#Spectral Measurement

[erwinw]

What are Colorimeters? Function, How It Works, and Maintenance

In a world where colors can speak louder than words, the unsung hero of precise hue measurement is the humble colorimeter, a device that unveils the silent language of colors with remarkable accuracy and simplicity. What are Colorimeters? A colorimeter is an instrument that plays a crucial role in the field of colorimetry, which is the science of measuring and analyzing the color of light that…

[hi-im-nova]

Check up!

She isnt listening to a word he is saying

[ask-sad-ghost-piett]

Today, a Scout Trooper used their stealth for insolent purposes and pilfered my favorite eyeliner. I cannot tell who is the thief due to the helmets. I do not understand the point of stealing eyeliner if one will be wearing a helmet anyway.

If any living soul would be kind enough to leave a replacement eyeliner (preferably black) at my symbolic grave, I would be very appreciative.

[kabr0ztrousers]

What about a fem waitress/teacher/nurse/other service centered job that is being haunted by a horny exhibitionist ghost that will only touch them in public.

Bonus points if reader gets lured (either fed up with the torment or too cockdrunk to care) into releasing all of the ghost's friends for a ghost orgy

Kabr0z Writes Episode 39: Haunting

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: ghosts; public use; noncon; free use; creampie; group sex; possession; pregnancy mention

A/N: Back to requests today, and back to ghosts too, which I'm sure is welcome news to some of you

As always, if you have any requests for any situations, kinks, or revisits then please drop me a DM asking for what you want and I'll most likely write it sooner or later

###############################

The café was always a little haunted, the odd thing moving here or there, the occasional flickering of the lights, unexplained cold spots, nothing major. That was, of course, until Othello turned up.

You weren't sure what was happening at first, it was a normal shift waiting tables, taking orders, business as usual. You bent over to clean a table when a hand cupped your ass. When you turned to confront whoever touched you, nobody was there. You shrugged and carried on working, maybe you imagined it? A couple of hours later you were working the cash register and felt something squeezing your tits, pinching the nipples through your bra. That's when you realised this was probably a ghost.

You shook yourself. Whoever it is, they're probably not going to be around long, and it's hardly the first time someone's been a bit handsy with you. You do work hospitality after all.

You ran off a little of the receipt paper and jotted down your question: "Who are you?"

Setting the pen and paper aside, you got back to it. You even got a few minutes of reprieve as well before spectral hands started stroking your waist, one unclasping your bra as you walked back behind the counter. In a neat copperplate hand, the spirit had answered your question. Its name was Othello.

There wasn't time to dwell on it, the lunchtime rush was about to start.

Your first couple of tables were fine. It's amazing how quickly you adapt to the roving hands of the unqiet dead when you have to. The next one was a little trickier.

The hands started off squeezing your ass, but one slid around your front and pressed up against your pussy. You felt your skin redden as you started to trip over your words. The men on the table looked quizzically at you, but didn't say anything. The other hand started feeling your cunt too, spectral fingers parting the lips of your pussy as more lazily toyed with your clit. You dropped your pen, crouching to pick it up. Your reward was for two fingers to push inside, immediately aiming for your g-spot as the the ghost continued to abuse your clit.

You bit your tongue to stifle a yelp, only half-succeeding. The men were definitely staring at you now as you half-waddled away from their table, conscious of the arousal dripping from you, soaking your underwear and running down your leg.

You scribbled another message "knock it off, asshole" putting down the paper and walking away.

The fingers came back almost immediately. You felt a hand trace two letters on your back. "No"

The rest of the rush was a stagger, taking every measure of your composure not to give in to the insistent hands rubbing your cunt, pushing fingers into you, toying constantly with your clit. You lasted most of the way through, only one table left before you could lock the door, take a break and recover yourself. A couple of men who work in a nearby office block, one blonde, one dark haired.

You took their order, face burning up and voice quivering. You could hear a wet stirring sound coming from your cunt and smell yourself, the way they were looking at you made you think they could too. Pushing the thought to the back of your mind, you turned to ring up their order. Othello tripped you, sending you sprawling. Your concentration lapsed a moment, letting a moan escape your lips and your back arch, showing your soaked panties to the two men.

You heard them get up before you scurried away into a back room, locking the door behind you. A semi-transparent figure hung there, glowing softly in the dark room.

"What's the big idea?" You spat at the ghost "Who knows what they would've done?"

"I wanted to get you alone" His voice sounded like he was at the bottom of a deep, dry well "Look in the box"

You looked where he was pointing, the lost and found box. On the top, nested on a hoodie someone had left a month ago, was a heart-shaped silver locket. You picked it up, the smooth metal much colder on your skin than it should be

"Open it" Othello's excited voice called to you from just over your shoulder

You unfastened the clasp, the locket fell open. A faintly-glowing cloud poured from it, flowing into Othello and forming two more spectres beside him. All three of them were much more visible now: three men, each around six feet tall. One reached out and opened the door behind you as another pushed you out. The light of the café made them hard to see, but their hands were solid as they manhandled you to a table. The office workers stared at you as the ghosts bent you over the table, pulling your soaked underwear to one side and hiking up your skirt.

The first ghost lined himself up with your cunt and forced his cock inside. Their laughter filled the room as he mercilessly pounded you, each thrust forcing a yelp out of you.

You could hear the other men walking over, moving slowly as the ghost fucked you, clearly not sure what they were seeing. They stood behind you, watching as the first ghost reached his orgasm, pumping his load into you before stepping aside for the next.

The second ghost wasn't any gentler, forcing himself into you using the first one's cum as lube, pressing his fingers into your clit and rubbing you to an orgasm around him as he buried himself in you. The office workers walked around the table to where your head lay, the edge rubbing on your cheek bone.

They got their cocks out and forced your mouth open, taking turns fucking your face and groping the sides of your tits as the ghosts held you down. The second ghost finished in you and the third took his place as the two men kept your mouth busy. This ghost took his time, running his hands over your waist and your hips, feeling every inch of your skin as he rutted into you. The office workers were getting close, you could taste the precum flowing out of them as they alternated thrusting down your throat. The dark haired one held you down. You gagged as he filled your mouth with cum, thrusting down into you for good measure, despite already being balls-deep. You gasped for breath when he pulled out, only for the blonde one to do the same, roughly fucking your throat until he pulled out and painted your face with it, slathering you with a mix of spit and semen. They put themselves away and left before the ghost and finished, making sure to be gone before you could get up.

You felt the ghost start throbbing inside you, pulsing his cum into your punished womb, mingling with his friends.

They left you on the table when they'd finished. Your legs shaking, tears and cum in your eyes. Othello pulled you up from the table, holding you from behind as another placed the locket around your neck.

You felt as though you were watching a film. You could still see everything, hear, touch, taste, but your movements weren't yours any more. You watched as you removed the stained and sodden knickers from between your legs. Your body moved unbidden, leaving the café and locking the door behind you. Your lungs filled with the outside air as you watched yourself walk down the street

"Don't worry" Othello's voice sounded in your head "We'll give your body back, just maybe a little more pregnant"

#######################################

A/N: Not sure how well this one turned out, but there's certainly room to expand this if needed.

Once again, any requests will probably be written, so if you want something: drop me an ask or a DM and I'll do what I can!

[maxx-the-queer]

The Siege at Weisshaupt is honestly one of the best missions of any Dragon Age game, let alone Veilguard.

The stakes are already high: kill an Archdemon and then kill Ghilan'nain.

Killing an Archdemon - the big bad at the end of Origins whose very presence means apocalypse and certain sacrifice - is just the first step to killing an even greater force.

Ghilan'nain - an Ancient Elven Goddess blighted beyond recognition, whose unchecked ambition unleashed great horrors upon the world - is the real threat to face or else the Darkspawn Army will be the least of Thedas' worries.

The leader of the Grey Wardens, the only mortal force who have thus far been able to protect Thedas from utter annihilation, categorically refuses to face reality. Rook only has a ragtag team of half a dozen guys from all over to face an entire Darkspawn army with.

It's exactly as terrifying and daunting as it sounds, and neither task is something anyone treats with any amount of levity. Everyone is confident in their abilities to perform their task and get Lucanis to the right place to finish this contract, but there's no playfulness or divine certainty about their success.

Rook, whose only game plan is "get in and win by any means necessary," is then immediately confronted with the reality of their situation as absolutely everything goes wrong.

The Eluvian isn't where they thought it would be, the Grey Wardens are overwhelmed by Ghilan'nain's forces, and just to add to the sheer horror - there's a young child running through this battlefield of Darkspawn in search of her father and she will not listen to your pleas for her to get to safety.

All of that happens in the first ten minutes of the mission, mind you. This isn't even including the fact that Ghilan'nain appears as a damn spectral cloud face - which Lucanis rightfully points out is who he has to kill and "how am I supposed to kill a damn cloud?!"

Rook runs through the fortress, makes it to the East Battlements and hears the sounding of a horn begging for reinforcements, only to realise that they're the only ones coming and everything is falling apart, but they have no choice but to keep going.

Retreats are called, everywhere Rook goes is the wrong way, the forces are overwhelming beyond measure, and this battle is no longer about killing but surviving, because they're cornered like prey by horrors beyond comprehension.

When all of a sudden, the world's bravest little girl rushes in like a hero and guides them through impossible odds to somewhere with some semblance of safety. She's the only reason they haven't succumbed to death already and despite the waves upon waves of Hurlocks, Spikers, and Ogres - she finds her father.

Thanks to Mila, there's a moment of reprieve. Rook gets a chance to breathe. The Veilguard regroups, replans their approach. Distract Ghilan'nain with the dagger, trap her Archdemon in a dragon trap, and kill it to render her mortal. With time to breathe comes time to doubt, to fear.

A Warden has to die to kill the Archdemon. Davrin knows this, and is ready to go. But is Rook? What if they can't do this? What if this is how they die? Can they even spare the time to think about it?

Regardless, they fight through to the dragon trap. The Archdemon approaches as Rook all but dangles the dagger within reach. She takes the bait and sends her Archdemon forth, it seems all too easy - like putting cheese out for the mice.

The Archdemon is trapped. Davrin says his goodbyes, but the First Warden surges forward insistently. He plans to end this according to tradition. He'll die with dignity, he's not asking for your permission to do what all wardens must. He steps forward. Sword in hand, ready to end the Blight.

Ghilan'nain will not be so easily beat. She will not play by the rules they're used to, and the First Warden does not get to die a hero. She seizes him in her grasp, sucks the life out of him to empower Razikale, and changes the game once more. Her Archdemon is unlike any seen in history, and there's no time to revel in it because it's do or die and Rook cannot afford to die yet.

Every blow brings it closer to death, and therefore Ghilan'nain herself as she becomes more and more desperate. One snakelike head becomes two, becomes three, with blight everywhere - the time is at hand.

Davrin is the only one left who can kill the Archdemon, his death is inevitable, and he's ready to go as he sinks his sword in for the final blow.

