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milksuu · 1 year ago

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❝ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ❞ ─── ☾⏺☽

phase O.1 // phase O.2

pairing: yandere!aphelios x solari!priestess!reader (LoL)

tw: non/con, fem!reader, oral sex (f. receiving), possessive/obsessive behavior, somnophilia, object insertion, blood/violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, kidnapping/imprisonment, implied forced relationship, unbalanced power dynamic, enemies to lovers vibe

notes: here it is besties. thank you all for being so patient with me. and thank you to all the lovelies who've commented/msgd me asking about it and wanting more. im just so glad to share my unhinged obsessions. i do have plans to make a third part, but again, could be a bit. so sorry ahhh.

You hadn’t realized you were stolen to sleep. Sobbing yourself into the veiled shadows of your mind in the arms of something—someone—so haunting. A damning surrender on your part. It was a miracle you had the pleasure of opening your eyes. When the moon crawler could have offered you death instead.

When your lashes winged wholly, the haze of a night-dark bedroom washed your sight. You breathed in your surroundings. The linen bed sheets beneath your fingertips, a worktable littered with dried herbs and vials, and a vaulted chest for storing valuables. A simple room one would toss a coin for a night at a common tavern.

With effort, you pulled yourself to your knees. The weight of clothes shifted against your body. Looking down, you pinched the fabric of a clean gown. And when a hair strand fell to your cheek, you caught the faintest scent of lavender and nightshade. Drifting your attention lower, a mild soreness welled between your legs, accounting for last night's debauchery. A reminder of an ache you could never wash away, no matter how much you scrubbed yourself raw. But even scrapping your skin till you bled from bone seemed a better feeling than this.

That thought alone made you pause in your observations and consider the only details that mattered.

Where were you and...

Where was he?

You crawled over to the side of the bed. Pressing your feet against the ground, something like cold iron grazed them. You reached through the dark and secured a dulled paring knife. Your gaze studied an apple not too far away, half peeled from the skin of its flesh. Dropped mid-serving, for whatever the reason was. Knife in hand, you tiptoed to the bedroom door and tried to pry it open. It shuddered against your touch—locked. It seemed the only way to escape was by key, and to your misfortune, you didn’t have to guess who had it in strict keeping.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

A brush of cold licked across your nape. Turning towards the sound, there was another adjoining room. A washroom, perchance. You tightened your hold on the knife, and willed your bare feet forward, swallowing your thudding heart. You counted each step, pausing when a puddle glistened before the doorway. Dark in color and metallic in aroma, a shiver traced your spine as you stepped over it.

Under the door frame, your sight fell upon him, bare and slumped in a wooden bath. You stood still, not daring to flinch, in case he had his own knife hidden beneath the surface tension. When your presence hadn’t been acknowledged, you padded closer.

Examining him further, you noticed not a lick of a wound, scrape, or gash on his body. Nothing that would substantiate the splatter of blood you'd passed. Falling onto his face, the faintest shimmer stained the corners of his lips. You would’ve deemed him dead if it weren’t for the labored breaths and shivers of his body.

A saccharine taste of flowers sprang to the tip of your tongue.

Lowering yourself onto your knees, you brought the knife a near inch to his throat. You hadn’t noticed the slits of his eyes cracked open, branding you the moment you stepped in. Before you could jerk back, his hand leapt from the bath water. You winced when he took your wrist, expecting him to plunge the blade in your direction. Instead, he lulled his head to the side, and guided your hand to press the sharp edge against the skin of his neck.

“This angle is much better, isn’t it?” Aphelios stated rather than asked, his wet hair flowing like liquid night across his features. “You can stare deeply into the eyes of your enemy, and watch that insignificant light fade from them. Then, and only then, do you know they’re truly dead. If that's what you would like to do to me..." you held your breath and felt the blue of his veins beat against the blade. “Now’s your chance.”

Your hands trembled, his mortal essence flowing right at your fingertips. But the mere thought of relishing red-stained hands overwhelmed you with a bout of nausea, weakening your grasp at the hilt. Even if he deserved every bit of suffering, and for you to celebrate his undoing by a dull carving knife, it wasn’t who you were.

You refused to be anything like him.

“Strange. Not many Burning One’s would hesitate at the offer. It’s no wonder they locked you away in that sunlit temple.” He released your shaking hand and traced the outline of your face. “Far from the shadows they’ve cast down.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you seethed, tugging your chin away from his touch. He leaned back in the basin, his shoulders taut as he fought against a cough. You narrowed your lashes at a string of blood pouring from his lips. “It’s not my place to deliver your punishment, but your trial of judgment will come. It’s already apparent you’re paying for your transgressions. And I’m glad for it.”

Your words were false against your true sensibilities. Feeling foolish for your heart to ache with sympathy for him, a wretched murderer and lech. The wiser part of you screamed when you set aside the knife, took up a washcloth, and wiped at his mouth. A cord in his jaw tightened, and you noted a life-stealing grip at the tub's edge.

A trained reflex to wrap his fingers around your neck.

Had you been anyone else.

Had you been anyone else, you would’ve been flayed open across the altar. Had you been anyone else, the pathetic knife you threatened him with would be stuck heart deep between your breasts. Had you been anyone else, She would have commanded your sacrifice.

You banished the unwelcomed thought.

“The water’s freezing. How long have you let yourself sit here?” His lips merely mirrored a fine line at the question. Under your gaze, you watched another invisible ripple tighten the tethers of his muscles. You exhaled on a presumptive thought. “You can’t move. Can you?”

The black glass of his eyes stared at nothing, and said nothing. Then and there, that cold existence would rather suffer than utter a single word of admittance.

“Seems you like to keep quiet when it’s convenient for you.” You quipped, wringing out the washcloth with indignation. “No different from a child throwing a tantrum when it suits them. I should leave you here then. Let whatever you catch take you within a week’s time. It would save a lot of others the trouble.”

His face remained a blank sheet of ice, and you interpreted it as an invitation to do as you pleased. He’d given you the choice to take his life, after all. Now you understood he’d meant every word. Perhaps he even intended to pay a compliment. Not a bluff or jab at your softer nature, even after you had foolishly settled to spare him.

You banished the strange sentiment. Once you had found a way to get him to bed and asleep, you would scrounge the room for a key. Wherever he had chosen to hide it.

“Golden Sister, avert your light," you asked for pardon under your breath.

You drew up your hand, calling forth a kindle of golden sunlight. It pulsed and radiated with warmth, kissing the tips of your fingers. The glow of it illuminated your company’s features. That face of marble chipped at the corner of his eyes; a crack of unnerving reproach. When you guided your hand towards the pane of his chest, he ruefully shifted away.

You clicked your tongue. “You’ll let me freely cut your throat, but the moment I try to help, you want nothing to do with it. Either you hold still, or I reconsider your offer. Which one is it?”

He responded with a slowed and pained breath. When he leaned back, you pressed a palm to his sternum.

Closing your eyes, you concentrated on the ebb and flow of warm light reaching for him; through him. When you entered, dark shadows ripped and slashed against your magic. Sharper than daggers of ice, piercing hotter than any black flame. Sweat gathered at your temples. Furrowing your brows, you steeled your magic from shattering and concentrated your radiance. Gradually, the thrashing tendrils subdued into undulating wisps that languidly brushed across your presence.

“I can’t heal whatever sickness you’ve caused yourself. It's unfamiliar to me. And even if I could, I wouldn't want to keep you waiting to spend eternity with your false deity," you admitted, withdrawing. “But I should have eased the pain. Enough for you to manage from here and to bed.”

Without a word, and with what little strength he still possessed, he gripped the lip of the tub. You hooked an arm underneath his own, and his legs trembled as he rose from the bathwater. When he dragged his feet from the bath, he banked to catch himself on the wall with his hand. The unexpected sway almost swept your footing away. With luck, he managed to hold himself as you helped him stagger out of the washroom.

When he dropped onto the bed, the weight of him brought you to your knees beside him. You huffed, prying his arm away from the support of your shoulders. He made no effort to force you to lay with him. Thankfully, the soothing effects of your work made him pliable, gifting you a moment of safe assurance.

Your gaze roamed the softness that rounded his previously sharpened features. His brows rested light above his closed eyes, and his lashes long and airy curtained over the smooth contour of his cheeks. His face once devoid of color now brushed with a stroke of pink from your magic. If you hadn’t been the wiser, you would’ve believed him to be a completely different person.

Nothing like a weapon now.

You pulled yourself from your careless observations, remembering time was of the essence if you’d hope of escape. Turning away, ghostly fingertips graced the skin of your cheek. Your breath hitched. Drawn back, his black pearls peeked from their bed of lashes. His lips moved, but deft as the words were, you swore it was a mere breath in the night.

‘...thank you.’

Your heart constricted, abandoning you in a space stolen of thought, let alone a reply. To your horror, the squeeze of your chest wasn't entirely unpleasant. Still, you feared to linger on it, knowing it would sooner kill you if you’d let it. You consciously berated yourself to get away—hurry, hurry! But like a silent poison of its own kind, you suddenly felt weak in spirit. And to no one’s fault but of your own.

You had drained yourself dry by helping him.

Still in his touch, your body sank onto the bed next to him. He traced the contour of your neck, past the dip of your clavicle, down to the arc of your hip bones. Lingering there, he drew lazy circles against the fabric till it hitched at your waist. His fingers slipped beneath, brushing a hand against the bare skin of your waist. You trembled, weathering the cold bite of his touch. No better than prey submitting to a cruel yet ordained circumstance.

“I should have never…” you swallowed, remorse tightening your throat.

His hand paused—watching a glint of wetness stain your eyes—then pulled you in with devastating gentleness. Resting his brow at your breasts, he enveloped you in his arms, and curled himself bare between your legs. Holding you in an embrace that was more delicate than heartbreak, drawing out a shuddering breath from your lips.

For what seemed like an eternity, you laid there. Feigning death, praying for your eyes to never close again. Hoping to salvage the opportune moment to escape once he let go. But exhaustion was a beast that stalked your side and sank its fangs in the spots where he held you close. Paralyzing all your nerves till they went flak, dragging your body limp in his touch.

And your waning consciousness along with it.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Behind closed eyes, the world was dark. An unfeeling landscape where nothing else existed. A state you could find yourself clinging to for the rest of your days to come. If only you were lucky enough to stay. Like a match to your body, a flame curled and burned beneath your dampening skin. The scorch of it trailing the woods of your body. A fire in your blood snaking lower to feed the smoldering spit simmering in your belly.

