interrupted us,” you joke, smiling.

“Well, Leona seems to have gotten over us,” Malleus muses, chuckling to himself.

You frown. “You act as though Leona wasn’t simply annoyed by your existence in the same universe as his.” You remember that Leona does have someone he likes - you can tell even if he no longer stays close with you, but as you peruse the hall, you realize he’s not there. You hope he hasn’t messed up his chances there as well. She’s far more patient than anything he can ever pull, you think.

Now that you’ve satisfied your thirst, you look over to the refreshment table, letting Malleus’ pinky link with yours as you peruse the elaborate cheeseboard, the fruits, meats and finally most importantly to you, pastries. As though association conjures him into your mind, when you look up, you see that Trey is leaning at the other edge of the table, chatting up his Savanaclaw sweetheart, who looks stunning in cascading waves of blonde hair draped over the straps of a steel dress. Trey is trying excessively hard not to look at her chest, and you giggle, but then it reminds you that your own neckline is bare.

Not too far off from his other dorm-mate, you can see Cater kissing the hand of a pretty redhead in one of the most elegant golden dresses you’ve ever seen. She looks smitten, but her gray-green eyes sparkling and the heart tattoo on her cheek has the thought running through your mind that Cater might have bitten off more than he can chew this time. After all, you know her well.

“Here,” you say, pinching your cape together with one hand and handing Malleus a small cupcake. You mean for him to take it, but he bites into it, fangs and all, and the dollop of cream that ends up on his nose nearly drives you into cute aggression.

“Sorry,” he whispers as you reach up to clean it off with a napkin. You give him another smile and he grins.

“Another dance?” he leans in, and for a split second you envision yourself kissing him, then pull yourself back to reality.

You don’t say no though, because you can at least give him a dance, even if you can’t give him yourself.

It would be a bad idea for the both of you.

#malleus x reader #malleus draconia x reader #twst fluff #twisted wonderland x reader #malleus fluff #daydreams: twst #mimi's notes

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tafeekafee · 2 months

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⌛🧸🐿️ I know, I’m with you, lean on

Title from Better (ATEEZ)

Summary: Jongho and Hongjoong suffer from food poisoning on the way to an MV filming.

Sickie: Jongho + Hongjoong Caretakers: Seonghwa + Mingi + Yunho + San

It was dark outside, the only light coming from the few buildings they were passing and the occasional car that drove in the opposite direction. It was calm and quiet and Jongho was reminded of the car trips with his parents when he was younger, where he would watch the streets passing by until he fell asleep curled up under a blanket and his dad carried him inside to his bed.

He missed them.

Despite his parents living in Seoul he barely saw them, the last time nearly three months back. He supposed he couldn’t complain, San’s parents were all the way in Namhae and Seonghwa’s in Jinju. His oldest hyung hadn’t seen his family in over a year and hadn’t even met his older brother’s daughter yet.

Jongho turned his attention to his sleeping members. Their day had been exhausting between recording and dance practice and now they were on their way to some remote location for their next M/V shooting.

He could see all of them from where he sat in the back row where he was squished between the window on his left and Mingi on his right. Their normal van had to be repaired so they were left in a regular nine-seater divided in three rows, which was a tight fit especially for their taller members. Mingi was resting partially against San, his long legs entangled with Jongho’s in the younger’s footrest. San, for his part, was asleep against the window, using Shiber as a pillow.

In the middle row Yeosang and Wooyoung were curled up against each other, having fallen asleep while listening to music together. Seonghwa was leaning against the door, his neck bent in an uncomfortable position which surely would leave him aching when he woke up. Jongho didn’t want to disturb him and possibly the others when they got so little sleep in total to get him to sit in a better position.

Yunho was asleep in the front row, leaning against the door, the only place where he could at least somewhat stretch out his legs. Hongjoong, who was talking quietly with the manager driving them, was resting his head against Yunho’s upper arm.

Originally they had decided that Mingi would sit in the front with Yunho so he too could stretch his legs.

Their plans were crossed when Hongjoong had woken that morning with a headache which had gradually gotten worse over the day. At one point their captain had even taken pain medication, which he normally refused since they made him drowsy, and let Eden do the recording with them while he napped on Seonghwa’s shoulder until it was his turn.