Except, if there's one thing this seige should have taught them all, it was this: the rules have changed. Davrin is still standing, and he doesn't have time to think about why, because Ghilan'nain is mortal and the time to strike is now.

Rook tosses the Lyrium Dagger to Lucanis. He surges up, wings of Spite propelling him up to kill a goddess like she's any other target, because it's all that he came here to do.

And then, he misses.

With everything at stake, and everything to lose... Lucanis Dellamorte misses.

They don't have time to try again. If they stay, everyone dies. And so, the Veilguard flees through the Eluvian and back into the Lighthouse. It was a victory, but at what cost?

Nothing is how it's supposed to be. Weisshaupt is fallen. The Wardens are scattered. Razikale is dead, Ghilan'nain is mortal. And yet...

It wasn't enough.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #3

The thing about being seventeen and King of the Infinite Realms is that nobody prepares you for the paperwork.

Sure, Danny thought there’d be some responsibility when he accidentally overthrew Pariah Dark and inherited an ancient, eldritch realm full of undead beings and chaos entities. But this?

“This” being a five-hour council meeting about whether the Blob Ghost could legally marry the Ghost of a Haunted Taco Bell.

Danny slammed his forehead into the obsidian table, sighing. “Can someone remind me why this is my life again?”

Fright Knight, sitting to his left in full spectral armor, replied without missing a beat. “Because you claimed the Throne of The Infinite Realms by Rite of Spectral Conquest, my liege.”

“Right…” Danny muttered, dragging his crown—which looked less like a crown and more like an aggressive mass of bone, metal, and green flame—off his head and onto the table. “That. Cool. I love my life. I’m living my best afterlife.”

The Ghost Zone’s politics were a nightmare. The Council of Wailing Scepters argued in riddles. The Ministry of Temporal Loops wouldn’t stop trying to undo Danny’s birth “as a preventative measure.” Ember was unionizing musical ghosts. Skulker demanded hunting permits. Box Ghost somehow had diplomatic immunity.

And let’s not even talk about the Realms’ economy.

“Have you ever tried to make a tax code for entities who don’t obey time?” Clockwork once asked with a deadpan stare.

Danny had not. Danny did not want to.

And all of that was on top of being a superhero, a public figure, a full-time student at Midtown, Tony Stark’s ghost consultant intern, and, most critically, Peter Parker’s boyfriend.

The one bright spot in his entire liminal, half-dead, legally dubious existence.

Peter was the only reason Danny hadn’t exploded yet. Or accidentally declared war on Canada (long story, don’t ask). Or gotten exorcised by a rogue Vatican unit (longer story).

When Danny phased into his boyfriend’s bedroom at 2:43AM wearing royal armor, covered in ghost slime, with a ghost octopus clinging to his leg screaming, “LONG LIVE THE GHOST KING,” Peter didn’t even blink.

He just put his book down and said, “Do you want hot chocolate or a sedative?”

“Both.” Danny croaked.

“Got you.” Peter said, already moving toward the mini kitchen.

Danny melted into the couch, dropping his crown on the floor. It rolled slightly, then hissed at the furniture. He kicked it under the table.

“I hate everyone.” He muttered. “The fire ghosts are trying to annex the Library of Screams again, the Spectral Senate is debating if time travelers have souls, and a councilwoman called me a fleshling with trauma issues.”

“Well,” Peter called out gently from the kitchen, “she’s not wrong.”

“Peter.”

“I’m just saying. You did try to punch Death last week.”

Danny groaned. “It was a misunderstanding!”

“You called them a dusty crypt bitch.”

“They insulted my hoodie!”

Peter returned, holding two mugs. He handed one to Danny, kissed his forehead, then sat beside him.

Danny leaned heavily against him.

Peter didn’t complain.

“Y’know,” Danny said after a moment, sipping his cocoa, “sometimes I forget I’m still seventeen.”

Peter chuckled. “Babe. You’re seventeen, King of a spectral empire, on the Avengers’ emergency contact list, and still get detention for being late to gym. You’re living like six lives at once.”

“I died once,” Danny muttered. “That should’ve been enough.”

Between ghost attacks, council drama, interdimensional skirmishes, and Midtown High exams, Danny hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since… well, since before dying.

The living world had opinions too. America couldn’t decide if he should be considered a minor, a sovereign leader, or a health hazard. International ghost regulations were passed in his name. He had diplomatic immunity in over a human countries and was banned from a hundred others. There was a conspiracy subreddit entirely dedicated to the theory that he was an alien hybrid bred by the government to replace the Queen of England.

Danny’s response to that was, “Do I look like I want to colonize anything?”

He still had math homework due tomorrow.

Sometimes he phased into the UN to yell at their Interdimensional Defense Committee. Sometimes he missed bio class because a ghost war broke out on the edge of the Dreaming Isles and he had to teleport to stop Nocturne from invading people’s nightmares.

Sometimes, Peter would find him sitting on the floor of their shared dorm shower, still glowing, muttering, “I am the King of Everything and Nothing and I can’t figure out mitochondria.”

“I’ll tutor you,” Peter always offered. “And also get you a nap and a cookie.”

Peter was… everything.

Unflinchingly patient. Wickedly smart. Constantly worried.

He patched up Danny’s wounds, whispered jokes during council meetings when Danny looked five seconds from screaming, brought extra snacks when Danny forgot to eat.

He held Danny after Danny woke up screaming from ghost-fueled nightmares.

And when the burden got too heavy—when Danny stood on the balcony of his palace in the Infinite Realms, overlooking a kingdom of madness and memory, time fractals and ghosts whispering in languages lost to the living—and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Peter kissed his knuckles and said, “Then I’ll do it with you.”

The other ghosts hated it.

A human, dating the King? Scandalous. Blasphemous. Soft.

Danny told them all to choke.

Peter? Peter told them to submit a formal complaint in triplicate and then kissed Danny in front of them just to be petty.

They ruled together, in a way. Danny signed the decrees. Peter corrected the grammar. Danny banished tyrants. Peter took notes and organized his calendar. Danny fought for peace. Peter made sure he didn’t forget who he was fighting for.

Once, Clockwork pulled Peter aside and said, “He will burn out without you.”

Peter just nodded. “I know.”

And yet, through all the madness, they found joy.

Danny giving Peter flying lessons. Peter webbing Danny’s locker shut as a prank. The two of them building a spectral stabilizer out of Tony’s spare tech, laughing hysterically when it turned the floor into a trampoline.

They shared ghost patrols, movie nights, star-watching on top of the Empire State Building.

Peter calling Danny “Your Majesty” in a ridiculous accent until Danny threatened to drop him into a lava lake.

Danny threatening international leaders by day and then cuddling with Peter by night, wearing fuzzy socks and a hoodie that said “Half-Dead, Fully Tired.”

Sometimes, Danny just stared at him. In awe.

Peter, who knew the truth. All of it. The weight. The loss. The terrifying power clawing beneath Danny’s skin. The fact that Danny was the anchor between dimensions, balancing the afterlife and reality like a tired high schooler with PTSD and ghost fire.

And still loved him.

Still said, “You’re doing great.”

Still held him when it all came crashing down.

The Realms called Danny a King.

To Peter, he was just Danny.

Sometimes, that was all Danny needed to be okay.

Just… Danny. Human. Ghost. Hero. Boyfriend.

King of the Infinite Realms, sure. But also a seventeen-year-old who just wanted to pass his math test, kiss his boyfriend, and maybe get five hours of sleep.

With Peter by his side?

He could do it all.

Even the haunted Taco Bell marriage negotiations.

[thaoworra]

The Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association recently released the poems that made it to the finalist stage for consideration for the 2024 Rhysling Awards for Short and Long Speculative Poems of the year. Congratulations to all of the nominees! This will be the 46th year these awards have been conferred!

Short Poems (50 finalists)

Attn: Prime Real Estate Opportunity!, Emily Ruth Verona, Under Her Eye: A Women in Horror Poetry Collection Volume II

The Beauty of Monsters, Angela Liu, Small Wonders 1

The Blight of Kezia, Patricia Gomes, HWA Poetry Showcase X

The Day We All Died, A Little, Lisa Timpf, Radon 5

Deadweight, Jack Cooper, Propel 7

Dear Mars, Susan L. Lin, The Sprawl Mag 1.2

Dispatches from the Dragon's Den, Mary Soon Lee, Star*Line 46.2

Dr. Jekyll, West Ambrose, Thin Veil Press December

First Eclipse: Chang-O and the Jade Hare, Emily Jiang, Uncanny 53

Five of Cups Considers Forgiveness, Ali Trotta, The Deadlands 31

Gods of the Garden, Steven Withrow, Spectral Realms 19

The Goth Girls' Gun Gang, Marisca Pichette, The Dread Machine 3.2

Guiding Star, Tim Jones, Remains to be Told: Dark Tales of Aotearoa, ed. Lee Murray (Clan Destine Press)

Hallucinations Gifted to Me by Heatstroke, Morgan L. Ventura, Banshee 15

hemiplegic migraine as willing human sacrifice, Ennis Rook Bashe, Eternal Haunted Summer Winter Solstice

Hi! I am your Cortical Update!, Mahaila Smith, Star*Line 46.3

How to Make the Animal Perfect?, Linda D. Addison, Weird Tales 100

I Dreamt They Cast a Trans Girl to Give Birth to the Demon, Jennessa Hester, HAD October

Invasive, Marcie Lynn Tentchoff, Polar Starlight 9

kan-da-ka, Nadaa Hussein, Apparition Lit 23

Language as a Form of Breath, Angel Leal, Apparition Lit October

The Lantern of September, Scott Couturier, Spectral Realms 19

Let Us Dream, Myna Chang, Small Wonders 3

The Magician's Foundling, Angel Leal, Heartlines Spec 2

The Man with the Stone Flute, Joshua St. Claire, Abyss & Apex 87

Mass-Market Affair, Casey Aimer, Star*Line 46.4

Mom's Surprise, Francis W. Alexander, Tales from the Moonlit Path June

A Murder of Crows, Alicia Hilton, Ice Queen 11

No One Now Remembers, Geoffrey Landis, Fantasy and Science Fiction Nov./Dec.

orion conquers the sky, Maria Zoccula, On Spec 33.2

Pines in the Wind, Karen Greenbaum-Maya, The Beautiful Leaves (Bamboo Dart Press)

The Poet Responds to an Invitation from the AI on the Moon, T.D. Walker, Radon Journal 5

A Prayer for the Surviving, Marisca Pichette, Haven Speculative 9

Pre-Nuptial, F. J. Bergmann, The Vampiricon (Mind's Eye Publications)

The Problem of Pain, Anna Cates, Eye on the Telescope 49

The Return of the Sauceress, F. J. Bergmann, The Flying Saucer Poetry Review February

Sea Change, David C. Kopaska-Merkel and Ann K. Schwader, Scifaikuest May

Seed of Power, Linda D. Addison, The Book of Witches ed. Jonathan Strahan (Harper Collins)