You shuddered, twitched and bit softly at the bottom half of your lip. Long, devoted fingers cradled your waist as lips graced the lower parts of your stomach. The careful graze of teeth at your navel sent your eyelids fluttering, where a glaze of lingering sleep clouded your vision. Only after a few blinks did you bid the fog away, and woke to the sight of yourself.

The hem of your nightgown had been shelved above your swollen breasts, revealing nipples perked and coated wet with saliva. A sheen of sweat glistened like oil from mound to curve, and found the wicked Lunari man responsible for your state laid between your legs.

Your lips quivered, struggling to speak through the feverish qualities burning away at your flesh. You couldn’t even attempt to prop yourself up, let alone drag yourself away. Your body felt heavy and drunk off whatever pleasure it had thirsted for and drank without complaint.

“What are you…” you started, but your voice was too sticky. Too mumbly. Not even swallowing would help.

“I had a dream about your sunlight. That small, pleasant piece you shared with me last night.” He took pause, flitting his attention up from below, where his black slits narrowed with shameless intent. “I wondered what it would taste like.”

“N–Not down there,” you pleaded out a half-choked whimper. “It isn’t clean.”

“Isn’t it, though? Have you considered how you might’ve bathed last night? Wondered who could have done it for you.” He trailed feather-light kisses down your inner thigh, leaving a path of goosebumps in his wake. “Washed your hair. Washed your body. And...” he tempted lower and lower, until the heat of his breaths warmed your folds, making them bloom with ache. "Everything in between.”

“Stop saying things like that. Stop doing things like this,” you said, wanting to speak them as commands. But the crack in your voice watered your tone down to unconsolable weeping. Knowing you had made a terrible mistake. Knowing no amount of your good nature would spare the heat of his mouth from teasing you relentlessly. Knowing you had no control as your cunt dripped itself into a pitiful mess. You tossed your head back and forth, desperate to hide the humiliation of your face in the throws of bedding.

“Please.” Your chest heaved and shuddered. “Just let me go.”

"Fated or not, you’ve chosen to stay. First, when you decided not to kill me in my most vulnerable state.” He eased the flat of his tongue over your leaking entrance, dragging it upward to flick your clit. Your hands clasped over your mouth to stifle the degrading noises that dared to leave. “Second, when you helped me to bed and kept it warm with me. And third—”

He plunged the length of his tongue into you, reaching for your center. You cried out through the gaps in your fingers, feeling something clenched deep inside you—and it wasn't his tongue. It was impeccably hard, with a distinct weld, shape and curve. The tip of his tongue swirled and twisted around it, coaxing it to rub along your sensitive ridges on the way out. When it revealed itself at your entrance, he took the object with a bite. A clink of metal between his teeth. With a shuddering gasp, your hips bucked once he slipped it past the squeeze of your hole.

“Even though you held the key inside you this whole time,” he fingered the iron loop and slid it across his tongue. You flushed when he consumed your gaze below. “You waited for me to take it.”

Your head and heart pounded with blood. When…when did he…?

Before you could object, his mouth reclaimed all your ripe and swollen parts. Graciously kissing, licking, feasting between your legs. Your hips jolted as you squirmed against him. His hands gripped to dimple the softness of your thighs, parting you open like two delicate and succulent halves of a fruit.

Your eyes clenched shut, trying to forge the words that would stop him. But none existed in the pleasurable thickness that drowned your senses, possessing your hips to meet him at each languid lap. Turning your saliva into hot syrup in your mouth. Muddling any conceivable words down to moanful whines, sloppy whimpers, and broken utterances. Completely helpless as every stroke of his tongue made a creamy reduction of your insides, threatening to spill over every edge.

Your nails twisted into the bedsheets, and you broke for breath. “Can’t—n’ more—“

The moon devil interpreted your incoherent pleas for mercy as undying praise. Encouraging him to devour you with the passion of a starved man who’d forsaken each meal before you. Listening to a hunger that told him you would be his last, and echoed a fear that it would never be enough.

One last brush of his tongue and he clasped his lips around the bud, suckling on its throbbing plumpness.

A burst of pressure had you coming undone onto his mouth. Wails ripped through the air as your back careened into that awful crescent shape for him. You reached to push him away, but he’d caught your hands before you could lay a finger. You choked out a sob when he tacked your writhing wrists against the bed and continued to worship your taste with his mouth. Savoring every part of your quivers and cries, down to the very last gushing drop induced from your spasms.

When he had taken his last sip of pleasure, he rose from between your thighs to loom above you.

“You’re exactly as I imagined you would taste.” His voice was a thin whisper on his glistening lips. As if he hadn’t even wanted the walls to hear. A secret only he would ever know, and for you to be the only one he’d share it with.

He bent forward, panting with an unsatiated appetite against your mouth. “Sweet and warm.”

He took your lips, letting you drink up your arousal. A heavy, generous pour. The dewy tang of yourself flushed your face and neck with color. Your heart raced, gasping for breaths in a blur of moans and kisses.

Tears of utter shame and frustration dotted your lashes, till they fell over in heaps. Yet, even your tears didn’t go to waste. He traced his tongue over your flushed and burning cheeks, catching every bit like spilled honey. And all you could do was lay there, unable to escape his sensual gilded cage. All the while hating yourself for wanting his mouth all over you—wanting to know how it’d feel claiming every inch of skin.

And hating him all the more for it.

#aphelios x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #league of legends #reader insert #aphelios #x reader #yandere aphelios x reader #yandere smut #league of legends x reader #tw noncon #mdni

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noncredible-naramon · 6 months ago

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AND ANOTHER THING about 1999 -- I love these worlds that let us come into contact with "normal" people. I feel like we've been getting more of that over the last few arcs of story from DE, and it's in my opinion a very good choice.

Every workday for a tenno is a nine-hour breakneck sprint through hostile territory while everyone in the squad is doing Unlimited Blade Works simultaneously. We do shit like wipe out the crews of entire galleons with a bow and arrow because it's more fun than using a rifle. We convert the entire world into particle physics and melee our way through by interpreting the three intelligible pixels like some kind of divination.

We've been trapped in a torture nexus for eternity. We've trained with every weapon imaginable over thousands of years. We regularly hang out with talking fish and entities from other star systems, to say nothing of the incomprehensible eldritch horror who sometimes hangs out on our porch to jumpscare us when we're coming inside. We haven't just been to the Void, we regularly go there to pick up groceries for our friends, who are ghosts.

As a result, this can make one a little jaded about the whole Tenno experience. You can forget what you are actually doing. You can lose track of the stakes.

And then you meet someone like the Hex, or the Ostrons, or the Solaris, and they say "hey can you uh. blow up this tank? I know it's a lot to ask but we could really use the help" and suddenly you realize. "Oh. You people are out here risking your lives, and I could wrap this up in five minutes and be home with pizza. Yes I will explode the tank. Should we get pepperoni or just straight cheese?"

It gives an immediate, satisfying story outlet for all this power, and lets us feel the amount of progression you've had to get this far, plus I personally think it's a lot of fun.

#warframe 1999 #note: I am deliberately excluding Steel Path from this because the Steel Path is not necessarily the 'canon' Warframe experience imo #and sure in the Hex quest you are using vanilla/watered-down weapons and frames #but once you get through the quest #the average level of enemies you're facing in the 'starchart' Hollvania region is like. 70 #by the time you make it to 1999 your Drifter can probably solo a level 70 mission without even getting knocked out once

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bumble-the-sun-bee · 1 month ago

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Solaris Glitchstar reference

