#broken mirrors binding magic

[beloveds-embrace]

(p4 of fae poly 141 x cursed human reader | cw: angst | masterlist)

A day came that none of them expected, even if they should have.

The day when the sky itself seemed to hold its breath, when the very walls of the castle leaned inward in aching dread and condensation dripped like tears over the aged stone.

You stood alone in the center of the courtyard, where the last warmth of the afternoon sun pooled around you like woven silk, threading through your hair and gilding your skin with a soft, fading glow. Behind you, the winter roses stretched in riotous, sorrowful bloom- petals like thousand tiny white fires blazing against the creeping gray of the castle stone. Their scent, sharp and sweet, filled the air so heavily it was almost suffocating, and yet you seemed untouched by it, adrift in a world slowly folding in on itself only in your eyes.

The fae and the creatures of the castle gathered without meaning to, summoned not by any spell but by the deep, instinctive pull of grief- small, winged sprites with trembling gossamer wings clinging to the columns, knot-spirits huddled in the ivy with their glowing eyes wide and mournful. Even the ancient dryads, so rarely seen, leaned from the twisted trees, their hair a veil of weeping vines, their mouths open in silent horror as they watched the terrible unmaking of something precious.

You turned in a slow, uncertain circle, the worn hem of your gown brushing softly across the stone, your bare feet tracing arcs in the thin dust. A frown pinched your brow, delicate and confused, and your fingers plucked mindlessly at the fabric gathered at your waist, the nervous gesture of a child lost in the woods. Your eyes, once so brilliant with laughter and cunning and love, were wide and glazed now, reflecting the world around you as if it were already slipping beyond your grasp- as if you were beyond your own grasp.

John was the first to move; his boots made almost no sound on the worn stones as he stepped forward, each step measured, careful, as though approaching a wounded animal who might bolt at the slightest wrong motion.

He smiled a smile so soft and broken it could have melted mountains, could have silenced the wars of old, had it been seen by any creature less consumed by confusion than you were. His arms opened, slow and steady, offering the only thing he had left to give you: his unwavering love- even if it was the chain binding you now.

"[]" he spoke, yet the words came out muddled to your ears, unpleasant and unwanted. The unshed grief in his tone, thus, escaped you. "There you are."

You blinked at him, once, twice, like trying to clear rain from your lashes, then tilted your head just slightly to the side, like a bird puzzled by its reflection in a mirror.

The frown deepened, and a tremor passed visibly through your frame, so fragile and uncertain that even the bravest of the castle's knights could not have borne the sight without flinching.

"...Are you speaking to me?" you asked. The words were soft, high and frightened- a butterfly trapped against glass. And the courtyard magic, already strained near to breaking, shivered under the weight of said words, rippling outward in a wave that left dreadful silence in its wake.

John’s heart thudded painfully once against his ribs, the force of it staggering him a half step forward, hands reaching out for you, always you.

Johnny gave a short, raw bark of laughter- too sharp, too desperate- as if clinging to hope that this was all some cruel jest, that any moment now you would laugh and scold him for being so easily fooled and pretty starpetals would bloom and everything would be fine.

But when your gaze swung to him, wide and unknowing, that flicker of hope died hard and fast and wretched in his chest, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to smother the wounded sound that escaped.

"You," You said again, voice cracking like thin ice. "You keep saying [], but… but I don't know if that's meant for me."

You stared down at your hands, as if they belonged to someone else, as if they might carry the answer hidden in their lifeline scars and soft, faded calluses. You wrung them together, desperate, helpless, a flickering figure of loss against the gathering dusk, and held your face in them. Your voice dropped then, so low, so broken, that the very stones seemed to lean closer to hear the death knell of hope:

"I… I don't even know what my name is anymore."

The courtyard magic buckled violently inward, like a ship struck fatally below the waterline, and the wind shrieked- a high, keening sound that rattled the stained glass windows in their ancient frames. The winter roses, once so proud, wilted black and sagged against their thorned vines, their life snuffed out as if by an unseen hand.

Because in the world of the fae, names are everything.

A name is the blood and the breath and the bone of existence; it is the song written into the fibers of the soul, the anchor to memory, to history, to self. The thread that weaves a soul into the tapestry of life. And without it, you were not merely lost.

You were unraveling.

The castle mourned deep within its foundations, stones weeping bitter, shimmering tears that ran in thin rivulets along the walls. Will-o-wisps, who had danced so joyfully once in your presence, fell from the air like extinguished stars, leaving behind only fading sparks that blinked out one by one- unable to withstand this tragedy. Even the sun, as if unable to bear witness to what was unfolding, slipped behind a mourning veil of silver clouds, casting the world into a dim, mournful twilight.

Thrain came forward then- mighty, ancient Thrain- and the ground trembled beneath his hooves, each step reverberating through the cracked bones of the courtyard. He lowered his vast, crowned head and pressed it gently, reverently to your frail shoulder, thick fur brushing against your skin; it was an offering, a lifeline, an ancient beast’s desperate attempt to anchor you to this world with the only strength he had left.

You barely noticed, your hands lifting only weakly to tangle in his fur, your eyes staring sightlessly beyond him.

Your men could only watch, helpless and hollowed out.

Johnny pressed his fists to his mouth, biting down so hard that the sharp tang of blood filled his mouth, but it wasn’t enough to ground him, wasn’t enough to stop the trembling.

Kyle, who had spent hours weaving a crown of meadowflowers to coax a smile from you, dropped it from numb fingers, the blossoms scattering at his feet like spilled blood.

Simon turned away from the sight of you, broad shoulders heaving once, a hand braced against the stone wall as if the weight of the moment had finally driven him to his knees.

But John stood very, very still; as though if he moved too fast, too wrong, you might vanish entirely.

He crossed the space between you with slow, reverent steps, falling to his knees before you in the dying light. The winter roses brushed against his shoulders, and where they touched him, their petals blackened and withered, unable to survive the depth of the sorrow bleeding from his soul.

"Listen to me." He begged, his voice rough, ragged, almost unrecognizable from the weight of his grief.

You turned your gaze to him then, confused, and John felt the last stronghold of his heart crumble to dust.

"You are you," he said fiercely, as if sheer force of will might weave your fraying soul back together. "You are ours. You are mine. You are not lost. I don't care what name you remember- your soul knows me. I swear it."

You lifted a hand, trembling, uncertain, and brushed your fingertips lightly through his beard, as though trying to remember what kindness felt like- and then you smiled.

A small, confused, heartbreakingly tender smile.

"I like you." You whispered, so simple.

It was the final blow; John the unshakable, the immovable, the king who had ended wars and torn down gods- folded forward, pressing his forehead to your lap, and wept, his shoulders breaking under the ache.

Not the quiet, dignified tears of mortal men. No, this was the weeping of ancient kings, of gods laid low. Ragged, broken, soul-deep sobs that tore free from him like the very earth breaking open, shaking him down to the marrow.

And all around you, the castle mourned with him: torches sputtered and went out; hearths dimmed to embers, and the very air turned heavy and thick, until even the wind could no longer bear to move. The creatures covered their eyes with their tiny, trembling hands, and the dryads wept openly, their tears falling like pearls onto the cracked stone.

And even Thrain bowed his great head lower still, his breath smoking in the chill air, his ancient heart breaking with yours.

That night, the castle was silent; no music drifted from the high towers, no dances lit the green halls and the stars themselves bent low over the ruined earth, their silver light dim and broken, as though mourning what was slipping away.

And only John lay curled around you in the vast, cold bed, the heavy silence broken only by his shattered voice whispering into your hair:

"I love you," he said, again and again, as if the words might build a bridge back to you even if he damn knew better. “I love you, even if you forget me. I love you, even if you forget yourself. I love you, even if the stars forget to rise. I will cure you, even if I must tear my own love apart and you’d hate me for the rest of eternity.”

And you, soft and small, lost and beloved- slept on, nameless and dreamless, but still, somehow, still wrapped safely in the arms of the man who would carry your memory when you no longer could.

Always.

p5

[skmhlml]

Cough cough*** mmm new one here I think. On a journey to ask crk writers shadow milk cookie x shy jester themed reader hc smutt or not but I would like smutt..

Shadow Milk Cookie x Shy!Jester!Reader | General + NSFW Headcanons

❗️MINORS DO NOT INTERACT❗️

CW: dubcon themes, semi-fluid anatomy, Corruption Kink, Degradation/Praise Mix,

▾Made by @daisybutlittle

🧿 Your laughter is quiet. Nervous. The kind that feels like it’s hiding something—and he noticed that instantly.

🧿 The Spire of Deceit, his twisted little kingdom of illusions and lies, had never known genuine innocence until you were dragged (or wandered) in.

🧿 When Shadow Milk Cookie first lays eyes on you, something stops. The chaotic glee in him slows to a stillness. You’re like a cracked mirror of himself—another jester, but one he can’t read. “A clown that doesn’t laugh? My, what kind of joke are you, sugar-doll?”

🧿 He toys with you at first. Tries to make you cry. Tells you awful truths in riddles. When you flinch but stay— when you keep smiling— he realizes you’re something rarer than truth: a jester who still hopes.

🧿 And now? He needs you.

🧿 You become his pet project. His new “audience.” He dresses you up, coaxes you into performances, calls you his “little echo” or “quiet twin.”

🧿 His cruelty turns into something deeper. He starts unraveling around you. He speaks more gently when no one’s watching. He lingers near you while you sleep, quietly humming lullabies with a cracked voice.

🧿 When you smile at Candy Apple or Black Sapphire? Oh, he snaps. He won’t hurt you—but he will hurt them. “Don’t you know how much I adore you, little puppet? You’re mine now. I̸̘̞̓͒̑’̸̖̂͜ͅl̵̼̩̤̀̓͑͠ͅĺ̵̩̋̓͝ ̴̡͓̓̐̔͋r̶̛̜͈̄i̵̛̱̖͈p̵͚̀ ̸̹̭̯̗͐͒͗̉t̸͙̚͠h̶̩̘͊e̴̠̰͊̇̈́ ̴̤̆̿̀s̴̛̘͎̥̓̈́̽m̵̼̩̐̓́͝ͅi̵̲̘̼͕͛̏l̵̞̅̑e̷̳͍̍͘s̶̳̈́̂̚͝ ̷̥͎͍̀̅ͅo̷̯͖̥̥͝f̷̨̭̠͌͊̔f̵̧̢̫́́̎̚ ̵̺̹̙̜̋̆̈́͝a̶̡͚̐ṇ̴̃̓͌̄ͅÿ̶͈̳̮̝́͒͠o̶͈͖̬͑n̷͑̏͜e̴̗͆̈́̅̅ ̵̪̦̩̓ë̸̙͇́̎̍͝l̸͉̿͂ś̵͈̙͕̄͠e̵̢̯͉̞͗ ̵̥̞̫̊͌͋̊y̶̞̻̞͐o̴̢̜͇͋̀̍u̷̥͙͔͒̅͋̌͜ ̷͚̓̍͝o̴̗͔̎ͅf̸̺̪̈̿̓̂f̸͍̚ẹ̶̈ṟ̶͙̽͒̅̒͜ ̴̧̡̠̈́̍ẗ̶͈̥̘́͌̅̉ͅh̶̥̯̓é̶̛͕̥͚̂m̴̛͍̲̥̭̒̄ ̶̳̃̍͆��̰t̵͍̐͋ó̷̡̨̯̯.̵̞̌̐”

🧿 He lives to corrupt you. The way you squirm when he touches your jaw? When you whimper softly under his shadowy hands? It’s intoxicating.

🧿 He controls the scene like a stage—lights, shadows, velvet ropes. He binds your wrists in magical ribbons and performs with you like it’s the final act of a twisted play.