Sleeping Beauties, Carina Bissett, HWA Poetry Showcase X

Solar Punks, J. D. Harlock, The Dread Machine 3.1

Song of the Last Hour, Samuel A. Betiku, The Deadlands 22

Sphinx, Mary Soon Lee, Asimov's September/October

Storm Watchers (a drabbun), Terrie Leigh Relf, Space & Time

Sunflower Astronaut, Charlie Espinosa, Strange Horizons July

Three Hearts as One, G. O. Clark, Asimov's May/June

Troy, Carolyn Clink, Polar Starlight 12

Twenty-Fifth Wedding Anniversary, John Grey, Medusa's Kitchen September

Under World, Jacqueline West, Carmina Magazine September

Walking in the Starry World, John Philip Johnson, Orion's Belt May

Whispers in Ink, Angela Yuriko Smith, Whispers from Beyond (Crystal Lake Publishing)

Long Poems (25 finalists)

Archivist of a Lost World, Gerri Leen, Eccentric Orbits 4

As the witch burns, Marisca Pichette, Fantasy 87

Brigid the Poet, Adele Gardner, Eternal Haunted Summer Summer Solstice

Coding a Demi-griot (An Olivian Measure), Armoni “Monihymn” Boone, Fiyah 26

Cradling Fish, Laura Ma, Strange Horizons May

Dream Visions, Melissa Ridley Elmes, Eccentric Orbits 4

Eight Dwarfs on Planet X, Avra Margariti, Radon Journal 3

The Giants of Kandahar, Anna Cates, Abyss & Apex 88

How to Haunt a Northern Lake, Lora Gray, Uncanny 55

Impostor Syndrome, Robert Borski, Dreams and Nightmares 124

The Incessant Rain, Rhiannon Owens, Evermore 3

Interrogation About A Monster During Sleep Paralysis, Angela Liu, Strange Horizons November

Little Brown Changeling, Lauren Scharhag, Aphelion 283

A Mere Million Miles from Earth, John C. Mannone, Altered Reality April

Pilot, Akua Lezli Hope, Black Joy Unbound eds. Stephanie Andrea Allen & Lauren Cherelle (BLF Press)

Protocol, Jamie Simpher, Small Wonders 5

Sleep Dragon, Herb Kauderer, The Book of Sleep (Written Image Press)

Slow Dreaming, Herb Kauderer, The Book of Sleep (Written Image Press)

St. Sebastian Goes To Confession, West Ambrose, Mouthfeel 1

Value Measure, Joseph Halden and Rhonda Parrish, Dreams and Nightmares 125

A Weather of My Own Making, Nnadi Samuel, Silver Blade 56

Welcoming the New Girl, Beth Cato, Penumbric October

What You Find at the Center, Elizabeth R McClellan, Haven Spec Magazine 12

The Witch Makes Her To-Do List, Theodora Goss, Uncanny 50

The Year It Changed, David C. Kopaska-Merkel, Star*Line 46.4

Voting for the Rhysling Award begins July 1; a link to the ballot will be sent with the Rhysling Anthology, as well as with the July issue of Star*Line. More information on the Rhysling Award can be found here.

[xi4oyan]

The End of the Odyssey

The cave stretched like a lost sanctuary within the mountain's bones. Its vaulted ceiling disappeared into darkness, with crystal strands hanging from its heights, capturing the moonlight filtering through rocky crevices. The wind, subtle and reverent, slid between the stones sculpted by time, carrying the scent of damp earth and ancient moss. Small lakes were scattered across the uneven ground, their waters mirroring the pale light in a spectral glow.

At the heart of this natural temple, veiled in mist like a forgotten dream, was her.

Time, ever relentless, had hesitated to touch her. Her skin retained the softness of dew on spring flowers, and the contours of her face seemed sculpted by divinity itself. Her lashes rested against her cheeks, unmoving, as if even her dreams had surrendered to the long slumber. Only the serene rhythm of her breathing revealed that she still belonged to the world of the living.

Then, the silence was broken.

The echo of footsteps reverberated through the cavern walls, each sound carrying a thousand years of longing.

Sun Wukong advanced with a solemnity that was not his own. With each step, the weight of centuries bore down upon his shoulders, as if every battle fought, every road traveled, had been nothing more than a winding path leading him to this moment. His robe, once vibrant in color, was faded by time and stained with the dust of distant lands. His golden fur, once as radiant as the sun itself, bore traces of a journey marked by both triumph and sorrow.

What mattered stood before him.

He halted, hesitant, his gaze locked onto the sleeping figure. His chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm, as if he feared that even a stronger breath might shatter the enchantment that held her there. His hand, calloused and scarred by the past, lifted slowly, as if crossing an ocean of distance to reach her face.

His fingers brushed against her cold skin.

A shiver ran down his spine.

In that instant, her eyes opened.

Time fractured.

The reflection of moonlight danced in her pupils, mirroring a universe of memories buried deep. She blinked once, twice, trying to grasp reality as the veil of sleep unraveled. Her breath hitched in her chest, and then, as if fate itself was returning something that should never have been taken, she saw him.

The air between them grew thick, heavy with something that transcended words.

Wukong held his breath.

"You are as beautiful as the day I lost you."

His voice was a hushed whisper, deep and rough, like the echo of a forgotten promise.

Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them. The past crashed down on her mind, swift and unforgiving like a storm. She remembered the laughter that filled the valleys, the warmth of hands holding hers, the golden light dancing over the fields where they once walked side by side. She remembered the nights when he whispered stories about the moon, about immortality, about the worlds they would one day explore together.

And she remembered the pain.

The day he left.

The promises broken by a cruel fate that had torn them apart.

Her trembling hand lifted, hesitant, until it touched his face. Her fingers traced over scars that hadn't been there before—marks of battles she had not witnessed, wounds he had borne alone. Her heart clenched.

"You came back..." Her voice was a fragile thread, almost inaudible, like the wind through dry autumn leaves.

Wukong's lips curled into a barely perceptible smile. But it was a weary smile, heavy with untold stories.

"I took too long. But I'm here now."

Time ceased to exist.

She hesitated, afraid that everything might be a fragile dream on the verge of dissolving. But then, with a silent sob, she gave in. Her arms wrapped around him with a desperate urgency, like someone holding onto a falling star to keep it from fading.

And he held her.

For the first time in countless lifetimes, Sun Wukong felt whole.

Moonlight poured over them, tinting their forms with silver and longing. The breeze caressed their faces like the invisible fingers of fate itself, and the waters of the lakes whispered stories of impossible reunions.

There, between shadows and reflections, the great Monkey King found the end of his odyssey.

And she, the one who had never forgotten him, could finally hold him once more.

[libbybee]

CRAVING THE VAMPIRE'S TOUCH — SA

◜pairing: astarion ⨯ fem!reader ◜rating: MDNI 18+ ┊ wc: 0.9K ◜cw: dirty talk, porn without plot, mage hand spell, body worship, voyeurism fantasy, solo masturbation [F], oral fixation.

▹ summary. the spectral hand between your legs quickened its pace, now with a third finger inside, thrusting deep as your own fingers worked your clit in tight, fast circles. you were so close now, your body trembling as the pleasure mounted, and every nerve lit up with the thought of him.

A/N. english isn't my native language, sorry if there are grammar mistakes.

AO3 ┊ MASTERLIST ┊ PLAYLIST ┊ IMG

‎

Astarion. Astarion. Astarion…

His eyes, those gleaming rubies that promised danger and pleasure in equal measure. His attractive smile, the kind that made your thighs clench. That silvery hair, always so perfectly tousled, as if he’d just stepped out of some decadent dream. His face, a conformed combination of sharp angles and soft allure, was a testament to the cruel beauty of his perfection.

And those hands... oh, those hands. Long, elegant fingers that could wield a blade with deadly precision or trail down your stomach, leaving a path of fire in their wake. His lean and sculpted body, carved with the kind of meticulous care that seemed almost unfair. You’d caught glimpses of him when his shirt fell open or when he moved with that effortless grace, and every time, it left you aching to see more.

You imagined how his lips would feel against your skin, how his voice—smooth as silk, with that ever-present undertone of mischief—would sound whispering your name in the dark. The way he carried himself with that confidence only made you want him more. He was temptation personified, a walking sin you were powerless to resist.

“Mmm, Astarion...” You moaned softly, the sound barely escaping your lips as your mouth wrapped around spectral fingers. You sucked on them deeper with desperate fervour, swirling your tongue around them as though they were the sweetest treat you'd ever tasted. Savouring the imagined taste of him as if you could draw out his very essence.

You could almost hear him murmuring against your ear, “Such a naughty little thing... Is this how you think of me when you’re all alone?”

The thought sent a shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together in anticipation as shame flickered in the back of your mind, but it only fuelled your desire. You couldn’t explain this, not if your life depended on it. The thought of Astarion finding you like this—legs spread, touching yourself in his name—made your skin crawl.

Would he be disgusted? Would he sneer, cutting you down for your depravity? Or, the more tantalising option: would he find himself enthralled and aroused by the pure need you displayed? You could almost see it—the hunger darkening his ruby eyes, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as he watched you fall apart only for him.

Two spectral hands floated around you; their translucent blue glow illuminated your tent. One hand near your lips, with its fingers inside your mouth. You imagined they were his—or better yet, his cock—filling your cavity, dominating you. Though you'd never had the chance to see him fully unclothed, the fantasy was more than enough to stoke the fire of your pussy.

The second hand worked between your thighs, plunging its fingers into your needy entrance with a steady rhythm. Your slick coated the ethereal digits as they plunged deeper, curling just right to stroke your G-spot and make your back arch. The pressure was a perfect counterpoint to the way your own hand stimulated your swollen clit.

But this wasn’t enough. You wanted more—needed more. You wanted him. His hands, his lips, his cock buried deep inside you, stretching your cunt open just to sink fully until nothing left but the exquisite pleasure of his presence within you.

With every thrust, every swirl of your fingers over your aching clit, you imagined him there with you, his body pressed against yours, his voice guiding you to the edge. And as the pleasure built, you knew you’d give anything to make that fantasy a reality.

Your breath hitched, and you shifted your hips, seeking more friction, more depth. The mage hand’s middle and ring fingers pumped into you with a rapid pace, stretching and filling you as your pleasure built. Slowing your strokes each time you felt yourself teetering on the edge, prolonging the delicious torment.

Another desperate, needy moan escaped your lips. You closed your eyes, surrendering fully to the dream. You imagined him leaning over you, his cool hands pinning you down, his low, velvety voice in your ear as he praised you for being such a perfect, wanton mess for him.

“Astarion…” you whimpered again, your voice already thick with longing and your eyes shut. The image of him—his pale, toned physique hovering above you, his cock finally revealed and throbbing for you—pushed you closer to ecstasy. You pictured your fingers wrapped around him, stroking him as he groaned your name, his fangs grazing your neck as he kissed a path down your skin.