Finally got around to making his new ref with a bit of a redesign :3

----

Info for any that don't know him

~~~~`~

He stands at 9'3 (not including rays)

He's got blades built into his arms that are mainly to intimidate but are functional

He loves flowers and has a large garden he and Malware take care of

He's in an open poly with Mal, Titan and Static (static isn't a fan of Titan. They're figuring stuff out)

He can use hypnosis via changing his optic setting

He doesn't have the ability to use magic

He has two tongues :3

#bumble rambles #bumble draws #dca fandom #original character #fnaf daycare attendant #malware dca #solaris dca

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reverieshifts · 2 months ago

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𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚

𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒂 𝒅𝒓

Ok, this is hard. Just so you're aware, my backstory in this dr isn't the happiest. It's got quite a bit of messed up stuff in it, and while I know I personally can handle it, I am in no way advocating or suggesting this type of backstory for other people. Again, I know my own limits, and I am using this reality as one where I can heal from some stuff. But if things like child neglect or sibling violence trigger you, please stay safe and skip this one. Also this will be a very VERY long post, so good luck! If you really want to know what happens without reading through all of this, you can just scroll down to the summary.

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒔𝒉

The night the palace burned was one of terror and chaos—a night that would be etched into the memory of every fae who survived it. For years, tensions between Elodia and the human kingdoms had been simmering. Skirmishes flared, treaties broke, and diplomacy frayed at the edges. The fae, ever reluctant to plunge the world into all-out war, had held back, hoping to avoid a conflict that would shatter entire realms.

But the humans? They were desperate. The war had gone poorly for them. The fae were unmatched—beings of magic and grace, their warriors woven from the fabric of starlight and storm. The humans could not win with strength. But they still had fire. Steel. Treachery.

And so, they struck at the heart of the kingdom—Celestara Keep.

It was the darkest hour of the night when the human forces came. They moved like shadows beneath the moon, slipping past Elodia’s outer defenses in a coordinated, merciless assault. No warning. No declaration. Only fire.

The first explosion shattered the tranquility of the palace. Then came the screams. Then the flames. Magic-tainted smoke curled through the air, thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh.

The Radiant Guard—sworn protectors of the royal family—were caught off guard. They fought with fury, their blades cutting through invaders like water. But the attack had been too fast. Too sudden. By the time the alarm rang out through Solaris, Celestara Keep was already burning.

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅

Within the palace, chaos reigned.

Queen Astoria felt the shift first—not the heat of the flames nor the quake of distant explosions, but the pull of instinct, sharper than any blade. The danger was not to herself. It was to her children.

She and King Niran moved like twin storms through the corridors, flanked by Radiant Guard and shadowed by falling ash. Nikolai and Alana were found swiftly, their wide eyes gleaming in the firelight, their pale faces streaked with soot but alive. Astoria’s breath eased for a single, precious moment.

Then the absence struck her like a lightning bolt to the heart. One was missing. Ariadne. A mother’s panic bloomed—wild and suffocating. Without hesitation, they ran.

The corridors of Celestara Keep were collapsing around them, a burning labyrinth of smoke and ruin. Arrows sliced through the air, falling like rain. Niran moved ahead, blade flashing, carving a path through the invading dark. Astoria followed, her heart pounding with every step, every breath drawn through lungs thick with ash.

But they were too late.

Where her room had once stood—cradle of lullabies, of soft light and sweeter dreams—there was only destruction. The walls had crumbled to cinder. Flames devoured the rafters, the stones scorched and split. Smoke coiled upward like mourning veils, thick and merciless.

The doorway still stood—barely—a skeletal frame wreathed in fire, all that remained of the last place their daughter had slept. The scent of burning wood was drowned by something worse. The silence, deeper than any scream, was final.

Astoria froze. Her breath caught. The world tilted.

She would have thrown herself into the flames had Niran not caught her, his arms locking around her as she thrashed, grief turning her limbs to fury. Her cries were lost in the roar of the fire. His silence was a shattering thing.

Their daughter—their smallest star—was gone.

𝒂 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈

The war ended within a week.

After the attack, the fae did not hold back any longer. All their strength, all their magic, all their wrath was unleashed upon the human kingdoms. It was a massacre.

Fae magic tore through human battalions like wildfire. Entire cities fell in a single night. The rivers ran red with human blood, and the air crackled with the raw power of vengeance. The humans were forced to surrender before the second week of war could begin.

But there was no victory in Elodia. Even with the humans’ defeat, even with the end of the war, the kingdom still mourned. Because Princess Ariadne Reverie was dead.

I had been beloved—not just by my family, but by the entire kingdom. Even at just two years old, I had been a child of light and laughter, my little hands always reaching for the flowers in the palace gardens, my laughter echoing through the halls like a melody. I had been the kingdom��s heart. And now, that heart had been ripped away.

So, on the Summer Solstice, the day of my birth and the day I had been lost, Elodia mourned. They lit lanterns in the sky, letting them drift into the heavens. They sang soft, sorrowful songs, their voices blending with the wind, carried beyond the mountains.

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔

But I was not dead.

In the chaos of that night—while the palace burned and the kingdom unknowingly mourned—a single act of desperation and courage changed the course of fate. Elara, a young elf servant assigned to my care, had been in the adjoining room when she smelled the smoke.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the wind, perhaps the scent of a distant fire carried through an open window. But then she heard it—the panicked shouts, the clashing of steel, the rising crescendo of terror that only came when death was near. Then the screams began. Her heart seized. The palace was under attack.

Elara did not hesitate. She raced into the nursery, her sharp elven ears already picking up the distant thunder of approaching footsteps—not the graceful, near-silent tread of fae warriors, but the heavy boots of human soldiers.

I lay peacefully unaware, curled in a cradle of silk and moonlight, my tiny fingers grasping at something invisible in the air. There was no time to think. No time to plan.

Elara lunged forward, seizing me and wrapping me in the first blanket she could find. Then, pressing my warm, small body against her chest, she turned toward the only chance of escape.

She could not go through the main halls—the soldiers were already inside. She could hear them cutting down everyone they found. Servants. Nobles. Even the guards. So she turned to the only path left. The servants' passages.

The hidden tunnels beneath Celestara Keep were never meant for escape. They were narrow, winding, meant only for discreet travel between different parts of the palace. But they were her only hope.

Elara moved as fast as her burned, trembling body would allow, her breath shallow, her arms tight around the princess. Every turn, every corridor, every creaking door felt like it would lead to death.

Above them, she could still hear the sounds of battle and slaughter. The roar of fire eating through wood and stone. The dying screams of those who had once walked these halls with pride. She did not stop. She could not stop.

By the time she emerged into the night, slipping through a hidden exit into the wild forests beyond the palace, she was half-broken. Her lungs were raw from the smoke, her skin burned and blistered, and she could feel blood trickling down her arms and legs from wounds she did not remember receiving.

But I was alive. And as long as I still breathed softly against her, Elara would not allow herself to fall.

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒔

She did not know how long she ran. The night stretched endlessly, the sky above streaked with the distant glow of burning Elodia.

She fled into the mountains, where the paths were treacherous and the air was thin, her body moving on sheer instinct alone. The Aurelian Peaks were the natural border between fae and human lands, and though the journey was deadly in her condition, she knew she had no choice. She could not stay in fae lands.

Even if she made it to another fae city, even if she found sanctuary, Ariadne would never be safe. The humans had attacked Celestara Keep directly—they would hunt down any survivors, and they would kill me if they ever discovered I had lived.

And so, she did the only thing she could. She crossed into human lands. The journey was brutal. Her feet bled from running over jagged rocks. Hunger gnawed at her insides, and the cold bit into her exposed skin. She had no food, no weapons, no way to protect herself beyond her own dwindling strength.

But still, she carried me forward. I never cried. Elara did not know if it was some silent, innate understanding of danger, or the lingering remnants of magic still clinging to me, but I remained silent throughout the entire journey. Not a single wail. Not a single sob. Only soft, steady breathing—as if even at two years old, I knew I had to stay quiet to survive.

By the time Elara reached a small town deep in human territory, she was barely standing. Her vision was swimming, her wounds infected, her strength completely drained. She knew she was dying. But she had one last task.

With the last of her will, she staggered to the doorstep of the only person she could think of—the only one left who might take in a lost, orphaned child. Her estranged half-sister. Cassia Greze.

And as she collapsed at Cassia’s doorstep, her final words before unconsciousness were not a plea for herself—but for the child in her arms.

"Please… keep her safe."

Then, everything went dark.

𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒓𝒆𝒛𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅

Cassia never wanted to take me in. She had barely even wanted to let Elara in.

When her half-sister arrived at her doorstep—burned, broken, and clutching a child she claimed as her own—Cassia had nearly turned her away. She had stood there, rigid, her fingers tightening around the doorframe as the past came crashing down on her.

Elara. The reminder of everything she had lost. The reason her father had walked away, the reason her mother had wept in the middle of the night when she thought no one could hear. The half-blood mistake that had ruined their family. But Elara had collapsed before Cassia could refuse her.

The smell of burned flesh clung to the air as Cassia knelt beside her, hesitating only for a moment before pulling her half-sister inside. Elara was dying. And despite everything, despite the old wounds and bitterness that time had never quite dulled, she was still blood.

When Elara pleaded with Cassia to protect me, her voice was barely a whisper, raw and weak. She spun a lie, saying that I was her own daughter, that we had fled from the burning palace when it was attacked. She gave no further details, only begged Cassia to keep me safe.

By morning, Elara was dead. And Cassia was left alone with a child she did not know, did not love, and did not want.

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒎𝒆

Callum had taken one look at me and wanted nothing to do with me. “We should leave her at the orphanage,” he said bluntly, arms crossed as he stared at me. "Or better yet, take her to the church. The priests will find some place for her."

Cassia hesitated. It would have been so easy to send me away. To wash her hands of Elara's last request and move on with her life. She owed Elara nothing—not after everything that had happened.

But when she looked down at me, remembered the desperation in Elara’s voice as she begged her to look after me, to keep me safe.

Cassia had spent years resenting Elara, but now that she was gone, the hate did not taste quite as satisfying as she had imagined. So she said the words before she could second-guess them.

“She stays.”

Callum had scoffed, disgusted. “She isn’t ours, Cassia.”

“She is family,” Cassia said, but the words felt hollow.

One last warning, this is where things get heavy. So once again, please leave if you aren't comfortable with this.

tw for child neglect and sibling violence