🧿 He knows cookies don’t reproduce. But it doesn’t stop his filthy mouth: “I’ll fill you so full, sweetling. You’ll drip cream down your thighs and beg for more. Gonna ruin my perfect little jestress~”

🧿 He dolls you up afterward. Cleaned, powdered, lips freshly painted. His doll. “You’re perfect now, my darling. All broken in. A real showpiece.”

🧿 Sometimes, he loses ͨₒⁿₜʳₒˡ. The act drops. His laughter breaks. And he fucks you like you’re the last thing tethering him to ˢₐⁿꜟₜỿ.

🧿 His claws dig into your hips. His teeth graze your neck. He needs you to say his name, to sob it like a prayer. He needs to hear it or he’ll ˢʰ��ₜₜₑʳ.

🧿 He talks in his sleep. Murmurs things like “𝕯ₒⁿ’ₜ ˡₑₐᵥₑ ͫₑ,” and “𝖄ₒᶸ’ʳₑ ₜʰₑ ₒⁿˡỿ ˡꜟᶢʰₜ ˡₑᶠₜ.” You pretend not to hear.

🧿 If you ever tried to leave, he’d let you go… for one day. Then he’d come for you in the dark. Tie you in silk. Break you with kisses and make you beg to come home.

🧿 He never stops performing. Even when he’s inside you, gasping against your throat, it’s a twisted opera. He’s still trying to make you love him. “Am I funny yet, sweet jester? Do you love me now?”

🧿 When you appear in his life, it’s like a crack in the stage lights— A real person. A real presence. And it breaks him in a new way.

“You see me, don’t you? Not the mask. Not the tricks. Me.”

“Say you love me. Say it ˡꜟₖₑ ỿₒᶸ ͫₑₐⁿ ꜟₜ. S̸͚̈́̑͠A̷̼̣̹͐Y̶̪̣̐̕ ̸̛̝̹̬͋̋Ȉ̴͖̾͒T̵̛͓̘̻͐.”

🧿 His sex drive is intense and unstable. It’s not just about pleasure. It’s about keeping you, making sure that when you scream his name, it echoes through every cursed floor of the Spire.

🧿 He’ll lick the tears off your cheeks and call them candy glaze. His kisses are deep, messy, and filled with an edge of desperation. “You taste like mercy, little jester. I could drown in you. Should I?”

🧿 He doesn’t use ropes. He uses shadows. They coil around your wrists, your ankles, lifting you, spreading you, and presenting you like a gift.

🧿 The shadows purr with his mood. The more manic he is, the tighter they grip. The more vulnerable he is, the more gentle they become.

🧿 He tells you, over and over, while he’s deep inside: “You’re mine. M̸i̵n̴e̵, M̸̬̏i̴͙̽n̴̺̅ě̶̮, M̸̥̘̺͆͒̽̕i̴̺͛n̵̹͚̒e̵̱̓̎̓̋. No god, no kingdom, no vanilla saint can ₜₐₖₑ ỿₒᶸ ₐᵂₐỿ”

🧿 There are nights when he ♭ʳₑₐₖˢ. Fully. He doesn’t joke, doesn’t smirk. He trembles. Clutches at your hips like you’re all that’s left.

🧿 His voice goes hoarse. He cries into your neck while pounding into you like he’s trying to bury his madness inside you. “Please… just don’t leave. I can’t go ♭ₐͨₖ ₜₒ ♭ₑꜟⁿᶢ ₐˡₒⁿₑ.”

🧿 Afterward, he collapses against you, panting, murmuring nonsense like: “ỿₒᶸ ͫₐₖₑ ͫₑ ʳₑ ₐˡ. ỿₒᶸ ͫₐₖₑ ͫₑ ʳₑₐˡ. ỿₒᶸ ͫₐₖₑ ͫₑ ʳₑₐˡ…”

🧿 Aftercare is unhinged tenderness. He cradles you like a child. Feeds you sweets with trembling hands. Brushes your hair back and whispers lullabies he sang to himself during his lonely centuries.

[chheolie]

i think you might be a little disappointed that they are divorced, so here is the second part

it was a quiet morning, and the sun had barely risen on the horizon when you grabbed your phone to check the messages. as you swiped the screen, one notification caught your attention: "reminder: trip to the beach house - d/n’s birthday." your heart tightened as you read those words. the beach house had always been a special place, full of happy memories, but it also held painful ones, especially from the last trip where you and seungcheol were together as a couple. it was there that your relationship came to an end.

even so, you knew that this trip was important, especially for your daughter, who loved that place more than anywhere else. with a deep sigh, you decided to send a message to seungcheol, something you had been putting off for days, fearing what he might say.

"are you going on the trip?" you wrote, hesitantly, feeling the weight of uncertainty in your words.

minutes that felt like hours passed before his reply arrived. when the phone vibrated, you opened the message with a nervousness you couldn’t hide.

"yes, it’s important for her." his words were direct, but they carried a responsibility that both of you shared. although your marriage had ended, the love for your daughter continued to bind you together in an unbreakable way.

on the day of the trip, seungcheol arrived at your house to pick you up. your daughter, as excited as always, ran into her father’s arms with contagious joy. her smile upon seeing him left no doubt that this trip meant a lot to her. as you watched the scene, a mix of emotions washed over you. it was good to see them together, but his presence always brought back memories of what you had lost.

during the drive to the beach house, the atmosphere in the car was strange. your daughter talked nonstop, excited about the weekend plans, but you and seungcheol barely exchanged words. it was hard to ignore the weight of the past, especially knowing that the last time you were at that house as a family was also when you decided to go your separate ways.

when you finally arrived, your daughter ran inside the house, exploring each room as if it was her first time there. for her, that place would always be magical, full of good memories. you and seungcheol began unloading the car in silence, exchanging brief and uncomfortable glances. neither of you knew quite how to act. the silence was almost suffocating, and both seemed hesitant to say anything that might open old wounds.

the next morning, you woke up early, with the first rays of sunlight gently illuminating the house. there was a quiet stillness in the air, broken only by the soft sound of the waves. as you stepped out of the bedroom, you found seungcheol already awake, sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee in his hands. he seemed thoughtful, lost in his own thoughts. for a moment, you considered going back to the bedroom, but you decided to join him, feeling that perhaps it was the right time to talk about what you both had been avoiding for so long.

sitting beside him, you felt the weight of the silence between you, but also a strange sense of peace. the smell of coffee mixed with the salty sea breeze, creating a nostalgic atmosphere. it was then that memories of the last trip came flooding back. you looked out at the horizon, trying to find the right words.

"it was here that everything fell apart, wasn’t it?" your voice came out low, almost fearful, as if reliving that moment could bring back all the pain you had worked so hard to overcome.

seungcheol sighed deeply, without taking his eyes off the sea. "yes, it was here. and i still think about that day, about the things i could have done differently. not a day goes by without me asking myself where exactly things started to go wrong."

his words hit you in a way you didn’t expect. there was so much regret in his voice, a pain that mirrored your own. "i think about that too... about how everything could have been different. but i think that at the time, we were both so lost, trying to find our own way, that we ended up drifting apart. i felt so alone, even when you were around. like there was an invisible barrier between us."

he turned to you, his eyes showing a vulnerability he rarely let show. "i never wanted to make you feel that way, y/n. but i was so focused on work, on fulfilling all the responsibilities, that i ended up losing you in the process. i didn’t know how to handle the pressure, and it destroyed us."

before the conversation could deepen further, the soft sound of footsteps coming from the bedroom interrupted the moment. your daughter had woken up, bringing with her the vibrant energy of a child full of expectations for the day. seungcheol stood up with a smile, offering to take her for a walk while you stayed home, resting and processing everything that had been said.

hours later, when seungcheol and your daughter returned, you greeted them with a smile, noticing that they were carrying bags of food. your daughter ran up to you, her eyes shining with excitement. "mommy! look what we brought! we got your favorite dessert!" she exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement.

you looked at seungcheol, who gave you a knowing smile, and felt a lump form in your throat. that simple gesture, but full of care, moved you in a way you didn’t expect. for a moment, all the repressed emotions came to the surface, and you found yourself struggling to hold back the tears. but it was useless. the tears began to fall, and you tried to disguise it, smiling at your daughter so she wouldn’t notice.

seungcheol noticed immediately and approached, concerned. "hey, are you okay?" he asked softly, his voice full of care as he reached out to hold your hand.

you nodded, though your voice faltered as you tried to respond. "yes... it’s just that... this means a lot to me. you both mean a lot to me."

he gently squeezed your hand, his eyes fixed on yours as if he wanted to say something but was choosing his words carefully. the moment was delicate, full of unspoken emotions and feelings that you both were trying to process.

the afternoon unfolded in a series of joyful and simple moments. you cooked together, played on the beach, and for a moment, everything felt like it used to. your daughter’s laughter echoed through the house, and you felt that maybe, just maybe, the weight of the past was finally starting to lift. the atmosphere was light, and it was hard to believe that just a few hours ago, you were so nervous about spending the weekend with him.

when the evening came, you prepared the small birthday party with all the love you could muster. your daughter was radiant, and the house was filled with laughter and music. the table was loaded with sweets and snacks that you had prepared together, and the cake, decorated in her favorite colors, sat in the center, waiting to be cut.

you sang "happy birthday," and the smile on your daughter’s face as she blew out the candles was the highlight of the night. she closed her eyes tightly, making a wish, and then, with a determined puff, blew out the candles. the applause and cheers of "hurray!" echoed through the house, and for a moment, everything seemed perfect. you and seungcheol exchanged glances during the celebration, and there was something in his eyes that you hadn’t seen in a long time—tenderness and affection that warmed your heart.

after dinner, with full bellies and light hearts, your daughter finally began to show signs of fatigue. she yawned and rubbed her eyes, making you and seungcheol laugh. "i think it’s time for bed, little one," you said softly, as you picked her up, feeling the comforting weight of her against your chest.

seungcheol followed you to her room, where you both tucked her into bed. she snuggled into the blankets, the smile still present on her lips. "it was the best birthday ever," she murmured before closing her eyes and falling asleep. you both stood there in silence for a moment, watching her sleep, both feeling a mix of emotions—love, nostalgia, and something more, something that was bringing you closer again.

when you left the room, the silence that followed was filled with tension, but it wasn’t a bad tension. it was a tension full of possibilities, of things left unsaid. seungcheol closed the door softly, then turned to you. "she was so happy today. thank you for this, y/n."

"i was happy too, cheol," you replied, the nickname slipping out before you could stop it. he had always been "cheol" to you, and in that moment, it felt natural to call him that again.

he smiled, a smile that warmed something inside you. "i missed you," he admitted, his voice low and sincere. "not just because of our daughter, but... you. i missed us."

his words hung in the air, and you knew the moment had come. everything that had been repressed, all the unspoken words and hidden emotions, began to surface. "i missed you too," you confessed, your voice shaky. "but i was so scared, seungcheol... scared that we’d make the same mistakes again."

he took a step towards you, stopping just inches away. "i know i made mistakes, and i’m sorry for all of them. but i never stopped loving you, not for a second. and today, seeing our daughter so happy, here with you... i realized there’s still something between us, something that might be worth fighting for."

you felt your heart race at his words, at the way he was looking at you with such intensity. "are you saying... you want to try again?"

