#personal writing updates

[ghostofasimov]

Unfortunately, while not Vitrification nor an update to Symposium, I’ve been getting back into my writing projects after a really rough summer and have a 10k one-shot I’m close to finishing to offer as a treat for you all for being such patient readers!

If anyone is a fan of angst leading to a very steamy spar session with an established secret relationship, this one is definitely for you ;)

As an added treat—here’s a little preview snip below!

Spock dipped his head, his voice low and breath not close enough in the space between them.  “I will remind you, we made the terms clear to one another that our involvement would not impact the ship’s affairs.  Do not allow it to do so.”

Jim could feel his nostrils flare, and his temper seep out from under his control “I’m well within my right as your commanding officer to question your ability to participate in a landing party after a severe injury, Commander.  You saw the instant that explosion happened and not a moment after it.  You didn’t see the wreckage.  The rest of the landing party.  You didn’t see all the—“  He stopped as his throat constricted.  “When I saw you under that rubble, I thought you were dead, and you’re expecting me to clear you for the duty roster, just like that?”

“I am asking you to understand that I am not human, and that your standards for personnel recovery do not apply to me.”

“You’re not.  But you’re not indestructible, either.”  He wanted to see red, but all he could see was green.  Too much green.  Spilling, seeping, staining, even as he’d rinsed it down the drain.  

Spock didn’t respond to that.  “At any rate, the decision will lie with Doctor McCoy whether or not I am fit for duty.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that the duty roster is still mine to decide.”

“And if the medical data agrees with you, I shall respect that decision unquestionably.”

Jim shook his head, turning reaching for his towel to wipe the sweat from his brow.  “I’m sorry, Spock.  But even if McCoy thinks you’re ready, I’m not willing to put you on anything more than light-duty.  Not right now.  That’s what I believe will be the most beneficial to the landing party.”

“Their benefit, or yours, Captain?”

Something in him snapped, a jaw trap deep in a wound as he whipped around, closing the distance between them and making no effort to hide the fury on his face.  “Fine.  If we’re at a stalemate and neither of us is proving his point to the other, we’re doing this the hard way.  Spar with me.”

Spock was taken aback by the demand, his eyes softening as they raked over his body.  “You are exhausted, I do not think it wise—“

“Spar with me, or its a hard no,” he said, his tone strict and eyes unwavering as he issues Spock the challenge.  “You win, I let you on the duty roster if McCoy clears you.  You lose, and I don’t want to hear you countermand my decision on this again. Understood?”

[yeoldenews]

A selection of strange and cryptic personal ads from The New York Herald, 1860s to 1890s. 14/?

[you-were-meteowrong]

reblog for bigger sample size

[inkskinned]

my 10 yr high school reunion is coming up in november. does anyone wanna be my fake gf for it. i was super bullied in high school but i'm hot now so i obviously am only going to do lying, crime, and theft.

pros: - you can design your own character. i love improv games and will go along with whatever bit you desire - there's an open bar - you don't know any of these people and i don't care about any of these people, which is the closest either of us will ever get to diplomatic immunity. all bets are off. go hog wild

cons: - im devastatingly pretty & funny & charming and you will fall in love with me - some of the adults present will be business majors. i cannot do anything about that im sorry. - it is a high school reunion, which is the closest either of us will ever get to a nuclear waste site

[kazbiter]

very interested in how the storyline of ronan's sexuality is developed in the dream thieves as a battle between kavinsky and gansey while adam is almost never present in these scenes, which makes it even more interesting that we found out in CDTH that ronan was set on adam the moment he saw him. i think that ronan is attracted on some level to both gansey and kavinsky (you can draw the lines of how much romantic intention you think he hold towards either of the yourself, that's a rabbit hole I would need a whole other post to go down) but more so I think he was attracted to the IDEA of both of them and certain qualities that each possessed, and that the real question wasn't does ronan want gansey or kavinsky because we know he wants adam but rather who's qualities resonate more with who ronan is, or who he is choosing to be at this critical moment in his character development. kavinsky is a dangerous thrill and often comes wrapped in ronan's other favorite self destructive attempts to outrun himself, while gansey is ronan's history and proof of his deep capacities for loyalty and love. he tells kavinsky it was never going to be me and you and that it's not going to be ronan and gansey because that was never the question- maggie was obviously always planning on bluesy and pynch. the answer to who ronan WANTS in adam. the question of who ronan IS- that's what he's trying to decide here. his self hatred is such a heavy weight on him and theme in tdt, and the kavinsky/gansey dichotomy represents the the path he will choose to take to deal with it- keep try to drive faster than his demons or accept that he can still be loved even if he isn't the person he once was. the dream thieves my beloved ronan lynch my beloved

