#starlight interference

[calypsolemon]

mortal form thesp design (not pre-ascension), for my partner's upcoming fanfic

[realityandrebirth]

how many chapters of Starlight Interference will there be? it's so fun....... i'm so excited for more capo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

Currently the estimate for chapters is 15 + an epilogue! but this has changed over the course of writing + outlining. usually it increases but I wouldnt be too shocked if it decreased.

I'm very excited for capochin's character arc in this fic. sniles so sneetly. Hector's kind of the main character but him, capo, godpoke, and thespius have arcs that I like :]

[hazard-and-friends]

good play is a work in progress

[xichilie]

Flame reaver/Phanion x (fem)reader

The ember in every cycle

Next

"How many times can you lose the one thing worth saving before the fire turns into ash?"

Long ago, Phainon, a Hero of light and reason, managed to gather the power of the Titans and the Chrysos Heirs. But he misjudged the outcome-his actions unbalanced the world, leading to the annihilation of everything, including the one he loved: Y/N.

Desperate to fix it, he tore through time and reality, becoming the Flame Reaver, a being cursed to wander shattered timelines, trying to undo the end. But with each reset, Y/N dies again, in a different way-killed, consumed by the Black Tide, taken by fate. Her death becomes the anchor of every collapse.

Phainon eventually forgets himself, becoming the very doom he was trying to prevent.

“The First Cycle”

The sky over Amphoreus split like a cracked mirror, golden lightning tearing through clouds as the final Coreflame hovered above Phainon’s open palm. He stood at the summit of the world, flames coiling around his armor like threads of destiny.

He had done it.

The Flame-Chase was over. Every Coreflame, every sacrifice—it all led here.

“It’s done,” he said, breathless. “We can start again.”

Behind him, Y/N approached slowly, eyes filled with something deeper than awe. Dread.

“What have you done, Phainon?”

He turned to her, radiant with belief. “I’ve gathered the world’s truth. I can rewrite everything—the wars, the Black Tide, your death—none of it has to happen.”

“But none of it has happened yet.” Her voice trembled. “You're trying to fix a future that doesn’t exist.”

He stepped toward her. “I saw it, Y/N. I saw you die.”

“Then let it be a warning—not a reason to set the world on fire.”

But it was too late. The Coreflames reacted—violently. The world shuddered. Time unraveled at the edges.

Phainon reached for her, but the flames between them lashed out. They weren’t meant to be merged. Not like this.

The ritual collapsed.

And in the chaos, as the Coreflames imploded, Y/N was caught in the surge.

He screamed her name, but she was gone before he reached her. Burned away in a flicker of white light—leaving only her pendant, charred and still warm, in his hand.

Silence fell.

The world had not been reborn.

It had simply broken.

Phainon stood in the ruins of hope, the flames that once meant salvation now crawling up his arm like a curse. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide, empty.

That was the first time.

The first time he lost her.

The first time the world ended.

The first step toward becoming the Flame Reaver.

“The Second Cycle”

He woke up screaming.

Not from pain—but memory.

The fire, the ritual, her voice—Y/N—all of it branded into his soul. And yet, the world had turned again. The cycle reset. He was back—before it all ended.

Amphoreus still stood.

Y/N was still alive.

And this time… he would save her.

Phainon found her in the gardens, humming softly while tending to the flame orchids. Just like before.

She turned to him, surprised.

“You’re early. You always come after sunset.”

“I—couldn’t wait.”

She tilted her head, puzzled. "You look like you haven't slept in years."

You died in my arms, he wanted to say. I watched you burn and couldn’t stop it.

But he only smiled.

“Just… wanted to see you. While I still can.”

Over the next weeks, Phainon changed everything. He refused the final Coreflame. Abandoned the Flame-Chase. Sabotaged the rites. Warned the Council of the collapse.

"The world doesn't need to be rewritten," he told them. "It needs to be remembered."

Y/N saw the change in him. In his eyes—how he clung to every moment with her. She didn’t understand, but she felt the weight in his hands whenever he held hers.

“You keep acting like I’m going to disappear,” she whispered once, under the starlight.

“I won’t let you,” he replied.

But the world had rules.

And it was meant to break.

The Coreflames stirred. The Black Tide surged earlier this time. Events twisted, mutated—correcting his interference.

The collapse happened anyway.

And at the heart of it—again—was Y/N.

He reached her seconds too late. The ground was fracturing, the flames spiraling. She’d run back to save someone else—a child—caught in the fallout. Selfless, as always.

“Y/N, no—don’t—!”

The surge hit.

He caught her in the aftermath, her body broken but still breathing.

“You changed something,” she whispered, blood on her lips. “Didn’t you?”

He nodded, trembling. “I tried to save you. I tried to stop it.”

“Then… this isn’t your fault.”

She touched his face, smile weak.

“Some things are meant to die beautifully.”

And then she was gone.

Phainon fell silent.

The second cycle ended not with flame, but frost—his heart frozen in a grief he could no longer rationalize. Even with all his power, fate laughed in his face.

That was the second time.

The second time he watched her die.

And somewhere deep inside him, something cracked further.

Maybe next time.

Maybe next time he would get it right.

“The Third Cycle”

Phainon awoke beneath a sky that felt wrong. Familiar constellations — out of place. The winds carried whispers. Time had twisted tighter this time.

“Third time’s the curse,” he muttered to himself.

His thoughts were singular: Find Y/N. Protect her. Don’t let it happen again.

But when he reached the garden, she wasn’t alone.

She was laughing.

With him.

Phainon froze in the shadows—watching himself, the version from this cycle, younger, lighter, unscarred. That Phainon didn’t carry the burden of memory. He was still whole. He still believed this world could be saved.

And Y/N looked at him like she always had.

Like he was hers.

He shouldn’t have approached. Every instinct screamed at him to stay hidden. To wait. To guide the future from behind the curtain.

But he couldn’t bear it.

“Y/N,” he called, voice ragged.

She turned. Confused. Unsettled.

The other Phainon stepped in front of her.

“Who—are you?”

The moment fractured.

The sky cracked. Threads of gold unraveled from the air itself.

Phainon saw it: Time recognized the anomaly.

“I’m—” he hesitated. “You. From before. From… after.”

The other him stepped forward, Coreflame flickering defensively. “What have you done?”

“I came to warn you. It doesn’t work. You lose her. No matter what you try—she dies.”

Y/N looked between them, eyes wide with horror.

“You’re me,” the current Phainon said. “But wrong. Twisted.”

“I remember,” the broken one said softly. “I remember her last breath. Twice.”

The instability intensified—gravity warping, light bending around their clash. The World-Root groaned. Something ancient stirred.

“You being here is tearing reality apart!” the current Phainon shouted.

“I don’t care,” the older whispered. “If it gives me one more chance to save her—”

The tear widened.

And Y/N screamed.

The shockwave threw them all apart. As time surged and collapsed in the same breath, Phainon saw her flicker—Y/N being pulled in two directions: the past she belonged to, the future she was fated to die in.

He reached for her.

So did the other Phainon.

“Y/N!” they both cried.

But she vanished—ripped from the cycle.

Not dead.

Not alive.

Just… gone.

When the world settled, only the broken Phainon remained.

Alone.

Again.

And now, even worse—he didn’t know where she was anymore.

“I should never have come,” he whispered to the empty wind.

That was the third time.

But this time, he hadn’t lost her to death.

He had lost her to himself.

“The Fourth Cycle"

He buried his other self beneath the ashwood tree at dawn.

“I'm sorry,” the Phainon whispered to the lifeless body. “But you wouldn't have saved her either.”

The Fourth Cycle had begun. And this time, he would finish it.

He slipped into the role like it was his own skin — because it once had been.

He answered to Phainon. Wore the robes. Recalled the allies. Feigned ignorance of the future.

Only one person ever made him hesitate.

Y/N.

She smiled when she saw him, but it faltered — the faintest twitch of unease in her brow.

“You’re early,” she said. “You always sleep in on free Mornings.”

“New dreams,” he replied smoothly. “Less restful.”

But her eyes lingered.

It got worse in the days that followed.

“You always call me ‘hummingbird.’ You haven’t once since you woke up.”

“You said you hated that nickname.”

“No, I said it was embarrassing. That’s not the same.”