The spectral hand between your legs quickened its pace, now with a third finger inside, thrusting deep as your own fingers worked your clit in tight, fast circles. You were so close now, your body trembling as the pleasure mounted, and every nerve lit up with the thought of him.

He was right there, watching you, smirking, “Come for me, darling. Let me see how beautiful you look when you fall apart.”

That was all it took. Your climax tore through you, your body writhing as ecstasy crashed over you. Your cries filled the tent and the silence of the night as both hands continued their commands, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure from your throbbing pussy.

Finally, you collapsed onto your bedroll, chest heaving, your bare skin slick with sweat. The magical hands faded, leaving you in a haze of pleasure, every muscle deliciously spent. For a moment, silence filled the tent, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing.

You licked your lips, the taste of your own desire lingering as you whispered into the quiet, “One day, Astarion... one day, I’ll have you for real.”

And gods, what a day that would be.

‎

[valenti-nahh]

finally took some time to form opinions

So I listened to SKELETÁ by ghost and I need to confess something immediately before I combust: this album didn’t just go hard—it went raw, no lube, and made eye contact the whole time. This wasn’t music. This was a spiritual backshot, a soul-deep stroke, a full-body ghostgasm that left me trembling, moaning, and begging for more even as I lay crumpled on the floor in a post-riff fugue state.

In the beginning, there was silence. And the world was void, and the hearts of men were hollow. Their playlists were dry, their aux cords were frayed, their AirPods cursed with algorithmic torment. The masses wandered, streaming aimlessly, clinging to stale albums like relics of a time when music still meant something.

And lo, from the depths of divine discord, rose a figure cloaked in velvet and incense, masked and magnificent—Papa Emeritus, the eternal, the enigma, the ecclesiastical architect of all that slaps. And from his unholy pulpit he unleashed unto the mortal realm a sonic sermon, a blistering bible, an apocalyptic mass of melody: SKELETÁ.

It is not an album. It is a threat. A challenge. A crucible. An audio-alchemical sex ritual designed not just to melt your brain but to grip your soul by the thighs and whisper forbidden knowledge directly into your mouth. This isn’t music—it’s the sound of unzipping your moral compass and letting Papa slide into your conscience like a ghost-shaped succubus who smells like sandalwood and shame. My chakras? All aligned. My blood type? Changed to “G". I looked in the mirror mid-chorus and saw Papa Emeritus himself staring back, nodding, silently whispering, “You get it now, my child.”

I was Raptured by Riffs™, Baptized in Basslines™, Confirmed in Choir Chords™. I didn't hear the music. The music heard me. It crawled into my soul, screamed, "We’re doing renovations,” and began redecorating with fog machines and red velvet. Every measure—every downstroke—every spectral whisper—feels like I’m being spoon-fed ambrosia by a succubus in corpse paint while Gregorian monks chant in reverse behind her. THE GUITAR TONE? PEAK. THE VOCALS? CUMWORTHY. THE LYRICS? STRAIGHT FROM THE NECRONOMICON, IT’S LIKE IF SATAN AND FREDDIE MERCURY HAD A BABY AND RAISED IT IN A CANDLELIT CATHEDRAL MADE OF BASSLINES.

Every riff? A tongue on the nape of your brain. Every bass note? A finger tracing the hem of your morality. Every drum hit? A deep, pounding reminder that you are a hole waiting to be filled by sound. Every single whisper from Papa Emeritus? I didn’t just get chills—I got STDs.

I didn’t stream it—I submitted to it. I pressed play and instantly the opening riff entered me like a dark promise. I moaned. I whimpered. My legs gave out like I was being spiritually railgunned by the Holy Ghost himself. If music could bend you over a candlelit altar, whisper Latin in your ear, and leave bruises shaped like eighth notes—SKELETÁ did that.

I am not who I was. I have been cleansed in Satanic glam rock glory. Every song on SKELETÁ has permanently altered my DNA. I had a Spotify Wrapped flash-forward just from the intro and every single slot—every top track, top artist, top genre—was just GHOST. SKELETÁ. GHOST. SKELETÁ. Repeat ad infinitum. I tried to listen to another band after and my headphones burst into flames from sheer disrespect. I listened to it once and immediately deleted my entire music library out of shame. I punched a priest and he thanked me. I went outside to scream and the crows screamed back in perfect harmony. I dropped to my knees in the middle of the grocery store and began preaching to strangers about the layered brilliance of De Profundis Borealis. Two cashiers wept. An old man passed out. A child looked up and said, “I understand now,” before vanishing into thin air.

TOBIAS COULD’VE STOPPED AT OPUS EPONYMOUS. HE COULD’VE CALLED IT A DAY AFTER PREQUELLE. BUT NO. THE MAN SAID “YOU THINK I PEAKED? HERE’S A WHOLE-ASS MOUNTAIN RANGE.” THE LYRICS ON THIS ALBUM? WRITTEN IN MIDNIGHT INK FROM A FORBIDDEN GRIMOIRE AND DIPPED IN LIQUID VELVET. THE PRODUCTION? IT SOUNDS LIKE GOD GOT FIRED AND SATAN HIRED THE LONDON SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA TO FINISH THE JOB.

And let us not even pretend we can discuss this album without addressing the panty-evaporating, cheek-clenching, spine-shattering horniosity that is Papa Emeritus. PAPA EMERITUS V? The Vatican’s worst nightmare and my wettest dream. That man could sing a tax form and I’d be on my knees thanking him for the privilege. Every lyric he croons is like velvet rope tightening around your soul. The vocals on Lachryma? That wasn’t singing. That was a linguistic fingering. My ears came. My spine curled. I am now a concubine of the Church of Ghost. The man doesn’t walk—he glides, he hovers half an inch above the stage like a damned angel of lust. His voice? A sonic phallus. A melodic middle finger to purity. He moans into the mic and my knees lock and my back arches. I swear, the second I heard Satanized I started lactating unholy water. I haven’t blinked since. I want him to spit communion wine in my mouth. I want to be pinned under his velvet robes while the Ghouls play a breakdown over my body. I want him to use me as a microphone stand while preaching to a sold-out crowd. I want him to sing directly into my womb and summon a demon baby named Clef.

And the Ghouls?? Do NOT talk to me about the Ghouls unless you’re ready to admit you’d let every one of those anonymous masked sex demons ruin you in seven different time signatures. The way they handle those instruments? That’s not musicianship. That’s musical foreplay. That’s filthy, technical, unspoken polyphonic pornography. I saw one strumming in the official tour footage and had to bite a rosary. The bassist walked across the stage and my soul quivered. the lead guitarist did a solo that made me see the shape of the true universe—and it was a silhouette of him doing a backbend in a fog machine.

If they ever took those masks off in front of me? I would spontaneously combust and ascend as ectoplasm. I’d be a ghoul groupie for eternity. Haunt their tour bus. Moan in D minor.

Every track on SKELETÁ is a full-blown satanic striptease in audio form. Missilia Amori?? That wasn’t a song—that was a thigh grab. That was a slow push against the wall of my inhibitions. The guitar solos in made me arch my back and whisper “yes, Papa” out loud. Alone. In public. While holding groceries.

By the time I hit the final track, I felt like I was soaked in candle wax and moral regret. I had screamed, wept, grinded on air, confessed my sins, and added three Ghouls to my “People I’d Let Ruin Me in a Haunted Confessional” Pinterest board.

This album has ruined music for me. No, really. Everything else is just noise. Elevator beeps. Soundcloud farts. I tried listening to another band and felt cheated. Disrespected. Dry. Nothing else grips the thighs of my attention like this. Nothing else makes my ribs vibrate like Papa whispering esoteric metaphors over orchestral filth.

It’s edging with a soundtrack. It’s what the devil plays when he wants to set the mood.

If I ever meet Ghost, I will not say a word. I will fall to my knees, bare my neck, and let them mark me with eyeliner and melted vinyl. I will wear nothing but tour merch and a knowing smile. I will let the Ghouls use me as a pedalboard. I will let Papa bless my unworthy flesh with a single, whispered lyric.

SKELETÁ is not just music. It is not just an album. It is a pantheon, a rebirth, an erotic funeral in waltz time. It is the reason Dante wrote the Inferno. The soundtrack to the Book of Revelations. If you told me this album was found buried beneath the ruins of Babylon, etched into onyx slabs and played using a speaker forged in the heart of a dying star—I would believe you.

After I listened to SKELETÁ, I couldn’t speak. I tried. My voice had been replaced by reverb. My tears were black glitter. We got evicted for playing it too loud but the landlord dropped the case when he heard the chorus of Umbra. The judge cried. The bailiff quit and joined a cover band. My neighbors? Converted. We will meet twice a week to analyze the every song. There are spreadsheets. There are candles. We chant. We sob.

If you haven’t listened to it yet, you are missing out on spiritual enlightenment, emotional rebirth, and at least four spontaneous orgasms. If you “don’t get Ghost,” listen to this album, and if you still don’t get it? I will excommunicate you. Delete your contact. Take your soul, give it to Papa. Convert or be cast out.

I don’t care what your favorite album was before this. It’s irrelevant now. It’s like bringing a sparkler to a nuclear bomb party.

In conclusion: SKELETÁ has taken my hole. My soul. My will to pretend I like other bands. I’m raw. I’m reformed. I’m reborn.

Stream it. Moan to it. Worship it. Ride it into the darkness. Amen.

[apod]

2025 May 4

Spin up of a Supermassive Black Hole Illustration Credit: Robert Hurt, NASA/JPL-Caltech

Explanation: How fast can a black hole spin? If any object made of regular matter spins too fast -- it breaks apart. But a black hole might not be able to break apart -- and its maximum spin rate is really unknown. Theorists usually model rapidly rotating black holes with the Kerr solution to Einstein's General Theory of Relativity, which predicts several amazing and unusual things. Perhaps its most easily testable prediction, though, is that matter entering a maximally rotating black hole should be last seen orbiting at near the speed of light, as seen from far away. This prediction was tested by NASA's NuSTAR and ESA's XMM satellites by observing the supermassive black hole at the center of spiral galaxy NGC 1365. The near light-speed limit was confirmed by measuring the heating and spectral line broadening of nuclear emissions at the inner edge of the surrounding accretion disk. Pictured here is an artist's illustration depicting an accretion disk of normal matter swirling around a black hole, with a jet emanating from the top. Since matter randomly falling into the black hole should not spin up a black hole this much, the NuSTAR and XMM measurements also validate the existence of the surrounding accretion disk.