𝒎𝒚 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒅 – 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊��𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅

Cassia kept me, but she never truly wanted me. I was given a new name—Ella Greze—and from the moment I could walk, it was clear I was not an equal to Cassia’s biological daughter, Dahlia.

Cassia did the bare minimum. She fed me, clothed me, made sure I did not die. But that was all. There was no warmth, no tenderness, no affection. Dahlia was the favored daughter. I was the afterthought.

Dahlia was given fine dresses, sewn from the softest fabrics. I wore Dahlia’s old, tattered clothes, the seams fraying, the colors faded.

Dahlia was pampered, spoiled, allowed to lounge in the parlor while Cassia brushed her hair and hummed old songs. I was expected to work—to scrub the floors, to wash the dishes, to take care of the house.

Dahlia was praised. Every small accomplishment, every little effort, was met with approval. I was punished. No matter how hard I tried, I was always too slow, too careless, too much of a burden.

Cassia, still poisoned by old wounds, never showed me true kindness. She was not cruel, not outright abusive—but she did not love me. Not the way a mother should love a child.

And Callum? Callum acted as if I did not exist at all. I was nothing to him. If I spoke to him, he would not answer. If I passed him in the hallway, he would not look at me. If I disappeared one day, I doubted he would even notice.

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒂𝒉𝒍𝒊𝒂

But it was Dahlia who made my life a nightmare.

Dahlia, with her golden curls and her sharp smile, her mother’s favorite, her father’s pride. Dahlia, who had never wanted a sister—especially not one who was not truly her sister at all.

It started small. A shove here. A cruel remark there. Then it became something worse.

Dahlia would trip me in the hallways, then laugh when I hit the ground.

She would rip the pages from my books, smirking as she tore them apart.

She would take my meager belongings and scatter them through the house, just to watch me scramble to collect them.

And when she was feeling particularly cruel—when she knew Cassia and Callum were not paying attention—she would strike.

A slap across the face. A shove hard enough to send me sprawling. Fingers twisting into my hair, yanking hard enough to sting. And no one stopped her.

Cassia saw the way I flinched when Dahlia walked past. She saw the bruises. She heard the cruel laughter. But she said nothing.

𝒂 𝒄𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒊𝒓𝒅

The worst part was the binding of my wings.

Cassia and Callum knew that if anyone discovered they were harboring a fae child, they would be shunned—or worse, executed. Even years after the war, resentment toward the fae still burned deep in the hearts of humans. The destruction that followed my supposed death had left scars on both sides. Harboring a fae child—especially one with wings—was a death sentence. So they forced me to hide what I was.

It started when I was barely old enough to walk. Callum was the first to suggest it, but Cassia was the one who carried it out. She forced me to wear my hair long, the wavy chestnut locks falling past my shoulders to try and conceal the point of my ears, and if anyone asked, they just claimed I was only a quarter fae as Elara’s daughter. But even that wasn’t enough. If someone looked closely, if the light hit me at just the right angle, the truth was there in the unnatural brightness of my green eyes, and the way I moved too lightly, too gracefully.

Then there were my wings.

The first time Cassia laced the corset around my small frame, I had cried, sobbed, my fingers clawing at the stiff fabric, unable to understand why my aunt was hurting me. Cassia's voice had been sharp, unwavering.

"Do you want them to find out what you are? Do you want them to come and take you away?"

I didn't understand, but the fear in Cassia’s voice had been enough to silence my cries.

As I grew, the corset became tighter, stronger, the leather straps pulling my wings against my back until I could no longer move them. I couldn't stretch them. I couldn't feel them. What should have been a part of me—my birthright, my freedom—was reduced to something useless, forgotten, erased.

By the time I was grown, my wings—once meant to be strong, majestic, and powerful—were small, frail, and useless. The bones within them had weakened from years of being bound, their growth stunted. They twitched sometimes, a phantom ache, as if they knew what had been stolen from them. But they could no longer lift me from the ground. I had been grounded before I had ever learned how to fly.

Yet, despite the bindings, despite the constant effort to erase what I was, something within me still lingered. There were moments—small, fleeting instances—when my magic slipped through the cracks.

Sometimes, when I was especially sad, when my chest felt too heavy with loneliness, the air around her would shift, almost like it was breathing with me, a silent companion to my sorrow.

Sometimes, when my heart fluttered with a rare moment of happiness—maybe after sneaking a bite of honeyed bread from the market, or when I managed to outrun Dahlia in one of her cruel games—flowers would bloom beneath my bare feet. Tiny, delicate blossoms that should not have been there, reaching for the sun as if pulled forth by the brightness in my soul. I always stamped them out before anyone could see.

But the trees saw me. They whispered to me when I wandered too close, their voices brushing against the edges of my mind like an old memory I couldn’t quite grasp. I didn't know what they were saying—only that it made me feel less alone.

It was dangerous. I knew that. So I forced it down. Locked it away. I was Ella Greze, the human girl, and Ella Greze had no magic.

𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈

Despite the cruelty of my existence, I never lost my fire. It flickered, dim and wavering, but it never went out.

I dreamed of more. I would sit by the window at night, staring at the moon, tracing the stars with my fingertips against the glass as if I could pull them down and keep them for myself. I imagined a world beyond the Greze household, beyond the narrow, suffocating walls of my life.

Sometimes, I would sneak away to the forests on the edges of town—the one place where I could be free. The woods were different from the town. Alive in a way nothing else was. The trees stretched toward the sky like ancient sentinels, and the wind carried a melody I almost recognized, a tune on the tip of my tongue but never quite within reach.

I could feel the trees watching me, feel the way the grass sighed under my feet, the way the air seemed to hum when I passed. They knew me. Even if I didn’t know myself. And the more time I spent among them, the harder it became to ignore the truth:

I was not meant to be here. I was not meant to live like this—small, silent, caged. I was meant for something else, something more. But I didn’t know what. And so, I longed.

I longed for answers—for the pieces of myself that had been kept from me. Why had Elara brought me here? Who had my father been? Why did I feel like a stranger in my own skin?

I longed for freedom—to tear the corset from my ribs, to stretch my wings, to run without fear of who might be watching.

I longed for a home I had never known. A home I wasn't even sure existed. Yet, deep in my bones, deep in the parts of me that had never forgotten—I knew it did. Somewhere beyond the mountains. Somewhere past the trees that whispered my name. Somewhere beyond the life I had been forced to live. It was waiting for me. And one day—somehow—I would find it.

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚

I am the lost princess of the fae kingdom Elodia, presumed dead after a brutal human-led attack on the palace when I was just two years old. Rescued by a loyal elf servant named Elara, I was taken into hiding and raised in the human world by her sister Cassia under the false identity of Ella Greze (Elara basically just died almost immediately after coming in so she didn’t really have much of a choice). Forced to conceal my wings and true heritage, I endured 18 years of mistreatment and hardship in a household that never truly accepted me. While Cassia and her husband Callum pretended I didn’t even exist, it was Dahlia that made my life hell. She found great amusement in tormenting me, and making me feel like I was lesser, occasionally escalating to physical harm. But despite all of this, they were never able to fully break me.

𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂

Ok, so idk why I wrote this in a weird mix of first and third person, but whatever, it works I guess. Also, thank you @lalalian for the ideas of Cassia, Callum, and Dahlia. I honestly feel kinda bad though, because they're so much worse in this dr than in my aethergarde one 😭.

#desired reality #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifters #scripting #original dr rambles #original dr scrapbook #dr scrapbook

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msriri030 · 19 days ago

Text

The Man that I love pt 2

Unum x reader with a yandere Nulla. Empire Au. Masterlist

Tw: Greif, losing a partner.

Summary: After Nulla expresses his demand, you have to make a decide while someone is approaching the sound, unknowing to you.

Based on this song

After the twins were tucked into bed curled like moonlit dreams beneath warm quilts. The rest of you gathered in the war room.

The chamber was heavy with candlelight and tension, the shadows stretching long across the ancient stone floor. Maps littered the table, pushed aside in favor of half-drunk wine and clenched fists. You stood slightly apart from the others, watching the ocean glimmer through the high arched window. The shoreline was alight with lanterns from the port below — a false peace, masking the storm pressing closer with each breath.

Behind you, chaos brewed louder.

“It’s your fault!” Solaris shouted, the words sharp as a blade. “If you hadn’t sent him—he’d still be alive!”

Her hand slammed onto the table, rattling goblets and drawing a startled gasp from one of the junior clerics. Ignis grabbed her wrist, whispering her name like a plea, trying to hold her together.

Aeliane stepped in gently, voice taut with grief. “He didn’t know. No one knew. How could we have—?”

“Don’t excuse him!” Solaris spat, her reddish eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Weren’t you the one who watched (Y/N) wait for him every dawn like the tide would deliver him back!? Do you even remember how we tried to make Unum’s favorite meal every morning? Just in case he came back hungry from the war like nothing had changed!”

She collapsed into her seat, chest heaving, anger bleeding into sobs. Her hands shook as she covered her face. “My Unum…Gone…”

Bishop Septem exhaled, long and tired, as if the grief of women was a nuisance to be endured. “There was nobody,” he said with detached logic. “So he may yet be alive. Isn’t that right, Consort (Y/N)?”

Your name dragged the room back to silence.

You didn’t turn to face them immediately. You kept your eyes on the ocean. On the horizon where no sails had risen in a decade. Your reflection in the window looked ghostlike thinner somehow under the candlelight.

You breathed in slowly. Then spoke, steady, quiet, but unshakable.

“No,” you said. “We can’t pray for miracles right now.”

You finally turned. The fire in your gaze silenced whatever retort Septem had poised behind his teeth.“I already made my decision.”

The words landed like stone. Solid. Final. The room stilled — not out of respect, but fear. You walked back to the table, gently brushing aside the map that bore Unum’s last campaign path. You placed your hand flat against the cold stone. “If Nulla speaks the truth, and Unum is gone... then we’re already at war. We cannot waste the night begging the gods for returns they’ve denied us for ten years. We must act. Together. Or we die.”

Aeliane reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they laced with yours across the war table. Her touch was soft, but it steadied you like the way a single flame keeps the darkness at bay. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Even Solaris, who had moments ago pounded the table with grief, now lifted her head. Her eyes filled with tears, her cheeks blotched and wet. She wiped them roughly with the heel of her palm, trying to reassemble her mask of strength.

She swallowed hard. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible. “Then… what are you going to do?”

You looked out the tall window of the war room. The waves outside glittered with pale moonlight, crashing softly against the rocks below. The shoreline lanterns flickered like dying stars — dozens of little fires struggling against the wind.

“I will be his to claim,” you whispered. The words tasted like poison.

Solaris let out a sharp breath. Ignis closed her eyes, her mouth parting in silent disbelief. Aeliane gripped your hand tighter, as if she could physically anchor your soul in place.

“Because we have no other chance,” you added, staring into the sea that had taken so much from you.