She laughed to hide her nerves, but he felt it — the distance growing.

She watched him now. Closely. Searching his face for something.

And each time she touched him, it was more like checking for a pulse than affection.

Then she asked the question.

“Do you remember the lantern pond?”

His silence lasted a beat too long.

“Of course,” he lied. “Where you wished for—”

“I never told you what I wished for.”

He blinked.

Y/N stepped back.

“Who are you?”

“Y/N—”

“No. You look like him. You sound like him. But something in you is... Like you’ve already mourned me.”

“I have.”

He told her everything. The loops. The deaths. Her erasure. His failure.

“I thought if I could just become him, you might survive.”

She was silent for a long time. Then:

“So you killed him?”

“He would’ve let you die again. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“You already did.”

He looked up.

“You already let me die. And now… I don’t even know if I’m the same Y/N you keep trying to save.”

She left him that night. Not with hate — but with sorrow. The kind that says: I don’t know who you are anymore, and I don’t know if I can love you for who you’ve become.

And though the Flame Reaver had conquered fate to reach her again…

For the fourth time,

he had already lost her.

Cycle after cycle, it never changed — Y/N always died.

He tried everything.

In one life, he surrendered the Flame-Chase entirely, refusing power, hoping peace would preserve her.

It didn’t.

In another, he severed ties with everyone, even her — trying to keep fate from reaching her through him.

She still vanished.

He bound gods. Made pacts. Burned entire cities. In one cycle, he even tried to kill her first, thinking a controlled death would break fate’s grip.

It didn’t.

She died anyway — in worse ways. Ways she didn't deserve.

He began to question if she was the cost of his existence — the balancing weight for every miracle he tried to steal.

Eventually, Phainon stopped trying to save her specifically, and instead tried to save the moment of her death — rewinding it, delaying it, replacing her with illusions, fragment-duplicates, Coreflame mirrors.

Nothing held.

The timeline always found its way back to the same event:

Her last breath.

His failure.

So he broke the Cycle itself.

He ripped through time.

Used forbidden Titansight, stared directly into causal threads.

He began stitching timelines together, rewriting pasts and futures until they blurred.

Reality screamed.

And he kept going.

Until the Cradle of Aeons shattered, and he fell into a space between timelines — a labyrinth of collapsed cycles and discarded versions of himself.

There, he was burned clean of meaning.

His name?

Lost.

His face?

Flickering.

His purpose?

Corrupted.

He wasn't Phainon anymore.

Not fully.

He became a fractured echo, a vessel of fury, memory, and grief.

The Flame Reaver.

A being cursed to wander broken realities, always chasing a version of her that would live, only to find her dying again — each time in a different form:

• Crushed beneath falling ruins.

• Erased by the Black Tide.

• Consumed by Coreflame backlash.

• Killed by him — or someone wearing his face.

And in every version, the moment she died, the world followed.

Her death wasn’t just tragedy — it was anchor.

Her soul, unknowingly intertwined with the stability of the Flame-Chase itself.

The universe had made her the keystone.

Phainon had become the hammer.

And as he chased a future that could never hold,

as he clawed deeper into time,

he became what he hated most:

The end of everything.

"The Current Cycle"

By now, the one who was once Phainon is long gone.

The Flame Reaver walks with only fragments of who he used to be — the rest, burned away by centuries of shattered timelines and recursive failure.

He has one goal left.

Seize the Coreflames.

End the Cycles.

Reset everything.

Nothing else remains.

His mind is broken, but not completely gone — only enough to still move, still hunt, still destroy.

What’s left of his voice is static and ember, a glitch in reality’s script.

He no longer speaks to others — he mutters at the universe.

"Core...flames... must... stop..."

"Time... lies... lies... lies..."

"Reset... reset... reset..."

The Trailblazer, Castorice, Trianne — they tried to reason with him, tried to understand.

But there is no reasoning with a ghost that no longer recognizes itself.

Each cycle has eaten away at his sanity, like rot beneath steel. He doesn't see people anymore — he sees only threats to the end. Guardians of a loop he can no longer escape.

In the fight at the Grove of Epiphany, his movements were erratic, unpredictable — as though his very existence was unstable, phasing in and out of parallel possibilities.

He doesn’t choose to kill anymore.

He eliminates variables.

Y/N, even in this cycle, seems to register only faintly in his flickering memory — like a word half-remembered or a song hummed in a dream.

If he sees her, he hesitates, but the effect is momentary, and then gone.

She’s died so many times now, her face is blurred by trauma, overwritten by grief. Even when she stands in front of him, breathing, alive, he’s not sure if it’s really her… or just another illusion time has weaponized to stop him.

"She... always... dies..."

"No more... pain... end it... end it..."

He moves from ruin to ruin, chasing the final Coreflames — not to use them for power, but to burn everything down and unmake the loop.

To him, this is mercy.

To everyone else, he is cataclysm.

The Flame Reaver isn't the villain.

He's what's left when a hero is allowed to grieve for too long,

with no rest,

no peace,

and no end.

[dustbuniesworld]

Unfaltering

Part I < Masterlist > Part II

Summary: Azriel has been pinning after you for so long, and when he finally meets your partner one night at Rita’s tensions rise in a way that’s unexpected.

Warnings: Angst, Violence, maybe some blood

Based on a post by lucysstoryworld

Azriel sat across from you at Rita’s trying to keep himself from gazing at you for too long. He found it hard not to stare at you, the way the fae lights around the table illuminated your hair, the auburn looking as though it was burning in real time. Your green eyes reminded him of the endless sea, soft green almost blue at times, breathtaking always. The longer he allowed himself to gaze at you the deeper he felt a familiar ache in his chest.

Next to you sat a male who for whatever reason put Azriel off. It was the Inner Circle’s first time meeting your partner and the newcomer seemed alright enough. But Azriel’s shadows whispered around him that something wasn’t right with him. As the Illyrian male began to contemplate what it could be that was off putting about your partner, a voice calling his name pulled him from his thoughts.

“Azriel, are you alright”, you asked, and once your eyes locked he felt it. A golden thread pull at his heart, the bond snapping into place. A quiet gasp escaped his lips, and his eyes widened slightly. “I’m fine, just need some air”, Azriel explained as he stood and left the table. His voice was calm as if there was nothing wrong at all.

Azriel strolled away from the table trying to keep his breathing even as he walked to the bar for a drink. He was going to need it after all. His mate was with someone who wasn’t him. Despite his instincts roaring at him to act to get your partner out of the picture he wouldn’t listen. He would not allow himself to interfere, because you seemed happy with this person.

Besides you could always reject the bond, reject him. The same fear that kept him from telling you how he felt for all this time is the same fear keeping him from telling you about the mating bond you shared. Azriel reached the bar and held up a finger to the bartender indicating a his usual drink to which the fae nodded in understanding. As he stood there trying to breathe and think of an exit tactic, you had come up beside him at the bar, “Are you sure you’re alright”, you asked softly your head slightly tiling to the side. Azriel chuckled to himself, and replied “I’m alright Starlight, just need a drink”.

You bit your lip before speaking to him again and the sight almost has his resolve crumbling. His gaze raked over your face as you contemplated your next question. Despite your other friends seeming joyful at the news of your relationship it was Azriel’s opinion that mattered to you the most. So taking a deep breath you asked the question that had been on your mind all night, “What do you think about Nolan?”.

Azriel glowered for a moment then quickly recovered, but not quick enough that you didn’t see it first. He looked at you and sighed, “As long as he is good to you that is all that matters to me”. Confusion clouded your eyes, and you tilted you head again, there was something you were missing. When Azriel wouldn’t meet your gaze again, you sighed softly and walked back to the table to talk to Mor about why Azriel wouldn’t be welcome to your new found love.

Azriel turned just as you were leaving, the courage he had built up in a short time toppled over and was no more. When he spotted Nolan headed toward him, Azriel stiffened and forced his gaze to become aloof and bored. “Hey, you’re Azriel right”, Nolan asked trying to sound friendly but coming off as snarky. Azriel nodded, “You must be Nolan” he replied. Nolan chuckled a bit, and spoke “When y/n, said that you were standoffish with new people I was skeptical at first, but meeting you I see what she meant”.