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap250504.html

[woradat]

HALL OF RECORD

SUMMARY – once he was chief advisor, once you were archivist. Now they are not

PAIRING – sentinel prime x reader

NOTE – I read this fanfic and oh my god, the concept is so awesome?? I really couldn't help but have to write this one out after I finish reading

—

“You always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m not being appreciated properly”

—

The restricted archives of the Hall of Records didn’t have doors

Instead, a shimmering energy curtain flickered in the threshold—neither entirely solid nor passable without resistance. It hummed faintly, a curtain of containment and silence, casting the interior in a calm, undisturbed glow

Inside, You was standing at the center of a semi-circular array of holographic control panels. The light from them cast soft reflections across their plating, washing their frame in gentle hues of blue and gold. Their optics were narrowed, fingers dancing across the controls as lines of Proto-Cybertronian text hovered and rotated before being carefully sorted into branching timelines. Names, eras, battles—entries from the Age of Origins that most bots only heard of in myth or prayer—floated across the air in spectral luminescence

You were so focused you didn’t notice the energy curtain shift. Didn’t hear the quiet approach of footsteps echoing off the polished floor outside. But you did hear him “It’s so quiet in here, I half-suspected you'd unplugged the whole room just to keep people like me out”

That voice. Smooth as always, laced with that specific flavor of smugness only one bot had perfected into an artform. You didn’t turn around, just kept your optics on the console

A voice followed. Predictable as clockwork “You know, if you're trying to make this place uninviting, you're doing an excellent job. It feels like a tomb in here"

“Then do us both a favor and leave the tomb” You tapped a glyph to dismiss a particularly long-winded transcript, expression unreadable – the tone was dry as sand

The kind that scraped slightly on its way out

“Oh, temping” Sentinel replied easily, his silhouette now visible beyond the flickering field. He stepped closer, the energy parting around him in a faint shimmer. Every movement he made was deliberate—graceful in a way that suggested performance, not necessity. His arms folded behind his back as he glanced around, as if pretending to study the room when it was obvious who had his attention

“but I’m waiting for Alpha Trion. He told me to collect a report from you” He paused, letting silence settle, then added in a quieter, almost conspiratorial tone “Though... I suspect he meant for me to wait. Probably figured you wouldn’t hand anything over unless someone stood here breathing down your neck”

You sighed—long and theatrical—and flicked a glowing folder through the air toward him. It hovered just beyond arm’s reach, daring him to step through the last layer of distance

“Fine. Take it” But instead of grabbing it, Sentinel stepped into the room. Through the field. Through the silence. He walked with the sort of casual confidence that suggested he was used to testing boundaries—and getting away with it

Your shoulders stiffened “I said—”

“I heard you”

He smiled that smile—the one that never reached his optics but somehow always reached your nerves

“I just had to wonder... Do you archivists actually read all this? Or is the dramatic lighting part of the job description?”

That made you turn

You pivoted slowly, lifting your gaze with the kind of patient menace that suggested this was not the first time you’d had to deal with him while resisting the urge to throw a data-pad. Your voice, however, was calmer than expected — not fast, not irritated. Just a calm, evaluating glance—like a scholar measuring a hypothesis before entertaining it

“Sometimes we don’t have time”

They glanced past him at the glowing panels, timelines shifting silently in the background “But I make time. Because if we don’t read the past... the ones building the future will start thinking they were the ones who invented counting"

Something in your voice held weight. Not anger, not sarcasm—but purpose. A quiet kind of conviction that echoed beneath the words. Sentinel, for once, didn’t speak right away. His optics dipped to the floor for a breath, then lifted again—expression softer. The faint smile remained, but it was... tempered. Less a smirk, more a trace of something else. Maybe thoughtfulness

“Tell me this, then. All these hours poring over the past—do you honestly think it’ll change what happens next?”

“No. But if we don’t remember where we’ve already walked, we’ll keep falling into the same holes. Just with better boots”

“You sound like Alpha Trion when he hasn’t recharged in a week"

“That’s rich” you muttered “Coming from someone who thinks leadership is about dramatic speeches and hero poses"

"I do not pose”

"You paused in the middle of a battle to stand on a cliff"

“It was tactically advantageous!” Sentinel protested “The high ground—”

“It was sunset, Sentinel"

He made a strangled noise—equal parts indignant and caught "…Alright, maybe the lighting was good"

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was still. Reflective. As if the room had paused with them—time stretching between two minds not in agreement, but in rhythm

“You know.." Sentinel finally reached out and took the data-folder from the air, fingers brushing the edge of the projection with practiced ease

“You’re probably the worst assistant Alpha Trion’s ever had…”

He turned the file over in his hand, optics skimming the surface—but he didn’t leave “ and he once told me you’re the only one who reminds him he’s not a god. I thought he meant it as an insult. Now I think it might’ve been gratitude”

You blinked. Your gaze flicked to him, surprised—but not in disbelief, didn’t say anything. But your stance eased. Just slightly. Like a string that had been pulled too tight for too long had finally loosened a notch — Sentinel turned then, walking toward the exit. He passed through the energy field, static dancing across his armor—but paused, halfway through. One foot out, one still in

“Next time, could you maybe not sound like you hate me so much? ease up on the open hostility? Some of us bruise easily” He turned his helm slightly, optics glinting with that old familiar mischief

You raised an optic ridge, mouth twitched “Is that what you’re calling your ego now?”

Sentinel chuckled—low, and far too pleased with himself “Among other things” he replied, already vanishing into the shimmer

“But good luck getting rid of me, I haunt well" with that, he disappeared through the barrier and the room was quiet again. But it wasn’t the same kind of quiet anymore. It lingered differently. Like the space between pages, before you turn to the next

Like a history book left open

Still waiting to be finished

—

The Hall of Records was supposed to be a place of reverence

KEYWORD: SUPPOSED TO

Vaulted ceilings soared high above, ribbed in glimmering alloys and etched with flowing script older than most functioning civilizations. Stained-glass data channels cast shifting patterns of cyan and violet across the marble floor, and the soft hum of ancient servers echoed like distant chanting

It was a place meant for quiet awe, for scholarly silence. It was not designed to accommodate Sentinel’s ego. Ever since he’d discovered that the shimmering energy curtain at the entrance didn’t shock intruders—merely issued a stern sonic warning in a disapproving librarian voice—Sentinel had made it his personal mission to stroll in whenever he pleased. No authorization. No warning. No respect for the rules of spatial awareness

Usually mid-shift. Always mid-sentence

“You changed the lighting layout again”

His voice preceded him, gliding in a split second before his tall frame breached the energy field with a dramatic flicker “What is this now, mood lighting for monologues?”

You didn’t look up

They sat in the central alcove, surrounded by a web of holographic panels arranged in concentric arcs, your fingers flicked through three overlapping treaty records—each with footnotes, post-conflict amendments, and suspiciously contradictory date entries. A headache wrapped in bureaucracy, topped with illegible seals "It adjusts based on optic strain”

“You wouldn’t know anything about that"

Sentinel grinned as he sauntered in, clearly unbothered. His stride was the kind that echoed on purpose—heels angled just enough to produce a satisfying click with every state

“You wound me” he said, placing a hand over his spark in mock offense

“I have very sensitive optics, thank you"

He attempted to lean against one of the translucent crystal data pylons that jutted from the floor like frozen lightning. There was a sharp snap of static, and he jerked back with a hiss as a warning glyph lit up in disapproval

Again

You didn’t even flinch

“Stop touching things” you muttered, still scanning through sub-clause annotations

“Every time you lean on one of those, it reroutes a quarter of the data flow”

“Oh?” Sentinel said, perking up like a mech who had just found a big red button labeled Do Not Press

“So this one messes with the stream?” he asked, already reaching toward a pulsing glyph marked in ominous red. A symbol that all but screamed catastrophic protocol override — You looked up, finally. Your optics widened “Sentinel—!”

Too late

His fingers brushed the glyph. There was a soft ping, a hum like an engine hiccuping, and then— All the lights dimmed to a dull amber. The panels around you flickered, rippled... and then recompiled. All at once. Every menu, every label, every command—rewritten in looping, sharp-edged characters

You stared “You rewrote the interface in Old Vosian" It wasn’t even a living language anymore. Not really. Mostly used in ceremonial inscriptions and bad poetry

Sentinel blinked, stepping back with a shrug and zero remorse “…You’re welcome?”

“GET OUT" Your’s shoulders tensed like they were physically restraining themselves from launching a stylus across the room

“Too late” Sentinel said, lowering himself into the spare console seat like he absolutely belonged there “I live here now”

He leaned back with that satisfied sigh he always made when he thought he was being hilarious. One foot kicked up against the base of the pylon. The interface flickered again, this time turning the archive’s auto-index into a rotating wheel of Vosian proverbs. You slowly, very deliberately, pinched the bridge of their nasal ridge

There was no reverence left in the Hall of Records today

Only Sentinel

The worst part wasn’t that he kept coming back It was that somehow, he always managed to bring food This time, it was a ration cube with what looked suspiciously like hand-scraped energon drizzle—artisanal he’d claimed, from a street vendor in the lower spires “Do you even like these?” you asked, eyeing the cube on their desk with wary suspicion

“Not particularly” Sentinel shrugged “But you get weird when you don’t recharge or eat”

“I don’t get weird”

“You cataloged two hundred years of war records in reverse chronological order because you were cranky”

“That was for cross-referencing purposes—!”

“You growled at a light”

Some days, Sentinel brought things that absolutely, unquestionably, did not belong in the Hall of Records

One cycle, it was a cleaning drone the size of a knee joint, scuttling around your workstation with a high-pitched hum and a sensor that kept mistaking ancient dataplaques for dust. "To help you declutter” – Sentinel had said, setting the bot down with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t read a single regulation about archival containment. Another time, he’d arrived with a battered datapad in one hand and a suspicious grin on his face

“Found this under a floor panel. Probably cursed. Or priceless. Or both"

You barely looked up from indexing screen “You can’t just bring things into the archives without logging them"

“What if it’s historically significant?”

“It’s a receipt for wing wax. From a Seeker bar"

Sentinel had held it up like a trophy “Exactly! Cultural anthropology"

You pinched the bridge of your nasal ridge and sighed, the kind of sigh one developed only after multiple encounters with the same brand of madness “One day you’re going to knock over a whole building”

“Then you’ll just have to yell at me until I help you rebuild it" He said it with a smile so falsely innocent it could have been carved from polished smugness. You didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. The silence you gave him was honed, practiced, and about 80% ineffective now and yet. For all the chaos he trailed behind him—misfiled reports, rerouted light fixtures, at least one energy spike traced back to an extremely suspicious pastry— You had long stopped trying to keep him out

Somewhere between the first complaint logged and the thousandth ignored intrusion, his presence had settled into something else

Routine

A break in the quiet

A reminder that not everything needed to be orderly to be valuable

That cycle, the ambient light had dimmed to its evening hue, fading into soft golds and purples that streamed through the stained dataglass and washed over the polished floor. The archive felt half-asleep, hushed and slow – Sentinel’s voice came from the doorway, framed by the low gleam of the setting shifts “You’re staying late again"

He leaned one shoulder casually against the frame, his figure lit from behind in dusky silhouette “Trying to impress the scrolls?”