A silence followed — the kind that a blade leaves after a heart has stopped.

Then it broke.

You pressed both hands over your face. The breath you took shook violently in your chest. The sob came before you could stop it — strangled, unshapely, human. For the first time in years, you allowed yourself to cry like a widow.

You dropped to your knees.

“I waited,” you choked. “I waited every damn day. From dawn to dusk. I—he said—he said he’d be back before their first birthday. He promised. And I believed him.”

Your sister wives collapsed around you — Aeliane to your left, Solaris to your right, Ignis kneeling before you, holding your face.

“No,” Ignis said, her voice cracking. “You are not sacrificing yourself. There must be something else.”

“There isn’t,” you rasped. “Nulla will burn the empire. Burn everything. He’s not bluffing.”

Solaris clenched her fists, trembling as tears fell silently from her eyes. “If Unum came, then he would never forgive you for this.”

You looked down at your hands, now resting limply in your lap. “But Unum is not here.”

You whispered the words like they were the last breath of a dying star.

A sound in the doorway.All of you turned.

Two small silhouettes stood there — your twins, Shams and Noor, wearing their sleeping robes and holding hands nervously. Shams clutched a toy in her arms. Noor rubbed at his eyes.

“Baba?” Noor asked, his voice as soft as a feather falling.Your heart shattered again, clean down the middle.They had snuck out. They must have heard everything.

Neither of them cried. They just stood there, looking at you like they already knew — like some instinct in their small hearts had told them something was breaking.

You forced yourself to stand. Every bone in your body screamed. You walked to them and knelt down, brushing Noor’s hair back and kissing Shams’s forehead.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice barely holding. “Go back to bed. I’ll be there soon. I promise.”

Shams looked like she wanted to argue. But Noor tugged her hand, and they turned without another word, slipping back into the corridor’s dark embrace.

You watched them disappear, and every step they took away from you made the cost of your decision harder to bear. Then you turned back to the room — back to the table filled with the broken remains of your family.

“I’ve already decided,” you repeated softly. “And I won’t take it back.”

Aeliane clutched your hand again, her voice thick with tears. “Then… we’ll go with you to meet with him.”

You turned toward her. “No. Someone has to stay. If I fail—”

“You won’t.”

You looked at them all, then toward the horizon outside — where the stars had started to vanish as night began surrendering to the approach of dawn.

Sunrise was coming. So was he.

—--------------------------------------------

However, what Nulla — nor the Empire itself — could have known was this:

A mile beyond the glittering horizon, hidden by the curve of the sea and veils of early storm mist, two men clung to life.

Lord Quinque coughed salt from his lungs, his fingers white-knuckled against the jagged edges of a makeshift raft. The vessel was no more than a warped collection of broken planks, bent metal, and scavenged canvas stitched with desperation. Blood painted his sleeve. Saltwater stung a half-healed wound along his cheek. But he held on, eyes scanning the skies for any sign of calm — or worse, wings.

Aboard the wreckage beside him, Emperor Unum stood like a revenant carved from wrath. The ocean wind screamed around him, but he remained steady, hands wrapped in thick rope used to control what was left of the battered sail. His red hair, matted with seawater, whipped behind him like a banner of war.

He hadn't spoken much since Quinque dragged him, half-dead, from the shattered remains of the battlefield. Not about the battle. Not about Nulla. And certainly not about what the creature in black had whispered to him. But something had changed in Unum’s eyes.

A darkness — no, a clarity.

Quinque, shivering from cold and exhaustion, looked up with a grim smirk. “Unum,” he rasped, “remind me again why we’re trying to survive this suicide voyage?”

The sea raged like a wrathful god beneath them, waves clawing at the raft with greedy hands. But Unum didn’t waver. His gaze remained fixed ahead, locked on the coastline slowly taking shape in the distance.

“I know why,” he said at last, voice low and cutting through the wind like a blade. His arms flexed as he adjusted the ropes, using the currents to slingshot the sail. “Because they’re waiting.”

His voice cracked just slightly on the word — they. The one that meant you. His wives. His children. The empire he loved more than himself.

The memory of your voice haunted him. Your songs, sung with trembling strength, echoing across empty halls. The feel of the twins asleep on his chest. The way you once reached for him in the night, thinking he was gone even while beside you.

His jaw tightened.

He had been gone too long.

And now, with nothing left but sinew, blood, and the fury of a father and husband returning from the jaws of death — he would come home.

Unum’s eyes caught the light of a distant beacon flickering at the Empire’s edge — the harbor flames still burning.

He smiled, sharp and breathless.

“Hold fast, Quinque. We reach the coast before sunrise.”

Quinque coughed another laugh. “You better hope they still want you.”

Unum gripped the ropes tighter, sea spray washing over his armor like a baptism.

“They need me. And I’ll tear through heaven and hell to be what they deserve.”

As the storm rumbled behind them and the first hints of dawn painted the edges of the sky in gold and crimson, the raft surged forward — like a broken arrow fired straight from the mouth of vengeance itself.

Unum was coming home.

By the time they reached the shore, dawn had just begun to break — not with a gentle warmth, but with the pale steel glow of an uncertain morning.

Unum staggered forward, soaked to the bone, and threw a thick travel cloak over his shoulders. The heavy black fabric clung to him like a second skin, concealing the battered armor beneath. The hood shadowed his features, muting the familiar red of his hair and the sharp cut of his jaw. From a distance, he looked like any other refugee — a ghost limping from the sea.

He paused, boots sinking into the wet sand as he raised his eyes toward the cliffs.

There it was.

High above, half-shrouded in mist and ivy, was the garden balcony — your balcony. The place where he used to watch you tends to the flowers with the twins in his arms, where he’d surprise you with morning kisses and pull you into his arms when no one else dared interrupt. The memories hit harder than the ocean ever could.

Without a word, Unum stepped toward the cliff wall.

“What are you doing?” Quinque groaned, limping after him, one hand pressed to his ribs. “We just survived a shipwreck. You want to scale a damn mountain now?”

Unum glanced over his shoulder, a glint of stubborn purpose in his eyes. “We don’t have time. If Nulla’s already inside, I can’t walk through the gates like a parade. He’d see me coming.”

Quinque cursed under his breath but followed anyway, muttering about cracked bones and royal lunacy.

The cliffside was slick and treacherous, each foothold a gamble. Roots curled like fingers through stone. Moss and rainwater made every grip uncertain. But Unum climbed with grim determination, his breath sharp and controlled, muscles burning with the effort. His cloak billowed behind him like wings torn from a fallen god.

Quinque trailed behind, slower, gritting his teeth every time a rock gave way beneath him.

“You know,” he grunted between breaths, “most men send a letter or a raven when they come back from the dead.”

Unum didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the top of the garden. On your family.

When his hand finally caught the ledge, he didn’t waste a moment. With one last pull, he hoisted himself over, crouching low behind the carved stone railing. He pressed a hand to the earth, grounding himself in the soil of his home, his empire, before helping Quinque up beside him.

The garden was quiet. Too quiet.

But the flowers still bloomed, the dew still kissed the grass, and somewhere inside, he knew…you were awake. And so was the storm waiting for him.

Soon, Nulla would arrive.

The halls beyond the throne room were too quiet — as if the walls themselves held their breath, waiting for your choice. You stood just outside the great golden doors, wrapped in the pale hush of morning. The sea wind licked at the hem of your robe, carrying salt and silence.

You glanced out over the horizon one last time.

No sail.

No miracle.

The ocean remained still — a flat, pitiless mirror. If there was hope out there, it had not yet dared to show its face. Your tears had long dried up in the cold night hours. Grief had hollowed you out, left your throat raw, your chest brittle like cracked glass.

You stared at your fingers, fidgeting with the ring Unum had given you — a simple band etched with the symbol of your union. The metal was warm from your skin, though your hands trembled. As if trying to keep the man alive in memory, you began to hum — then quietly sing, your voice catching like a thread on thorn.

The words cracked on your lips, breaking against the shore of your sorrow.

“The man that I love, knows I love him

He takes me in his arms and I forget it all

He is my motive, he is my own sun

He gave me joys that nobody gave me…”

You hiccupped, trying to suppress the sound, but it slipped free — a fragile, human ache.

Aeliane stood beside you, silent until now. She didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt the song that haunted the space between you. Instead, she reached for your hand and laced her fingers with yours — no grand gesture, just steady warmth.

She squeezed gently.

You looked at her, and though her eyes were red-rimmed from her own sleepless night, her jaw was set with quiet determination. She wasn’t asking if you were sure. She already knew.

The moment was almost here.

Behind you, the guards shifted at their post. A single trumpet rang out in the distance — not one of celebration, but of announcement.

Nulla had arrived.

The storm you were supposed to bow to… was waiting.

And still, you stood by the sea-facing window a little longer, letting the breeze tangle your hair. Letting your heart whisper the last of the song to the man who might never hear it.

But if he did — if he somehow lived — he’d know this: you sang it for him, even at the end.

—-------------------------------

Unbeknownst to anyone, Unum tore through the palace corridors like a man possessed — his boots pounding against ancient stone, breath burning in his lungs. The cool air of the marbled halls whipped against his sweat-slicked skin as he yanked the travel-stained cloak from his shoulders, casting it aside without thought. His chest heaved. Every step echoed like war drums. He could feel the pulse of the empire beneath his feet — and the one person anchoring it.

You.

He slammed open the doors to your shared chambers, the crash reverberating through the silence.

Inside, the atmosphere was hushed and heavy, like the stillness before a storm.

Two of your wives, Solaris and Ignis, sat on plush cushions near the hearth, their faces pale, the firelight casting shadows beneath their eyes. Between them were two small children, curled close to their mothers for comfort. Their soft murmuring halted as the doors flew open, startled eyes darting toward the intrusion.

Unum froze. The sight robbed him of breath.

Two children — twins — perhaps six, maybe seven years old. Familiar gray eyes, wide with confusion and curiosity. One clutched a worn cloth doll. The other had a stubborn tilt to his chin that Unum recognized like a blade to the heart.

His knees nearly buckled.

Solaris rose slowly, trembling as if she were waking from a dream she didn’t dare believe. Her voice cracked like old parchment.

“…Unum?”

His name. It had been so long since someone spoke it like that with wonder, with grief, with hope still clinging to the edges.

Ignis didn’t wait. She moved to him, her steps hesitant but fast. She reached up and cupped his face with both hands, her thumbs tracing the lines of exhaustion, the faint scar at his lip — proof that this wasn’t a ghost. Her tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

“Unum…” she whispered again, voice breaking. “You’re home. You're really here.”

He caught her wrists, pressing her palms tighter to his face, grounding himself in her warmth. Solaris joined them, her hand over her mouth, her body shaking as she reached for him too. They formed a circle of love and disbelief, silent save for the occasional sob.

“I’m back,” he said, his voice hoarse and raw. “I came back… as fast as I could.”

Then, a sound. Small footsteps.

Unum turned his gaze downward to see one of the twins standing a few feet away, watching him with wary curiosity. The boy’s eyes — Unum’s eyes — searched his face with an intelligence too sharp for his age.

The child whispered, “Are you… my papa?”

Unum’s heart cracked.

He slowly knelt, lowering himself to their level with tears clouding his vision. “Yes,” he said, barely able to speak. “Yes… I’m your papa.”