Azriel smirked, happy that you had warned your lover about his attitude, then frowned when Nolan spoke again “As long as you are standoffish with her and don’t get to close, I don’t care”. Smiling like he didn’t just tell Azriel to stay away from not only one of his closest friends but his mate as well. Before he could stop himself Azriel snorted and said “Or what”. His response caused Nolan to laugh, but Azriel turned his body entirely to face this lesser male and spoke again, “No seriously, or what”.

Nolan faltered at the seriousness of Azriel’s tone and tried to recover quickly but failed, “Just, stay away from y/n”. And before either male could speak again your voice rang out between them, “Why should he stay away from me Nolan?”. Surprise flashed onto Nolan’s face, and he laughed “Flower I was only joking, right Azriel”, the smaller male turned toward the shadow singer who frowned and shook his head.

Again speaking before either could, you said sharply “Do not call me that, I am not your flower”, anger flashing in your eyes, and Azriel stood back as he let you handle your partner. He shifted closer to your side, letting Nolan know that he was on your side should anything happen. Disgust filled Nolan’s eyes, and raised his hand, as he asked incredulously “But that filthy brute can call you whatever he pleases”. Nolan had brought his hand down as he spoke, slapping you across the face.

This time it was Azriel who moved before you had a chance to react. Grabbing Nolan by the neck and slamming him to the ground, the other hand landing blow after blow to the males face. You were frozen in place as you watched the scene before you unfold. You began to shout at Azriel to stop, at the same time Cassian and Rhysand ran over and pulled Azriel off of a now bloody Nolan. “Don’t you ever lay a hand on her again”, Azriel roared as he was pulled away. You looked at the beaten body on the floor of Rita’s and just shook your head.

You never thought that Nolan would strike you, and as you began to walk away you chuckled because in what universe did he think it would ever be okay to slap you in front of Azriel, the shadowsinger, the Night Court’s spymaster, a being who made even the strongest soldiers shake in their boots. You looked up to where Cassian and Rhys had dragged Azriel, and when his eyes met yours you felt the bond snap into place.

[poorlydrawnwarriorzzz]

draw evil doomed mothpool please please please please please

I actually got so excited when I saw this request cause it got me thinking, what would evil MothPool look like? What would motivate them to turn against the clans, and how would would they work together to achieve what they want?

Well, Mothwing is already skeptical of Starclan. She acknowledges to an extent that yes, Starclan does exist, but she also doesn’t think that they should be dictating how the living go about things. She doesn’t believe them to be any wiser than her living peers, and thus, she’s never spoken to a Starclan cat, and had no plans to.

That was, until, she heard of Leafpool’s passing. Leafpool, the cat who’d accepted her unconditionally, who had been her comfort for so many moons, who made her feel normal when other cats cast her out for her beliefs. In spite of herself, she tries to contact Leafpool’s spirit, just to say goodbye, just to thank her for her kindness. And to her surprise, she succeeds - but something’s wrong.

Mothwing had never seen a Starclan cat up close, but she was sure that this wasn’t right. Leafpool looked dull, her eyes were dark. She’d heard her clanmmates describe Starclan cats as glittering, sometimes glowing with the stars in their pelts. This couldn’t be her Leafpool…

Leafpool was quick to notice Mothwing’s confusion, and explained to her that Starclan had not allowed her to join because she’d broken the code. She told her about the trial she and Squirrelflight went through, and how despite Starclan’s guidance, they were found guilty. Squirrelflight had returned to the living, but Leafpool decided that she would accept her fate, and make something of it.

Mothwing felt as though her head was spinning. Starclan was already confusing enough, and now this? Leafpool had been nothing but loyal to them! How could they banish her? Frustration bubbled in her chest. Leafpool wrapped herself around Mothwing. She was cold.

After soothing her for a moment, Leafpool asked if Mothwing would help her. Mothwing hesitated. Did Leafpool want revenge? Leafpool, sensing her unease, assured her that all she wanted to do was “make things right”. She wanted to make sure no other cat would suffer an unjust fate. Mothwing agreed. She trusted Leafpool over Starclan, now more than ever.

Leafpool devised a plan. She would cut off Starclan from the living cats, so that they could never interfere with them again. No more manipulation for their own benefit. She had Mothwing gather deathberries. They were going to kill the MoonPool.

As much as Mothwing wanted justice for Leafpool, a part of her felt that it was wrong. But Leafpool reminded her of Starclan’s cruelties; how Leafpool lost her kits, her place as a medicine cat, her place in Starclan. How Mothwing had been mistreated her whole life for simply having different beliefs. How if it weren’t for Starclan, they could’ve had a life together.

So Mothwing did it. She poisoned the MoonPool. It was no longer blue and glittery with starlight, but muddy and red. It could easily be mistaken for blood. But this was just the beginning…

[sharieb]

Held in the Hollowed Fragments 8: The Star Beyond the Veil

Synopsis: Shrouded in fog and dreams, a soul long forgotten stirs once more. In a realm outside time, the woman they all once loved is offered a final peace, far from the cruel cycles that broke her. But as she drifts toward rest, a ripple echoes through the void—five broken hearts awaken to a truth they had buried. Each remembers, each mourns, each begins to chase the impossible. A choice is made, a card exchanged, and a cosmic balance unsettled. Yet in the clash between grief and divinity, love begins to stir defiance. As fate fractures and memory ignites, one thing becomes certain: she may have chosen to leave, but they are not ready to let her go. Not yet. Not again.

Pairing: LADS x non-mc! (you)

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort

Word count: +2.4k

Content warning: angst, mention of death, obsession, implied potential psychological torment, cosmic/divine interference

Music for the chapter: Saturn by Sleep at Last.

Taglist: @plzdonutpercieveme, @miuangel, @xiisblogs, @loreleis-world, @animegamerfox, @cherlouu, @chaoticfivesworld, @reni502, @nm4565natty, @satansdaughter123, @asakiyu

Writer's notes: Hello, my lovelies. We finally reached the end of this series. I know that I already thanked you all in the previous chapter, but I want to emphasise how honoured and humbled I am by all of you taking the time out to read everything that I have written so far, along with taking part in my journey from the first chapter and even when this series was just a random thought that I posted, all the way up to now. Your love and support mean so much to me. I don't think I would ever have made it this far without all of you here. So thank you all so much. I hope you all enjoy the final chapter of this series, and I hope you all follow along in future journeys with me.

First Previous

Fog coiled thick around his feet, swallowing sound and space as time slowed to a crawl. The dream had not ended; it simply shifted, deepened. A moment suspended in eternity. One figure stood in silence, a shadow of a man whose name did not yet return to him. His identity blurred, his heart pounding with a grief he couldn’t quite name, silent witness to something vast and irreversible.

Before him, in a clearing that felt more like the centre of the universe than a dream, you lay motionless.

The woman he'd almost forgotten. The one he had loved and lost.

Your body was still. Cold. Empty.

But then,

Something shifted.

He didn’t notice it at first, not fully. But the dream lost its hazy edges, the fog no longer lingering as illusion, no longer just a dreamscape. It felt different. Sharper. Real.

And in that moment, a breath of light stirred in the chest. A wisp of warmth. And slowly, gently, something shimmered loose.

Your soul.

It peeled itself away from your corpse like silk pulled from water. A glowing, golden spirit, fragile and quiet, drifted upward. As it rose, your remains, once cold in their arms, faded like dust in morning light, slipping through his fingers until there was nothing left to hold. He watched, rooted in place, grief-stricken and breathless as the soul, your soul, floated above what was no longer a body, but memory. A final heartbeat suspended in the air.

It did not vanish.

It drifted in front of him.

But before it moved away, the soul hovered back down briefly, soft and glowing, and pressed itself gently against his lips, a kiss not of romance, but of parting. Of memory. Of devotion.

In that moment, though no words were spoken aloud, a voice echoed within him, telepathic and aching:

"Goodbye, my love... my all in all...

My snowman

My dragon

My starlight

My fishie

My candy apple

My Emcumbrace Pragma."

Then, with one last flicker of warmth, it lifted and began its slow, radiant ascent.

He felt it too late.