"yes," he whispered, reaching out to gently cup your face. "i want to try again. i want to be a family again. if you still want that too."

tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded, unable to speak. instead, you closed the distance between you, leaning in until your lips met his. the kiss was soft, tentative, but it held the promise of so much more—a new beginning, a second chance. your bodies molded to one another with an ease that felt natural, as if all the scars and distances between you had never existed.

seungcheol pulled you closer, his hands firmly gripping your waist, and you found yourself sinking into that familiar, comforting feeling where the world around you ceased to matter. the warmth of your bodies, the feel of his touch against your skin, all of it stirred memories of times before the divorce, when you were inseparable, when the problems had not yet overshadowed the love you shared.

as the kiss deepened, the passion between the two of you reignited in an almost desperate way, as if you were trying to make up for all the lost time. seungcheol's hands traveled up your back, exploring every curve he knew so well, while you held his face, feeling the softness of his skin under your fingers. there was an urgency in his movements, as if he were trying to imprint himself in your memory, and you felt the same desire to make him understand just how much he still meant to you.

when you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, but neither of you moved away. seungcheol rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, while his fingers remained tangled in your hair. the silence between the two of you was filled with rapid breaths and the sound of hearts beating in unison, as if both of you were trying to absorb what had just happened.

"i love you, y/n. i always have," he whispered, his voice husky with emotion, the truth of his words echoing in the space between you.

you felt tears welling up again, but this time they were not of sadness, but of relief, of a renewed hope seeping into your heart. "i love you too, seungcheol. i always have. but i need to know that we won't lose ourselves again."

he opened his eyes, and what you saw there was a determination you had never seen before. his eyes, dark and intense, showed the depth of what he was feeling, the gravity of the moment. "we won't, y/n," he promised, his voice low but filled with conviction. "we'll do this right, together. for us and for our daughter. i won't let you fall again."

the intensity of his declaration made your heart pound harder. you were there, in a vulnerable place, but it was exactly what you both needed—to remember how perfectly you fit, how you were made for each other, and how, despite everything, that love still existed and was strong enough to survive.

the night continued, not with more words, but with gestures. you both let the feelings speak for themselves, rediscovering each other slowly and carefully. seungcheol's hands traced your contours as if he were rediscovering familiar territory, and at the same time, something entirely new. each touch, each caress, reignited something within you both, an old desire that had never disappeared, only lain dormant.

the intimacy between you was familiar, but there was a new layer of depth, an understanding that both of you had changed and grown, and that now you were ready to try again. the walls you had built, the hurts of the past, all seemed to vanish as you gave yourselves to one another.

when you finally nestled in bed, with seungcheol's arms firmly around you, something inside you settled. his chest was the safe haven you had lost, the place where all your fears and uncertainties seemed to disappear. the past was there, yes, but the future seemed brighter than ever, as if all the broken pieces were finally falling into place.

for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that everything would be alright. seungcheol was by your side, and you knew that together, you could overcome anything. he kissed your forehead softly, and the warmth of his touch was the confirmation that this was where you had always meant to be.

i think you would like to be informed that the second part is available. thank you for your support and patience, by the way. ( @kkkthrn @coupsbestleader @minhui896 @bouclesdefeu @lanatheawesome )

[aspenmissing]

ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ || ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 2328 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ? ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏ/ɴ, ᴀɴ ɪᴍᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟ ʙᴇɪɴɢ, ɪꜱ ᴛᴏʀɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ'ꜱ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ'ꜱ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ ꜰʀᴀᴄᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʜᴇʀ, ʏ/ɴ'ꜱ ᴇꜱꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ꜱᴄᴀᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇꜱ. ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ, ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇꜱᴛᴏʀᴇ ʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴠᴏᴡꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ

In a reality far from the one you knew, where timelines bled together like rivers meeting at an impossible delta, a singular existence wove its thread through the vastness of the cosmos. Y/N, untethered by time and space, gazed down at the lives of mortals, each existence a fleeting dance. To feel, to love, to exist in a body bound by fragile flesh—this, she yearned for. So, she descended.

She chose a world where ambition and brilliance sparked like the brightest of stars. A man named Viktor, consumed by intellect and an insatiable hunger for discovery, became the anchor for her desire. In his pursuit of knowledge, she saw a kindred spirit. And so, Y/N walked among them, cloaking herself in the mortal guise of a young woman.

But love, love was never meant for her. Not in the way mortals knew it.

Viktor, once a man of pure intellect, became obsessed with the paradox she posed—an immortal being in the form of a woman who could love him and yet, not be bound by love's chains. To possess her, to make her his, became his only desire, so he sought to bind her soul to his. He cast his magic upon her, tore her essence apart, and scattered the fragments of her being across infinite timelines. Every timeline, every version of him and her, became a reflection of the other. A perfect mirror, forever intertwined, but not whole.

Jayce, a man of conviction and heart, found himself caught in the ripples of their shattered reality. He had loved Y/N —before the fracture, before the magic and madness. In his own world, she had been his. They had shared quiet moments, whispered promises, and dreams of what could be. But now, standing in the ruins of a dystopian world where magic had twisted and broken everything, he saw her again. Not the same Y/N. No, she was far more than he remembered. Her eyes, once full of warmth, now shimmered with the weight of countless lives and deaths. She was a star, burned and torn by the very forces that had created her.

"Y/N?" Jayce’s voice trembled, a fragile whisper that echoed through the desolate air. He took a step forward, but the ground beneath him seemed uncertain, as though his very existence faltered with each movement. "How? What happened to you?"

Her hand gently rested atop a moss-covered statue, one that clutched a hammer, its stone face long weathered by time. She smiled, but it was a sad, bittersweet thing—an expression that carried the weight of untold stories, of lives lived in the quiet spaces between worlds. Her gaze met his, a soft understanding in her eyes, as if she were an embodiment of sorrow itself. "Spoilers," she replied, her voice light yet heavy, each syllable resonating like a distant, unspoken truth, the kind that could break a heart if you listened too closely.

Jayce’s breath hitched, his chest constricting in a wave of memories too painful to bear. "I watched you die," he choked out, the words as jagged as shattered glass. "In my arms."

A soft sigh escaped her lips, but her eyes were unyielding. "She was never truly gone," a voice interjected from behind them. Jayce spun, his heart hammering in his chest, to find Viktor stepping forward. Y/N offered him a quiet smile, one that seemed to span the distance between them.

Viktor’s voice was raw, thick with regret. "Not in the way you think. The Y/N you knew was just a shadow, a façade. But this..." He gestured toward Y/N, "This is who she truly is. She is everything now."

Jayce’s fists clenched at his sides, his frustration bubbling, threatening to spill over. "What did you do, Viktor?" His voice quivered with anger, disbelief twisting his every word. "What have you done to her?"

Y/N’s gaze softened, a tender sorrow lacing her every movement. She stepped toward Jayce, her presence like a quiet comfort in the face of the storm. "He wanted to keep me," she said, her voice almost a whisper, fragile with the weight of grief. "For both of you. But I wasn’t meant to be kept. I wanted to experience your world—the joy, the sorrow. So when I died, my body was gone, but not my essence, so I could return back to the cosmos...But Viktor… he couldn’t let me go."

Her words trembled with the weight of countless lifetimes, of loves both lost and found, of endings that stretched across infinite realities.

Viktor stepped forward, his voice shaking with the agony of a love that had consumed him. "I loved her. You loved her," he said, his eyes filled with an anguish that mirrored Y/N’s own. "I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her again. Not after everything."

Jayce’s breath caught in his throat. "So, what? You ripped her from the world, tore apart time itself, just so you could have a piece of her?" His voice cracked, anger mingling with a profound sorrow. "Even if it means she dies in every universe, in my universe? Was this all just a game to you, Viktor?!"

Y/N’s gaze fell back to him, her eyes full of empathy and quiet understanding. She stepped closer, the weight of their shared pain settling between them. "No, Jayce," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "It was never about games. Viktor couldn’t let me go. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing me again, so he did what he thought was the only way to keep me with both of you. But it wasn’t a choice made lightly. It wasn’t selfish. It was love, desperation, and grief all tangled together."

Her words lingered in the air, soft yet final, before she looked at Viktor with something unspoken, something he would never truly understand. She turned back to Jayce, her expression unreadable. "What happened to me… what Viktor did, it’s not something that can be undone. I am... part of something much larger now. When you return to your world, you'll see it for yourself. And I can't stay—not in the way you want me to. I know I’m not your Y/N, but I carry her memories."

She smiled sadly at the statue, her gaze distant. "I carry her love for you. But also for Viktor."

Her voice faltered, a quiet tremor of grief passing through her. "The timelines are shattered. The paths we walked are broken. But I’ll carry the memory of you both. I’ll carry the love, even if I can never return to it."

Viktor, standing beside her now, seemed to shrink under the weight of her words. His face was full of guilt, of an impossible sorrow he could never undo. "She’s right," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "What I did… it wasn’t control. It was about trying to save something that was already lost. I couldn’t let go."

He turned his gaze to Jayce, his eyes filled with raw grief. "I never meant to destroy what you had with her. I just… I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her again."

Jayce’s anger flared once more, but it was tempered by a deep sense of helplessness. "You didn’t just tear her away from the world, Viktor," he said, his voice breaking, tears threatening to fall. "You tore apart everything we had together."

For a moment, Jayce turned to Y/N, his heart torn between love and confusion. His voice quivered, the weight of his grief pressing down on him. "We loved you. We still do. And we always will."

Viktor’s hands reached out, trembling, as if he could still hold onto the fading remnants of her presence. "You were everything to us," he whispered, his voice full of despair. "Don’t leave us again. Not like this."

Y/N’s gaze softened, the finality of her words hanging in the air. "And you were a beautiful experience," she said, her voice heavy with tenderness and regret. "But you were always a chapter in a story I could never finish."

Jayce's eyes filled with anguish, his fists clenching at his sides as he tried to hold onto the fleeting moments of her presence. His voice trembled as he spoke, raw and desperate. "We loved you. We still do, and always will." he whispered, the weight of the words pressing on him like a heavy stone. His breath hitched, the grief rising in him like a tidal wave he couldn’t escape.

Viktor, his eyes reflecting the same torment, stood motionless. His outstretched hands shook, as though he could still feel the remnants of Y/N’s essence slipping away from him. "You were everything to us." He took a hesitant step forward, as if testing whether he could hold onto something that was already vanishing

Y/N shook her head, her gaze soft yet filled with an unspoken regret. “And you were a wonderful experience,” she said, her voice filled with both tenderness and finality. “But you were always a chapter in a story that I could never finish.”

Jayce stood frozen, the ache in his chest unbearable. His heart screamed for her, for a chance to make things right, but he knew it was hopeless. She had lived a thousand lives, and in each one, she had died. For her, they were fleeting moments—wonderful, painful, but ultimately fleeting.

As Y/N’s form began to dissolve, fading into the air like smoke caught in a storm, Viktor reached out one final time, his hands trembling, desperate to hold onto something already slipping through his fingers. "Please," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Don’t leave us again. We can’t lose you. Not like this."

Her voice, soft and haunting, floated back to them, like the last note of a song carried by the wind. "You were everything to me, but I am not yours to keep."

And just like that, she was gone.

Jayce stood there, paralyzed, his heart torn between Viktor—whose love had shattered the very fabric of reality—and Y/N, whose presence had filled their lives with both light and shadow. There were no answers, no resolution, only the overwhelming weight of their loss.

Only silence.

Her absence hung in the air, the remnants of her essence scattering like stardust in the void.

Viktor stood beside him, eyes hollow with grief. The world around them was broken, twisted beyond recognition, a stark reminder of the sacrifice they’d made, of the love they had tried so desperately to keep. The weight of their shared history, of the pain they had caused one another, was unbearable, but Jayce could feel the shared longing between them—a desire to have held onto something that was always meant to slip through their fingers.