Their second oldest hyung had still looked pale and ashen when they had made their way down to the garage and had quietly asked Mingi if they could switch places as he wasn’t feeling well and whenever he was not feeling good it was a sure thing he would get motion sick. Mingi had agreed immediately, worried for his favorite hyung, and proclaimed that he wanted to sit next to Jongho.

The maknae smiled faintly at the memory until without much warning dizziness overcame him, making him feel hot and cold at the same time. He was confused, he had been feeling completely fine one second and now he had to rest his head firmly against the headrest as the world tilted around him. Nausea made itself known in his stomach and he took a deep breath. He tried to breathe through it, hoping it was a momentary fluke.

But no, with his eyes closed he felt even more dizzy, his brain not sure where up, down, left and right were. It was disorientating and not knowing what else to do, he tried to reach out for his Mingi-hyung, wanting some purchase and comfort. His hands trembled and he let them fall back to his lap, whining lowly in his throat in frustration. He really wasn’t feeling good.

“Mingi-hyung”, he whispered. No reaction.

“Mingi-hyung”, he tried louder. Still, Mingi only shifted slightly but kept on sleeping.

“Mingi-hyung, I don’t feel well”, he said loudly. If he wasn’t so distressed and focused on staying upright, he would have thought it funny when suddenly most of his hyungs jerked awake.

Still staring straight ahead to abate the vertigo he saw how Yeosang and Wooyoung’s heads collided painfully as they startled. Ordinarily he would have laughed at them. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have felt sick from the disturbance as Mingi in his confusion detangled their legs rather violently.

“Jongho-yah?”, Hongjoong asked from the front, apparently the only person not completely disoriented as he hadn’t been in deep sleep a few seconds ago, “what’s going on?”

Jongho tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t move and his mouth was filling with saliva. He tried to lean forward, as he hoped that putting his head between his knees might help the nausea but he hadn’t accounted for the seat belt pressing against his stomach.

He gagged violently and suddenly his stomach contents were escaping from his mouth, splattering on his hands, jeans, shoes and the back of Yeosang’s seat. He was vaguely aware of loud and confused shouting but the only things he could focus on was the lack of air in his lungs, the warm vomit on his body and the hand rubbing his shoulder blades.

He cried, frustrated as his body betrayed him and left him feeling so so sick.

⌛

The next thing he was really aware of was gentle hands pulling him from his seat between two bouts of retching, soft voices coaxing him towards them. He blindly trusted his hyungs, not knowing how else to feel. Somebody was helping him slide out of the car but his knees buckled the moment they had to support his weight. Strong hands caught him and helped him to the ground, where he continued getting sick.

Yet, the fresh air was helping with the dizziness and - while he was still extremely nauseous - for the first time since it started he was mostly aware of what was going on. He was leaning against a strong chest, the person behind him definitely taller than him, so he supposed it was Mingi holding him. Seonghwa was kneeling next to him, softly smiling when Jongho lifted his head to look around. San, Yunho, Hongjoong and their manager were standing a few meters away, far enough to give him some semblance of privacy but close enough to help should they need it. He couldn’t see Wooyoung and Yeosang from his position on the ground.

As the vertigo started to abate Jongho became acutely aware of how embarrassed he was. Yellowish sick was covering the ground around him, his jeans, shirt and hands and even worse, some parts of Seonghwa’s pants as well. If he had to guess Mingi probably also wasn’t spared.

“Hey, baby”, Seonghwa said, a sad smile on his face, “are you feeling better?”

Jongho took a moment to take stock of his body. He wasn’t as dizzy anymore and the slight queasiness he was still feeling stemmed more from the disgust than actual nausea, he thought. His head was aching faintly and his stomach was feeling a bit weird but otherwise he felt … fine.

He nodded reluctantly. “Yes, hyung”, he said quietly.

“How about we move to the picnic table?”, his oldest hyung suggested, gesturing at the sitting area a few meters away. Luckily it was completely empty, like the whole rest stop they were at, so nobody else had witnessed his … episode. God, if somebody had recognized him and posted it. Tears welled up in his eyes but he refused to cry over something that hadn’t even happened.

Instead he nodded yes to Seonghwa’s question.

Gently, like Jongho might break, he was lifted to his feet by Seonghwa and Mingi who, as expected, had been the one to sit behind him. They took it slow, walking a wide berth around the sick on the grass and letting Jongho decide the tempo and rest his weight on them.