Panic surged through him as he lunged forward, hand outstretched, voice tearing from his throat with a raw desperation he hadn’t known he still possessed:

“NO! COME BACK! I'M SORRY! DON'T LEAVE ME ALL ALONE, PLEASE!!!”

But she was already drifting away, slowly, silently, toward the distance. Toward two figures cloaked in cosmic shadow.

Astra. And beside them, someone else, taller, brighter. Still and infinite. A presence older than time.

He didn’t know who or what that entity was, but the name echoed in his bones before he even understood why. As if etched into his soul from the beginning of time, a truth long buried now rising:

The Supreme Cosmic Overseer.

The Overseer stepped out from the cosmic shadow, light bending around them like time obeying a higher law. As your soul hovered before them, trembling, soft as a candle’s flame, they looked upon you not as a tool or anomaly, but as a sacred, wounded child. The Overseer knelt slightly, their infinite form folding in humility, and their gaze softened with deep, ancient sorrow, as though they had seen countless lost souls, but none that weighed on them quite like this one.

Extending one hand with the utmost care, the Supreme Cosmic Overseer whispered, voice neither man nor woman, neither sound of blissful youth or ageing wisdom, but yet laced with a warmth so infinite it could cradle galaxies:

Come, little one... you’ve suffered more than most ever will. You don’t have to carry the weight anymore. You’ve been brave long enough.

Their palm glowed with a gentle pull, a safe invitation.

“Come now… it’s time to rest.”

After the Overseer spoke, her soul floated gently over to their outstretched hand. It did not fall into their palm, but hovered just above it, cradled by the gravity of grace alone. Light shimmered around your soul, fragile and luminous as it lingered in the god’s quiet hold, embraced by something ancient, protective, and kind.

“You don’t know me,”; the Overseer said with a voice neither loud nor quiet, but incredibly eternal. “But I know you. I’ve watched you through countless lives, countless timelines. I’ve seen you give yourself away piece by piece—for love, for loyalty, for those who never saw you fully. I’ve seen you die with dignity in silence, over and over again.”

Your spirit trembled, a low pulse of grief and disbelief radiating from its core.

“I took pity on you,” the Overseer continued. “And in time, even Astra agreed—begrudgingly. We struck a pact. Your soul is no longer bound to the rules of his game. I have come to take you far from here. A realm untouched by his strings. A world where your heart may sleep, and never be broken again.”

At first, you nodded. Tired. Numb. Willing.

But then, you began to think back.

Back to him.

Back to your Pragma.

He who had broken and died and now wept for you. Who is now kneeling in the far distance, watching helplessly.

“May I make a request... please?” Your voice was faint, light-wrapped and fragile, but clear.

The Overseer turned to her fully, a gentleness blooming in the depths of their ancient gaze.

“You may,” they said. “Any last wish you have—I will grant it gladly.”

Astra materialised, face twisted with rage and curiosity. “She dares-”

The Overseer raised a hand and silenced Astra without a word.

“Speak,” the god said to you.

“I want to take the tragic card with me,” you said. “Their suffering. Their fate. I want to free them. Even if they stay, they deserve better.”

“NO!" Astra barked, stepping forward. “Absolutely not! That card is mine. My Magnum Opus. It exists to repeat and renew pain. They are my pieces to play.”

The Overseer was silent.

Then you spoke again, firmer:

“If so, then I want to propose a choice.”

Astra arched a brow.

You floated out of the Overseer's palm and hovered in front of Astra with no fear, radiant and unflinching, like a star that had never belonged to their darkness. “Either I take the card, the one you hold so dearly, or I take him. All of them, even MC as well. Every soul you’ve bent and broken. I’ll leave this world with them all.”

Astra stilled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would,” you said, voice resolute. “You’ve left me with nothing but grief. And if you refuse this mercy, then I’ll take them with me, away from you, away from your stupid game.”

“You would break the rules.”

“You already did,” you snapped as she floated closer to Astra's face, unfazed, remaining headstrong. “So now I’m giving you the choice, Astra. The card, or your favourite playthings.”

The threat wasn’t cruel. It was maternal. Final. And it was effective.

Astra’s face twitched. Annoyance rippled beneath their skin. To lose the card was one thing. To lose their favourite pieces—

Unthinkable.

“Fine,” Astra hissed. “Take the damn card. Just leave my game intact.”

A beat passed. The Overseer’s gaze held Astra’s for a long moment, making sure they understood the cost.

Then, the divine one turned back to her.

“So it shall be.”

The Overseer raised a hand, and light folded around her body. A protective robe spun from something cosmic and pure encased her soul. Her body faded into mist, her spirit asleep within a shell of starlight.

He turned to leave with her.

Then-

“No!” a voice ripped through the stillness.

“Don’t take her!” another cried, each shout overlapping with another.

The two deities paused at the edge of departure, their attention caught by a sudden chorus within the fog. At first, it was just a noise, echoes of shouting, fractured and overlapping.

Then they turned.

Through the mist, a figure approached.

No- five.

Racing forward, still far in the distance. The cries came sharper now, each shout clearer and filled with anguish:

“Don’t take her!”

“Let her go!”

“She isn't yours!”

“She’s mine!”

“Give her back!”

The Overseer’s head tilted ever so slightly, not in surprise, but in quiet sorrow. They understood too well what this was; the sound of love realised far too late. They watched the five boys emerge from the fog, frantic and wide-eyed, and the Overseer pitied them with an almost parental ache.

Astra, on the other hand, scoffed. Eyes narrowing, lips curling into a scold, they watched the scene unfold not with empathy, but irritation edged with intrigue.

"How predictable," Astra murmured.

The Overseer now fully facing the boys' direction, watching them from a distance, not with judgment, but with a sorrowful kind of knowing. Their desperation reached even the stars.

As for Astra, Astra’s eyes still narrowed with no sliver of sympathy, watched the chaos unfold until something sparked behind their eyes, causing their lips to slowly curl from a scold of disdain into a cruel, delighted smirk. Not sorrowful. Not regretful. But of amusement and inspiration.

How delicious,, they thought, with a stretch of their hand.

And with a snap of their fingers, Astra spoke, “You’ve seen too much.”

Soon, the world fractured.

And the boys fell-tumbling through fog, through memory, through a collapsing dream.

Just before the world cast them out, their eyes caught the Overseer’s, just for a flicker of a moment.

He stood still.

Said nothing.

But the way he watched them, these five boys who had broken through the fog just to reach her soul, sparked something behind his gaze. Not cruelty. Not even pity.

Curiosity. A trace of mischief.

How deeply they loved her. How stubbornly they came, even now, even too late.

Perhaps… it was time someone played a trick on Astra for once.

The thought lit in the Overseer’s eyes like a quiet ember. He wouldn’t say anything. Not yet. But the way he turned back toward Astra, amused and unreadable, carried a promise:

He might just bend the rules.

Not for chaos.

But as a silent yet impactful way to avenge her.

And it would drive Astra mad,

Which, in the Overseer’s opinion, made it all the more worth it just for the mirth of it all.

They woke up.

He jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs, lungs seizing as if he'd just surfaced from deep underwater. Cold sweat clung to his skin, soaking the sheets, anchoring him in a reality that felt no less suffocating than the dream.

That dream. Again.

Dragging a trembling hand over his face, he sat upright, disoriented. The remnants of sleep still wrapped around his mind like thick fog, muting everything but the echo of her absence.

Outside, a thunderstorm howled against the windowpane — rain falling in relentless sheets, as if the sky, too, was grieving something it had long since lost. The wind groaned through the cracks in the walls. There was no sunrise or sunset, no hint of morning or dusk. Just grey.

He glanced at his phone. Thirty unread messages. Twelve missed calls. Some work. Some personal. All irrelevant. Their words could never reach him in the place he was sinking.

Time left before responsibilities demanded his attention: two hours.

But the very thought of rising, of putting on a face, of pretending, filled his gut with lead. Instead, he lay back down, the cold side of the bed stretching into an abyss beside him. Once a space for warmth and company, it was now a graveyard of silence.

He stared at the ceiling, hollow-eyed.

He hated days like this, hated the way they strangled him slowly, how they always began with that dream and ended with him frayed, volatile, barely functional. Days like these always ended in regret. In failure.

He had learned to fear them.

