#cori stop

[cottagecori]

"It’s a FAT ZERO. HELLO!! A little LATE ADDITION to the numerical symbol chart brought to us from our friends in Arabia, a little bit of trivia that I happen to know about the history of numbers. That kind of little tidbit would serve me well in most trivia games, unless it had been RIGGED FROM THE BEGINNING!"

[ID: Image one is a Spotify playlist titled "i’ve only just begun to pull the thread on this sweater". Its cover image shows Brennan Lee Mulligan on Game Changer saying "I know what's going on here." The following images are all the songs on the playlist. Together, they spell out his whole monologue for the "Brennan Cannot Win" game, as follows (with added punctuation):

"Friends, you would think in a game where there are only two possible correct choices, that one would stumble into the right answer every so often, wouldn’t you? In fact, the probability of never guessing right in the full game is a statistical wonder, and yet, here we are. Introduced at the top of the game as a champion, what do you think that means? Icarus, flying too close to the sun. But it seems Daedalus, our little master crafter over here, had some wax wings of his own, didn’t he? Wanted to see his son fall. Fall from the sky. Oh, how close to the sun he flew! Well I’m not having it. I solved your labyrinth, puzzle master! The minotaur‘s escaped and you’re gonna get the horns, buddy! I cannot win!" End ID]

[Caption transcript: "It’s a fat zero. Hello!! A little late addition to the numerical symbol chart brought to us from our friends in Arabia, a little bit of trivia that I happen to know about the history of numbers. That kind of little tidbit would serve me well in most trivia games, unless it had been rigged from the beginning!" End transcript]

[magnusbae]

All I wish to say is that if The Corinthian was a dream instead of a nightmare...

[atomic-chronoscaph]

Dreamscape (1984)

[theladyigraine]

Happiness is complicated. Is it? When you’re in my arms it doesn’t feel complicated at all.

[inej-qhafa]

What did you wish for?... For a cigarette. You don't smoke. No?

TRANSATLANTIC 1.03 | "The Wilderness"

[wilmon]

TRANSATLANTIC 1.06 "Pure Psychic Automatism"

[fangirlmodeactivated]

Billy Crudup for The Morning Show - Best Supporting Actor in a Drama Series - Critics' Choice Awards 2024

[mostlysignssomeportents]

I'm with the band

[mazojo]

Possibly legendaric

[cottagecori]

I know that dropout is very unlikely to ever partner with a big studio and they don't really have the wherewithal to do it on their own but holy fuck all I want in life is an animated mentopolis series with like full on looney tunes/animaniacs style cartoon logic

[letgomypartypiece]

hallucination!riddler is so.....

[claire-is-6ft]

the takes that Cory is being misogynistic towards America are craaaaaaaazy like WHAT. Cory is one of the only houseguests in recent memory that not only doesn't participate in misogynistic conversations, he speaks up and tries to shut them down. Some of you guys are REACHING reaching

[scionshtola]

from the touch prompts: 12. on a scar; or 18. because you are dying :>

ty azia!! this one really sent me on a spiral this week adkfd

the pain of perception

pairing: Corisande Ymir/Y'shtola Rhul word count: 1292 | read on ao3 notes: i went with 18. because you are dying. 5.0 spoilers!

Y’shtola has always found Corisande difficult to look away from, some inexorable pull between them perpetually drawing her gaze. She turned toward them as a blossom sought the sun, unfurling in their light and basking in the warmth of it. Even when Y’shtola lost her sight and the world lost its color, Corisande’s familiar aether was more than enough to draw her in, their countenance so dear to her that it hardly took any effort at all to pick out their features.

In the grand entrance hall of Emet-Selch’s recreated Capitol building, the light Corisande emanates is not the kind Y’shtola wants to bask in. They are a beacon of aether, so bright they blur the forms of the other Scions gathered around them. So bright the light lingers even when she closes her eyes, a ghostly blur haunting the back of her eyelids.

She watches them as they take their leave of the others and turn toward her, seeking her out as surely as she sought them. They cross the hall, the soft click of their boots growing louder as they approach. 

“The others are nearly ready. Ryne only wants to charge a few more cartridges for Thancred before we start on our way,” Corisande says, gesturing at the others over her shoulder, gathered by the door that leads deeper into the building. She lifts her hand, starting to reach for Y’shtola, but stops herself halfway, arm falling stiffly to her side. ‘Tis difficult to make out, but Y’shtola thinks she might be clenching her fist. “I came to see how you fared.” 

Y’shtola holds back a sigh, her jaw clenched against the sharp pain in her chest at the aborted gesture. In the three years she’d spent without them on the First, she had so missed the easy physical affection between them. A reassuring squeeze of her wrist, a gentle hand on the small of her back, a soft brush of their thumb across her cheek. Touches she had at times wished Corisande would not make, if only to spare Y’shtola the misery of her endlessly growing feelings. 