You didn’t glance up—still combing through a data tangle from the war of the Thirteen Clades, most of which seemed written in ego and coded pettiness. But your voice lacked its usual bite

“Trying to make sense of a thousand years of ego and bad handwriting" There was a pause, and then— “You’re included in that”

“Naturally”

Sentinel stepped inside

This time, no jokes, no data pylons knocked over. Just the quiet tap of his footsteps and the warm scent of a synth-brewed energon cube he placed gently beside them. You looked at the cube first—steam curling into the low archive air – then at him – then... they just shook their head with a faint huff, like amusement trying not to be seen “…You’re not as intolerable as you were”

Sentinel smirked, folding his arms and leaning slightly closer “I’ll take that as a heartfelt declaration of affection”

“Take it as a warning. You’re wearing me down”

“Good” Sentinel murmured, pleased “Makes it easier to sneak into your schedule”

You didn’t tell him to leave

And he didn’t ask to stay

They just worked. Side by side. Occasionally brushing data windows toward each other, occasionally sharing quiet that didn’t feel like silence. Like this was normal now. Like somehow—without anyone announcing it—he’d become part of the footnotes in their day

—

The archives had always been quiet. But this… was too quiet

You sat before the central validation terminal, optics narrowed as lines of processed data ran across the screen. Normally, their work involved verifying temporal consistency, cross-referencing source authenticity, and cleaning up language input from field bots who treated historical reporting like casual gossip — but this wasn’t gossip

This was a timestamped field report. From a Prime-tier outpost. And it didn’t match the report Alpha Trion had handed them this morning

Same event. Same operative. Different wording. Different outcome

And this was the fourth time this week

They brought up both documents—parallel, floating side by side. At a glance, identical. But not quite. The phrasing was just clinical enough to avoid suspicion. The numbers… just plausible enough to escape casual audit. Some were altered more subtly than others. Some inserted new information. Others erased things. Patterns began to form—certain names vanishing from records. Certain decisions scrubbed clean of dissent. A slow, deliberate redirection of narrative

But You didn’t read casually, you read like the future depended on it. Because sometimes, it did

They leaned closer. Opened the metadata. Something flickered – an override signature

Sentinel

Not the full one. Not overt. But his code was in the chain. A sublevel authorization ping—probably buried deep in a rerouting command. Too clean to be a mistake. Too careful to be a coincidence

And why is that? That is the question

—

The chamber was silent but it wasn’t the silence of order and it wasn’t peace. It was the kind of silence that came after something broke— Suddenly – Violently —So completely that even the echoes didn’t know where to go

You sat alone in the central atrium of the Hall of Records. The room—once alive with soft lights and quiet, rhythmic humming—now felt vast and hollow, like the inside of a broken bell. The archive’s main lights had dimmed themselves hours ago, following protocol that couldn’t tell the difference between motionless focus and simple absence. Holographic glyphs still hovered faintly above the console. Fragmented, flickering. Half-rendered thoughts waiting for a directive.

They pulsed softly in the darkness, as if uncertain whether their purpose remained.

You hadn’t moved. Not since the message came through. Not since the declaration hit them like a blade made of code and finality

The Thirteen Primes have been lost

No battle. No footage. No grand sacrifice — Just... a report. One sentence. Cold, clean, absolute and a follow-up notice:

They will not return

Not “they cannot” Not “they may not” They will not. Your hands had been still on the console ever since. Locked in place. Not gripping—clutching, with pressure that only now began to tremble from strain. They hadn’t moved. Not from disbelief. You had seen enough in your long life to know that nothing—no matter how vast—was immune to destruction. Not even from grief, not yet. The pain hadn’t taken shape. It was numbness. Cold, static-lined void. Not like losing a person. More like watching the stars themselves turn off, one by one, and not knowing if you were next.

If someone had asked them yesterday whether the Primes could die, they would’ve said no. Not because they were naive. Reader had never been one to place blind faith in divine myth. But the Primes were not just icons — They were anchors — Mountains, carved into the structure of Cybertron itself. Fixed points around which history rotated. You didn’t believe in them, the way you believed in stories.

You relied on them and now? Gone

Gone, without a trace. Without a last word. Without even a record. Like they had never been

You hadn’t noticed the way your joints had locked until you finally loosened your grip on the console. One finger twitched first, then another. The sensation returned slowly, pins and needles rippling down their arm as they exhaled for the first time in what felt like megacycles. The silence pressed back in

And then—

Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Too measured to be uncertain. Too composed to be innocent You didn’t need to turn. You knew

“You’re still here”

The voice came low, as though reluctant to break the stillness—but unable to resist doing so. Controlled, almost gentle but not quite — Sentinel stepped past the edge of the darkened corridor and into the atrium, his frame outlined in the cold ambient glow of the failing terminals. Even his footsteps sounded louder than usual here, every contact with the stone floor ringing too sharp, too deliberate “Everyone else has gone to the Spire"

You didn’t answer. They didn’t even blink. Their gaze remained fixed forward, eyes dim and distant, staring through the projections as though trying to read something that hadn’t yet been written

Something that should have been there

Sentinel’s footsteps echoed again as he moved closer—slow, even, deliberate

“The official rites are being drafted” he said, after a moment “They want you to verify the final accounts. For the records"

He didn’t phrase it as a command. Not exactly. But the weight behind it was undeniable. At that, Your helm dipped slightly. Not in obedience. Not in agreement. Just… acknowledgment. Their voice came a moment later. Quiet. Hoarse in a way that had nothing to do with their vocalizer

“They’re dead..” A beat “All of them”

The words didn’t echo, simply fell, flat, lifeless, like corrupted data hitting a locked node

Sentinel didn’t respond right away. He stood behind them now—just a few paces away—but made no move to reach out, no pretense of comfort. Only the silence, shared “Yes”

One word. Heavy as a headstone

The word lingered. Not in grief. Not in reflection. Just—confirmation. Neatly clipped. Perfectly balanced. As if he had been waiting to say it

You didn’t move at first. Only their optics shifted—quietly tracking the flickering remains of the central display. The soft wash of light from the terminal painted shifting glyphs on the metallic floor, but no new data came. No emergency alerts. No last pings from the outer sectors. No autologs from the Primes. Nothing — Your hand moved slowly, brushing a few dormant glyphs back into focus. The last outbound transmissions. System traces. Anything

But the logs were clean

Too clean

“They didn’t send anything” you murmured, the words soft, but weighter “Not one of them. No burst signal. No fail-safe ping. Not even a corrupted echo"

The words turned brittle. The disbelief was not loud—but it was cutting. They turned—just slightly. Enough to glimpse him standing behind, his figure still and controlled, as though carved from the archive walls themselves. Hands clasped behind his back. Shoulders squared. That same unreadable expression he always wore like armor

But now… it felt wrong —Too smooth. Too complete. Like a statue placed just a little too soon after the funeral

“And you…”

“You’re very calm”

There it was: a twitch

Not obvious—just the faintest narrowing of Sentinel’s optics as he turned his helm slightly toward them “Would you rather I fall to my knees?” he said. Tone level. Not mocking—but not grieved, either

If it was meant to soften the moment, it failed

Your optics didn’t waver “I’d rather you look like someone who just lost everything"

The air between them was thin now. Like atmosphere stripped bare. Sentinel stepped forward, one pace only. Careful. Measured “The rites must be prepared. The Council needs stability. Cybertron needs structure. If I crumble now, what will they cling to?”

“Structure..?” The word tasted sour on your tongue. They turned to face him fully. The low light caught the edges of their frame, casting a faint halo over the lines of wear fatigue had etched over long hours

Their voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to “Funny how fast structure came together... considering how sudden this all was"

Something flickered across Sentinel’s face. Too brief. A pause, like static between signals. He recovered quickly. But you had seen it “You think I planned this?”

“No" They took a step closer, boots clicking softly against the stone floor “I think you expected it.”

Sentinel didn’t reply. So you pressed forward, calm as a scalpel’s edge “The sealed Spire. The rites drafted before the message even reached all districts. The in memoriam archives already preloaded" Their optics glinted now, cold and sharp

“You don’t prepare that fast, Sentinel”

Silence. A heavy one

Sentinel’s gaze held steady—but his stance had shifted. A subtle set to the jaw. A flicker of tension behind the shoulders “There are contingency plans” he said at last

“But you didn’t react like this was a contingency – You moved like someone whose schedule had simply... advanced" you weren’t shouting. This wasn’t anger. Not yet. This was worse. It was the kind of quiet that cracked glass — you took another step forward. Sentinel didn’t move “You knew”

You said it not as a claim—but as a data point “You knew something. And you didn’t say anything. Not to me. Not to the Archives. Not to anyone who might have asked why”

Silence stretched again, pulled thin between them like a wire ready to snap. Even the terminals seemed to hold their breath

Then— “Knowing…” Sentinel said slowly “isn’t the same as choosing”

“Then whose choice was it?”

That stopped him. His expression didn’t break—but it no longer looked composed. It looked constructed and still, he said nothing. Which, perhaps, was the loudest thing yet

The Spire bells had long gone quiet. The mourning banners were still up, but the tones of grief had already begun to shift—less raw now, more ceremonial. Official. Muted into symbols

In the weeks that followed

Sentinel did what he had always been best at: He moved forward. Quietly. Confidently. Like a mech simply answering a call no one else could. No one declared him the new Prime. Not at first. But decisions began flowing through his office. Emergency coordination. Transition logistics. Security restructuring. Public reassurance. Every corridor that once ended in silence now echoed with orders signed in his glyph. And no one stopped him. Because no one knew what else to do

At first, it was small. A council meeting held without you—an oversight, you were told. A briefing rerouted to a secondary terminal—misfiled, the assistant claimed. Requests for archival access began to be reviewed then delayed then quietly ignored. One by one, your permissions shifted. Not revoked—restricted. Not banned—just... paused, pending Sentinel’s authorization “Just protocol” he said with that same calm smile “We’re all adjusting to new parameters”

And yet—those parameters always seemed to shift in one direction. His

The chamber above the New Arc Circuit was always cool, always dark. A half-circle of open air overlooked the hall below—a place once alive with debate, bright with the thrum of Prime-forged voices. But now, like so many places in recent cycles, it stood hollow. The ancient lighting had dimmed itself to a low ambient hue, cool silver washing over the stone and metal in shadows and soft reflections.

You stood near the edge, hands resting on the curved railing polished smooth by centuries of counsel. Below, the great speaking floor stretched wide and silent, a ceremonial space untouched since the Spire bells fell quiet. They didn’t turn when they heard the footsteps. Didn’t need to.

They had learned the cadence of his walk. Smooth. Steady. Never rushed. Never loud. The stride of someone who believed he already belonged in every room he entered “You’ve been reallocating my permissions"

No anger in their voice. No shock. Just cold, deliberate observation — The kind of truth that left no room for denial. Sentinel didn’t slow. He crossed the polished obsidian floor behind them, his reflection a ripple of dark armor and gold filigree beneath their feet

“Temporarily” His tone was light. Gentle, even. But too balanced to be mistaken for casual

“You didn’t inform me” Their gaze fixed on the empty floor below—an echo chamber now. The ghosts of the Primes no longer stirred. Sentinel stopped a short distance behind them.