Stillness consumed him. His eyes unfocused. What had he dreamt again? He tried to remember, clawing at the edges of his fading memory, but the specifics slipped through his grasp like sand through desperate fingers.

Except for one detail — the only constant.

A w̸̭̘̜̮͕̥͉͇̗͍̑̌̂̂̾̂ȯ̷̤͍͐̅͝m̶͖̟͇̓a̸̖̟͍̗͚͌̑̇́̅̍̂̕̚ͅ-̴̨̝̰͎̘̣͖̟͖̓̄͑́̄̒̄ͅ.̷̛̪̱͔̬̈́͋̏̊̿̅̒ͅ.̷̛̱̝͎̬̭̜̠̣̊́̄̊͘.̶̧̫̤̮̹͎͎̥̊̀.̵̨͎̠͛̃̇͗͋̍̇̐͠ ̸̧̡͇̭̠̩͎̃̅̀̈̆́̓̆Ȳ̵̢̡̩̖̦̩͈̻͛̏͆ō̸̧̺̺̈̀̍̇̇U̴̢̔̎̄́͘͝͝

Ÿ̸̦̳̪̲̥́̀̊̈̾̌́̒ö̵̠̫̙͉̈̈͜͠u̸̝̤̻̤̰͆͆̈́̈́̅́̂̚͠

Each boy's eyes widened, breath caught, as if their subconscious was clawing its way to the surface.

A scrambled moment. A breathless pause.

Blankness.

Then, clarity.

“…You.”

The name had no sound at first, but it lived in the beat of their pulse. The fog did not reclaim her this time.

They knew.

The mysterious woman in the dream wasn’t just a shadow; it was you. The person they once clung to, then let slip through the cracks of time.

And they had almost forgotten.

Horrified by the realisation, each of them lurched from their beds.

He grabbed a notebook and scribbled your name again and again, the pages tearing beneath the force of his strokes.

With his hands shaking, he reached for his medical journal and began sketching your eyes, your voice in symbols he didn’t understand, desperate to keep you real.

He tore through drawers until he found a very old blank photograph. He flipped it over and wrote one word: You.

He painted in a frenzy, colours exploding across the canvas. A figure in the fog, soft and luminous.

He stared at his reflection, then wrote your name on the mirror with a red permanent marker, over and over until the glass fogged with breath.

They each did whatever they could, anything, to etch you back into their lives. To keep you from fading.

Because this wasn’t just a punishment.

You were taken because you were tired.

Because you chose peace.

And now the obsession, buried deep, suppressed by time and the god of this world, resurfaced like fire to dry kindling. But this time, it wasn’t delusion. It was devotion.

They would find you.

Wherever the Supreme Cosmic Overseer had taken you, they would chase it.

A world beyond Astra’s game. A realm untouched by fate.

He muttered to himself, hunched over his desk, voice hoarse:

“She saved me… and I let her go.”

He stood before his studio wall, canvas smeared with a storm of colour, his breathing ragged as he stepped back.

“You never stopped being my muse... and I’m done painting grief.”

He stood upright, alone in his sterile apartment, and whispered with clinical finality:

“Not again. Not this time.”

He opened a hidden drawer filled with celestial maps, dream patterns, and ancient coordinates.

“I’ll find you. No matter how far.”

He stared out through the window of his base, the city lights blurring beneath the rain as he exhaled:

“I'm coming for you, my love.”

Somewhere beyond the fog, beyond the world that they lived in, your soul stirred.

And the world, finally, began to remember you.

[clickety-clacker]

Muy b eautiful fanart for chapter four of Starlight Interference

[eatmyheartoutjpg]

INTERLUDE ;; Homelander goes to you whilst on a break from filming a new box office movie with The Seven.

12.31.24 Masterlist

Homelander stood with a relaxed posture, his striped cape swaying slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The break on set buzzed with activity—crew members shuffling, Starlight checking her script, A-Train downing a bottle of water after his last sprint scene. But Homelander paid them no mind. His attention was singular, drawn entirely to you.

A real smile touched his lips, the kind that softened the sharpness of his usually calculating blue eyes.

You couldn’t help but smile back, the moment feeling strangely serene.

"Enjoying the show so far?" Homelander asked, his voice lowered to a more intimate tone, one reserved for these rare moments when no cameras were pointed at him.

"It’s impressive," you replied, shifting slightly to look up at him.

His smile grew, a rare expression of unguarded pride. "Of course it is. We’re The Seven, after all."

Despite the countless stares burning into your back, you found it hard to feel uncomfortable under Homelander's gaze. His looming figure, broad-shouldered and imposing in his iconic suit, made you feel protected rather than trapped.

He stepped closer, casting a shadow over you that felt like a blanket, hiding you from prying eyes. There was an unspoken understanding that no one dared interfere when he was near you. The power he exuded wasn’t just physical; it was the silent authority that made others instinctively steer clear.

Starlight, from across the set, shot you a glance—concern flickering in her eyes before she turned back to her script. A-Train did his best to appear indifferent, but the subtle furrow of his brow betrayed his curiosity. Even Black Noir, standing silently in the corner, seemed to tilt his head ever so slightly in your direction.

But no one said a word.

Homelander noticed their glances, of course he did. He thrived on attention. But this time, he let it slide.

"They’re curious," you murmured, tilting your head toward him. "About why you’re over here."

He chuckled softly, the sound warm but edged with something darker. "Let them wonder. I like keeping them guessing."

You looked up at him, studying his face. For a man so used to wielding terror like a weapon, he seemed… normal. Almost human.

"You know, you don’t have to keep watching over me. I’m fine."

Homelander's eyes narrowed just a fraction, the warmth in his expression dimming, but not vanishing entirely. "I’d rather be sure. I can’t have anything happening to you."

It wasn’t a threat, not directed at you at least. But the weight of the words hung in the air. Anyone who so much as thought about bothering you wouldn’t live long.

You sighed softly, leaning slightly into his shadow. "You really do take this whole protector thing seriously, huh?"

His gaze softened once more. "For you? Absolutely."

Moments like this were rare—when the larger-than-life figure of Homelander melted away to reveal something else, something deeper.

The break was called to an end, and the crew scurried back to their positions. Homelander lingered for a moment longer, his gloved hand brushing your arm in a fleeting gesture of reassurance.

"I’ll see you after," he said, his voice just above a whisper, but carrying the weight of a promise.

And just like that, the mask returned. Homelander straightened, turning back to the set with that signature confident strut, his cape billowing behind him. The untouchable leader of The Seven was back, but for a brief moment, he had been yours.

ᵉᵃᵗᵐʸʰᵉᵃʳᵗᵒᵘᵗ

[woradat]

Zero Gravity

NOTE - I have the same plot ideas for other as well, such as Drift (half way), Jetfire, Springer. They all are in progress – this chapter of Wheeljack might be a little short, but hey, I can do pt2 if anything, just wanted to throw out an idea before I forget

SUMMARY - an unexpected companion in a nameless galaxy, weird one.. but he didn't mind that

PAIRING - wheeljack x reader

·

·

The void beyond the patrol routes was the kind of darkness that didn’t merely lie still—it waited. A velvet black, stretched past reason, where starlight faded into murk and the fine glimmer of interstellar dust looked like the gaping jaws of something ancient, ready to swallow his ship whole

Wheeljack squinted his sensors as his craft drifted into a strange patch of amethyst-tinged gas. The silence was suffocating in its depth, the kind of quiet that didn’t just hush—it listened. Space like this had no business being empty. And yet…

Then came the flicker

A strange signal, pulsing at the very edge of his monitor, blinking in the corner like a nervous tic. The Jackhammer had picked up an interference wave—uncoded, unaffiliated. A ghost of something that shouldn’t have been there, crawling just along the edge of an uncharted nebula

No base. No colony. No reason for anything to be out there

“Single bio-signature… unaligned.”

“What the frag?” Wheeljack muttered, frowning at the nameless coordinates floating in the middle of nowhere—just empty black, dead air, and a flicker of something hovering still in the dust

He nudged the thrusters closer, cautious

That’s when he saw it

A small ship, ancient in design. Something pre-war, maybe even older. Its hull was scuffed from time and grazing debris, and its long solar fins stretched out lazily like the wings of some bird basking in a gravityless breeze

Wheeljack sent out a scan ping

“This is Autobot wrecker: Wheeljack. Identify yourself. Whose ship is this?”