As he stared at the ground, unable to look up in embarrassment, he noticed how Mingi’s lower pants were completely covered in sick, causing the older man to walk slightly awkwardly so it wouldn’t stick to his legs. Now tears were falling down Jongho’s cheeks again in earnest.

“I’m sorry”, he whispered, feeling like he had reached a new low. Sure, he had been sick during the time he knew the others but he wasn’t sick often. Especially not this terribly, disgustingly sick. Not like Yunho and Seonghwa who seemed to catch every illness going around or even Hongjoong who wasn’t ‘sick sick’ often but often enough sick from his food intolerances, motion sickness and migraines. This was the worst time for Jongho yet.

⌛

“It’s fine, maknae. Don’t worry”, Mingi assured him, following his gaze downward to his pants, despite wincing a bit, “everybody gets sick sometimes.”

If the situation wasn’t as bad as it was, Jongho might have laughed at the timing. His other hyungs and the manager were coming closer now that Jongho was done playing the exorcist but apparently it wasn’t enough that he had stopped vomiting.

Hongjoong, who was trailing a bit behind the others, lost all of his color then (considering that he could probably see and smell everything, Jongho couldn’t blame him), placed a hand in front of his mouth and gagged, looking panicked.

“Oh, God”, he groaned, barely loud enough for them to hear, and turned on his heel to run towards the bathroom signs illuminating the side of the rest stop. Hongjoong managed to take a few steps before he stumbled and crashed to his hands and knees. He coughed loudly and even from the distance Jongho was able to sick the sick splattering onto the ground in front of him.

Yunho and San worriedly and a bit overwhelmed looked at each other, apparently not having expected that. Then San followed their captain, kneeling down beside him and rubbing his back. Yunho and the manager knew that Hongjoong hated attention when he was ill, so they turned their backs and came closer to Jongho.

“Shit”, Seonghwa, on the other hand, cursed but tugged Jongho to the bench where they helped the maknae sit down, Mingi sitting to hug him from behind again. They both glanced towards Hongjoong a few times but tried to focus on the maknae.

“Baby, can we clean you up?”, Mingi asked carefully.

Tearing his gaze away from the sick captain as well, Jongho nodded blankly. Seonghwa squeezed his shoulder, probably the only part of Jongho that was not soiled.

“Hey, don’t worry. Joong-ah will be fine, you know he hasn’t been feeling well all day. It’s not your fault”, the eldest comforted, squatting down in front of Jongho.

“If I hadn’t gotten sick…”, Jongho started, body starting to shake in the cold air. He was still glad that despite being treated to the sounds of retching and gagging, as well as the sight of his captain vomiting, he wasn’t feeling sick again himself.

“Yunho-yah, can you go get Jongho-yah some fresh clothes?”, the manager said, leaving no time for arguments. “And maybe some towels and water?”

The manager crouched down to look up at Jongho and gave him a sad smile: “For what it’s worth, Joong-ah asked me to stop at this gas station anyways because he wasn’t feeling well even before that. It’s not your fault, I’m surprised he held out this long.”

“Hm, do you think it’s a virus or food poisoning?”, Seonghwa asked then. “I mean”, he offered when they all looked at him, “maknae here doesn’t get motion sick normally. Hongjoong-ah wasn’t feeling well all day, yes, he could be motion sick but considering that Jongho was also sick I think that’s unlikely.”

The manager shrugged. “Did you and Hongjoong-ah share food that nobody else ate, Jongho-yah?”

Jongho bit his lip and tried to think back. “I mean, we had some eggs for breakfast today which Wooyoung didn’t manage to eat because he was so slow in getting ready but I could have sworn they were good.”

“Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t”, the manager said and groaned as he got to his feet, “it doesn’t matter really. I will see if I can get the car clean, you three take care of Jongho-yah, hm?”

At that moment Yunho appeared next to the manager, holding towels, water bottles and fresh clothes as instructed and the manager patted his shoulder before leaving. Out of the corner of his eyes Jongho saw San lead Hongjoong into the gas station, probably to help him clean up too. San was carrying a towel too, so Yunho must have stopped to give it to them before.

Jongho was too tired to protest when Seonghwa wet the towel with a water bottle and started to clean his face and hands, while Yunho helped Mingi get out of his pants and held a big towel around him so he could change without being seen. There was nobody there except them but being idols they had learned not to assume things like that.