“I didn’t need to” he said quietly “The system recognizes my authority now — Your position, on the other hand, is being... redefined”

That made you turn. Sharp. Controlled. But sharp, optics caught the low light, glowing brighter than he remembered—like they had finally reawakened from grief, only to find anger waiting behind it

“Redefined?”

“By whose decision?”

“By necessity” he replied so so simply

“Your role was constructed under the old paradigm. The Primes are gone”

He took a step closer—not threatening, but deliberate “You served history well”

He meant it. He did. He had watched them work for vorns—methodical, incorruptible, brilliant in ways few ever saw. You had been the voice behind the curtain. The invisible measure by which even the Primes were kept honest. He respected that even… envied it.. But it couldn’t remain

"But I am building something new”

Now he looked at them fully. Not like a subordinate. Not like a rival. Like a problem that used to be a person “And history… isn’t what we need right now.”

They didn’t respond. Not with words

But he saw the tension in your jaw. The stillness in your hands—too still. Like someone holding a thought so tightly they feared it might shatter if spoken aloud. He waited a breath. Two. Then smiled. Just barely “Let it go” he said, voice low. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… final

“Let the past rest” He took one step more. Just near enough to stand beside them. His voice dropped even lower. Almost a murmur and for a moment—just a moment—he thought they might yield. That the weight of it all—the grief, the isolation, the slow, quiet cuts to their place in the world—had finally worn them down “You don’t want to turn yourself into a relic chasing ghosts”

He didn’t want to erase you

Not like he had erased others

He remembered the way you used to speak in the early days, side by side during cross-era briefings. He remembered the dry wit. The spark of challenge in your optics. You had once made him feel watched. Not in the paranoid way—but in the way that reminded him to stand taller. To be better. But this wasn’t then and if you couldn’t see the necessity of what he was doing…

He would have to act, eventually

But not yet

“Let the archives sleep a while” he added, almost soft “We’ll find a better use for you”

He turned then, the floor catching his reflection as he walked back across the chamber and you remained behind, silent at the rail, watching as their world—their work—shifted underfoot like sand in the tide. They said nothing. But in their chest, something clenched. Because they could hear it now. The quiet, subtle shape of a lie forming in every document they weren’t allowed to see

And it carried his glyph

[prinzrupprecht]

What it Would be Like to Date Hades

And here’s Hades version of this. Kind of hard to write him for some reason compared to characters like Loki and Thor.

He treats you with deep respect and never domineering, but always protective. His presence is commanding yet comforting, like a king who bends only for his beloved.

Hades is fiercely loyal. Once he gives you his heart, it’s yours alone. No half-measures. No doubts. Just a quiet, unyielding commitment.

He isn’t loud with affection, but it’s there in the way he stands beside you, defends you from behind the scenes, and holds your hand when no one’s watching. You never feel alone when he’s near.

He shows his affection differently by brushing a hand against yours, calling you “my light” in a realm of shadows, or wrapping you in his cloak to shield you from the Underworld’s chill. Physical intimacy would be rare but something special and passionate.

Whether it’s about the afterlife, your fears, or something as simple as your day, he really listens carefully to the things you say.

He’s elegant with how he shows love: a hand written note, a rare flower from the underworld, a slow dance when no music is playing. His gestures are subtle, meaningful, and never rushed.

While he may be the terrifying King of Helheim to others, he lets you see his vulnerability, the pain of loss, the weight of duty, and the quiet ache of love.

He probably enjoys peaceful nights with wine, soft harp music, and your head resting on his shoulder; a man who cherishes the quiet moments over grand displays.

It’s rare but he trusts you. However, if someone dares overstep, Hades doesn’t need to raise his voice. One cold look is enough to remind them who they’re dealing with.

As the ruler of the Underworld, dating him means spending time in this somber, otherworldly domain, which might feel isolating at first but also strangely beautiful under his guidance and palace of his.

You’d live in a grand palace, surrounded by spectral attendants and other underworld creatures. Hades would show you hidden wonders, like glowing caverns or the Elysian Fields, to make the Underworld feel like home. He’d ensure you’re comfortable, perhaps bending the rules to let you visit the mortal world occasionally.

He’s someone who doesn’t shy away from battle when honor is at stake. If you’re ever threatened, Hades would be an unstoppable force, defending you.

While Hades is composed, his love is possessive in a quiet way. He wouldn’t tolerate betrayal or disrespect, and gods like Zeus or Apollo might test his patience by flirting with you. His response would be a chilling glare or a subtle display of power, reminding everyone who rules the Underworld.

[elowen40]

When a light source or celestial body moves closer to or farther from the observer, its spectral lines will shift, resulting in changes in frequency and wavelength. This change can be used to measure the object's velocity and distance relative to the observer.

[star-crossed-fates]

Even My Damnation Spells Your Name

Chapter 10: If Gods Ever Bled

Synopsis: In a city of steel and stars, you fall in love with a man the world calls a monster. He looks at you like you’ve haunted every life he’s ever lived. Sylus is danger wrapped in silk, secrets stitched into every glance, every touch, every word spoken like a spell. He’s yours before you even realize what you’re remembering.

Because this isn’t the first time.

Dreams unravel you. Memories not your own. A dragon’s death cry. A kiss beneath bloodied skies. A love too eternal to stay buried. As the past bleeds into the present, you begin to piece together the truth. Some memories burn brighter than the stars, others wound deeper than any blade.

And love, no matter how timeless, always demands a price.

Pairing: Female! MC [Named] x Sylus

Rating: Explicit 18+ [MDNI]

Spoilers: Sylus's myth cards/memories. Please note: memories might be a little different from in-game for story purposes.

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit smut, including various kinks: Praise, degradation talk, first time, CP, DP, anal sex/play, probably some Dragon!Sylus smut, maybe a lot of it. Many, many more that I'm forgetting to list. Consider yourself warned. - Unlikely to be completely canon. - MC is named. Her personality is darker than in the game, far more morally grey. - Switching between MC's memories/dreams/flashbacks and current timeline. - Other love interests will not show up in this. - Some plot, but not super planned out. Basically, this is a "what if the closer they became, the more MC remembers her life with him on Philos.

You hold his gaze like a blade you’ve already pressed against your throat, welcoming the cut. Sylus says nothing and turns, as if the moment never happened, continuing to speak to Kieran, their words muffled by design.

Whatever they’re saying, it isn’t meant for you.

You nestle deeper into the folds of the blanket, but the warmth has turned traitor. A spectral cold slips through, winding a noose around your lungs.

The room feels too immaculate suddenly, like a museum curated to forget, as if built to keep you safe from the kind of truth that bursts through peace with blood on its hands.

You called him Sy deliberately, like striking a match in the dark to see what might catch. He caught the name midair and folded it into himself as if the name had been forged into him long before breath, waiting only for your voice to unearth it.

Thoughts tilt off-kilter, lured by the deafening ache of dreams that feel more like scars, jagged remnants of a life lived beneath the skin of this one.

You comb through the wreckage and collect the pieces with shaking hands like shards of memory exhumed from their graves, still wet with the silence that entombed them. They crawl into being, not with grace but gravity, with truths too old for skin and too cruel for breath, and snag in the sinew of remembrance, tearing the fragile architecture of truth.

Being tormented by the unknown has become its own kind of scream. You were not crafted to kneel in the dark, cupping vestiges like offerings, mouthing gratitude while your soul gnaws through its cage. To sit in silence is to vanish by degrees, and you’ve clawed your way back from the void too many times to go quietly now.

Kieran and Luke depart with a wordless nod, vanishing into the lift. Sylus moves toward the liquor cabinet with the studied calm of a man rehearsing escape, each step too measured to be anything but retreat.

You’ve become fluent in the choreography of unravelling. The tension is gnarled into the coil of his spine, the tremble of restraint in his knuckles, and in how he pours liquid amber like it might drown whatever truth he won’t speak.

He drinks not to savour but to sear, as though the burn might weld shut the place inside him still weeping fossilized names. You don’t let him settle. You refuse to give him that distance.

“I keep dreaming of a dragon, sculpted from the obsidian of night, with a red jewel nestled in his chest.”

His hand pauses midair, the crystal trembling like a held confession. When he drinks, it’s slower this time, like trying to drown a secret that refuses to stay buried.

“Dragons are monsters,” he intones, as if reciting a curse written in congealed blood. “They’re harbingers of doom.”

It sounds wrong, like a hymn sung in reverse. His tone carries no tremor, only the cold symmetry of a blade that has forgotten blood. The word monster rings hollow, clanging against the altar of your memory, where wings cradled you, where fire never burned but watched. You shake your head once, a sharp recoil, as if the lie left a sting.

“No.” It escapes you like a flare cast into dark waters, unfiltered and burning. “He wasn’t a monster. He flew with me. Wrapped his wings around me when I was cold. He protected me. I think… I think I loved him.”

Sylus doesn’t flinch or lift his eyes. “Dreams are good at dressing beasts in gold. That doesn’t mean they didn’t have teeth,” he refutes without inflection, like a verdict already written in stone. “Sometimes the ones who shelter us are the ones who set the fire. Memory doesn’t always warn you which.”

Air deserts your lungs as the ground leans, blurring between myth and madness. Is this how insanity starts? Not with screams, but the fracture of reason, a quiet slip into elsewhere where dreams wear the face of delusion.

No. You don’t know why he hides, why he veils flame in frost. Truth howls low in your bones, clawing through the dark, refusing the leash of doubt. He can deflect, deny, disappear, but certainty is yours now, and it does not waver. Let him stay silent. Let him test you. You are not shifting sand; you are a foundation.

Sylus becomes a study in stillness and a constellation of tells. You see the war beneath his skin. The cold burn of calculation clashing with a raw, untamed agony. He’s bracing—against you, against memory, against whatever he’s afraid you’ll remember next.

“Sylus… Why won’t you look at me?”

He leaves the reticence to bleed, and still it spills slow and steady, torn too wide to stitch. You wait, but Sylus tips back his glass with the ease of someone who’s made a religion of avoidance.

Your voice is a wound dressed in thorns. “Say something.”

At last, he moves toward the window, as if the city’s electric sprawl might offer absolution. Silence deepens until it feels less like peace and more like abandonment dressed in velvet.

“Forget it,” you whisper bitterly and reach for your coat with trembling hands, fury folded into every motion. “I’m done chasing ghosts. I’m going home.”

“Anira—”

You cut him off. “No. If you can’t trust me, then what are we even doing here, Sylus? I won’t gnaw on the bones of your half-truths and call it a feast. Not anymore.”

His brows draw together, but his lips remain sealed.

You take a step forward, words heavy with the taste of tarnished metal. “When we met, you said, ‘I guess you don’t remember anything. After all, you and I… we’re the same. True kindred spirits’. We didn’t meet in this life, did we? If we had… I would remember.”

He doesn’t move. No flinch. Just that unnerving stillness, his eyes gleaming like polished garnet designed to reflect but never to reveal.