Silence

Then—without his authorization—a vidline activated. His screen flickered to life.

“Hey… take it easy, will you? You’re scrambling my signal like a rookie with a javelin dish”

The voice was light, airy, with a wandering lilt—faintly amused, faintly tired. It belonged to a bot with a lean, graceful frame, clearly outdated in function but far from falling apart. Not a soldier. Not a worker drone. You looked like someone from a dream half-remembered. Your features, though mechanical, felt like they were made from stories rather than steel. And when you smiled, it wasn’t to greet him. It was like you were smiling at the stars behind him. Your optics reflected the colors of the nebula behind you, and in them… Wheeljack swore he saw the entire galaxy staring back

He'd met ghosts before. Data phantoms, black box echoes, war relics still pinging long after their pilots were scrap. But you? You were real. Real, and somehow more surreal than all of them combined

And you wouldn't stop talking like a poet who'd survived the apocalypse

“Sorry to disappoint—wasn’t a distress signal.” You lounged against your seat like you had nowhere else in the universe to be

“Then what the hell are you doing out here in no-bot’s-land?” Wheeljack narrowed his optics

You smiled. Not at him, but through him—like your attention stretched far beyond his metal hide, past the stars he came from and into something deeper

“Drifting,” you said simply. “Letting the gravity of life pull me wherever it pleases. It brought me here. What about you? Chasing something? Or running?”

He blinked, caught off-guard by the question. Then he snorted a laugh

“You talk like a philosopher. But you're flying a rustbucket through danger zones.” He glanced at the ship again. “Name’s Wheeljack"

“Nice name. Got some thrust to it” you replied. “Mine’s... well, nobody’s remembered it in a long time. You can call me whatever you like. I won’t mind"

“Alright, Won’t Mind, you seriously out here alone?”

“Been alone most of my life” you said it like talking about the weather. Casual. Unbothered. You tilted the vid-cam slightly, revealing the slow spin of stars outside your viewport, a celestial waltz that seemed to orbit you, not the other way around

Wheeljack watched, silent for a long moment

Then he sighed, a noise tinged with confusion and something a little closer to awe

“…You’re a strange one”

“And do you still want to know me?”

He smiled, helpless “Yeah. Yeah, I do"

[lavenderprose]

@toonybrin's comment on my Cate Blanchett Emmrich post yesterday has been living rent-free in my head for 24 hours. Please enjoy the nonsense it has given birth to.

--

Rook is used to being...overwhelmed in Emme's presence.

Emme Volkarin is fifty-five (And this is one of her most important traits, make no mistake) but she is the sort of fifty-five that turns heads in every direction no matter where she goes. Rook, who's ostensibly meant to be leading the charge in any given situation, loves to trail along behind Emme at markets and ally camps and the occasional library. It's all to better watch as people respond to Emme's presence by walking straight into walls and going blank behind the eyes while they visibly enter into a fantasy about the beautiful Nevarran woman passing them on the street.

She is over six feet tall, of course, and this by itself draws attention, even before one notices the gold on her body and the neat, beautiful lines of her uniquely Nevarran fashion. Her hair is starlight-silver, chin length and absolutely the first thing someone might notice about her, aside from perhaps the bright green tint to her hazel eyes. When she uses her magic, they fucking glow, and Rook has never been able to get over that.

She wears her waistcoat and her sash and a polite smile curved onto her face and Rook can hear heartbeats speed up everywhere within the immediate vicinity. The sash makes one think of presents--or, at least, it makes Rook think of presents. Makes her want to dig her fingers into it and rip it off, see what's inside.

Then again, she knows what's inside.

"You're so pretty," Rook coos, her mouth and nose pressed to the front of Emme's panties. Dark purple, cotton--very practical, but the way they fit, the way they mold around the plump lips of her cunt, would drive a lesser person insane.

Rook's probably insane.

"Thank you," Emme whispers, that voice like warm honey, as she uses two elegant fingers to pull the panties to the side. Rook, on her hands in knees in front of Emme's high-backed chair like a dog, whines exactly like one and presses her nose directly into silver hair. "That's it, darling," Emme says, as she shudders. "Oh, very good."

"Do you know," Rook says, during a brief moment when her tongue is inside her head, "that you're about to get your pussy eaten every day for the rest of your fucking life? Because you are."

"Darling," Emme says, blushing hard. How she can be wantonly spread open, feet in wholly different parts of the room on the ends of those long long legs, and still be blushing is fascinating. "That's impractical."

"That's me," Rook says. "Impractical Ingellvar. They put that in my file when they told me to kick rocks after the War of the Banners. Now shh, I'm doing something."

"Oh," Emme warbles, melting into the chair. "Rook. Rook."

Some time later, there is a birthday party. It's being held in honor of a Magister at the Divine's Manor, and in attendance will be most of the former Lucerni faction of the magisterium. The Veilguard are obliged to attend not only by invitation and by their ties to the Shadow Dragons, but also by the rumors of Venatori interference with the event.

"On a scale of one to ten," Rook says, approaching Emme's vanity and watching with intent fascination as she applies dark kohl to her waterline. "How much is this going to suck?"

"A reliable six," Emme responds, switching eyes. She's wrapped in a floor-length green silk robe, which she's pulled tight and cinched around her waist. This is in deference to the wandering Manfred, to hide from view the undergarments she's already wearing. Rook knows she's already wearing them because she watched her put them on; a dark green corset, matching underwear, and little tartan garters clamped onto each lean thigh to hold up sheer stockings that look painted on. Rook, kneeling on the end of the bed, had kissed each dusky pink nipple as they disappeared into the support of the corset.

"Do we have to go?" Rook mutters. She leans down next to Emme, pressing their cheeks together and curling her chin over Emme's shoulder. She smells like powder, musk, honeysuckle and something gourmand. Stone fruit, is apparently the scent note--Rook had asked, once, and Emme had panted out the full list as her perfumed tits bounced in Rook's face. Her perfume is bespoke, mixed by a specialist in Nevarra city; someone who's been doing it for longer than Rook has been alive, probably, and it's so fucking worth it. Rook will think about Emme Volkarin's starlight hair, her eyelashes, the smile lines next to her mouth, every single time she eats a peach for the rest of her natural life. Maybe even her corpse will someday shamble through the Necropolis after a whiff of something floral and fruity.

"Unfortunately, my darling, we owe it to our allies to attend," Emme says, and then she presses her mouth to Rook's cheek in a long, sensual kiss that Rook wishes she could experience on other parts of her body. As though hearing this thought, Emme pats her ass and says, "You should get ready, sweetling. The line between fashionably late and tardy is incredibly thin, and we're flirting with it as we speak."

"I'll flirt with you," Rook mutters, nonsensically, and nips Emme's earlobe just to hear her squeak. "See you in a bit. I love you. You're so pretty. I love you."

Emme smacks her ass again as she walks out the room, and that's what Rook thinks about the entire time she gets herself ready, including the twenty minutes she sits in Bellara's room getting thirty-five hair pins pressed into her hair while Neve holds up an illustrated diagram from a Tevinter ladies' fashion magazine.

After the organized torture of the hair-pinning, the three of them walk to the Eluvian room together. There, they find Davrin and Lucanis sitting with their legs dangling off the platform. They wear nearly identical three-piece ensembles. Davrin's pants are a little short, because they are Lucanis'. Next to them is Taash, whose skirt is slit all the way up the thigh and whose bowtie is preposterously large. They are not, all things considered, taking this very seriously.

Looming next to the Eluvian is Emme, wearing another floor-length number. This one is her somewhat signature green, with lace sleeves, polished gold shoulder details, and a gold brocade sash helping to cinch her waist--though Rook knows exactly how tight the corset is, and she doesn't think it needs the help. Her make-up is dramatic, eye make-up reminiscent the embers and smoke of a campfire, a swipe of golden glitter on each cheek and--

On her upper lip, she's penciled in a thin, neat black mustache.

"Oh," says Rook, stopping dead. "Hi."

"Hello, darling," Emme murmurs. Her eyes are absurdly bright in the depths of her eyeshadow. "The violet was such a good choice. Wilfred is a master of his craft." Emme's tailor, into whose capable hands Emme had trusted the commission of the dress Rook is currently wearing.