The Noor hesitated. Then, he launched forward, wrapping small arms around Unum’s neck, burying his face against him. The second twin followed timidly but was drawn to him, clinging to Unum’s side with silent need.

Unum pulled them close, arms shaking as he held what he had missed, what he had dreamed of in the dark.

“I’m here,” he murmured into their hair. “I’m here now. I’m so sorry I missed so much.”

Ignis and Solaris knelt beside him, their hands resting over his shoulders and the children’s backs, creating a cocoon of warmth and aching reunion. The fire crackled gently behind them, the only witness to a miracle finally fulfilled.

But Unum’s joy was edged with urgency. Even as he cradled his children, he felt the pull — the realization:

You didn’t know.

You thought he was gone. And Nulla… was waiting.

He looked at Solaris, his voice grave but firm. “Where is (Y/N)? And Aeliane?”

Solaris blinked, startled. “Outside the throne room… waiting for Nulla’s answer.”

Unum's blood ran cold. He gently unwrapped the twins' arms from his neck, kissed their brows, and rose like a storm reawakened. His red hair was wild, wind-tossed from the sea. His eyes burned with purpose.

“She’s about to sacrifice herself,” he said. “I won’t let it happen.”

And then, with the firelight still flickering behind him, Unum turned and ran.

—----------------------------------------------

The throne room doors groaned open like the gates of a tomb. Marble floors trembled beneath a rhythm of synchronized steps. Nulla entered not with the grace of a guest, but the command of a conqueror. Behind him marched a small contingent — cloaked, armored, and silent, their crimson tabards rippling with every step. Each bore the same sigil: a black feather encircled in flame.

But Nulla was not clad in a general’s rage.

He wore black ceremonial armor trimmed with blood-red gold, as though he were dressed for a wedding — or a funeral.

Your funeral.

You stood at the top of the dais, before the empty throne, the marble chill biting through your slippers. You’d chosen not to sit. Not to retreat. The weight of the empire pressed down on your spine, but you held yourself with unshakable poise.

Your face was calm. Your eyes were cold.

And when Nulla met them, his breath caught, just for a second.

Then he smiled.A smile that didn’t reach his eyes.A smile that had no place here. Like a lover returning to an embrace never promised.

Nulla’s bow was slow and theatrical, but the air in the throne room did not warm. It grew heavier.

You did not step forward. You did not nod in return. You stood still as stone, your expression carved from the same marble that lined the chamber walls. If he hoped to unnerve you with his calm, he would have to try harder.

When he rose from his bow, his eyes gleamed, twin coals lit with longing and menace.

“You wear sorrow well,” he murmured, his voice low, reverent, and terrifying. “But it suits you less than joy. I intend to return that to you. All of it. I will give you the world, if only you say yes.”

Behind him, his soldiers did not move. Neither did yours. Both sides were statues caught in a single breath — one wrong word from becoming war.

You stayed at the top of the dais, your hands clasped before you, fingers curling so tightly into your palms they left crescent moons in your skin. Your voice, when it came, was quiet but strong.

“You assume I am something that can be taken.”

Nulla smiled again — this time, too broadly. “No, no, no. You misunderstand me. I don’t take what belongs to me. I earned it. I wait. I adore it. And I burn what dares stand between us.”

He took one more step forward. Your guards flinched.

“Careful,” you said sharply, not to Nulla, but to them. “Let him speak. We must know the full measure of his madness before we bury it.”

A flicker of something,surprise, or amusement, danced across Nulla’s face.

“I was right to love you,” he said. “Even your fury is beautiful.”

Before another word could be spoken, the throne room doors behind Nulla rattled again. This time, it wasn’t the echo of steel boots or marching guards that stirred the silence.

It was a single voice.

“Step away from them.”

The words dropped like thunder, low and absolute. Echoes rippled through the marble chamber like an aftershock. Courtiers gasped, advisors froze, even the guards shifted as if the very bones of the palace had heard it.

At the far end of the hall stood a figure cloaked in ash and salt, battered by sea and storm, hair red as firewinds and eyes sharp as forged steel.

Unum. Alive.

The light of the high stained glass caught on the salt crusting his sleeves and the blood-matted edge of his cloak, but there was no weakness in his stance — only fury, sharpened by months of loss. His gaze didn’t flicker to you, not even once, because every shred of his restraint was locked on the man standing before you.

Nulla.

And in that instant, you understood: if Unum looked at you now, he would lose control. And that control was the only thing keeping Nulla alive.

Your heart stuttered, then surged.

You could hardly breathe. Your lungs strained against the sob building in your chest. Your legs trembled, your throat closed, but still — you didn’t fall. You couldn’t. Because there he was.

Your husband. Your Unum. Your emperor.

He had returned not just to survive — but to defend everything.

Behind you, Aeliane slowly pulled you back from the dais with trembling hands, eyes never leaving the battlefield forming before her. You didn’t resist. Not yet. Your children rushed into your arms, burying their faces against you. You wrapped them in your arms, shielding them with everything left in your soul.

The rest of your family moved around you like a constellation re-aligning — Solaris, her eyes wild with disbelief; Ignis, already whispering prayers; Quinque threw to Unum his whips before standing behind Unum like a shadow made flesh.

Below, on the throne room floor, the two men began to circle.

Unum and Nulla.

The lover returned, and the monster who tried to replace him.

They moved with lethal quiet, like predators too aware of each other’s claws. Every motion was measured. Every breath, a held blade.

One fight. One end.

And as their eyes locked, as power coiled around their fingers and the very air seemed to tense with dread, you realized:

There would be no diplomacy. No more mercy. Only the reckoning.

Unum moved first. His whips lashed through the air — fast, silent, brutal. Forged from woven firesteel and shadow-thread, they coiled through space like living serpents, trailing sparks in their wake. Nulla barely had time to parry.

In a single breath, Unum was on him. There was no taunt, no warning, no hesitation — just violence, pure and clean.

Their fists collided, magic and might meeting midair with a deafening crack. The sound split the room like a storm breaking the sky. Columns trembled. Marble tiles cracked. The stained-glass windows groaned under the pressure wave as two titans,one clad in ash, the other in darkness, fought like gods wearing mortal skin.

The guards scattered.

Aeliane pulled the children back further, shielding their eyes. Solaris stepped in front of them with blazing fists ready, should either man fall.

You couldn’t move. You could only watch — as the man who once kissed your hands with reverence became a storm, his face carved in fury, his red hair a halo of firelight, his eyes colder than steel.

Nulla grinned, even as blood bloomed from a gash on his cheek. “You do look better alive,” he spat, dodging another strike. “Pity it won’t last.”

“Neither will your lies,” Unum growled, voice low and blistering with hate.

They clashed again — harder this time. One of Unum’s whips wrapped around Nulla’s gauntlet, dragging him forward as Unum’s other hand drove a punch into his ribs. Bones crunched. Nulla countered with a pulse of shadow magic, slamming Unum backward against a shattered column.

Dust rained down from the vaulted ceiling.

But Unum rose again, spitting blood, smiling through it.

“You thought you could take what was mine?” he said, voice shaking the walls more than any spell. “My empire. My family. Them.”

Nulla’s smile flickered. And then Unum was charging again — a blur of crimson and vengeance. One whip wrapped around Nulla’s ankle, jerking him to the ground, while the second arced through the air and lashed across his chest, tearing through armor like paper. Sparks flew.

The whole throne room felt like it was breaking apart around them — and maybe it was.

You clutched your children tighter. Behind you, the other consorts stood in awe and terror alike.

Because this wasn’t just a duel. This was judgment. And it had only just begun.

You didn’t wait another moment. Grabbing your children tightly, you turned to Aeliane, urgency in your voice. “We need to get somewhere safe.”

Their little arms clung to you, eyes wide, breaths shallow with fear.

Before Aeliane could respond, Quinque rushed to your side, breathless and wild-eyed, a faint trail of blood on his sleeve. “Consort,” he said, scanning the chaos, “we need to get you to safety—now.”

You nodded quickly, heart pounding. “The garden. We’ll head to the garden. There’s cover there—old tunnels behind the fountains. Go!”

Aeliane scooped up one child, Solaris and Ignis following with the other. You barely had time to glance back before another explosion of magic lit up the throne room, sending cracks spidering up the marble walls.

Unum and Nulla were still locked in combat, two celestial forces bound in a mortal war. You could feel the heat from Unum’s fury even from here, the weight of every strike shaking the foundations of the palace itself.

But you didn’t stop.

You and your sister-wives fled through the side corridor, boots echoing down the stone passage, your children clutched to your chest. Behind you, the throne room groaned with power. You felt it in your bones — the end was coming

You ran through the garden, your footsteps muffled by the moss-laced stones and soft petals that had fallen from the flowering trees. The air was thick — not just with the scent of crushed roses and scorched soil, but with fear, heavy and clinging like damp silk. Behind you, the thunder of gods clashing shook the very bones of the palace.

Aeliane reached the old tree first, brushing back ivy to reveal the hidden channel carved beneath the roots — a narrow passage that led to the cliffside tunnels and the sea. Quinque stood guard, bloodied but unyielding, ushering the others inside.

“Hurry!” he barked. “We don’t have much time!”

You herded the children through, their tiny hands gripping yours desperately. Their cheeks were stained with tears, their breaths hiccupping in terror. Aeliane held your arm, tugging.

“You have to come with us—please!”

But your feet stopped.

You turned, slowly, and looked back toward the palace, to the direction where Unum fought for everything you built together. Your throat tightened. The ground trembled again — a pulse of dark magic, followed by a distant roar that was more beast than man.

“I can’t,” you said quietly. “If Nulla wins… if Unum falls… someone must still stand.”

Soleris reached for you, her face twisted in anguish. “Don’t say that! Don’t you dare!”

Instead of answering, you pulled her hands forward and placed your children in them. They screamed, tiny arms reaching back toward you, voices breaking.

“Mama! Baba! Please—!”

You kissed them each, quickly, memorizing the feel of their hair, the weight of their tiny bodies in your arms. “You are my joy. My stars. Be brave, my loves. Be brave.”

Tears blinded you for a heartbeat. But you couldn’t let them fall.

Aeliane grabbed Soleris, guiding her toward the passage. Ignis took the rear, glancing back one last time with fire in her eyes.

“Come back to us,” she whispered.

Then the channel closed. Darkness swallowed them.

And you were alone.

Wind rushed through the treetops, the cries of birds scattering into the dawn like prayers lost on the breeze. Smoke coiled from the palace roof in long, dark ribbons — an omen, or a warning. Somewhere beyond the marble walls, beyond shattered columns and sacred halls, Unum still fought. Steel clashed against shadow. Fury met obsession.

And if he fell… there would be nothing left between the empire and ruin but you.

Your breath caught — long and trembling, like the hush before a hymn. You stood on the edge of the garden’s highest rise, where roses once bloomed to lullabies and sunlight. Your hands, once meant to cradle children and tend peace, now clenched with the weight of war.

Then you turned your face toward the sea.

The sea — the silent witness to every song you sang, every night you waited — had finally answered.

You smiled through the sting of tears. Not broken — braced. You wiped your cheek with a steady hand and turned toward the palace once more, toward fire and fury.

Unum moved like a storm unchained. His twin whips, forged of shadowsteel and blessed by ancient rites, snapped through the air like lightning made flesh. Nulla countered with his jagged crimson blade, his expression twisted between obsession and wrath.

The first strike sent shockwaves down the throne room. The floor cracked, splintering under their feet. Pillars crumbled from the pressure of unleashed force. The stained-glass windows exploded inward, shards raining like starlight.