[seraphinitegames]

The Wayhaven Chronicles - Update 22/March/2024

So, I decided where Chapter One is going to end! It should leave people very excited for what’s to come in the rest of the book (and later demo releases), hehe! ;D

I think it does give a very good clue at what might be the source of the problem for the love interests and the MC throughout Book Four, too…

It’s gonna get exciting, guys! :D

Knowing where the demo is going to leave off, I also started looking back at the character creator. After actually playing through what I had a while back, I realized I really wasn’t so keen on what I do normally, and it really needs streamlining.

And I think (hopefully!) I have a plan for how to do that now.

I will try to see if I can get some screenshots or a video of it and post it up so you can get a hint of what it looks like after my redo so far, if my internet ever wants to play ball again!

With only one option per page being possible, I need to make sure people can get through the character creator as fast as possible so they can get playing! And I think putting in big descriptions of what each choice is or means is where some of the flow is coming from. Definitely need to scrap those.

Also realised what I was doing wrong in the previous ‘character creator’ screens for the personality/skill stats and why they weren’t high enough when you picked that they were, in fact, the highest! So, I’ve fixed that for this one, and I will do it for the other books when I can get the time to go back to my spruce up of the previous books too.

Obviously when Book Four releases people will be able to import their character—and I also had a thought on that as well!

With the villain romance being an option, I figure as a player I might already have a character I’ve played through past books with that would work, but I might already be on a romance path (the villain romance only being available on the non-romance ‘friend’ route) so can’t pursue the villain’s storyline.

So I’m thinking of adding in an option where you can modify an imported character with a few choices (such as romance choice). The game will play out as though the character has always had the new options though, so I need to make sure that’s clear. But it’s definitely something I think could work as an option for those that wanted it.

It was definitely a more code-focused week this week, which makes my brain a bit mushy, lol! So I’m very excited to dive back into writing, as well as get the first demo section ready to be sent to the editor and readers…the first time people apart from me will actually see the start of Book Four, hehe!

Hope you all have an incredible weekend! We'll be offline as usual, so I'll update you all again next week! <3

[helly-watermelonsmellinfellon]

Genshin brought back Jeht for Valentine's Day and then Enjou for White Day!

I have so much hope in my soul. So much money I don't have on hand to spend.

[solarmorrigan]

Hands Where I Can See Them, Part 12 (End!)

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3 | Pt 4 | Pt 5 | Pt 6 | Pt 7 | Pt 8 | Pt 9 | Pt 10 | Pt 11 | Ao3

[Warning for brief references to sex; nothing explicit happens]

-

For the first time in a long time, Steve wakes slowly.

His alarm isn’t blaring at him and neither is his brain; it’s quiet, and the room is filled with morning sun, and Steve is warm, and comfortable, and still a little muzzy with the heavy sort of sleep that usually only comes to him when he’s physically exhausted or feeling safe (usually the former).

He blinks at the blurry mess of color that is his wallpaper and tries to remember what day it is, tries to will himself to get up, because he’s sure there’s something he’s supposed to be doing, but it’s hard. He’s so comfortable. He turns his face further into his pillow, pressing in where it’s warm and firm and– breathing.

Steve sits up.

Beside him, Eddie is still asleep, lying sprawled across the mattress with one arm flung half over the side and the other stretched out where it had been curled around Steve’s back before Steve pulled away. There’s a red mark on his chest where Steve’s head had been resting, and he’s sure there’s a corresponding splotch of red on his cheek.

As the sleepy fog finally lifts from his brain, the previous night filters back in, and Steve can’t help the smile that follows. He shifts a little just to feel the pleasurable ache in his muscles, to feel the warmth of the cocoon of sheets around them, to feel the way the mattress dips beneath the weight of a second body, and sighs contentedly.