"Thank you," Rook says, feeling herself blush down to her very toes, which is absurd because she had her mouth on Emme's naked tits an hour ago. She shouldn't be feeling this way, not from a mere look and compliment. She gathers herself enough to press a finger to her own lip, not wanting to risk smudging Emme's masterful application, and say, "I like this."

"Oh, yes." Emme smiles, clearly pleased, and traces a finger along the faux-mustache. It doesn't budge even a little. "This sort of gender play is all the rage amongst certain noble circles in Tevinter. Some ladies wear full beards, so I've heard. I thought this would more suit my bone structure."

"Oh, it does," Rook says, somewhat explosively. "It really does."

The arrival of Harding, stumbling slightly over a just-too-long hem, signals that it is past time for them to head through the Eluvian.

The crossroads are calm, thankfully. Rook digs her nails into the meat of her palm and tries not to stare at the side of Emme's face like a person dying of thirst in the desert. Occasionally, Emme will tilt her head to the side and catch Rook's eye, smile, and at least once she winks. This, understandably, sends Rook into an utter spiral the likes of which typically inspire people to go live in the wilderness and take up bird-based augury.

From the Shadow Dragons' hideout, they clamor into a series of carriages ordered for them by the host of the event. There are three, the first of which hosts Neve, Lucanis and Bellara. Taash and Harding clamor collectively into the second, and Davrin visibly weighs his options.

"Yeah, no," Davrin mutters to himself, after making a moment of prolonged eye-contact with Rook. He promptly launches himself into the carriage beside Taash. As the attendant closes the door, Rook thinks she hears him say, "Hands stay where I can see them, you two."

"I'm being completely normal," Rook says to the air.

"In the carriage, darling, if you would," Emme calls from inside the third carriage, and Rook obeys.

For the first several minutes of the ride, there is calm. Emme sits primly across from Rook, legs folded and hands cupping her knee. She is elegance personified--meant to be born a queen, Rook is sure. The Maker fucked it up when he made Emme Volkarin a butcher's daughter. She was meant to be royalty, draped in gold from birth. She would not have been nearly so kind or gentle, but she would have been gilded, as she deserves.

These thoughts are feverish and consuming, so she can't be blamed for the fact that she doesn't take too much note when Emme reaches across the carriage compartment and pulls down first the front, then the back curtains, effectively separating them from both the driver and the lazily-passing street. They are plunged into darkness, and as Rook's eyes adjust, she misses Emme shift from her seat. When she finds her again, Emme has knelt in front of Rook, and her hands are caressing Rook's ankles.

"Darling?" Emme whispers.

"Hm?" Rook bleats, a little too loud.

"You're breathing very heavily."

"I'm, uh--" Rook takes in a shuddering breath, using the pressure of her corset against her ribs to ground her. "I'm fine."

Emme settles back onto the carriage floor, only the sound of shifting fabric to indicate her existence, and then she tugs lightly on Rook's waist. "Come here, darling."

Rook moves to obey immediately, sliding onto Emme's lap. Immediately, their mouths are together--Rook's hand frames Emme's jaw, palm cradling her throat. She tastes like tea. The kissing alone is enough for Rook's stomach to quiver in unapologetic arousal; the fact that she is allowed the privilege of Emme's smile-lined mouth, her sweet lips and her clever tongue, is always a revelation. Emme's hands hike up the hem of Rook's dress around the hips, baring to the humid carriage Rook's black lace underwear.

"Why are we on the floor?" Rook mumbles into Emme's panting mouth, spreading her legs to invite Emme's probing touch.

"The center of gravity in a lifted carriage is very low," Emme murmurs. "Too much movement can tip the carriage. Turn around, darling. Between my knees, legs spread."

Rook, now aware of the precariousness of this particular activity, moves carefully. Emme presses her back against the seat and draws her knees up and apart, creating a nook for Rook's body to slide into. Rook presses her shoulders against Emme's chest, clasps her hands onto each of Emme's kneecaps, and shudders as Emme's hand finds skin between the hem of her corset and the waistband of her underwear.

"Rook," Emme whispers, fingers sinking in, and she swirls her fingertips atop Rook's clit with ease and quickness. This is how she touches herself, Rook thinks, given the position--the thought makes her feel crazy in a way that only Emme has ever been capable of inspiring. Gut-wrenching, blood-deep. Something that takes over Rook's whole body and replaces any coherent thought with the feeling of long, slim fingers spreading her open and the smell of peaches. "Our fearless, indomitable leader. I'm sorry for monopolizing your attention the way I do. I can't seem to help it, my darling. When I feel your eyes on me...I never want you to look at anything else."

"I won't," Rook whimpers. Her thighs shake, her feet slide away from her as Emme dips two fingers inside her. "I swear, Emme, you're all I ever want to look at. Fuck. Your eyes, your hair--that fucking mustache, are you kidding me with that?"

"I thought you might like it," Emme murmurs, and presses her teeth into the tip of Rook's ear.

"I do, I do."

"Oh," Emme sighs. Rook feels her forehead press against the back of her shoulder. Her hand moves insistently between Rook's thighs, spreading wetness, and that's going to be uncomfortable when it inevitably dries between her thighs sometime during the party. Oh well. Sounds like a future Rook problem.

Emme curls her wrist, hits the sensitive roof of Rook's cunt, and draws a circle over and over around the sensitive shape of her clit. Rook's trembling fingers creak into a clamp on Emme's kneecaps.

"I find myself thinking of what I can do to draw your gaze," Emme murmurs, hot at the side of her neck. "I think to myself--what would darling Rook think of this dress? These trousers? What can this old woman do to entice--"

"Huh-uh--" Rook keens, lifting her hips. She wraps her hand around Emme's wrist, pressing her hand down where she needs it most, inelegantly mashing the heel of her hand against the blood-filled throb of her pussy.

"I shouldn't tease you so," Emme laments. "Distract you."

"I don't care, I don't care--"

"My beautiful Rook," Emme whispers. "Strong. Powerful. Come for me, sweet girl."

Rook can do nothing but obey.

Fifteen minutes later, Rook steps down out of the carriage to be greeted by her carriage-rumpled team. Emme steps down behind her, not a single hair out of place--owed mostly to the comb and lipstick she'd brought in the pouch that lives tucked underneath the sash around her waist. A moment ago, her eyes had glowed a gentle, lovely green as she applied a glamor to Rook's neck to hide a lovebite.

Davrin sighs and drops a small handful of gold into Lucanis' hand, apropos of nothing. Lucanis hands three coins to Bellara and shoves the rest into his pocket. No context given, they follow the directions of an attendant and mount the grand stoop into the party.

"What was that about?" Rook mutters.

Neve links their arms as they follow close behind Emme, who's only moving a little oddly after her flirtation with the floor. Her staff mostly makes up for it, clicking elegantly beside her on every step.

"Davrin bet Lucanis that you two would tip your carriage," Neve replies, and chuckles under her breath. "The look on your face when you saw Emme's makeup was...one of the more openly horny expressions I've ever seen."

"Neve," Rook hisses. "Please."

As they are waiting outside the ballroom to be announced, Rook turns back to Neve and asks, "What did Bellara bet on?"

In answer, Neve points her nose in Emme's direction and strokes the top of her lip.

Rook realizes in that moment that one side of the mustache--the side that had been pressed into the crook of her neck as she came on Emme's fingers--is completely missing.

[calypsolemon]

concept art for me and @tippydoorman 's drainfolk oc, Melodie, the acting governor of the Drain. She'll be showing up in our upcoming fanfic!

[realityandrebirth]

I know i just updated my pokémon sworf and shield fic, but I'm still open to asks about Starlight Interference! I like hearing people's thoughts. do you know about melodie

(that said, if you want to ask me about my pkmn fic, Belladonna Girl, I'm open to that too! or any of my fanfics. Do i have lego followers still here)

[pippenpaddlopsicopolisthethird]

I think its fascinating to see the timeloop posts here because of how they're all clearly inspired by Groundhog Day (and SPN, and Russian Doll, etc.) where the loop is a force created by something exterior in the universe and it happens independently of any action taken by the protagonist.

