this blog is where i dump all my creative thoughts, including:
fanfictions
half-formed ideas that turn into full ones
aesthetics and random inspiration
extra scenes that didn’t make it into anything (yet)
i write across multiple fandoms, so expect a bit of everything depending on what i’m obsessed with at the time
right now, that mainly means things related to a song of sea and fire
updates aren’t always consistent, but i’m always writing something in the background
hey sorry, i've got a maybe slightly unhinged question about veteri-mycosis but asking unhinged questions about ppl's fics/AUs is like my niche in the drecosystem so whatever. can dream communicate with sam through the skulk? i was reading a book about mycorrhizal networks and it seems like a thing that could be possible in the universe you've created, given what we know about IRL fungal communication and especially given that the skulk growing on/in dream is SAM'S, right???
:)
VETERI-MYCOSIS, EXTRA (??)SCENE(??) 1
read the full fic here
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Sam never saw colors before. He didn't even know how to imagine them, considering that no one's descriptions ever made sense.
Dream said that all the materials used for the main cell were dark. "Dark" wasn't a color per se, but a range of colors, and too much of it was disorienting for those with sight. Apparently. To rectify it, you could bring "light" into a space, which also wasn't a color, but it illuminated color where it existed. Dream needed light when he inspected the construction progress, but it didn't make the materials any less dark. It made no sense, really.
"Don't worry about it," Dream told him, "In all fairness, you probably get around better than I do."
It was possible to look at something and determine its beauty. Apparently. To a human, nothing could be beautiful in the dark unless it engaged another sense, like sound or smell. Music was still beautiful in the dark. Dream once said that the sculk had teal, glowing parts to it, and that he was able to find it beautiful.
Sam knew every puddle on the west side of the city. He knew when the frog that was hopping around in the north was frozen in place by sculk, and he knew the moment it died of suffocation, its lungs overtaken. He knew it all, and he never "saw" it. He never even "heard" it, really, or "smelled" it. He just knew. And it was beautiful.
It was helpful, honestly, when the sculk started to overcome Dream. Could there be a better way to monitor your prisoner? There wasn't much to monitor; he barely moved, and he eventually lost the energy and lung-power to engage in some of the things he used to do to entertain himself, like sing. Things could be beautiful in the dark if they engaged another sense, like sound. Sam listened, and it was beautiful. When it stopped, and Dream was so well claimed by sculk that Sam could sense his heartbeat from anywhere in the city, it was also beautiful.
In the midst of battle, Sam lost track of that heartbeat, but he received something else.
Visions of color; fuzzy and non-specific, but vivid and alive. Visions of pain, visions of panic, visions of crying and of being held. Technoblade's voice. Warm food and tea. The soft fur of dogs-- much like Fran's.
Could there be a better way to monitor your prisoner?
(Dream had frequent flashbacks to the prison. More than just the prison; he had memories of the city itself, of the places he'd visit when the prison was still being built, of sculk-ridden buildings he thought he never stepped foot in. He knew his memory was ruined, but it still seemed odd. In these flashbacks, he wasn't even holding a torch. He walked around like he didn't need them.
There was a frog that was hopping around in the north that was frozen in place by sculk, and he knew the moment it died of suffocation, its lungs overtaken. The soft fur of a dog-- much like Em's. He knew. He knew.)
Summary: Santi forgets to check the weather before another hike.
A/N: Requested by @kday426 🤍 Love this idea!
I look at you, and I’m home
When the rain starts, it’s a light enough drizzle that Santi thinks nothing of it. In the canopy of trees, the drops barely hit either of you, and he doesn’t remember the forecast calling for rain. But then he remembers it’s Thursday, not Wednesday, and he didn’t check today’s weather. Shit.
You’re walking quietly a few steps ahead of him, this part of the trail narrowed, and he surreptitiously pulls out his phone to check the radar. When it loads and he sees that there is in fact a major storm right over their heads, he grunts in frustration.
You glance back at him and halt when you see he’s holding his phone, “What’s up?”
“Uh,” He looks up at you, then to the sky the is peeking through the dense branches above. He can see it already darkening quickly, “We might about to be caught in a nice downpour, I forgot to check the weather.” He holds up the screen for you to see the large blot of red over the area you were currently hiking.
Your eyebrows raise, “Shit, I didn’t bring a jacket or anything!” You gesture down at your outfit—hiking shoes, leggings and a white t-shirt. Santiago is similarly dressed, his loose track pants really the only part of his outfit that could be considered rain-worthy. As you spoke, the rain had already started to increase and the wind had picked up.
Santi glanced around, aware that there were no real hiding places that would work in this sort of weather, but he notices a nearby dip along some rocks that would suffice in keeping you both safe. As thunder begins to roar overhead, he grabs your hand and leads you carefully off the trail and helps you step down into the small dugout. “We’re going to get soaked, but we can wait it out here and we’ll be fine.” He has to speak loudly over the thunder now, and the rain is succeeding in biting through the tree cover, soaking you both.
While it had been a hot day, the combination of rain and the heavy wind had you both cooling off pretty quickly. He watches you take a seat on the ground, drawing your legs close, and then sits down next to you. “Are you sure we shouldn’t keep moving?” You ask, and he can see the worry in your eyes, hear the slightly higher pitch of your voice.
He throws his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side, regret for not checking the fucking weather yet again rolling through him. He could handle this, he’d been through worse in much harsher places when he served, but you weren’t trained like he was. “I let you down, Little, I’m sorry,” He says into your ear, and you shiver but he knows it's from the cold, “We’re safer to stay low and wait for it to pass.”
You nodded, then tucked yourself closer against him when a loud and bright combination of lightning and thunder struck. That wild, fierce rush of protectiveness over you was thrumming through his veins; he brought his free hand up to wipe the water from your face, intending on pulling you to his chest to try and protect you from the rain. When your eyes find his, you search his regret-laden expression before reaching up and cupping his jaw gently, pausing to wait for the thunder to dull down, before speaking, “You could never let me down, Santiago.”
He smiles, but the look you’re giving him is too intense, and he has to look away. He glances down, his eyes skimming over your soaked clothing and resting on your chest for a beat before he’s pressing you against him, his head resting protectively over yours. He doesn’t think you noticed him look, realize that your shirt was see-through and your pebbled nipples had drawn his eye, and he hopes you can’t hear his heart racing in his chest. The sight of you braless had him reeling, your breasts so clear through the fabric of your soaked shirt that he felt like he was on fire.
The storm's intensity increases further and you’re clinging to him now, your face pressed into his throat and Santi is murmuring reassuring words in Spanish as he holds you. It takes half an hour for the worst of it to pass, and then he’s grasping your hand and leading you quickly through the trail, ensuring you don’t slip, and he doesn’t let go until the door shuts behind him at home. You’re laughing now, soaked to the bone and shivering madly, but you still pull Santi in for a bone-crushing hug, and it takes everything he has inside of him not to kiss you right there.
When he climbs into his shower to warm up, he has to push aside his guilt to fist his hand over his hard length, the image of you, and that intense look you’d given him, at the front of his mind. He moans softly, as he imagines being with you—of taking you in the hallway when you’d hugged him, stripping you bare and kneeling before you, hooking your leg over his shoulder so that he could lick your core until you couldn’t stand.
Santi leans against the cool tile of his shower and looks down at himself, picturing you there, looking up at him as you licked over his leaking head, tasting him, moaning around his length. He gasps when he cums, the thick ropes hitting the muscles of his stomach before being washed away by the shower. He only has a moment to enjoy the high of his orgasm before the guilt settles in.