He’s just considering lying back down when Eddie groans, a drowsy frown pulling at his face.

“Where’d you go?” he asks, eyes still closed (at least, Steve’s sure that’s what he means to ask; it comes out a little more like “Whrd y’go?”, and he’s pleased that his ability to decipher Eddie’s half-awake mumbling hasn’t suffered in its absence of use).

“I didn’t go anywhere, I’m right here,” Steve says, laying his palm over Eddie’s chest and running his thumb along the ridge of his collarbone.

Eddie hums, bringing his hand up from over the edge of the bed to place it over Steve’s. “‘s too early to be awake,” he mutters, a little more coherent this time. “Come back.”

“It’s not even that early. It’s…” Steve ducks and squints a little to bring his alarm clock into focus, everything still a little blurry without his contact lenses in. “Holy shit, it’s past ten.”

“See? Early.” Eddie reaches up with his free hand to pat around for a hold on Steve’s arm so he can tug at him. “Lay back down.”

“I never sleep this late, what the hell,” Steve mutters, and Eddie finally opens his eyes, giving Steve a grin that’s equal parts sleepy and self-satisfied.

“Wore you out, didn’t I?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah, I’m exhausted,” Steve deadpans, before proceeding to flop back down onto Eddie’s chest, smirking at the little ‘oof’ he earns. “I don’t know if I can even move. Hope you don’t have to pee anytime soon.”

Eddie shrugs. “Eh, if I do, it’s your bed, not mine.”

“Ew. Dude.” Steve props himself back up on his elbow in order to wrinkle his nose at Eddie.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Eddie says with a smirk, and – shit, Steve’s really missed this.

Eddie is one of the only people in the world Steve feels like he can completely be himself around. He’s second only to Robin (everyone will always be second to Robin, that’s just a given), and that’s what had devastated Steve most when he’d heard what Eddie had to say about their relationship. He thought he’d let Eddie see all of him, and Eddie hadn’t seen anything worth wanting.

Worth loving.

But that, apparently, hadn’t quite been the case.

“Hey,” Eddie calls Steve’s attention back, picking his hand up off his chest to press a kiss to the back of it. “Where’d you go?”

No, that hadn’t been the case at all.

Steve shakes his head. “Nowhere,” he promises. “I’m right here.”

He leans down for a kiss, and Eddie pulls their combined hands aside to meet it, bringing his free hand up to curl into Steve’s hair, cradling the back of his head.

It isn’t as though all the hurt has healed – all of Steve’s doubts and insecurities haven’t magically disappeared. As much as Steve might wish, it isn’t as though the last several weeks never happened. They can’t change any of that now, but Eddie’s honesty, his openness– openness from them both will take them a long way forward.

The idea still sits as a bit new to Steve: honesty. He’s used to people saying one thing and doing another. He’s used to being expected to decipher convoluted social cues and having to intuit unspoken messages. He’s used to not being allowed to ask for what he wants and just accepting whatever he’s given.

This, he thinks, will be better.

The kiss doesn’t end so much as it slides into another, and another, until Eddie and Steve have rolled to their sides, legs tangled together beneath the blankets, mouths sliding against one another, lazy and unhurried. There’s a hint of heat beneath their movements, something that could spark into more if they let it, but Steve is content with just this for now. There will always be time for more later.

Eddie hums deep in his chest when the kisses trail to an end, voice still warm and sleep-rough, and Steve rests his forehead against Eddie’s, unwilling to go too far away just yet.

“Good morning,” Steve says when Eddie opens his eyes again, and he can feel the puff of Eddie’s sigh against his lips.

“Don’t say that,” Eddie whines. “If you say that, we have to get up.”

Steve gives a little laugh. “We can’t stay in bed all day, Eddie.”

“Sure we can,” Eddie drawls, pushing at Steve’s shoulder until he takes the hint and rolls onto his back, only to have Eddie lay down on top of him, pressing him into the mattress. “In fact, I think that’s a great idea.”

“Do you seriously have no other plans for the day?” Steve asks, as if he has any pressing engagements himself.

Eddie presses a kiss to the base of Steve’s throat, humming thoughtfully. “Maybe one or two,” he says, trailing a few more kisses up the side of Steve’s neck.