Unum struck again, the red-and-golden arc of his whip wrapping around Nulla's blade. He yanked, sending the weapon flying across the room. But Nulla didn’t falter. He lunged, claws of magic forming around his fists, aiming for Unum’s heart.

They crashed into each other again — magic clashing, light against dark, fury against madness. Sparks ignited the air. The banners of the Empire fluttered violently, as if trying to flee the throne room’s suffocating pressure.

In the place Unum roared, the sound more beast than man. He spun, one whip catching Nulla’s arm, the other curling around his ankle. In a blinding twist, he slammed Nulla into a column with such force the stone gave way in a deafening crack.

"This is MY empire," Unum growled, chest heaving, blood at the corner of his mouth. "You will not touch them. Not while I still breathe."

Nulla rose, blood trailing from his temple, smiling through broken teeth. “Then you’ll die for them. And I’ll take them from your corpse."

Unum didn’t answer with words. Only another strike — fast, final, merciless.

The two clashed once more in a blaze of power that lit the sky through the shattered ceiling, a flare seen across the entire capital.

And then... silence.

One figure stood.

Chest heaving. Shoulders smoking. Blood trailing from a wound near his ribs, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

The other lay crumpled at the foot of the dais, the black feathers that once signaled dread now lifeless and strewn across marble like ash. Nulla was defeated — finally.

Unum had won.

The silence afterward was absolute. No cheers, no horns of victory. Just the crackle of broken stone cooling and the flutter of a torn banner overhead.

Unum exhaled, slow and unsteady. His knuckles bled. His breathing was ragged. But his gaze lifted — not to the throne, not to the ruins of battle — but to the archway that led toward the palace gardens. Toward you.

He knew where you’d be.

And so he walked. Past shattered columns, past scorched rugs and collapsed guards. Past the place where he nearly died and the place where he nearly lost everything.

Through the war-ravaged halls, he found the garden again — not untouched, but alive. As if it too had been holding its breath.

And there you were.

Back turned to him, your gaze on the sea, unmoving, like a statue carved from moonlight and sorrow.

He stopped in the doorway, quiet.

You hadn’t heard his steps yet, but he smiled, soft and full of love, because he knew that stance — the way your hands clasped just below your ribs, the slight tilt of your head like you were listening for more than wind. His heart ached with how much he’d missed you. How much he never wanted to miss again.

Then you turned.

Slow. Disbelieving.

And your eyes found him.

Unum chuckled slowly, a sound cracked and breathless but real. “Told you I’d come back,” he said hoarsely.

You didn’t run to him — not at first. You only stared, drinking him in like he might vanish again if you blinked too hard. But he didn’t vanish. He stood there, scarred, shaking, alive — and looking at you like you were the only thing that had kept him going through the abyss.

His brave spouse. His home.

And then you spoke, voice cracking like a branch beneath too much weight. “I have no excuse for my actions… I promise, I was doing it to protect everyone.”

The words tumbled from your mouth like falling glass, sharp and fragile. Tears blurred your vision, your chest tightening with each hiccupped breath. You had rehearsed this moment in nightmares — him standing before you, alive, but with eyes filled with judgment. You couldn't bear it.

“I thought you were dead,” you choked out. “I thought the ocean swallowed you. I waited… gods, Unum, I waited until I couldn’t breathe without hurting. I watched the children fall asleep in front of that window every night hoping you’d walk through the door. And when Nulla came… I didn’t know what else to do.”

You backed away, shame pressing against your ribs like iron bands, until your spine met the cold marble railing of the balcony. There was nowhere left to retreat. Your fists clenched at your sides, trembling. “I thought you’d hate me. I thought I failed you.”

Unum stepped forward slowly. Not like a warrior. Like a man approaching the person he never stopped dreaming of. His steps were heavy with the weight of every mile he’d crossed to return to you — blood-soaked, storm-chased, bone-weary — and yet his hands were steady as they reached for you.

“I don’t hate you,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “I know. I know what he tried to take from you.”

His palm cupped your cheek, the warmth of it grounding. You leaned into it instinctively, gasping on a sob.

“You protected them the only way you knew how. You were alone. And you still stood. I am so proud of you”

Your lip trembled. “I thought you’d never come back.”

“I would cross every storm, every god, and every grave to come back to you.” He took another breath, like he’d been drowning and only now surfaced. “And I did.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, hands sliding gently to your waist, anchoring you to the moment. His eyes stared into you, nuzzling your nose together.

“You didn’t fail anyone,” he whispered. “You saved them.”

You closed your eyes as his scent enveloped you. It filled the hollow places where grief had taken root. You reached for him at last, fingers clinging to his tunic as if to convince yourself he was real.

And then you felt him tremble too.

“You know I was afraid you wouldn’t wait for me,” he confessed, so softly only the sea could’ve heard. “That you’d forget how to love me if I didn’t make it back in time.”

You opened your eyes. “I could never forget.”

The first rays of sunlight spilled across the garden balcony, bathing everything in soft gold. The ocean below exhaled in rhythmic waves, gentler now—almost as if it had finally surrendered to peace, mirroring the stillness settling in your bones.

Unum stood with you wrapped in his arms, his breathing slow, his heart steady against yours. Tired. Aching. But whole again.

“I love you, (Y/N),” he whispered, voice hoarse with raw sincerity. His lips met yours, slow at first—grateful and grounding—before the kiss deepened with hunger. His hands traced over your sides with reverence, memorizing the shape of your survival.

He nuzzled into your neck, breathing you in as if your scent was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. You moaned softly, feeling your body melt into his embrace. His teeth grazed your shoulder, and your hand slipped over the muscle of his chest, desperate to feel all of him, to remind yourself he was really here.

Unum pulled back just enough to watch your expression, his lips curving into a smile at the way your eyes fluttered, how your breath hitched in his arms.

Damn, I missed them… he thought, holding you tighter. Might as well lose myself right here—

A loud thud crashed into the scene.

“NO FAIR!” Solaris bellowed, tackling the two of you in an explosion of limbs and jealousy. “You’re taking everyone for a round tonight, Unum! You’re not hogging (Y/N)!”

Still half-draped over you, Unum groaned in defeat while you blinked in dazed surprise.

“Round?” murmured the twins in eerie unison, tilting their heads from the doorway with unsettling curiosity.

Ignis immediately broke into a coughing fit as Aeliane elbowed him in the ribs, both scrambling to spin a logical, less suggestive explanation.

“Ah—it’s a training round! Yes! Sparring!” Aeliane blurted.

“Yes, a combat circuit,” Ignis nodded rapidly, eyes wide. “Not that kind of round.”

Solaris snorted and flopped dramatically beside you, “Speak for yourselves. I meant what I said.”

You sighed into your palm as Unum chuckled beside you, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Guess our moment’s over.”

“Moment?” Solaris smirked, wiggling her eyebrows. “Sounded like it was turning into a whole night.”

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w0efulboopsoul · 3 months ago

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Cara Witnesses the Wrath of a Living God

Today, I stood as a silent witness to a moment both breathtaking and tragic—a failed attempt to bond with a dragon. The air thrummed with tension as the would-be rider, his voice quivering with a fragile blend of hope and dread, faced the young Golden Solaris Swift named Solara. Her radiant golden scales shimmered like living flames under the sunlight, each facet catching the rays and dancing with fiery brilliance. "Solara! Havestis! Solara! Havestis!" he pleaded, the Asterian command for "obey" ringing out in the stillness, a desperate cry for a connection that hovered just beyond his grasp.

Solara answered with a cry that split the air—a metallic, piercing shriek, sharp as a blade and rich with the resonance of molten gold. It shimmered with an unearthly energy, a sound so pure it seemed to glow, sending a chill of awe and terror through all who heard it. The Asterian handlers froze, their breaths catching as an icy dread coiled around their hearts. They knew that sound heralded a storm—an eruption of draconic fury that could unleash chaos upon them all. A heavy silence descended, thick with the weight of their fear.

From the shadowed edge of the platform, Solara emerged like a radiant phantom. Her scales, a stunning gold, refracted the dim light into a dazzling display, her serpentine body stretching over 35 feet long, her wings unfurling to a majestic 60-foot span. She glided forward with lethal grace, a predator cloaked in jewel-like armor that gleamed as if the midday sun had spilled across a treasury of gems. Her eyes blazed a fierce emerald green, slit pupils narrowing with a simmering irritability sparked by the mere utterance of her name—a warning of the tempest brewing within.

Her long neck, a cascade of shimmering scales, flowed with serpentine elegance as she approached the rider’s platform, tapering to an angular snout that radiated both beauty and menace. Crowning her head were horns—elegant yet deadly—rising just above her piercing eyes. They arched backward in a perfect, sinuous curve, three feet of slender, bronze-gold majesty, their spiraled ridges glinting like polished metal. Her crest flared as she moved, a fan of golden spines woven with an iridescent membrane, igniting a halo of light around her head that crowned her with an aura of divine regality.

Solara’s head pressed against the platform, a fortress of molten gold that seemed to sear the air itself. The rider gaped, astonishment washing over him as he whispered, "I’ve done it—I’ve tamed this mighty beast!" His words dripped with pride, a spark that ignited Solara’s disdain. Her irritability roared to life, a tempest of impatience churning within her. With a sudden, furious lash of her neck, she struck the platform, the crash resounding like thunder. The young man stumbled, his confidence shattering into trembling fear beneath her imperious glare.

Stubborn as unyielding stone, irritable as a chained wildfire, arrogant as a monarch on a gilded throne, impatient as a striking serpent, and vain as a star preening in the night—Solara was the embodiment of her kind. Golden Solaris Swifts despised wasted time, but what they loathed even more was the hubris of those who dared assume mastery over them. Her neck whipped again, a menacing rumble growling from her chest, shaking the ground beneath our feet. She reared high, her emerald-green eyes—now ablaze with regal scorn—fixing on him, a silent challenge burning in their depths: “Is that so?”

Before the handlers could react, her jaws tore open, a cavern of incandescent fury, gold and shadow swirling within. Out roared her Fyrak—dragon fire, a molten torrent of blinding gold that devoured the air with its ferocity. The rider vanished in an instant, consumed by the searing blaze, his fleeting form reduced to a scatter of brittle cinders and a wisp of ash drifting on the wind—a mere echo erased by the relentless, wrathful glory of Solara’s divine inferno.

#w0e's at it again #w0e's musings #headcanons #creative writing #writing #Introducing Solara an rageful Elder #What did the rider do wrong?#What would you have done to prove yourself to Solara?#Did he actually 'tame' Solara all because she responded?#Sassy Solara #Solara said nu

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youjustwaitsunshine · 2 years ago

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hueurghegghhhh sebmick interstellar/'39 au,,,,, absolutely gut wrenching pls imagine

#they're just built for space tragedy shut up #seb mick interstellar seb mick (seb michael...???) solaris seb mick gravity seb mick-#tell me theyre not built for despairing in the vastness of space #however 2001 is sebchal #blade runner too

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scarletwritesshit · 4 months ago

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🍾Brant x F!Rover🍾The Ale Is Mightier Than The Sword

There was no way that he could’ve already downed that many bottles.

If Rover didn’t witness it happen with her own eyes, she wouldn’t even have believed it. But the scattered empty bottles told the rest of his tale where his actions didn’t.