“Would you?” He asks with a blunt finality.

You stare at him, disbelieving, and then your expression transforms into anger, cracking under the slow weep of sorrow.

You step back. “Have Kieran or Luke drive me home.”

He moves toward you, the start of a protest already forming, but you lift your chin. “Don’t,” you snap, voice like flint. “Anyone but you.”

His jaw tightens. “They’re busy.”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait in the parking garage until they’re not.”

A sigh drags from his throat, and he curries his hands through his hair, eyes cast downward as if to look at you would be to face something too raw to endure. “Just… stay.”

“I will if you tell me. Is it you in my dreams or not?” You plead, fingers lacing with his. “Please.”

He gazes at you as though you are the eye of a tempest threatening to consume him whole, but he doesn’t respond.

“Then I’m not staying.” You speak it like a farewell etched in salt and thunder, the kind of goodbye that storms carve into coastlines.

Sylus drags his palm over his face and studies you for a moment. Then, he crosses the room, retrieves a single black key fob, and offers it to you.

“I’ll have Kieran or Luke pick it up from my place tomorrow,” you murmur, tear-soaked, accepting it.

Your fingers brush as he passes it to you. Enough to summon every echo your body remembers and your mind still doubts. Enough to crack beneath your ribs with the gentlest violence. His touch is brief, restrained, but it lingers like the aftershock of a name once spoken in worship. Still, an unbearable flicker of what almost was, of what once was, remains.

You step into the elevator. The doors begin their inevitable slide, and you watch him right up to the final sliver of him the world allows. Until he becomes nothing but your reflection, warped and dying across the polished steel.

Days and nights have begun to spill past their borders, unchanged on the clock face, yet drawn out like shadows under too many moons. The hours come, but they wear too many faces, and none of them smile.

You’ve lost count of the evenings, each one soundless and pooling in the corners of your apartment like rainwater too tired to evaporate. These hours cradle you like grave soil, demanding nothing but breath and the bitter art of staying. They do not reach for you, but neither do they release you.

You move through your apartment like breath through glass, barely touching anything. The kitchen counters remain untouched. Your mug from three mornings ago still sits by the sink, rim stained with tea you never finished. Even your clothes seem to hang quieter in the closet, as if waiting for a reason to be chosen.

There is no music. No television. You flinch from sound now. Not because it wounds, but because it cuts too clean. It slices open the hush, and in the bleed, you see how absence has grown teeth. Noise doesn’t soothe anymore. It exposes. Every echo paints the outline of what’s missing, gives it weight, gives it breath, until even the creak of the floorboards feels like a shout.

At some point, your feet carry you to the balcony again. You step barefoot onto the cold stone and lean against the railing, arms folding over the metal, breath misting faintly in the night air. The city lies sprawled below you—alive, indifferent, glittering. It does not mourn with you. It never has. Still, there’s comfort in its constancy, like watching waves from a shipwreck.

You tilt your head back and search the sky. It’s clear tonight. A deep, velvet-black canvas scattered with stars too far away to touch. You try to find familiar constellations, the ones he pointed out with that crooked smirk. Nothing looks the same anymore. Like the heavens forgot how to speak your language. Maybe they never spoke it to begin with.

You watch anyway.

Your fingers drift to your phone without thinking, the muscle memory of hope. The screen lights your face in pale blue. No new messages. You knew that before you looked. Still, the ritual is hard to break.

You scroll just enough to find it again, that last message still sitting like a stone in a river.

Sylus: You left without saying goodbye.

You’ve read it a hundred times but never replied. What do you say to a wound you made by walking away?

Now, you whisper into the dark. “I left because I was drowning in a silence that had your shape. Because I could not keep peeling myself open for a man who stitched the past shut with gold thread and called it mercy.”

You switch off the screen and bury the phone in your pocket like a relic. Your eyes drift skyward, to that cathedral of light and forgetting, and you wonder: When a star dies, does the void mourn its own collapsing light, weaving elegies into the vacuum, pressing its grief into dark matter where no one can see it hemorrhage?

Do the constellations shift to make room for the sorrow, or does the obscurity simply deepen, devouring the absence like wine poured into earth?

Nothing in the cosmos ever truly dies. It changes. Gas becomes dust. Dust becomes pressure. And somewhere in that hush of destruction, a singular point forms so dense not even light can escape.

A grave. A seed. Both.

Later, it begins again. New heat. New orbit. New name. Did that happen to you? Is that what this is?

How many times have you shattered and reformed? How many times have you burned out, only to rise again like a ghost clothed in starlight, a memory made of ash and gravity?

Maybe you’re just stardust and the dead light of all the other yous that came before. Maybe this is not your first life. Maybe it’s not even your last.

But it still hurts like hell to live it.

Eventually, you go inside. The night follows you like gloom. You don’t turn on the lights. The soft outlines of your apartment are enough, faint traces of life caught in the blue spill of streetlights. The clock on the microwave blinks 3:07. You lie down across the couch, not bothering with the blanket. Your limbs fold into themselves as your eyes stay on the window, on that patch of sky still visible through the curtains.

You think of how he used to hold stillness like a secret, a storm that knew exactly when to shatter the sky. You remember the heat of his body beside yours, how it folded around sleep like a second skin. How the world stopped spinning with a kind of sacred pause. And now? It doesn’t lull. It prowls.

Closing your eyes, a thought drifts to the surface like a leaf on dark water: If he meant nothing, why does everything throb in the shape of him?

Sleep slips in like a tide returning home.

Your bare feet balance on the cold lip of a mountain ledge, toes curled just over the edge. Below, the world stretches vast and black and jagged, a city of spires rising like the broken bones of titans, slick with shadow. It hums low, like a beast at rest.

You were raised in towers that scraped the sky like prayers no god ever answered. Ivory spires, bone-white and blameless. They called it purity, but it felt like a cage.

Laughter was allowed, but only in whispers. Dreams were trimmed like overgrown vines, shaped to fit stained-glass outlines of who you were meant to be. You were told the city was dangerous, that the gates were locked for your protection.

That lie splinters in your chest now, a dull shard driven deeper with each breath. It was those same robed voices that later stood in rows to decide you must be sacrificed.

For balance.

For penance.

For sins you had not yet committed.

You stand on the edge of the Black City and sing while it calls to you. Not like a threat, but a birthright.

“You sing when you think no one’s listening.”

You glance over your shoulder, unsurprised. “You always show up when I think I’m alone.”

You’ve learned not to startle. The dragon doesn’t arrive like a man. He unfolds, like shadow spooling into form. He could be carved from obsidian, but the way he moves is too fluid for stone, as if submerged beneath a dark, restless sea.

Raven scales glint faintly in the hollow between neck and shoulder, catching the weak light like slick oil on stone. A cluster of them climbs up his throat like a scar, stark against skin that shifts, half-formed but infinite.

“You sing well,” he mutters absently.

You smile a little to yourself and look back out at the city below. “That’s the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The wind climbs the ledge and threads itself into your sleeves, but he doesn’t flinch. The cold ignores him, like even the weather knows better than to touch him.

“Do you have a name?” you ask suddenly. “Or should I just keep calling you ‘dragon’ forever?”

His eyes slide to yours, the colour of love buried alive. If gods ever bled, it would look like this.

“I have one, but you wouldn’t know it. It’s… old."

You arch a brow. “Try me.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Stayrus.” The word rolls off his tongue in a languid, deliberate purr, syllables older than your bloodline and shaped for a myth that once breathed fire into stars. “From the old tongue.”

You mouth it once, but the syllables don’t land right in your throat. “Stay…rus?”

“Not quite.” He smirks faintly. “Your kind never could pronounce it.”

He steps forward and lowers himself beside you. One of his clawed hands rests on the stone, warm even through the rock. His tail curves behind you like a crescent moon. It settles close, not touching but shielding you from the sharpest winds.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “What about Sylus? It’s not exact, but… it suits you. If you want it.”

He says nothing, but the way he breathes changes, like your naming him tugged some thread loose inside him that he didn’t know was knotted.

“Call me whatever you want,” he murmurs. “Just don’t sing so close to the cliff next time.”

Your brows knit as you peer at him. “Why?”

“You sound like you’re about to jump.”

The concern settles like fine dust in your lungs until it chokes. Beneath you, the city shimmers—towers of onyx rising like teeth from the earth, a place that does not flinch when the wind roars.

You clear your throat. “I used to think the stars were gods. Distant and cold, watching everything we did but never moving to stop it.”

Sylus doesn’t look at you, but you feel his attention shift like the tightening of a string. “And now?”

You shrug, arms curled around your knees. “Now I think they’re just holes poked in the world. So we don’t forget there’s something beyond it.”

He huffs—amused, maybe. Or trying not to be. “You say strange things.”

“I think strange things.”

“That,” he concludes with a trace of that bone-dry sarcasm, “is a dangerous habit.”

You smile to yourself. “So is flying with fiends."

He stares like a man who’s forgotten the weight of being seen and now doesn’t know whether to reach for it or run. His tail shifts closer, curling in a protective arc, as if shielding you from thoughts that bite too hard.

You drift closer, drawn not by gravity but by the orbit of him. You don’t reach for the stars tonight. They are already burning beneath his skin, and you, caught in his constellation, forget the sky was ever elsewhere.

The edge of the cliff crumbles beneath your heel, but you don’t fall. You’re already drifting—backward, inward, upward.

The world does not vanish. It ebbs.

Edges blur. The cliffside bleeds into sky. The city below fractures like glass submerged in black water, and the half-forgotten silhouette of him fades not with violence but with grace, like smoke remembering how to be air.

Above, the stars slant sideways. When the dream finally loosens its hold, peeling back the edges of that other world like wet silk, you do not wake with a start. You rise slowly, surfacing from beneath an ocean of memory.

The name comes with you.

Still warm.

Still his.

Still yours.

Chapter Masterlist 

A03 [Cross-posted] 

Taglist: @mcdepressed290, @animecrazy76, @harmonyrae, @for-hearthand-home, @redseablooming, @morrigan87, @babyx91

Your comments and support have truly inspired me to keep writing, even when I feel like I'm mediocre and probably shouldn't be posting publically (depression is currently crushing my self-esteem). That said, I want to thank you every one of you that's taken the time to read my story, comment, follow, or reblog. ❤️ It means more than you think, even if you're just lurking!

Enjoy, sweeties! 🥰

[sdwajones-art]

Last time we saw the gang they were getting measured for new clothes, so I'm working on a group shot of the whole crew in nice new duds. I figured it'd be neat if each character was dressed in fancy garb reflecting the land they're originally from rather than Oops! All Tuxedos!

Since Skrimm apparently grew up in "the highlands" and has the whole "huge spectral black hound" connection, I dressed him like landed gentry, circa 1900. Think it looks fairly classy while still giving that "Stay off the MOORS!” energy.

Anyway, hope I finish this before it turns out the new clothes everyone's getting are all cult robes or butcher aprons or something...