“Besides that,” Steve huffs, though he makes no move to stop Eddie when his hand comes to rest on the waist of Steve’s pajama pants.

“What am I, an event planner?” Eddie asks, but he does pull away from Steve’s neck with a petulant (and largely exaggerated) sigh. “Fine. How about we stay in bed most of the day and then… we can go back to mine for dinner?”

Steve looks up at Eddie, brows drawing together as he thinks. “What’s at yours that we’d need for dinner?”

Eddie shrugs. “Nothing, really. It’s just been a while,” he says quietly.

And– well, it has. Eddie’s trailer used to be one of the places Steve had felt most comfortable, but he hasn’t spent more than a few minutes there in passing since he’d emptied it of his things. He misses it there – how warm and welcoming it always was, how he’d felt like he belonged there.

What if he goes back now and it’s changed? What if he feels as out of place there now as he does in his own house?

He must spend a moment too long thinking about it, because Eddie begins to backpedal.

“But if you don’t want to, we totally don’t have to, we can just–”

“No,” Steve cuts in. “Let’s go to yours for dinner.”

A slow-growing smile pulls across Eddie’s face, and Steve can tell he’s fighting the urge to duck and hide it.

“Wayne misses you, y’know,” Eddie says, and now it’s Steve who’s ducking away from eye contact.

“Misses my cooking, I bet,” he jokes, but Eddie shakes his head.

“Misses you. He does like you, Steve. He asked where you were, after– after everything,” Eddie says, and Steve isn’t sure what the hell he’s supposed to say to that, or if he even can speak around the sudden, weird choke of emotion in his throat. Eddie, as if he can sense his dilemma, saves Steve from having to respond. “He misses your cooking too, though, let’s be real. He had the audacity to tell me the other day that my mac and cheese isn’t as good as yours. It was your recipe!”

Steve laughs, and Eddie really plays up the offense.

“And you know the worst part? He was right,” Eddie laments. “It’s the same recipe, how does that even work?”

“So, what I’m hearing is that you want me to come to your house and cook you dinner,” Steve teases, smirking up at Eddie.

Eddie subsides just a little, packing away his theatrical energy in order to smile back down at Steve. “I just want you to come over. I’ll order dinner if you want. Hell, I’ll submit myself to public ridicule and try cooking for you again.” He cups Steve’s cheek in one hand and leans in to kiss him gently. “Whatever you want, Steve, I’m there.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, quiet, almost breathless with the depth of Eddie’s promise.

“Yeah,” Eddie answers, his smile as ridiculous and smitten as the look on Steve’s own face must be. “I’m right here with you.”

And Steve decides he likes the sound of that. He likes it very much.

-

Thank you to everyone who gently threatened me encouraged me to continue the first part of this story, it's been so fun to write and to see everyone interact with! You've all been very kind, and I hope the ending satisfies <3

Tag list: @bushbees @y0urnewstepp4r3nt @gleek4twd @hellfireone @westifer-dead @anne-bennett-cosplayer @starman-jpg @mugloversonly @swimmingbirdrunningrock @alycatavatar @y4r3luv @rhapsodyinalto @vinteraltus @lilpomelito @tillystealeaves @noctxrn-e @pearynice @giverobinagfbrigade @novacorpsrecruit @hotluncheddie @strangersteddierthings @alongcomesaspider @theheadlessphilosopher @jettestar @rajumat @garden-of-gay @jamieweasley13 @dam28lh @oldwitcheshat @lololol-1234 @perfectlysensiblenonsense @salty-h0e @r0binscript @mavernanche @back2beesness @a-lovely-craziness @paintsplatteredandimperfect @redbullgivescaswings @emmabubbles @heartstarstar-blog @thesuninyaface @thatonebisexualman @fruitandbubbles @erinharvelle @m-owo-n @theystoodandplayedwithsilence @surroundedbyconfusion @luthienstormblessed @3ldr1tchang3l @pansexuality-activated

[xjustakay]

y’all know that saying “writers are people, treat them like people!!” means you shouldn’t put them on a pedestal they didn’t ask to be put on, too, right……

[niuniente]

Wow, so many saying in the last kudos-comment-bookmarks post that they comment only if the fic was SUPER GOOD. 72,2%(!!!) said they NEVER comment! (wtf???????)