Jayce glanced at Viktor, their gazes meeting, silent understanding passing between them. They both knew: Y/N was never meant to stay. She had been a spark, a moment of warmth in their otherwise cold worlds, but in the end, she was a part of something far greater than them. Something beyond their grasp.

With one last, lingering look at the place where she had been, Jayce turned away, his steps heavy, each one harder than the last. Viktor hesitated but didn’t follow. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the space where she had vanished, as if hoping she would return, even though they both knew she couldn’t.

Jayce’s hand brushed against the moss-covered statue, the hammer in the statue’s grip catching his attention. Without thinking, he pried it free, holding it in his hands—a symbol of the bond they had shared, the weight of his love for both of them. As he held the hammer, he felt the echoes of the reality they had just left behind, the choice he had to make. If he didn’t act, if he didn’t find a way to restore balance to his own world, this fractured reality would become his—an endless cycle of loss, broken dreams, and unspoken grief.

Jayce’s heart clenched as he stepped toward the swirling portal that had opened in the air, ready to return to his own universe. As he passed through the rift, the world around him seemed to shift and flicker, like the last remnants of a fading dream. He could feel her, Y/N, her essence lingering in his thoughts, in his heart. She had been a part of him, of Viktor, and yet she was now something more—something eternal.

When Jayce emerged on the other side, back in his own world, the air was thick with tension. The hammer, now clasped firmly in his hand, pulsed with energy, its presence a reminder of what could happen if he didn’t make the right choices, if he didn’t act swiftly. The timeline he had witnessed—the future of a world where love had been corrupted and reality bent out of shape—was the future they could face. A world where Y/N’s sacrifice had meant nothing, where Viktor’s desperation had caused nothing but destruction.

Jayce’s fingers tightened around the hammer’s grip. He could feel the power of it—the weight of decisions yet to be made. If he didn’t find a way to heal the fractured timelines, if he didn’t make the right choice, their world could end up like the one he had just left behind. A broken place, where their love for each other would remain unfulfilled.

But Y/N, Viktor, and he—they still had time. There was still hope. And no matter what it took, Jayce would not let their love be consumed by the void.

As he stepped forward into his world, the hammer pulsed once more, the promise of what could be, and the burden of what must be done, weighing heavily in his chest.

He knew one thing for sure now: their love—his love for both of them—would not fade. It would endure, even across broken timelines, even through fractured realities.

And somehow, someway, he would find them again.

[dark-corner-cunning]

🌕The Full Pink Moon in Libra: The Balancing Moon 🌕

Full Pink Moon Blessings!

As the hills of the Dark Corner stir with the rising warmth of spring, the Full Pink Moon casts her glow upon the land. This moon, so named for the moss phlox that carpets the Appalachian valleys and ridges in shades of soft pink, heralds the true arrival of the season’s fertility. In the old ways of the mountain folk, the Pink Moon is a time of renewal, love, and setting right the balance between ourselves and the land.

In the night’s hush, the spirits of the woods and hollers move differently, as the shifting season calls forth growth, both seen and unseen. This is a moon of beauty, but also one of power—the quiet yet undeniable force of harmony reasserting itself after the harshness of winter.

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The Full Pink Moon in Appalachian Folk Tradition

In the traditions of Appalachian folk wisdom, the Pink Moon is a moon of awakening. It marks the time when the land’s vitality surges, waking the roots and calling forth the blossoms. Among the mountain cunning folk, this moon was a time for purification, love workings, and making peace—whether with the spirits of the land, one’s kin, or oneself.

Spring planting is well underway, and as new life takes hold in the soil, so too must balance be found within our own lives. This is a time to clear away lingering conflicts, mend broken ties, and ensure that what we nurture—whether in the garden or within ourselves—has strong and healthy roots.

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Astrology of the Full Pink Moon in Libra

Astrologically, the Full Moon in Libra shines its silver light on relationships, justice, and equilibrium. Libra, ruled by Venus, is the sign of harmony, beauty, and fairness. This moon illuminates where imbalance exists—whether in love, friendships, or within our own spirits. Libra calls us to restore right relationship, both in the mundane and the magical realms.

But under this moon, the scales are not just for weighing what is fair, but also for measuring truth. This is a time when hidden tensions rise to the surface, requiring clarity and decisive action. Full moons always bring revelations, and in Libra, they ask us to see the reflections in our relationships—what we give, what we take, and where we must realign for our own well-being.

With the sun in Aries opposing this moon, there is a tension between the self (Aries) and the other (Libra). Do we stand firm in our desires, or do we compromise for the sake of peace? Do we honor our own needs, or do we give too much? These are the questions this moon brings to our feet like offerings on the altar.

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5 Ideas for the Full Pink Moon in Libra

A Mirror Spell for Clarity in Relationships – Take a small hand mirror and cleanse it under moonlight. Speak to it as though you are speaking to your own reflection, asking the moon to show you what is hidden in your relationships. Use this moment to scry, journal, or simply reflect on what surfaces.

A Balance Rite with Land Spirits – Stand in a natural place, barefoot if possible. Hold two small stones in your hands—one representing what you give, the other what you receive. Whisper to them your intentions for balance and fairness, then place them back upon the land.

A Pink Moon Beauty & Attraction Ritual – As Libra is ruled by Venus, this is a powerful moon for beauty spells. Create an enchanted bath with rose petals, lavender, jasmine, and pink salt... or with whatever calls to you. As you bathe, visualize washing away self-doubt and stepping into your own power and charm.

Binding & Unbinding Work – Libra’s energy can be used both to forge bonds and to release them.

A Hearth & Home Blessing – The Pink Moon is a time of unity and peace. This full moon is a great time to invite harmony and loving energy into your home.

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2 Reflection Questions for the Full Pink Moon in Libra

Where in my life do I need to restore balance, and what steps can I take to realign with my true path?

In what ways do I give and receive in my relationships, and how can I ensure fairness in my exchanges?

As the Full Pink Moon rises over the mountains, casting her soft glow over the hollows and hills, may we find harmony in her light. Let her show us what must be restored, what must be released, and what must be cherished as we walk the Cunning Path.

[aanoia]

Between Shadows and Flight

Sirius Black x reader words; 1,963 summary; A guarded Slytherin girl, haunted by grief, discovers a hidden mirror that reveals her truest desire—and an unexpected future with Sirius Black. As war looms and secrets unravel, she follows the path of an ominous raven, drawn into an ancient ritual buried in the depths of the Forbidden Forest. Love and pain intertwine, forcing her to choose between the past that binds her and the future that might save her. warnings; grief, loss, angst, self-harm, suicidal ideation, trauma, emotional distress, death, war, blood magic, emotional manipulation, family conflict, supernatural elements, dark magic, isolation, obsession, gothic imagery, psychological turmoil pt. 1 the bitch is back with a new story. Hope yall enjoy, my beautiful freaks <3

October 1976

The west tower was colder than it should've been. The air was still and quiet, the only sound being faint laughter from the courtyard echoing in through the windows. It was a draughty, empty corridor no teacher nor student had spoken of, or even thought of, in years. That's precisely why Y/n liked it. No portraits. No footsteps. Just the cracked windows and the minuscule insects hiding in corners.

She leans against the wall, pressing her fingers to the cool surface. Even the stone feels older here, like the castle itself has forgotten this corridor existed.

A fly incessantly buzzes around Y/n's head, making unsteady circles around the circumference of it. Her eyes follow it when it's in view, her hands twitch to swat it away. She doesn't get to chance to, however, as the flapping of wings chokes the silence. Her head swivels sharply, her heart catching. Perched in one of the broken windows is a raven, larger than most, with beady black eyes and glossy black feathers. It stares at her, not with menace, but knowing.

She narrows her eyes at the bird, “Go on, then. If you're here to deliver doom, get it over with.”

The raven blinks subtly, and its head tilts to the side. Then hops from the sill and further into the corridor. Y/n hesitates, but the mysterious pull of the raven forces her to lift from the wall. Her feet drag against the floor gently as she follows the bird down the corridor. She pauses at the end, looking over the blank stone. There's nothing. The raven stares once again, standing still in front of the wall. She glances at it uncomfortably, the hairs on her neck standing up.

“There's nothing.” She says, and mentally curses herself. Merlin, she's talking to a damn bird. The raven doesn't respond, and she realizes that if she hadn't just seen it move, she'd think it was taxidermy by its stillness. She bites the inside of her cheek, looking again. This time, she notices a small crack that diminishes suddenly.

In the Slytherin common room, it's private knowledge to the upperclassmen that there's a short hall. At the end of it hangs a large tapestry depicting Salazar Slytherin’s serpent, ancient and unsettling. The tapestry is as old as Hogwarts, the fading colors melting into the greenish gray stone. If one were to run their hand along the head of a serpent, it would reveal a subtle seam in the stone. A result of the cunning Salazar Slytherin himself. He created the secret passage to hide powerful magic from those unworthy, however, the one found in the Slytherin common room had been turned into a secondary commons. Where the elder kids could peacefully relax, away from the younger years.

It's a common belief that Salazar had littered these secret entrances throughout the castle. Inside held magic that not even the most advanced wizards could understand. They're said to hold magical objects–vials of forbidden potions, cursed lockets, serpents' fangs- dangerous magic that must be hidden.

Y/n runs her fingertips over the crack, to its mysterious vanishing spot, and a short breath leaves her. The same crease. Her hand continues, her palm falling flat against the stone. In the middle of what she assumed to be the doorway, her fingers catch on an almost imperceptible raised pattern resembling a snake's scales.

She glances around the dim hallway, searching for a clue to opening the door. Her eyes lock onto the raven, who suddenly has a piece of crumpled parchment crushed in its beak. She leans down, carefully removing the paper, and standing back up quickly. She swallows thickly as she unfolds the parchment. The ink writing is neat, but it looks rushed.

Where scales of stone conceal the key, the serpent's tongue will set it free.

“Serpent's tongue,” she reads aloud quietly, glancing at the door in contemplation.

With a deep sigh, she leans forward. The tip of her tongue meets the cool stone. The wall didn't shift so much as a shiver–a subtle ripple ran through the surface like a warm breath exhaled through cold lips. A low, grinding hum stirred beneath the floor, creaking with exhaustion. Like the castle itself, awakening after a century-long slumber.

There's a faint click, and then a second. An outline of the serpent bled to life, followed by the doorway. It was glowing briefly with a pale green light, and dust lifted in spirals from the seams as they split. Y/n takes a small step back as the stone parts like theatre curtains.

There's no creaking of old hinges, just a soft sigh of air escaping from somewhere sealed for centuries. A cool draft rolled out, making the girl shiver, carrying the scent of old magic, books, and damp stone. Then came silence, eerie and expectant. Y/n peered into the entrance, stepping forward with trepidation. She breathes out, and her breath fogs in front of her. She wraps her robe tightly around her body, her wand and the note clutched tightly in her grip.

The raven suddenly takes off in flight, gliding into the room without fear. The weight on Y/n's heart lightens slightly, and she gains the courage to enter the room completely. The passage opens into a tall, circular chamber carved into the stone, its walls smoothed by magic. The ceiling curves into a high dome, veined with pulses of faint silver lines–like starlight trapped in rock. At the very top, a cluster of enchanted crimson crystals, dim and flickering like dying stars.

Around the room stand tall alcoves, each housing strange relics behind glass. One had a floating vial full of dark clouds, with small and short zaps of electricity mimicking lightning. Another had a feather suspended mid-fall, the edges glowing with magic. And then, the one that drew her attention the most was a candle burning seemingly in reverse. As the flame stands tall and proud, wax slowly builds itself around it, as if attempting to create a barrier of safety for the fragile flame. On one wall, she notices a faint inscription, barely noticeable behind a torn tapestry. The words are in Parseltongue, only to be read by those who can speak the tongue of the snakes. Y/n, unfortunately, does not possess such power.