Jongho was bundled up in one of Yunho’s large sweaters and a pair of sweatpants he didn’t recognize who they belonged to. When he looked up he saw San and a pale Hongjoong approaching them. The captain truly looked awful, face washed out and his hairline was covered in sweat. San had wrapped an arm around the captain’s shoulders and held an honestly impressive amount of plastic bags in one hand.

Seonghwa raised his eyebrow at him as they arrived and the younger man grinned. “I think the cashier likes me. I asked for a few bags and he gave me like at least fifteen.”

“Don’t you think it’s rather because Hongjoong-hyung still looks really bad?”, Yunho asked teasingly, hoping to lighten the mood.

Hongjoong just weakly stuck out his tongue, lacking his normal enthusiasm at disciplining unruly dongsaeng. He must still be feeling really awful and Jongho noticed his hand hovering over his stomach. Yeah, definitely still nauseous.

Before the mood could get awkward San offered: “Well, anyway, I figured the bags might come in handy. Since Jongho-yah normally doesn’t get carsick and he and Hongjoong-hyung shared breakfast we think they might have food poisoning.”

“Yeah, we came to the same conclusion”, Mingi agreed, having managed to change himself and now was helping Seonghwa.

“I’m really sorry, Jjongie”, Hongjoong whispered sadly, a vast difference to his normally loud and happy voice, “I should have been more careful. Next time please tell me to wear my glasses and check the best-before date.”

San sighed, obviously unhappy with the captain blaming himself but he kept quiet and helped Hongjoong sit down on the bench next to Jongho. Then he handed a few of the bags to Seonghwa who put the soiled clothing inside to be discarded.

Most of Jongho’s and Mingi’s clothes couldn’t be saved anyways and Seonghwa probably wanted to get rid of the memory with the clothes.

“It’s alright, hyung”, Jongho said, feeling bad that his captain was feeling bad. He had genuinely enjoyed their morning. It wasn’t often that the two of them had uninterrupted time with just each other with their hectic schedules so he had relished in just talking with his hyung about not-work related stuff. It hurt, feeling unfair, that their amazing time had turned into this disaster. “I should have been more careful too. I don’t regret having spent time with you this morning for once.”

He beckoned Hongjoong closer and wrapped an arm around the smaller man. Hongjoong relaxed into his side and nodded faintly, letting Mingi wrap an arm around him too. It was clear that the captain was exhausted by the ordeal and likely long nights spent at the studio.

“That’s all very nice”, Seonghwa interrupted them, turning his oldest-hyung mode on, “but how are you two feeling now?”

Jongho took a second to check in with his body and he was very surprised. He was still slightly queasy, but it was more of an empty feeling. His vision had stopped swirling some time ago. Honestly, if he hadn’t thrown up half an hour ago he would have assumed he was just fine.

“I feel okay”, Jongho said and, when Hongjoong and Seonghwa stared at him with similar looks of disbelief, he added: “Truly! I’m not dizzy anymore and my stomach feels okay, just empty but not nauseous. I’m just really tired.” As if to prove his point, he yawned.

“Okay”, Seonghwa agreed, “that’s good. What about you, Joong-ah? Also the truth, please.”

Hongjoong grimaced, looking dazed. “My head still hurts and I’m a bit queasy still. I think I just need some more pain medication. I took some like half an hour ago but I threw it up just now, so…” He trailed off, looking at the manager who was walking up towards them. “I can go on though. No use in staying here of all places.”

“Alright”, the manager said, “Sadly they don’t have a pharmacy inside the station, so I couldn’t get any medication. We can stop later if you need us to. I bought some cleaning supplies though and the car is as clean as it gets. We can go on if you’re ready. Anybody who needs the bathroom better go now and somebody please go find Woo and Sang-ah.”

“Oh, well, they are inside in a booth”, San explained, “Wooyoungie wasn’t so good with the puking, so Sang-ah is distracting him with ice cream and games. I’ll go get them.”

The manager nodded and they split up with Jongho, Seonghwa and the manager going towards the bathroom while Mingi and Yunho, both having wrapped an arm around Hongjoong’s waist, walked towards the car which the manager had moved away from the puddle of vomit.

⌛

When they returned Yunho, Mingi, San, Wooyoung and Yeosang were standing next to the car with Hongjoong sitting in the footwell in the middle row, legs pulled up to his chest and leaning sideways against the middle row seat. He looked incredibly tiny and young that way, making Jongho feel extra bad for him. It was unfair really how much he was suffering while Jongho was fine after throwing up once.