So you want to give support only for insanely good writers? No support, in a form of comments, for beginners and not so good writers? And 72,2% of the fics deserve no comment because what? You didn't feel like commenting?

You think beginners keep writing if they don't get any "I liked this! Keep going!" support? Yelling into the wind and hoping someone hears and replies?

That's a hobby, you know. Not a profession. You expect a professional level stuff from a hobbyist, writing on their free time a fic they want to share with you, because they loved the idea, the same characters, the same ship or/and the same fandom as you do?

I'm speechless.

I'm going to go Abe Simpson here and say that when I was young, the courtesy was to comment on every chapter on each fic you read. That was the norm. The bare minimum expected from readers was to leave at least one comment at the end of the fic.

THINK HOW MUCH MORE PEOPLE WOULD WRITE, DRAW AND CREATE IF THIS LEVEL OF COMMENTING AND INTERACTING AS A PERSON, NOT A FACELESS KUDOS, WAS STILL A NORM!

I don't really like the shift in the fandom where nothing is expected from those who enjoy the stuff others make, except consume them silently.

It is not that much to be asked nor that difficult to be polite, kind, and type; "I read this. Thank you for writing!"

No, I won't listen to "UWU you're forcing us to comment! I don't like it!" Learn some fandom manners and be kind to others. Have empathy to those who create to understand that things won't magically appear on their own to AO3 or anywhere else. Someone has made them. It's not too much asked and no level of anxiety can't be THAT BAD that you can't type - even anonymously - just "TY" if you can't muster up anything else. Or leave a little heart. Or thumbs up emoji.

Acknowledge the hard work of those who offer you free stuff of your favorite fandom. That's your basic courtesy as a member of your fandom and I promise, it makes the other person happy - and more inspired to create more free stuff.

[robiinurheart33]

Haha wouldn’t it be so weird if when soap was taken and brainwashed he was constantly being compared to this soldier named “ghost” haha

Anyways explicit descriptions of psychological torture and violent intrusive thoughts under the cut

He would be beaten and berated constantly. why wasn’t he stronger than ghost, why wasn’t he faster, more skilled, better, stealthier, healthier.

Ghost could’ve done better in worse conditions.

Ghost has done better in worse conditions.

Why was soap not better even after all this?

It drove him up the wall, the way he would wonder who he was, seething and bleeding by the lip. After all that he’s gone though, all that he’s endured, everything.

Why wasn’t be better? Why can he never, ever be better?

They drove his sanity to the ground, spat and kicked at it until there was nothing but a shell of who he once was, and rebuilt it to fit their ideals. Soap couldn’t remember who he was before this, before the experiments. He couldn’t think, do, say anything without being ordered to do so by someone else.

Some days, soap would pull on the thin stripe down his scalp, eager to find some semblance of control over himself, even if it were pain. He would always get punished.

“It was the only thing he can and will recognise him by.”

“Ghost likes that on you.”

It made him hate the Mohawk even more.

He hates Ghost. He was sick of it. He was done waiting. He was done being compared to. He was done with being second to him. He wanted to pull him apart limb from limb, feel the hot blood spill over his teeth and he rips his throat apart, hear the sickening crunch of his neck being twisted, feel the smooth muscle of his skin ripple and tremble in fear of the one that he was supposedly supposed to be stronger than. Soap will never, ever get anything else in his life but the pure, white-hot rage of revenge. He maybe thinks this had lingered on since he was younger, before everything. It felt like an old friend, more so than his other emotions.

His first mission.

He will be better. He will be better. He will be the best. He will be good. This might be his only shot. This is. He will be the best. He will succeed. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail.

He runs into ghost.

At first, he didn’t know who he was. Soap was in a room with a few others, guns up and masks drawn, ready to shoot anyone who tries to come into the room. They had been infiltrated, and soap wasn’t told more than that. He didn’t really need to know more. Shoot the hostiles, keep people safe. Suddenly, bullets start to rain from outside the door, and soon enough, more and more bodies start hitting the floor. Soap does not panic. He hides behind a bookshelf, waiting.