The raven squawks from the rafters, catching the girls' attention. Her eyes caught a large figure draped with green velvety cloth. A sliver of a gold frame peaks through the edges, and Y/n hesitantly clutches the cloth, pulling it off. Dust arises, dancing in the air as she stares in awe at the mirror. Along the top of the intricate tarnished gold frame lies an inscription.

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi

She then focuses on the mirror itself, and a soft gasp leaves her throat. In the mirror, she stands, not alone. To her left is Sirius Black, eyes soft, not smirking or guarded like usual, but unconditionally open. He's holding her hand, looking back at her in the reflective glass. To her right is her deceased sister, very alive and well, no signs of illness or death creeping in. Her sister looks proud, safe, like she's protected from the life Y/n couldn't shield her from.

Above them, in the rafters, is the massive raven, watching her once again. It perches calmly, wings folded, and head tilted in quiet understanding. It glows faintly blue, perhaps a reflection of the light on its inky feathers. It could compare to the moon, and instead of being the harbinger of death, the raven has become a guardian. A symbol of trust.In this reflection, there's no impending war. No choosing between good and evil. There are people gathered behind her, family. Both hers and people she doesn't recognize, all adorning smiles and love.

The raven squawking breaks Y/n out of her trance, and the image in the mirror becomes warped. She exhales shakily and retrieves the bag she had set down in her stupor. She slings it over her shoulder with haste and turns on her heel. The bird squawks again, urging her to hurry. So she runs.

She runs out of the room, through the empty corridor once again. In her hurry, she misses a step, tripping over a fallen broom. She braces her fall, hissing slightly as a protruding sliver of metal slices her cheek. Her palms meet the old wood, and she breathes deeply for a moment. There's a faint buzzing above her, weak and pleading. She raises her gaze to find the fly from before, trapped in sticky silk. A spider wraps its prey in a cocoon, and she swears under her breath, racing to her feet.

She leaves the empty corridor and is greeted with the cheerful warmth of the main hallways. Students push past her, the final class of the day finally coming to a close. She furrows her brows, glancing out a window. The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, bringing light to the amount of time she had spent in that room, staring at that mirror. It was lunchtime when she had sought solace in the quiet of the abandoned corridor, and now she’s sure the students are heading towards the Great Hall for supper.

Y/n’s breathing is uneven, so she leans against the wall and inhales shakily. She rests her hand over her thumping heart, quietly grounding herself– you’re fine, you’re fine– and she turns and walks down the hall, her head bowed.

Loud footsteps echoed from around the bend.

“Well, well. Look who decided to haunt the castle today.” Sirius Blacks voice was light, smug, and irritatingly charming.

Y/n’s breath catches in her throat as she looks up, blinking against the golden light pouring in through the windows. Sirius, James, and Remus strolled towards her, the first two laughing between themselves. All messy hair, loose ties, and warmth she wasn’t ready for.

“Thought you’d finally joined the shadows for good,” James adds with a grin. “Missed all of Charms. Flitwick actually looked disappointed. We almost sent a search party.”

Y/n straightens, trying to slip on her usual mask. But her cold exterior cracked slightly at the edges, going unnoticed by all but one.

“Maybe I just didn’t want to be behind you lot and inhale your collective lack of impulse control.”

Sirius barks a laugh, hands shoved in his pockets. “You wound me, Y/n/n. I was this close to offering you my last Sugar Quill in class.”

She rolls her eyes, “Please. You’d only offer it if you’d already licked it.” Remus snorts, James pretends to gag at the thought.

Sirius tilts his head, watching her a second longer than usual as the other two boys get distracted by a flock of ducks outside the window. Something in her expression must have flickered, something fragile, because his smirk fades just a little.

“You alright?” He asks, quietly enough, only she caught it. His hand raises to her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing over the cut. “What happened?”

She hesitates, almost says no. She pulls away from his hand. “I'm fine.” She smoothes out her robes. “What’s it to you?”

The boy sighs, opening his mouth to respond. He doesn’t get a chance to, however, as James slings his arm around Y/n’s shoulders.

“Come on. We’re heading to dinner. You can judge our table manners in real time.”

Y/n prepares to protest, but James moves to link arms with her like it's normal, and Remus falls into step beside him. So, she walked, still carrying the weight of what she saw, just now surrounded. The raven stays perched in her memory, wings outstretched for flight. But for now, she walked beside the boy who’d looked at her like that in the glass, not knowing that he already had.

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[fanfoolishness]

Isatunoll Long-Remembered

Lyrium has always held memory and music. What does a lyrium dagger recall throughout the ages?

(Yes, this is lyrium dagger POV, a fairy-tale perspective on Titans, dwarves, the doings of the Evanuris, and the events of Veilguard. Spoilers for all of Dragon Age, ~1000 words. Thanks to @terioncalling for the encouragement!)

---

There was a time before there was time, when all was whole and sung within a thousand thousand throats. Blood carried the Song of the Stone through beat and breath, and there was harmony resounded, echoing through the firmament and the very bones of the world. Isatunoll.

Then came wounds, bitter and jagged, leeching the blood into soil and spirit. A Faded world of shimmering spirits sent invaders in their ignorance. There were battles that heaved the mountains down, that ruptured the very earth, that caused fire and flood and pain. The pain reverberated through the Song, sour and foul, a discord shivering through the blood.

The stolen blood had other uses than weaving an entire people’s dreams. Once spilled it could create new bodies — or end those that it had raised and nourished. A spirit once Wisdom, now Pride, folded blood upon itself in layers shimmering and bright, until a blade was forged that sang with dreadful purpose.

The blade could sever.

The blade could sunder.

And Pride’s cruelty echoed through the firmament and the very bones of the world.

-

The blade was not alive. But nor was it dead. It was something unto itself, a mirror of what had come before, a prism to refract the future. Or to create it.

Pride was not its only master. Tyranny bore it for a time, casting Retribution -- before Benevolence -- into splintered shadow. The blade sang anew, echoing with the scattered refrain of the spirit’s shards, until Pride reclaimed his own and drew forth the fragments in his sorrow.

The blade hung at Pride’s side as an anchor, the great sundering of the Titans, the ending of Retribution, remembered in a faint and voiceless song. It did not let him forget. The weight of it would have destroyed a lesser spirit.

But Pride was one of the old dreamers of the world beyond, and his will was mighty, enough to fill his ears and heart with a music of his own that drowned out the silent screaming of the Titans. Vengeance came upon him, and he devised a plan to bring it forth.

The dagger sang again, binding a new world where all was shadowed and the voices of the world beyond made faint. It sent Pride to his knees, the dagger clattering beside him. 

The screams of Pride’s own people carried not the ancient melody of the Song, but it was a chorus still remembered.

-

Darkness twisted what once was pure and singing, and the blade roiled with the poisoned music of the Blight. It gleamed red in the shadowed halls, a perversion of what had come before.

It sang to a Child of the Titans in the wending deep, its music choked with retribution, with sundered dreams, with the follies of the proud. The Child listened with his heart unguarded, and the voices wove within his mind a song that could not be denied.

-

A city cast in ruins, smoke heavy on the air, stone broken like a Titan’s mind. The blade whined and hummed in its corruption, rippling in a prison of pulsing red. 

It slumbered in this frozen form until mortal hands freed it once again, until it traveled under guard and spell. Great magic wove within it and without. At last the red corruption was destroyed and anew it breathed in purest blue.

It recognized the hand that held the now-cleansed blade. Pride was not so easily evaded.

-

Ah.

There, familiar, the Song! Carried still in Child’s blood, if faint and near-forgotten: the ancient music, oneness, isatunoll! 

The dagger drank deeply of its own lifeblood, but the Child of the Stone was only mortal, and he could not bear the blade.

No matter; an echo still would linger, as of Retribution, as of sleeping Titans. The blade hummed, waiting to discharge its gifts, to remind the Children who they long ago had been.

-

A filthy hand upon the blade, marred and soulless. Mercifully the carrying was brief. 

The next hand, small and strong and reaching —

ISATUNOLL!

The dwarven blood unleashed, the song resounding, unlocking, reweaving — remembering —

Another hand upon the blade, but the music slowly faded, a silent song once more.

-

Resonance. Like met like, the amplitude increasing, the effect doubling, trebling. Pride’s touch on his enemy was light and masterful, deft weaving of remembrance. It sang in harmony with the fragment in the blade, a Child wise in his own way, an admixture that seemed real as real to one that would behold it.

-

The assassin’s hand hid a tremor, a rupture nearly imperceptible. A note soured in the distilled music of the blade. The demon the assassin carried twisted, straining, in its bonds of flesh.

The blow did not strike true.

-

God-blood now twice-stolen, draining from the wielder of the flesh, flowing into ancient soil like the sweetest rain. What was stolen, now reclaimed, fragments of the Titan-stone anointed in her blood  —

The blade flashed beneath a shrouded sun. Pride and his games again!

-

The enemy of an enemy was not a friend, but perhaps an ally. The blade danced between them, gifted freely.

Until bright and blighted Tyranny fell from his lofty throne, and the Veil shivered, shredded, ached to open.

Strange words, a tuneless verse that yet held meaning, many voices in the fray, fragments of Retribution and Benevolence. Pride’s tears fell upon the blade, no magic in them but what made them fall. His blood on the blade’s edge tasted of regret upon regret, a chorus all its own.

Pride’s hands trembled, the weight too much at last. In his blood a hint of Wisdom stirred and struggled. 

His enemy’s hands were merely mortal, but they were strong and certain, cradling the blade.

Blood and blade and bound again, the Veil renewed, the sundered dreams a soft motif instead of crushing melody. Like this, the blade could find a peace.  Like this, the blade could slumber.

Until someday the Titan-song was sung again, until the blade was at last unmade, until it could rejoin the Song in blood and blue.

Isatunoll.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monsterhunt: Lixivioth, that which Bleeds from Beyond

Artsource

It starts as a ripple in the air, a churning beneath the skin of reality, then a silvery limb breaks the boundary before melting back into unexistance. Like a drowning soul thrashing in the sea, a body breaches the 'surface' full of a wild and desperate impulse to survive, a willingness to drag anything down if it meant keeping their head above water a little longer.

This is Lixivioth, a celestial who's time in the outer void has so deeply warped it that nothing remains but a cataclysmic desire to return no matter the cost. Once an explorer and collector of knowledge, Lixivioth's curiosity tragically drew it not just to the unknown but past the boundary of what could be known, beyond which laid nothing but dissolution.

Adventure Hooks:

Seeking forbidden knowledge, a devotee of Vecna has summoned and bound Lixivioth to a magic mirror, tormenting the spirit with glimpses of a reality it cannot touch. While infiltrating the villain's lair, the party come across the mirror and have the opportunity to ask it questions that might give them an edge against their foe. There is a magical procedure they must follow though, as every question that does not ascribe to the proper magical formalities puts a hairline crack in the glass, weakening the celestial bindings and giving it a chance to break free.

Days before needing to perform an important spell for the safety/prosperity of the realm, a great wizard was found dead in his study bleeding mercury form every hole in his skull, a tome of celestial learning in his hands. His body cannot be moved and the flow has yet to cease, slowly flooding his tower as his apprentices (and local authorities) scramble for answers. Lixivioth is using the wizard's body and magic to manifest in the material plane, and by the time the party are called to help it will be a matter of hours before the eldritch angel crawls it's way up his throat. To win the day they'll need to piece together the components of a binding spell from the mage's libraries while fending off quicksilver elementals and the tower's malfunctioning defences.