I'm more used to timeloops as they usually exist in anime (Madoka, Steins;Gate, Revue Starlight) where the timeloop must be actively maintained by somebody completing a goal each loop, and then they themselves must reset the loop each time. Which is why they are the only ones to remember it.

And it really makes such a huge difference in how you talk about the tropes! There's no "dying in the time loop" because the protagonist is the only one who can't die. Everyone else is expendable, as long as the protagonist is still alive they can try to save them next time, but it creates this amazing ethical tension of the drive to save others and the requirement for that to be to keep yourself alive at all costs. The actions and lives of others are functionally meaningless unless they help or interfere with the loop.

And it also makes for a story that isn't about being trapped by universal forces, but trapped by their own hubris or obsession. In the anime style loop, they could stop any time, but they can't because they havent gotten it right. Stopping the loop would mean accepting that they failed, that the person they keep trying to save is dead, that they never prevented the horrible outcome they were afraid of.

I think both styles of time loop are really fantastic and lend themselves to very different types of stories so heres my invitation to work in the timeloop-by-choice into your tropes!

[midnight-mourning]

DCA Promptober Day 7: Glitter Glue

mmmm, have some more pain, as a treat, from me to you, I was thinking about Unrequited Something by @sinister-sincerely while writing this, hope I was able to match up, the way you write unrequited feelings is SO GOOD fr fr

Word count: 877

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃

"What do you think? What do you think?" A piece of paper is shoved hurriedly in your face by small hands.

You laugh, gently guiding them down, "It's very lovely, Kylee. I really love the variety in the glitter glue you used. What do you think, Sun?"

You turn in his direction, but find he's not there. Instead, he's chatting with the other helper, Kate. Not you. Right. You forgot. 

But, Kylee is determined, and makes that very clear to everyone. 

"Sunny!" She whines, startling both the other helper and the Attendant, "What do you think of my picture?"

He quickly rushes over, rays a twitter, "Oh, oh, oh! I'm sorry, Sunbeam! Let me see here."

The bot bends down then to examine it, which happens to be right beside you. You feel your face heat up and do your best to ignore him. You really needed to get over this little crush of yours. It was starting to interfere with work now. Of course it didn't help that you worked with your crush(es) and-

You slapped your cheeks a few times, get a grip!

"-Starlight?"

"Huh?" You ask, turning slightly. 

You find Sun staring at you intently, "I asked if everything was alright, that looked like it hurt!"

"O-oh, yeah. I'm good. Just, just trying to clear my head, haha," You shift your gaze to the side.

Unfortunately for you, Sun doesn't seem to like that.

He takes your head in his hands and starts moving your face this way and that, "There are better ways to focus than that, friend! What if you gave yourself a serious injury?"

"I don't think a couple slaps to the face would cause that much damage," You giggle.

His continuous scolding and fretting only makes your blush deepen and you do your best to try and get it under control. You fail miserably. 

Someone clears their throat. Immediately you both separate. 

It's Kate, "Sunny, I think you have more drawings to provide feedback on."

Sure enough, there's a, rather long, line of kids wanting Sun to praise their work. 

"Of course! All art deserves recognition after all!"

With that he's off, leaving you with your feelings which you need to let die already. Oh, and Kate.

She bends down to your level, cupping her hand around her mouth, "Why don't you just tell him?"

"Tell him what?" You question. 

She rolls her eyes, "That you like him! You should tell him, I'll bet he feels the same."

"Oh, no, no. I don't um, I don't like him, like that," You look away, mumbling, "He doesn't like me either, for that matter."

Kate raises a brow; it makes you shrink in on yourself. 

Then, both brows raise in surprise, "Wait, you're serious?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, why don't you just go ask him, come on," She grabs your hand. 

You start to panic, "No!"

Kate stops. 

"I-" You bite your cheek, sighing, "Please. I'd rather not. He, he likes someone else."

"Oh. Shi-shoot, I'm sorry. God you must think I'm a jerk."

You put your hands up, eyes widening, "No, no! You're okay, it's, it's not your fault."

But deep down, there's a very bitter, very shameful part of you that can't help but blame her. 

Because Kate is the one Sun likes. You know, because he told you.

You remember when you found out, you'd stayed late to help prep crafts for the next day. The two of you had been casually conversing when the topic had gotten brought up. 

"I just think love is such a fun emotion!" Sun's rays spin, "It's so complex, and yet so simple."

You laugh, "I guess so. Do you have anybody you love?"

"Of course! I love my friends, the children, Moon, you-"

Had he stopped there you would have melted on the spot. But unfortunately for you, he didn't.

"-And then of course," His voice grows softer, syrupy, lovesick, "Kate."

And in an instant, your heart shatters. 

Of course. Of course it wasn't you, why would it ever be you? Stupid, you were stupid for even beginning to think you had a chance. What good were you? What could you even-

"Sunshine? Is everything alright?"

You focus back in, swallowing down your feelings, "Yeah, of course."

"Did, I didn't say anything wrong, did I?" Sun's rays shrink.

"Not at all!" You beam, but inside you're crumbling. 

He perks up instantly, "Okay! So as I was saying..."

It had been a while ago, back around when you'd first started and Kate had been there some time. You think maybe he hadn't intended to let you know about the crush, and was just happy with admiring her from afar. You didn't know, or care really. It wasn't your business. 

Even if you wanted it to be.

Badly.

"Well hey, you never know," Kate says, then reaches into her pocket, handing you a handkerchief, "Here. You've got glitter glue on your face."

You take it, smiling, "Thanks."

Had you taken the chance to look at yourself before wiping off, you'd realize that the marks on your cheeks had been traced into two hearts. Your fellow helper would have told you this, but based on your insistence simply considered it a matter of coincidence. 

What a shame.

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃

Not a spooky one, but still angsty nontheless! Hope you all enjoyed, you can find my promptober masterlist here, thanks for reading!

[dapper-lil-arts]

I find it kind of funny how, when you really think about it, Celestia is a really complex and layered character with a lot of emotional depths to explore (the pain she endured from having to banish her own sister, the pressure and responsibility she bears as the ruler of a kingdom, the betrayal she felt at Sunsets turn, etc.) and yet all of that is overshadowed by how easily she gets bodied at every possible turn.

Like, out of every major villain encounter in the show, she was really only helpful in like, what…Two of them? Maybe? The rest of the time she just shows up for a split-second and then *BAM* instant knockout.

I understand that from a writing perspective you have to find ways of removing her from these conflicts so that the main characters can have the focus (that’s also a major problem that Discord has post-redemption) but at a certain point it just becomes a thing of “man, you really can’t do ANYTHING on your own, huh?”

It becomes clear that the show didn’t quite know what to do with her once Twilight became a princess, and so they leaned more into her goofball tendencies (which I personally loved, but I could see others being annoyed by it) and it just makes me wish we could’ve gotten at least one more episode for her to really shine, like in Celestial Advice.

Anyways, ramble over, just wanted to say that I have nothing but respect for our dearly beloved Princess Fraudlestia 🫶💛

I think the showrunners lacked imagination and creativity regarding her and whenever they wanted to prop up a character, they preffered to knock down another character for that to happen. For example, everyone loses to Chrysalis off screen just so starlight can beat chrysalis with a few friends, it just isnt very creative or compelling Celestia suffered from this long before Twilight became a Princess, too. Hell, on episode friggin 1 Nightmare Moon returns amd Celestia doesn't show her face until she's been defeated, on Discord's episode she decides to literally only send letters to twilight instead of tryin to face discord herself in any way lmao. She's smart for that, thats for sure

I've written Celestia a couple dozen times, but I never ever want to just cut her out of a fight or a struggle just to make another character look better. And hell I don't even use the old superman excuse where she 'doesnt interfere bc if she goes all out she'll be too powerful and kill everything' she's a thousand years old! She's had centuries to refine her power and capabilities!

But I digress. My response to "This show does a character dirty" is never to take that in face value and interpret them as dirty too. Like, just bc the show tells me Cozy Glow deserves to be in Tartarus, doesn't mean I'll blindly believe them >:/ Just because the show tells me Celestia is useless doesn't mean I'll blindly accept it! After all, useless fraudlestia ran Equestria for a 1000 years. Perfect Twilight Sparkle didn't even canonically last 100.