But she’d been wrong to think it would spare her any pain. Since their reunion—that near disastrous moment when Y’shtola had mistaken them for a sin eater—Corisande has, for the most part, kept a careful physical distance between them. Every deliberate step back, every halted reach for her hand, left her far more hurt and confused than any touch that had ever led her to hope for more. 

That they keep their distance even now, when losing themself to the light is becoming less a potential threat and more a rapidly approaching reality with every passing moment, is more than she can bear. She reaches for their hand in their stead, pressing their cool palm to hers. “l have no preparations to make. I will be ready when you are.”

Corisande tips their chin, head tilting down in the direction of their joined hands. Y’shtola holds fast, hope swooping through her stomach, her breath caught in her chest as she waits. But rather than pull away, they squeeze her hand, and the ache in Y’shtola’s chest is eased as she finally exhales. 

Corisande lifts her head in Y’shtola’s direction, her familiar features—the heart shape of her lips, the curve of her nose, her downturned eyes—just as obfuscated by the light as the rest of her body. There was a time that Y’shtola could have known what Corisande was thinking just by a simple shared glance. Now, though she could make her best guess, she could never be sure what was written in their expression. What Y’shtola might give to see the curve of Corisande’s gentle smile once more, before they venture toward a battle that could change her forever. 

Y’shtola glances down at their hands, still pressed palm to palm between them. Corisande had not shied from one touch—perhaps she would not shy from another. 

Do as your heart decrees, Y’shtola had told them, only moments ago. Without hesitation or regret. 

Y’shtola raises her free hand to Corisande’s cheek, heartbeat a loud, steady rhythm as she moves. They lean down ever so slightly to meet her, their hair falling over her arm, the ends of it brushing lightly against her sleeve. She stills when their fingers wrap gently around her wrist, thinking they mean to tug her hand away, but they simply hold on.

“Is it difficult? To look at me? To—” Corisande’s grip on her wrist tightens. Their voice is soft, almost fragile to Y’shtola’s ears. “I know the toll a surfeit of aether takes on you. It must be exhausting just to have me near.”

“‘Tis not easy,” Y’shtola admits, though it pains her to say it. Corisande knows the truth already—the abundance of their aether is difficult for Y’shtola to process with her aether-fueled sight—and Y’shtola would not lie to her besides. 

Worse than the harsh glare of their aether, though, is the damage the light has wrought on their soul, battered and bruised as it struggles to contain the light. For all the distance that Corisande has kept between them these past few weeks, they could not hide the depth of the wound from Y’shtola. While she knew Corisande would prefer it, Y’shtola saw no kindness in pretending otherwise—she would not turn from them when they were in pain, no matter how much it hurt to see. 

Y’shtola sweeps her thumb across the swell of Corisande’s cheek, and hopes she’s looking her in the eye when she speaks again. “But I would no sooner look away than I would leave you to face what lies ahead alone.”

Corisande’s smile blooms under Y’shtola’s palm—cheek curving upward, the quirk in the corner of their lips where they’ve turned into her touch, the crinkle of skin around their eyes—and she answers with a warm smile of her own. Corisande sweeps a finger across the inside of her wrist, and after weeks—years—of so little contact between them, the deliberate touch feels monumental, as much a relief to the longing inside her as it is a catalyst for a desperate desire for more. 

“Shtola,” they say, the newly restored warmth in their voice reigniting that flame of hope in her. The one that made her long for Corisande’s soft touches, that made her think Corisande has always felt about her the way she feels about them, the one that never quite went out. “I—”

They cut off with a soft whimper of pain, lurching forward with a grimace. Their grip clamps down sharply where they hold Y’shtola, fingers digging into her wrist and the back of her hand, and she feels the hold as if it were a vice around her heart, pressed under the weight of their pain. The light inside them surges, brightening and straining against their soul as Corisande struggles to stay on their feet, and then it fades.

“Are you all right?” Y’shtola asks, keeping her tone neutral though she feels anything but, unable to even blink away the image of the surging light. Corisande straightens, her expression smoothing beneath Y’shtola’s hand. 

“Well enough,” she answers between breaths, her voice thin. She squeezes Y’shtola’s wrist, then gently tugs her hand away from her face, though she does not completely release her. “Perhaps we had better be on our way.”

“Of course.” Y’shtola expects Corisande to drop her hands, but they hold on to one as they pivot, placing themself at her side. 

The door that will lead them to Emet-Selch looms before them, the others still gathered in front of it. Whatever they face beyond it, whatever Corisande’s heart decrees, Y’shtola would not turn her gaze. They would face it together—perhaps not hand in hand, but side by side.

[whoblewboobear]

Like I’m sorry if my days were numbered I would fight for my life to stay but I also would be boo’d up with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life 🤷🏾 All in a days work for Timmy

[pinkhysteria]

sorry but the way the "free cory from america!" crowd talks about him vs. every other player who puts trust in the wrong parties is so funny.

[fangirlmodeactivated]

Laura Peterson knows, she has always known.