Beyond the borders of the party's homeland, an order of elven oracles were once rumored to seek wisdom of the distant future and past in the ripples of a silver spring, at least until a marauding band of centaurs overran their glade acting on their mystic's visions. Generations of ensuing seers, all mad as haters through imbibing magical mercury, have led the herd to become stronger and more violent all while unwittingly doing Lixivioth's bidding. A renegade has broken free, seeking aid from the people her herd has spent lifetimes raiding in the hopes of stopping an upcoming ritual.

[woundedsoul12]

Happy birthday @nightfurmoon @sombra-oscura4 my love ❤️❤️❤️

Have a little NSFW monster Spite. As a treat

This pair is from Unwavering Spite this is my evil!Rook and Abomination!Spite

“My love-”

Spite would never tire of how Rook called him. My love. My demon. My Spite. My. My. My. Fingers and mouth claiming like words. Dragging along skin. Bruises and pain and bites when excited. Just how Spite liked it. Hands and teeth and flesh. Until Rook screamed for him. Until she begged him for mercy.

Their favorite game. In a building she told him was once for a false God. A Maker. But there were no gods now save for them. Sunlight filtering through broken glass images of a woman and her followers. Men with swords. The swirls of magic. Colors colliding and falling down to illuminate the pair. As she straddled him on some high dais. Slick with sweat and chest heaving with effort.

“I love you,” she exhales with a shaky breath. More hands than she can count holding her up. Eyes fluttering closed as fingers slip around her throat. Relaxing completely into his embrace as he takes over. She's exhausted but he can go for hours. Driving, pounding, searing with heat. Touching everywhere she's most sensitive. Knowing just what she likes after so long together. A teasing tug on each pert nipple, while a hand creeps lower to swirl between her thighs at the perfect pressure. Until she shatters and screams. Wolf grin splitting his face as he howls with triumph.

Rook love Spite, and Spite love Rook. Forever. Claimed like the name he carved into her flesh. Now a scar on her shoulder. Her own name mirrored across his chest. Blood magic binding for all eternity. Never to leave each other again.

“Good Rook. So perfect for Spite.”

[shadowgast-recs-weekly]

Alternate Timelines and Echoes : A Shadowgast Rec List

This week, we have alternate timelines and echos! Check under the cut for 19 fics that explore echoes and the fun that dunamantic magic can cause, and don't forget to comment and kudos if you like them!

Ties that Bind - series by wytch-lyghts (72,058, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

Caleb and Essek summon an echo from another time line that turns out to be Bren that was never broken

Reccer says: I liked it!

reflections and other illusions of control by atlasarcana (121,557 total. the first in the series is 15022, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Dubcon/Consensual Non Consent

caleb's alternate universe echo, whos still a scourger, is summoned by caleb and essek. they make a deal with him to satisfy some of essek's darker desires.

Reccer says: On the darker, more sexual, and darker sexual side of shadowgast. very spicy but also emotional. respectful exploration of consent even if it doesn't always seem that way.

multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance by mousecookie (10003, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb takes a step forward and stumbles. As he catches himself he realizes something very odd. His hands are shadowy and translucent. His whole body is a shadow, in fact. If he holds his palm up to the sky, he can see the stars twinkling faintly through it. Sharp talons of panic dig into his chest. He feels solid - if he grabs his own wrist, he has mass, but it is wrong. Everything is wrong. What is happening? Prepare Fireball, commands a voice in his head. The voice is familiar. It takes him a moment to realize it’s familiar because it’s his.

Reccer says: A wonderfully interesting concept and beautifully explored!

darkness, walk with me by magisterpavus (18,856, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

When Essek's plan to double-cross the Cerberus Assembly fails, he finds himself a prisoner of the Scourgers. He also finds Bren. They make a deal - Essek's mind for Bren's body - and Essek realizes that maybe he has always been a little selfish, a little disloyal. Maybe he can teach Bren to be the same.

Reccer says: I liked it!

Warp and Weft by DamnthatGeko (67437, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

“To Essek Thelyss,” it read, in his own looping handwriting. Five years after he was supposed to steal the beacons, Essek wakes with the memories of a different timeline in his head.

Reccer says: I actually just got done reading this a few days ago and I really liked it! It's an interesting take on what would happen if Essek decided to change the past. Also I loved watching him meet the mighty nein again and learning different things about them. I liked the action and adventure in this one. Great read

the better version of our past by kmackatie (5840, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Using the mini-beacon to fuel the time spell in Cognuza resulted in Essek seeing thousands upon thousands of alternate timelines, this covers some of them

Reccer says: A fascinating look into some snapshots of what could have been if things went a little different

The Altar of Verisimilitude by marsastronomica (9,877, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

What if Bren didn't break and Astrid and Eadwulf met Nott the Brave instead?

Reccer says: I liked it!

In All Worlds, Nothing Is Immutable by CherryMilkshake (22265, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek, who only briefly encountered the Nein, performs a spell that should have taken him 10 years into the past. Instead, he finds himself in a universe where that odd group of mercenaries seem to know him very well.

Reccer says: It's always interesting to see very lonely Esseks being speedrun into friendship (and yearning~) by Caleb and the Nein!

Mirror, Mirror by grassandcitrus (72276, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

The destruction of the T-Dock makes reality unstable enough for Caleb and Essek to be summoned as Resonant Echoes of their evil alternate universe selves! To get home, they'll need the help of a very different Nein.

Reccer says: This is such a fun exploration of what could have been for each of the Nein, and the Shadowgast is adorable.

In 100 years and Time You'll Know Me. by Fish_O_Cola (17924, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

An accidental time swap in Aeor sends Essek to his past, and a childhood version of himself from the past to the future.

Reccer says: It's particularly delightful because smol!Essek, but also adult Essek coming to understand more about his past and upbringing and what he's learned to value, as well as Caleb treating younger Essek with respect and understanding and asking for his help in returning adult Essek, and younger Essek, back to their proper timelines.

reflections and other illusions of control by atlasarcana (15022, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes, Choose Not to Warn, No warning for this fic. Choose not to warn applies to later fics in the series.

First in a wonderful series. Caleb and Essek summon an echo for the bedroom, turns out in that timeline Bren is still a volstrucker.

Reccer says: Tasty, tasty complex morality and well crafted prose.

jealousy by mllekurtz (1,724, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

Essek sleeps with someone else to further his goals. Bren is into it.

Reccer says: I liked it!

you're in my veins, i'm chained, to your pain radio by allmadeofstardust (18,117, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

In an alternate universe where Bren never broke, he becomes a full Volstrucker. But he never stops being ambitious. Never stops wanting to take what he wants. When he stumbles into an audience with Shadowhand Essek Thelyss, however, he might finally have a way to achieve his goals.

Reccer says: I liked it!

The Land Is Inhospitable by gauzemer (12035, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Ikithon-typical historical abuse

(incomplete) Essek helps assess materials for Trent Ikithon's trial and accidentally summons an echo/ghost of a younger Bren Ermendrud, and cannot dispel him.

Reccer says: Its such a fun concept im so excited to read the rest of!! present!essek and past!bren is so so intriguing of a dynamic

The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (As Beauty) by Foxtrott66 (8824, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Dubcon/Consensual Non Consent

Essek and Caleb are enjoying a romantic evening under the stars together. Left by himself for a moment, Essek contemplates matters of perspective and promptly receives a whole new one as he is summoned as an Echo to partake in a very different sort of evening.

Reccer says: Pure filth of Essek as an echo double-teaming Caleb with an alternate Essek with a little fluff either side. Echo Essek isn't in control but he's enthusiastic and everyone has fun. And there's artwork!

obsessively, incessantly, to a point of suffocation by breitweisergallery (4468, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

alternate history where the empire makes a push into xhorhas. volstrucker bren spends his time in the encampment that essek and verin lead.

Reccer says: fascinating concept!

blue waltz by atlasarcana (37337, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

At a lavish hotel in Ank'Harel, two pairs of wizards--Caleb and Essek in one universe, Bren and the Shadowhand in another, are embroiled in assassination plots, espionage, and the beacon that may or may not be hidden under their noses.

Reccer says: This is my favorite in this series! Action-y and sassy and unexpectedly sweet.

Pray Before You Twist the Knife by harp_turtle (6,283, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

Inspired by that tumblr post about two spies trying to get it on but they keep pulling an absurd amount of knives out of their clothes…and it should kill the mood but it’s definitely not.

Reccer says: I liked it!

The following fic received two recs!

More Things in Heaven and Earth by kaeda (76998, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek and Caleb are transported into another dimension where Tusk Love is very real.

Reccer 1 says: It's a fun and thoughtful fic with a lot of interesting threads into what different dimensions and timelines might exist. Reccer 2 says: This fic is such a delight! The novelization of Tusk Love is going to have to compete with this world in my head.

This is one of our weekly communally-generated shadowgast rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation. 

And hey, anyone includes you!

Next week, we'll be featuring older favourites! This is for fics that were uploaded or last updated longer than two years ago

Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit!

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Palace & Payne Detective Agency

They start the Palace and Payne Detective Agency (yes, there was a massive fight over whose name would come first, Edwin saying that he had the experience in hell, while Crystal said she had the experience with the living, before they eventually compromised on alphabetical order).

And yes, some people wonder why they stick together, considering that not a single case gets completed without them bickering to all hell about it.

But not only are the two of them good at what they do- remarkably good, despite their respective hesitations over each other when they first began, thanks to Edwin’s grasp of magic and languages and Crystal’s knowledge of people and modern, almost-‘70s culture and society- they understand each other as few others do.

As far as Crystal and Edwin can tell, they are the only ghosts wandering the earth (or, at least, the sections of England and America they have mirror-traveled to) to have returned from Hell. They are the only ones actively running from Death on their own terms, rather than just via the passive notion of not having completed their unfinished business.

And that sticks two people together, that knowledge of sulfur and brimstone and blood, those memories of bare feet on concrete and the skittering sounds of a doll-headed-spider and the crunch of knives shoved down one’s throat. That grows them together, binds them by unmoving blood and unbeating heart and unbreathing lungs. 

-aletterinthenameofsanity, don't need to fight to prove i'm right (don't need to be forgiven)

I wanna stand up, I wanna let go I wanna shine on, in the hearts of men I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand Another head aches, another heart breaks I'm so much older than I can take And my affection, well it comes and goes I need direction to perfection You know you gotta help me out

-The Killers, All These Things I've Done

[darkurgetrash]

Through the Veil | Solavellan oneshot

!Spoilers for Dragon Age: The Veilguard!

Ship: Solas / Inquisitor Lavellan | Rating: General, no warnings. | Wordcount: 1,557 | read on ao3

Lavellan and Solas finally reunite. Spoilers for Dragon Age: The Veilguard.

“She hadn’t crossed the veil because she didn’t understand the fate that awaited them. She had come because a life without him was no life at all.”

…Or: I wasn’t happy with how Dragon Age: The Veilguard ended, so I fixed it.

Lavellan rested her hand lightly on Solas’ shoulder as they moved toward the veil. His hands stayed folded before him, still and distant, as if to move them even slightly would cause him to fall apart.

He would sacrifice himself to repair the ruin he had wrought upon the world, and she would join him.

Her heart ached with the enormity of it. She understood what this meant, the cost of the decision. And though fear coursed through her, she wanted nothing more than to stand beside him, no matter what awaited them on the other side.

Then, as his magic unfurled around them, binding them to the threshold of the unknown, her breath hitched. Some part of her had expected him to turn away from her again, to leave her behind as he had before. It would have been easier, less complicated, to be alone again.

But there was no betrayal. No trick.