A big ass motherfucker in a skull mask walks into the room and it looks like the shadows are warping to his presence. Soap does not panic. He reaches for the knife strapped to his thigh, flicking it up and holding it ready. He waits patiently until he stalks near the bookshelf, tightening his grip on the knife. They make eye contact, and through the skull mask stained with blood, he can see jet black eyes staring at him in shock. Death incarnate. Soap does not panic.

“Joh-”

Soap quickly slips out of his hiding spot, wrapping a forearm over his neck and attempting to jab the knife right into his socket. He feels a hand grip tightly onto his forearm, and he goes weightless. All the air escapes his lungs as his back slams against the floor, his head spinning. He screams at himself to get up, fight, be better, before he hears the familiar crackle of a radio.

“Ghost, how copy?”

Ghost.

This is Ghost.

Ghost just fucking flipped him.

Soap does not panic. He does not panic but he feels a chill go down his spine as he sees red, scrambling back up onto his feet. The adrenaline starts to kick in now, and he lunges at him, ripping the radio off his vest and slamming it on the floor. He’s not completely sure why he did that, but in all fairness soap feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind, if his captors haven’t done so already. He punches Ghost, wincing slightly as his knuckle hit the cheekbone corner of his stupid skull mask. Soap starts to reach for his gun before Ghost punches back, hitting the mask clean off his face, pushing his back to the floor, one hand on his wrists. Soap starts to get really agitated now. After everything that he’s gone through, he’s still not good enough to beat ghost. He still hasn’t improved. He hasn’t gone anywhere. He makes eye contact with Ghost and is slightly taken aback when he is reflected with an equally crazed stare.

“Johnny.”

What the fuck?

Soap doesn’t say anything. Ghost’s eyes are brown, not black. Why hasn’t be killed him yet? Why isn’t Soap struggling? Ghost has blonde eyelashes.

“Where have you been?” To soap’s absolute horror, those brown eyes start to become glossy. He flinches back as if he’s been hit, and grits his teeth. No shit, he’s been here the whole time, where else is he supposed to be?

Soap surges forward and headbutts him in hopes of him letting go. He doesn’t, and it makes soap all the more dizzier, more frustrated. Why isn’t he fucking dead already? He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get his mind right.

“Johnny. Johnny.” Can he just shut the fuck up? It’s getting increasingly hard to concentrate for some reason. Shit. He feels overly exposed without the mask, feeling his body temperature rising steadily.

“Stop calling me that!” he growls out, twisting out of his grip and punching his across the face. The twisted skull mask looks almost comical out of place, but he can still see those eyes. Ghost’s hand comes to cup his cheek, and soap flinches back. His eyes look like Soap just mauled his puppy right in front of him. It makes him freeze in place, head awkwardly hovering between the floor and Ghost.

Images of blood spilling and needles, dirt and coffins fill his head, the sound of a neck snapping, gagging, screams and whimpers. Hands on him, eyes on him, never letting go. Stay. Soap snaps back into place, grabbing the mask and twisting it up, covering Ghost’s eyes. He quickly gets his other hand free and pushes ghost off him, sprinting out of the room.

“Wait-!” Is all he hears before flying down the corridor, back to safety, back to where it’s familiar, where he always is, where he always will be.

Loyalty has always been Soap’s best trait.

[ohitslen]

BREAKING NEWS 🎉Ch. 5 of The neighbor from 311 is up!🎉

[wetcatspellcaster]

so... guess who finished writing Pieces.

[infamous-if]

to the anon(s) who keeps sending me hate on my characters, please leave me alone :) you sent it multiple times and i ask you to just block my account and read something else.

edit: the inbox and submissions have been closed, im sorry. i just had an influx of negative anons lately and i am someone who can be easily swayed so it's best if i just close it for a while. i have a lot of questions, so it wont be completely silent i dont think. thanks :)

[osaemu]

so uh funny story guys. i lost interest in anime men

[serenescribe]

thank you @oddberryshortcake for letting me write something based on this absolutely heart-wrenching post! i am in shambles from the newest update. spoilers ahead.

“Silver,” Lilia whispers, in a voice that breaks as it spills past his cracked lips.

Lilia pays no attention to the way his knees ache, kneeling for as long as he has been, the thin fabric of his stockings rubbing raw patches into his flesh. Nor does he focus on any of the other ailments afflicting him — the blanket of fatigued exhaustion weighing down his shoulders, the throbbing agony pulsating through his head, the scratchy dryness itching up the inside of his throat. The only thing he has eyes for is his son: Silver, who lays in his arms, cradled close to Lilia’s body, his head lolling against Lilia’s chest.