In all seriousness Jongho was surprised that Hongjoong had been so sick while the maknae had eaten way more eggs than him but he supposed the elder’s exhaustion, headache and motion sickness didn’t make his situation better. Still, he wished that the captain would feel better soon. Jongho knew that Hongjoong had looked forward to the filming a lot, able to escape his stressful everyday life for a more relaxed atmosphere with his friends.

“We weren’t really sure how we should do the seating arrangement”, Yunho explained sheepishly, “technically Jongho-yah and Hongjoong-ah should both be in the front to help with the nausea but we don’t think it’s a good idea since they might get sick again and can’t help each other.”

“I can sit in the back row again”, Jongho said immediately, “I don’t feel sick anymore.”

“That’s very good, Jongho”, Seonghwa placated, shaking his head, “but I agree with Yunho. You already got so sick, we should try to avoid a repeat of that.”

Jongho nodded, too exhausted to discuss this in detail. He knew his overprotective hyungs would do everything to protect him even if there was nothing to protect him from. Also, he wasn’t sure if the motion of the car might set his stomach off again.

“Jjongie can go in the front, with either Mingi or Yunho”, Hongjoong said tiredly and without lifting his head from the seat, “Wooyoung and Yeosang should go in the middle row, we all know that Wooyoungie feels better when he feels like he can escape easily out of the door as soon as we stop. San can go with them. I’ll go in the back with Seonghwa and either Yunho or Mingi. I can take Jongho’s old seat so I’m furthest away from Wooyoungie as possible.”

Jongho couldn’t help but be impressed with their captain. He had put some obvious thought to the seating arrangement, despite still looking in pain and queasy.

San would be able to help Yeosang calm Wooyoung down should he have another emetophobia-fuelled panic attack. Mingi and Yunho needed the space the front provided. Seonghwa always felt best when helping members so he would go with Hongjoong (though Jongho supposed it was also a slightly selfish longing on the captain’s part, wanting his only hyung close). And Jongho would feel best in the front should the illness return.

The only flaw was that Hongjoong looked all sorts of ashen and green already and Jongho didn’t doubt he would be sick again, no matter if it was motion sickness or food poisoning.

Seonghwa seemed to think along the same lines as Jongho. “Joong-ah, you can’t be serious? I’m sorry to be so frank but you look like you’re about to hurl again and sitting in the back won’t help.”

Hongjoong sighed. “I feel like it too but whatever we do, if this is food poisoning I will be sick again no matter where I sit. Jongho might avoid getting sick again if he is in the front, considering he feels better, and Wooyoungie can’t sit in the back row, no matter how much it was cleaned. I’m sorry that you have to suffer our stupidity, Wooyoungie.”

Wooyoung just silently nodded in thanks, squeezing Yeosang’s hand tightly.

“Alright”, the manager interjected, “let’s get in everybody.”

Seonghwa sighed and helped Hongjoong up, so they could crawl into the back where the captain immediately rested his aching head against the cool window and clutched a plastic bag in his hands. Without looking at Mingi, Yunho jumped into the last empty seat in the back. When Mingi tried to protest he was shushed: “Go sit in the front with our maknae, Mingi-yah, I know you want to be with him. Besides I already had the privilege of not being a sardine in a box.”

Mingi grinned and thanked him before hopping into the front seat and pulling Jongho to sit next to him. Within minutes of exiting the rest stop, Jongho was asleep on his hyung.

⌛

During the drive he vaguely woke up when the car stopped and the members in the back got out of the van but Mingi guided his head back to his shoulder, whispering that he should go back to sleep, Hongjoong was just sick again, but he needed to rest.

It was early in the morning when they arrived at the filming location. Jongho had slept through the rest of the drive, he was told, through Hongjoong getting sick a few times until they arrived.

They had Hongjoong sit out from the filming for an hour or two, letting him sleep curled up in the middle row of the van with a member occasionally checking on him. But when he woke up, claiming to feel much better, he basically begged the manager to film with them and the manager agreed since he hadn’t thrown up since the drive.

When they returned to their dorms a few days later they found the carton of eggs to toss, which mocked them with a best-before date that was still in the future.

At least they weren’t to blame.

Masterlist links: Tafee - Full Masterlist Tafee's Masterlist - ATEEZ

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