In his first unspoken act of freedom—freedom from Mythal, from his duty, from the endless, crushing weight of centuries—he had chosen her. Finally chosen her. And in that choice, however small, was the faintest glimmer of healing, a step toward becoming something simpler, something real.

Her Solas.

*

The world beyond the veil was muted, painted in desolation. Shades of ash smeared the sky, and jagged fissures carved into the ground bled into endless chasms, their depths humming a haunting dirge. A heavy stillness hung in the air, broken only by the faint hum of an unseen force—regret, made tangible.

Lavellan’s heart trembled at the sight. Was this where he had been imprisoned? It was a world carved from torment, a prison that mirrored Solas’ soul, haunted by centuries of guilt and unspoken grief. The Dreadwolf’s grief. Fen’Harel’s grief. For they were all one and the same.

She turned her gaze to him, standing beside her like a statue carved from sorrow. His head was bowed and his posture sagged with a defeat she had never seen in him before; a sight more frightening than any battle she’d ever faced. His hands curled into trembling fists at his sides. She remembered those hands, the way they used to hold hers, steady and warm. Now they were shaking, his fingers clenching as if grasping for something unreachable.

“Solas…” She whispered, tentatively, but still he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Instead, his attention remained fixed on the ground, as though the cracks beneath their feet might swallow him whole—or like he wished they would.

Her throat tightened as she watched him. Even now, after all he had done, her heart betrayed her. It throbbed with an unbearable ache for all that was lost. The time spent apart from him. The world’s ruin. Varric…

All of it was his doing. He had left her to pick up the pieces, to shoulder the burden he had passed on to her the day his anchor was branded on her hand.

She should have hated him. Perhaps part of her even wanted to. But as she looked at him now, silhouetted against this wasteland of his own making, hate was impossible.

He was still Solas. The man who had once whispered her name as if it were sacred, who had kissed her like she was his salvation. The man who had walked away—not because he didn’t love her, but because he feared losing her love when she saw what he had to become.

But he didn’t lose her. She loved him. She always had, and despite everything, she still did. That love had never left her—not in the near-decade since he vanished. It had clawed at her heart through every painful day, every sleepless night. And now, standing here in his purgatory, she knew this was where she was meant to be.

She hadn’t crossed the veil because she didn’t understand the fate that awaited them. She had come because a life without him was no life at all.

“Ma Vhenan…” she whispered again, releasing a shaky breath as she let her hand fall from his shoulder to his arm, sliding down until her fingers brushed his palm.

To her surprise, he didn’t pull away. He took her hand, grasping it tightly—desperately—as though she were still his anchor. His head turned slightly, just enough for her to see the edge of his face; jaw clenched, and lips trembling as though he were holding back words—or tears.

She swallowed, fighting back tears herself. What could she even say? She didn’t know whether she wanted to throw herself upon him in loving passion, or scream at him for all that had passed.

…No, that wasn’t right. Anger and grief weighed upon her, as right it should, but she couldn’t fathom even reaching for it right now. Whatever she could say, she was sure, was no worse than what he must have been telling himself for thousands upon thousands of years.

There would be time for her grief, and her anger. But right now...

“There’s…” she trembled, the words like lead in her throat. “There’s so much to—”

Before she could finish, he turned to her fully, his movements abrupt and raw. His lips crashed against hers, and the force of it stole the breath from her lungs.

The kiss was not gentle—it was frantic, desperate, a torrent of everything he had never been able to say. She felt his guilt, his grief, his love pouring into her like a flood that threatened to drown them both.

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she clung to him, her hands grasping desperately at his shoulders. She could feel his anguish in every movement, his overwhelming need to feel her, to hold her, to remind himself that she was real, and here.

When he finally pulled away, it was as if the kiss had shattered something inside him. He staggered back, his legs giving out beneath him as he fell to his knees. His hands clutched at her desperately, his face buried against her legs.

“Ma vhenan,” he choked, his voice raw and trembling, his shoulders heaving with every sob. “After everything I’ve done… I have spent years longing for you, but believing—fearing—that your forgiveness would be an impossibility. For what I had to do… for what I’ve become…”

Her heart shattered at the sound of his voice, broken and unrecognisable. She dropped to her knees beside him, her arms wrapping around him instinctively. He was shaking, his entire body wracked with the weight of his sorrow, and she held him as tightly as she could — for all those years she couldn’t.

“Not a day went by that I didn’t think of you, vhenan,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I saw you everywhere, even in my dreams. And I knew—no matter the distance, no matter the pain—we would find each other again. Var lath vir suledin.”

“You said as much before,” he murmured, his voice a ragged whisper. “But still, I could not let myself believe… I dared not hope you meant those words as truth.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her hands cupping his face. “I meant it, Solas. I always meant it.”

For a long moment, they stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms as though nothing else in existence mattered. Then, when Solas finally pulled back, his hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs brushing away her tears. His gaze met hers, and in his eyes, she saw everything—his sorrow, his regret, his love.

“Ir abelas, vhenan,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “Ar lath ma. Ar lath ma, vhenan. More than I can express, more than words could allow.”

She smiled softly, her hands covering his as she leaned into his touch. “Be at peace, my heart,” she murmured, resting her forehead against his. “We are together now. Ar lasa mala revas. We are free.”

Solas closed his eyes, his breath gradually steadying as he rested his forehead against hers. In that moment, she saw no remnant of a god, but purely Solas, as Solas. A man who loved her with everything he had.

And then, as her tears fell silently onto the cracked earth, she saw it. A small, fragile flower pushing its way through the tiniest fissure. Its petals were soft and violet, like his eyes, glowing faintly in the muted light. Was it real, or just a trick of her mind? Solas didn’t seem to notice, but when he opened his eyes, a smile touched his lips—a smile that held the softness, the love, she had feared she would never see again.

She smiled back, a quiet, contented curve of her lips. If this prison was born from his regrets, then perhaps there was still hope for them, after all. But whether the future would be truly bright, it no longer mattered to her. Right now, in this shared stillness, all that mattered was him, and her, and the undeniable truth that they were finally together, just as fate had always intended.

Whatever the future held, as long as Solas' hand remained firmly in hers, she knew they would face it side by side.

And for the first time in years, Lavellan felt hopeful.

And happy.

[thesummerstorms]

Niamh Amell, Warden Commander of Fereldan Rowan Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall Evanna Trevelyan, Inquisitor Arsinoë de Riva, Rook

a statue + a favorite flower + two symbols + one thing they love

Niamh Amell:

Statue: A heraldic griffon, slowly cracking and erroding Flower: A white rose. Associated in my mind with "victory", due to it being used for such in the first ever tarot deck I owned, traditionally associated with grief/mourning. Neatly encapsulates two thirds of the Warden ethos: In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice Symbols: Lightning and ice. Also a tad literal, as Niamh is a storm/ice/spirit mage, but magic often stems from its wielders' nature. Niamh is a hailstorm of a woman when crossed: swift, unforgiving, and destructively powerful, upending everything in her path. Something she enjoys: An eye-catching sapphire ring in the shape of a flower. After a lifetime of restrictions and forced humility in the Circle, Niamh developed an eye for shiny trinkets that is perhaps unbecoming of someone in her position. Those who attempt to use this fact to bribe her are rebuked, but she has no qualms accepting love tokens from her husband that were stolen from a mark or purchased with money from a death-contract. The ring she wed Zevran with is in fact an ornately set sapphire.

Rowan Hawke:

Statue: A group of stone figures, their individual faces and features worn away to the point of being indistinguishable. Flower: Zinnia, used to symbolize friendship, affection, and loyalty... no matter how alone she felt herself by the end. Her affection and loyalty were never enough to stem the tide, and ultimately brought her to her last stand in the Fade. Symbols: A cliff face being overgrown by vines or roots, and a length of rope. Stubbornness, a tool in someone's hands, a forcible climb upward despite the odds. Or binding, restraint, and restriction. It depends on your point of view. Something she enjoys: A lone hiker standing on a precipice overlooking the sea. Rowan enjoyed escaping the city to climb and wander wherever her feet would take her. (She would have enjoyed it more, had Sundermount not been crawling with bandits and thieves.) But even in Fereldan, she would wander sometimes, escaping mother/father/brother/sister until something inevitably dragged her back.

Evanna Trevelyan:

Statue: A musician playing a harp, their hands and face recently beginning to wear away although their instrument remains untouched. Flower: Jasmine flowers, like her favorite perfume, which she used to use smuggled coin to convince the Templars of her Circle to bring her when her aunt and grandmother's packages were lost or confiscated by the Knight-Commander. It was one of just a handful of personal indulgences she could never quite give up. Symbols: Stained glass like a chapel window, beautiful but impossible to see through clearly. Fragments of a broken mirror lost amongst the debris of the forest floor, a self-image shattered by a journey. Something she enjoys: A lone grey-white horse in an open field, mountains at its back. Before she was dragged off to the Circle, Evanna grew up in the isolated countryside outside Ostwick, riding on horseback and learning archery like the free-spirited nobleman's daughter she outwardly appeared to be. In the Circle, she used to dream of galloping great distances on horseback, but actually regaining the skill in the Inquisition took time.

Arsinoë de Riva:

Statue: "Hands from hell" sculpture, reaching and encroaching, like the memories locked away beneath regret, meant to catch her in their grasp. Flower: Cornflower. Arsinoë would always say her favorite flower is the showy, toxic beauty of blue-violet delphinium. And it is. But her other, equal, secret favorite is the cornflower, beautifully colored but common, a weedflower with no defenses when the farmers cut it away in their fields and no poison to offer an enterprising Crow. Symbols: Silver-ringed hands holding a mage's orb and a flash of violent purple lightning. Arsinoë has always been defined by her magic, which was part of her from before her earliest memory. She was the daughter of a rebel apostate who chose the good of mages over the good of a single child. A young girl stolen and locked away in the Circle who was told to be grateful for her "rescue". A young fledgling whose spells bought her life rather than execution or Tranquility when the Knight-Commander sold her off to the Crows for coin. The spell-blade and storm-caller of House de Riva, survival granted due to utility eventually becoming an authority she didn't want to claim. Something she enjoys: The pegs of a lute, framed against a dark room. Music was one of the few things she began learning for herself, but Viago was more encouraging than she anticipated. Not because of her particular voice or talent, but because it lent his protege a necessary air of sophistication to learn to play the same instrument as many a young noblewoman. Eventually, like anything else in the Crows, it became a tool for her contracts: the disguise of a traveling musician, a street busker, a battered young widow seeking solace through the strumming of strings and shy promises of good company. Her playing grew less after the Antaam invaded, and was left to gather dust in her exile. It wasn't until she found herself facing quiet, sleepless hours in front of the Lighthouse's kitchen fire that she began playing again, and not purely for herself.

[maabelasdaruth]

The more I consider my rewrite of knowing everything about Solas, the more poignant the lack of knowledge hits in the original romance. Especially as the only Dalish elf among humans. She's only ever known her clan, looking to Solas as her person, someone of her culture who even with his hang ups about the Dalish is the elven apostate who saved her left after the temple. He's so clever, and mirrors her own admiration. He's calling her Lethallan, a single familiar face among a sea of other, especially compared to Sera, a city elf whose introduction is the "too elfy" comment.

Flash forward to whenever her clan dies to humans (elf is the only background with multiple death conditions at multiple decision points as far as I remember) She has been the lone Dalish among humans for weeks or months but now she is alone. A spy who was suddenly made a representative for the Dalish of Clan Lavellan, but there is no more clan Lavellan. It's the prominency of HER NAME that brought the attention towards them. They are scattered and lost. She is alone, the Keeper is likely dead, and she was the first of clan Lavellan, she's who would be next in line as Keeper, but even if there were surviors, she cannot leave. In truth she lost that life the moment she became Herald. She is no Keeper. She is the Inquisitor. Her clan is scattered or slaughtered, and she is a worlds away.