Silver’s eyes remain firmly shut. He is still asleep.

Oh, Lilia’s heart crumbles with each ticking second, eyes fixated upon the slow rise and fall of Silver’s chest. He is not dead — Not yet, a terrible, pesky part of Lilia’s mind, words uttered from the lips of a disillusioned general, tells him, to which Lilia bats away, trying to ignore the thought. The sight of his breathing should fill Lilia with relief because it means Silver is still alive.

And yet, Lilia can only hang his head over Silver’s body, cradling him even closer, arms wrapped protectively around the body of his son, his child.

“Wake up, Silver,” Lilia murmurs into his ear. He blinks, eyes wet and heavy, feels something sliding down his cheek — a single solitary tear, but not alone for long. Wet droplets land on Silver’s body, sinking into the fabric of his shirt. How long has it been since Lilia cried like this? He cannot remember. Seven hundred years spent alive does that to someone — it numbs their heart, dries their tears, makes it nigh impossible to cry, especially when so much of their past is occupied by something as numbing as the wretched consequences of wars long fought.

Silver still does not stir.

Distantly, Lilia notices the faint tracks marring his cheeks, echoes of tears long since shed. He reaches for it with a thumb, swiping at the dried stains, as though wiping it away could erase all of the pain Silver must have gone through in his dream. He knows enough of what happened, knows of it from what the others has told him, and it makes his heart shatter — the thought that Silver had nearly succumbed to his own blot, all because he found out his past, a past Lilia tried to hide for fear of Silver being judged for the sins of his fathers, breaks something nestled deep inside of his chest.

Lilia closes his eyes. “I love you,” he breathes, words he has been so terrified of saying all these years. He does love Silver, truly — but to utter those three words, the words a young Silver have always said to him so freely with that beaming smile spreading across his chubby child cheeks… For years, Lilia has evaded ever speaking them into reality, to return the obvious affection of his son instead of laughing it off and saying “I know.”

And as a consequence of that, Lilia is now far too late.

He knows he is not alone in this room. He can hear things — conversations that swirl together, hushed murmurs, snatches of his name and Silver’s own, footsteps and doors creaking open and shut. He can see things — in his peripheral vision mainly, shadows that approach and depart, the occasional sight of footsteps slipping into view. He can feel things — a hand coming to rest on his shoulder, fingers reaching out to stroke Silver, all touches that Lilia shrinks away from, pulls Silver away from. Because as far as his addled mind is concerned, the only thing he can process right now is him and his son.

A memory haunts him: He is a few years younger, finding Silver for the first time. He uses his magic to explore his memories, discovers the identity of the child in the cradle, and finds out that he is the spawn of his enemies. And yet, all Lilia can focus on is the knowledge that Silver was fated to slumber until his true love woke him up, an unending rest only broken when Lilia stumbled upon him.

He is Silver’s true love, and Silver is his.

“Silver,” Lilia tries again, his voice cracking into splinters as he forces his name past his lips. “I love you. Wake up.”

Silver is his, isn’t he? Just as he is Silver’s — an absolute truth that Lilia turned a blind eye to for years, too scared to reciprocate the emotions swirling about his soul in full force, to unleash the depths of his love for his dear son. If Silver could wake from the throes of a sleep that had addled him for four hundred years all because of Lilia’s love for him, a love he had not realised the extent of when he found Silver for the first time, then surely he can do the same now, right?

Surely Lilia’s love for him, a love he knows now to show freely in the way he hugs him close, presses kisses against his forehead, will be enough to wake him… right?

So why is he not waking?

Why is he still asleep?

Is his love not enough? That cannot be the case. Lilia loves Silver — with all his heart, with all his soul; they have been bonded since the moment Silver was born, the invisible strings of fate entangling the two of them together before either of them knew it. Lilia is the key to Silver’s lock, his very presence opening the boy’s heart, dispelling the effects of a curse that has kept him in stasis for four long centuries. His only mistake was not showing his affections sooner, of keeping his heart carefully guarded until it was far too late.

So why then?

Why won’t Silver wake up?