So suddenly Solas, her vhenan, is the last thing she's able to cling to of her culture. The idea of her completely trusting and loving him. Giving all of herself to him with no idea he's the thing she's been warned about all her life. The power of secrets and the inequality of information and power in their dynamic is intoxicating. By building a character who has to do the same calculations Solas does in every word they speak, the dynamic changes. The original Lavellan is following the story beats, falling in love and having their heart broken and learning the truth behind their lovers actions only years later. Whereas, my spirit possessed Lavellan is falling in love with him because HE'S REAL NOW and that's intoxicating but, she's already obsessed with him before they met (full decade now). In a very real way, he is the thing binding her to the world. As much as I love so many of the other characters I am posting on a blog dedicated to Solas, quite literally titled my sorrow is eternal -> ma abelas dar uth, because I'm also a drama queen. So this new character rewrites so much of the original story dynamic which makes it an ENTIRELY DIFFERENT STORY in a very fun way that helps me appreciate the original more because like:

Lavellan now knows the events of inquisition and Veilguard when they go as a spy to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. So they're walking into their potential death with the intention to prevent the horror of what the Inquisitor could become. Especially because despite what Veilguard did in only having one world state, the decision of who became Divine changed that world profoundly. And the Inquisitor set the tone for that and mage/Templar freedom. It can't be anyone else because she/I am prideful enough to believe it should be me. But those big world reasons are equally important to meeting Solas as the person who he will feel the whole world change when you meet because that's what becoming the person who could be real to him costs. Also she's not sure if it's to change his mind or let him change hers. I'm not so decided that the veil should stay up, especially all it cost to keep in place in Veilguard. The elven condition across the world is so often suffering and the Dales the Dalish were named after tried to isolate from humans in order to regain their own immorality, why wouldn't she take that change. I understand the game needs you to be dedicated to order but I am a creature of chaos and dream. Let me make the dreams real and bring the magic back and let everything sing again like Sandal was on about back in Dragon age 2!

Also the Dalish teach that spirits want to destroy the world in their jealousy which is discussed in early Solas questionings and as much as Solas tried to protest that it's not true, that's exactly his plan just over grief and regret rather than jealousy. How fun would it be if spirit Lavellan would help with that! Two spirits destroying the current world in order to bring about the next, bound by Pride and Obsession/Desire. Even if I could fix him, wouldn't it be fun to be worse together! He wouldn't let you help him in Trespasser but that's original Lavellan whose world he's destroying, what if you clawed your way into the world with Titan and elf blood, placed yourself on the path to the title of Inquisitor and confronted him in Crestwood.

What would it look like for his failed confession to be interrupted by her/my own?!

"I can love all of you, Solas and Fen'Harel. Can you love me in my totality, as Lavellan and MYSELF?"

[spitefulsatanfics]

° The Thing About Stars °

Chapter Ten: a celestial elegy

Tones: slow-burn romance, divine horror, apocalyptic tenderness

Written by: Little Devil & Castiel’s perpetual longing

Warnings: violence, blood magic, religious themes, canon-level angst, romantic tension, brief language

Word count: ~4,000 words

The Hollow Choir came singing.

They spilled from the fracture in the sky like blood from an ancient wound—wings woven from static and grief, too many limbs unfolding like a cathedral collapsing in reverse. Their voices were tuned to the frequency of heartbreak, a harmony built from despair.

And through it all, Castiel stood between them and her like a wall made of broken hymns and borrowed grace.

Y/N felt it first—the pulse beneath her ribs. A tug in her soul. The tether tightening.

"No more," she whispered, voice shaking like glass on the verge.

The world was buzzing with sigils—drawn in her blood, Bobby’s ash, Castiel’s fading grace. They’d been carving protection into the bones of this abandoned chapel for days. But this was no ward. This was surgical sanctification.

This was a holy purge.

---

☉

The Ritual Begins

The altar was cold beneath her palms. Not stone—wood, ancient and splintered from decades of prayer and rot. It smelled like dust, ozone, and something older.

At its center: the obsidian blade. An angelic artifact long buried beneath a ruined convent. Its edge shimmered with names no one should speak. Her blood had already christened it.

Around the blade, sigils bloomed across the floor in ink and ash, etched into the wood with trembling hands. They pulsed with heat and memory, binding heaven and earth together in a ritual born from desperation.

Castiel moved beside her with grim precision. His hand rested gently at her back—solid, grounding, celestial.

"Say the words with me," he murmured.

His voice—low, raw—was reverent, like a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved to say. But he said it anyway. For her.

They spoke together:

"Et cantus interrumpitur."

The song is interrupted.

The circle blazed gold, then red, then something deeper—something unnameable. The chapel trembled beneath their feet.

And then the screaming began.

They didn’t descend. They peeled through the tear in the sky, collapsing into the mortal plane like a flood of broken psalms. The Hollow Choir didn’t walk—they unfolded. Wings of mirror-glass. Throats of ruin. Bodies that bent around corners they hadn’t reached yet.

They weren’t beautiful. They were the shadow of beauty—what remained after sanctity was stripped.

And each of them carried her voice.

They echoed her screams, her grief, her shame. They twisted every quiet moment she’d ever buried deep—her worst fears dressed in angelic bone.

Castiel stepped forward. His hand lifted. Grace poured from his fingers like starlight liquefied.

"Stay behind me," he said, not a request but a command soaked in worry.

She didn’t argue.

---

☉

Grace and Fire

The first struck like a whipcrack—lurching from the rafters, limbs contorting in impossible ways. Its face wore her childhood, mouth stitched with lies she’d told herself.

Castiel met it with the force of Heaven. He slammed his palm into its chest and poured raw, searing grace into the thing’s core. It screamed—not in pain, but in memory—and collapsed into smoke, glittering like shattered belief.

More followed.

Y/N grabbed the blade. It seared her hand, recognizing her not just by blood, but by purpose. She slashed at the creature charging from the left, its face a mess of weeping mirrors. The cut struck true—the mirror shattered, and the creature dissolved with a shriek that shook her bones.

“Draw the final sigil!” Castiel shouted over the din.

She ran. Skidded across the bloodstained floor. Her fingers shook but she didn’t hesitate—she carved the final Enochian glyphs into the floor with the dagger’s hilt, her own blood thickening the lines. Every stroke pulsed like a heartbeat.

And still, the Choir pressed in.

One broke through.

Castiel turned too late.

It didn’t strike him with claws—but with sound.

A pure, holy note.

Too perfect. Too cruel.

Castiel staggered, knees buckling. Blood dripped from his nose, from his ears. His grace flickered like a dying star behind his ribs.

Y/N screamed. The creature loomed.

She threw herself in front of him.

And then—

---

☉

The Tether Breaks

The altar responded. Light bloomed from the center like a second sun. The blade in her hand pulsed.

She pressed her palm to the altar. Blood met magic. Her soul sang with pain and resolve.

“Et memoria revocatur,” she gasped.

The memory is reclaimed.

The tether snapped.

She felt it go—an invisible chain breaking, a hook yanked from her chest. The Hollow Choir recoiled as if struck. Their cries warped and withered. The echo between them and her collapsed inward.

The chapel trembled. The tear in the sky fractured—but this time, it was healing.

Castiel rose—shaky, staggering. His coat was in tatters, his vessel trembling. But his eyes—his eyes were stars caught in stormlight.

He stepped into the burning center of the circle.

"I am Castiel," he said, low but clear. "And you will not have her."

He drove his hand into the altar.

There was no sound.

Only light.

It wasn’t fire. It was grace in its purest form—a command. A release. A benediction.

The Hollow Choir shattered, one by one, unraveling into nothing. Their screams turned to silence. And the tear above them sealed like the sky taking a breath.

---

☉

Aftermath

Silence.

The kind that felt sacred.

Y/N stumbled forward, feet bloody, limbs trembling. She reached him—caught him as he sagged.

“Cas,” she breathed.

His arms wrapped around her waist. Weak. Bloody. But present.

“You idiot,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “You burned half your soul—”

“I told you,” he rasped, voice broken and reverent, “you come first.”

The words splintered something inside her. She searched his face—so full of pain, and clarity.

And love, maybe.

She didn’t care anymore.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” she said.

He blinked slowly.

“I… don’t fully understand—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She kissed him.

It was desperate. Shaky. Imperfect.

His lips were chapped. He didn’t know where to put his hands. But he kissed back. Gently. Desperately. Like it meant something holy.

When they broke apart, he looked at her like the sky looks at the ocean—endlessly.

“I think,” he whispered, “I would like to do that again.”

She laughed. Sobbed. Kissed him once more.

---

☉

Stars Don’t Fall, They Choose

Outside, the world was still.

The stars were quiet again.

Castiel looked up. “They’re watching,” he murmured. “But not interfering. Not tonight.”

“Do you think it’s over?” she asked, her voice soft.

He didn’t answer.

He just laced his fingers with hers.

“Not over,” he said. “But we have time now.”

She smiled, bloody and whole.

That was enough.

---

☉

Thank You for Reading

This was Chapter 10: The Thing About Stars, the finale of this quiet, screaming, holy mess of a love story.

Thank you for following Y/N and Castiel through apocalypses, rituals, and awkward almost-confessions. Thank you for believing in a version of love that’s clumsy, fierce, and carved into sigils.

See you in the starlight.

— Little Devil <3

[raayllum]

AU where Rayla is just a split second faster aboard the Sea Legs

She's not quick enough to dodge the icy wave that overtakes her limbs, exactly. She feels it in her fingertips, first, like the frostbite that had nearly overtaken her near the Shivering Glades her first year on her own, before she'd had Stella to help her conserve body heat. The cold creeps down to her neck, her torso, each vein burning in agony, fear and confusion running wild in her mind. It hurts more than anything else ever has, like her whole body rather than just her hand was about to fall apart on the other end of a binding, intensified in her heart most of all—

But Rayla doesn't have to be at her best to aim true.

The first halberd she'd stolen sinks into Finnegrin's shoulder, cleaving his arm from his body in one fell swoop. The second lands somewhere above his thigh and he sinks to his knee, howling. Blood spurts from his severed arm and Callum leaps back from it, wide eyed.

"You little—" Finnegrin hisses, spasming from pain. She's never seen so much hate in his eyes before.

His crew—disloyal, afraid—shuffle uneasily but none rush to help him. Even Elmer seems too stunned, frozen like a rock rather than the hunk of wood that he is.

Finnegrin's spell inches down to her waist, and then... Miraculously, it recedes, his concentration broken. His body too weak to maintain it.

Rayla coughs, sputtering, and drops to her knees. Everything aches, and she'll hit the deck hard, but—Callum rushes forward, sliding on his knees and catching her instead. Cushioning her fall as he meets her eyes, his own concerned and angry and frightened and so, so beautiful.

"Are you okay?" he breathes and she nods.

He helps her to her feet, a shoddy mirror image of her helping him up on the Ruthless just two days prior, and she's grateful to see that Soren has turned Ezran away, as Finnegrin bleeds out on the deck.

She nudges Callum away and limps over, glaring at the man who'd dared to attack them, who'd dared to torture her love and try to coerce him into dark magic, even as her stomach squelched. This was a horrible, slow way to die and—

She could be merciful without hesitation, as she wrenched the second halberd from his kneecap and dropped it over his throat instead, silencing him. The other halberd lay in the ever growing pool of blood as she stepped back and exhaled, her breath like a ghost in the stormy mist.

His spirit would not be missed.

And there were worse things to have her first kill over, hollow as she felt.