Five, going on six, whole bottles of ale. Though he was loud and quite in her way, Rover was secretly thankful that Brant had decided to pull his chair closer to her for some friendly chatter. In the event that he would topple over, someone whose mind was still within the realm of Solaris-3 had to be around to catch him. It wasn’t an unlikely possibility either, as Brant was swaying around in his chair as if he were caught in an ocean storm. Rover, though a little tipsy herself, kept a watchful eye to make sure he didn’t knock his head off of something.

This seemed to be a regular occurrence, judging by the looks of everyone else’s expressions. They chatted ever so quietly while Brant was running his mouth practically announcing his business to the entire world.

"But, my dear friends, if only you were there to witness the moment I singlehandedly wiped out an entire swarm of Tacet Discords with one fell swoop of my blade!" Brant shouted, nearly tumbling forward and holding onto the back of Rover's chair for stability.

The crew nodded their head, pretending to agree with him in order to not drag out the topic any further. Roccia stared in unamused disbelief, but any argument against his claims would more than likely lead to a flamboyant lecture of his. So, she kept her mouth shut, despite clearly having some cruel words for Brant on her mind.

Rover wanted to humor him. It would more than likely result in some rather disgusted looks from the crew towards her for opening her mouth. But it would be funny. Thus, her internal debate was brief.

"Brant,~ " she said, "how about you tell us more about your heroic endeavors?"

As predicted, the entire crew redirected their disgusted gazes towards Rover.

"Anything for you, my dear friend!" Brant said excitedly, taking another hefty sip from the bottle. "Ohh…where to start…where to start…aha! One time, my blade alone managed to tame the likes of an echo the size of a million billion gulpuffs!!"

Rover knew he was certainly exaggerating, but she couldn’t help but crack a smile. The others, however, did not quite share her amusement.

"When I held out my sword," he continued, raising his bottle in sync with his words, "I beckoned to the great beast, 'Is it a challenge with the legendary Captain Brant that you seek?' Its massive eyes stared me down, knowing damn well it could swallow me with looks alone, and I could hear it say, 'I will humor your challenge, but do not be shocked when I strike you down with one fell swoop of my tail!' A cocky little bastard it was, just because it was bigger than me!"

Brant’s inner theater kid was shining through, much to the discontent of others. Roccia, the only one fully sober, might as well be hungover from his words alone. With each and every boast, Rover grew increasingly concerned that she was on the verge of throwing her cup of juice directly at his forehead.

Brant was trying to stand up to continue his performance, if one could call it that, but he could only manage to wobble on his chair. Rover braced herself to catch him, should he make it onto his feet, but he couldn’t quite harness the coordination to do so.

"That bastard, oooooh, was that bastard wrong! WRONG!" he continued, taking yet another drink. "I gave em’ a good ol’ taste of my trusty blade here! Never seen a big-eyed beast so agape with awe! Haha! Boy, did I send em’ runnin’ too. Bowed down in mercy and went swimming away like a good lil’ fishie."

"Brant. I just think that it didn’t want to put up with your crap," Roccia said, very matter of factly.

"Ahem. Who was there personally face the beast?"

"Who is the one drunk off of his- "

"Exactly!" he shouted, disregarding Roccia’s attempt at a jab at him. "I was there and I know best, meaning I know that my heroic actions are almost unmatched!"

"Almost?" Roccia said smugly.

"Almost! Because nobody can possibly compare to my star! My beautiful, glorious, all powerful star!"

Rover had a most awful feeling she knew who he was referring to. Roccia could see it in Rover’s eyes that she held her suspicions too, and was quite relieved that she wasn’t the direct target of his antics this time around. However, watching Brant loudly declare such things was horribly embarrassing for all around nonetheless. What was worse was that Brant had managed to make it onto his own two feet, and Rover’s eyes went wide with the knowledge that things were about to end badly.

"Nobody, nobody is mightier than my dear Rover! How I would sacrifice everything in my mind, body, and soul for her if she already wasn’t the best!"

"Brant..." Rover said, preparing herself to catch him, "you might want to take a seat. I don’t think you mean to say have of these things- "

"I mean every single word! Every single one! Would I be so bold as to speak my mind if they were nothing but lies? Haha-urp!"

He was out of his mind and hiccupping like crazy yet still had the guts to take another hefty sip. Rover silently gazed at the others for help, but they had that look as if they were saying, "You’re on your own." Brant was unstable, and had just loudly gone out of his way to declare his love for Rover. Now would have been a perfect time to leave the situation without saying a word more. But she couldn’t just leave him here; the crew would more than likely let him fall on his head.

She kept looking back and forth between the crew and Brant, unsure of what exactly to do in this situation. Before she could come to any sort of conclusion, Brant finally lost his footing, and Rover quickly held out her arms to catch him. He was half-slumped against the chair, but she knew that if she were to let go, he would slide onto the floor like a slippery strand of seaweed. Despite the awkward position he was in, Brant seemingly couldn’t be happier.

"...Could you please excuse us for a moment?" Rover said.

The crew obliged, and took their remaining servings of ale with them. Seemed as if there were no hard feelings, and there was a silent agreement to speak no further on the topic. They were used to and perhaps even amused by his nonsense. Roccia was the only one who didn’t join them immediately. She walked around the other side of the table and helped lift up Brant onto the chair with an impressive amount of strength for her size. Kind of a surprising gesture of kindness after the look on her face earlier.

"Don’t say anything," she said before walking off. "He’s more of my nuisance anyways."

Brant, now comfortably seated on a chair yet still somewhat in Rover’s arms, could not hold himself back from collapsing onto her shoulder. He was beyond half asleep and not entirely with it, so Rover readjusted herself and let him lean against her. That meant she was going to be stuck there for quite some time herself, but it didn’t matter, as she was beginning to doze off from the ale that she drank.

"I told you..." Brant said, dozing off, "they fear me...but they rightfully fear you most..."

"Save it for later before you embarrass yourself further."

Brant’s hat was sliding off of his head. Rover slid it back up, somewhat covering his eyes so that he could rest well.

Some time later, Rover awoke to find that Brant was already awake himself. Quite the surprise, given how he drank astronomically more ale than everyone else combined. He was clutching his head with his hat in his lap, unsurprisingly hungover.

He glanced over at Rover slowly waking in the chair next to him and looked away.

"I...didn’t say anything embarrassing, did I?"

"Well for starters," Rover said, "you claimed to be the biggest badass of the sea then slipped in one too many compliments about me."

"Compliments? As in..."

"You’ve straight up admitted to liking me."

"Rats..." Brant said, putting his hat back on and very wobblily standing up, "this isn’t how I wanted you to find out in the slightest. Apologies, my dear lady."

Rover still had enough coordination to stand up and grab his sleeve before he could walk off. Brant, still feeling the effects of his binge prior, stumbled backwards.

"Find out? You couldn’t make it more obvious if you tried. I don’t think any mere friends quite say the things that you do."

"S-sorry," Brant said, mind still groggy and unable to form the proper words.

"I didn’t say I was mad," she said with a giggle, "I just think you’re an idiot sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"Just sometimes. Like now. You should really be laying down instead of trying to hobble off on your own."

"And also for the fact that I even thought I had a chance with you, right?"

"No, you’re an idiot for assuming that I didn’t like you in return.”

Brant looked at her, absolutely baffled. He couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol in his system playing tricks on his mind or if she really, truthfully...

He lost his footing, but Rover was close enough by to stabilize him and wrap his arm around her shoulder.

Brant, relieved of the pressure of balancing himself, turned to Rover and said, "Thank you, my dear lady. I hardly deserve the likes of you."

"That’s like saying I don’t deserve greatest hero on the seas," she said with a smile.

"Huh? Where did that come from?"

"Let’s just get you to bed," Rover said, completely ignoring his desperate inquiry.

#wuthering waves #female rover #rover wuthering waves #brant #wuwa rover #wuwa brant #wuthering waves brant #brantrover #brantfrover #ship tags HARD #wuwa

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skitchdoods · 5 months ago

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Bellerose de Beauchene — Her Eternal Radiance

“...for it was true that she had beauty so disarming and none like any other, a mind as sharp as a blade made by Hephaestus, and a heart as gracious as a spring-kissed flower blooming under the sun’s gentle morning rays, yet the Beast could not stop himself from falling for her gentle wisdom, more for her stubborn wit, and most for her unbridled, nearly reckless courage...”

Born to a Lousanian Artist, Maurice De Beauchene, and a textile merchant from the Agarabhan city-state of Shirabad, Saundary Vishyan, Bellerose de Beauchene had always proven to be a brilliant mind with an innate understanding of engineering and machinery. She was the first female apprentice allowed entrance in the prestigious Lousanian Guild of Automatonry and Enlightened Pursuits, though she was never allowed to become an official Matoneer because of her sex.

She was known for many of her inventions, most importantly harnessing Wild Sprite (boundless and chaotic magic) into Spark, revolutionizing energy away from coal and steam, in 1798. However, what many still know her for and what many would most associate her for is her namesake—Beauty.

From her mysterious but unsurprising rise as Queen of Rosedor—the largest, richest, and most ancient of the Gaulian kingdoms and the Mecca of Daphinian Civilization, Philosophy, Invention, and Progress—to her final days, no historical recounting would dare remiss mentioning her alarming beauty, one that did not fade until the end.

Of the three historically preserved portraits available, not one was said to truly capture her beguiling visage. However, one cherished story among Rosedoreans tells of the portrait hanging in the Royal Summer Palace of Rosecoeur, where many would say that the beloved queen looked as though she was about to sneeze. It is said that Belle was notoriously bashful with regards to her looks and being painted, but that on the days that she had to sit, venerable King Adam II, would make her laugh, much to the painter’s chagrin.

Historical accounts suggest that the couple had a loving union, marked by many hushed conversations and laughter between them in any event they were invited to. Staff also remarked the couple’s sharp wit and entertaining debates at dinners, King Adam being a renowned architect himself who had studied in Richepierre, the capital of his kingdom under a common name. They were near inseparable, even in death, as Belle died two months after her husband, whom she would affectionately call “Ma Bête.”

Though there is no dearth of their relationship as leaders, in truth, much of the couple’s history is unclear with most of their supposed courtship occurring during the Great Forgetting, where the Kingdom had supposedly been enveloped in dangerous fog and briar, ceasing possible interactions with its neighboring rivals and all but deserting its role as the central trade route between East and West. The phenomenon continues to be shrouded in mystery as not even documents from other kingdoms make mention of the fabled occurrence—and more shockingly—the kingdom itself between the years 1792-1798…except for the correspondence of letters between the King and Queen themselves and their journals.

But many Rosedoreans have their own generational tale of how the Lousanian Matoneer met the Rosedorean King in the form of a Great Beast, of how their love had broken a Great Curse of disrememberance and volatile ennui. Despite the lack of historical evidence, many honor such heritage by holding balls on the Royal Couple’s anniversary and dancing Master Concerto Monsieur Guillee de Forte’s composition known as ‘La Valse de La Belle et La Bête,’ supposedly written to inaugurate the rebuilding of the Rosecoeur’s legendary ballroom during their courtship.

Many theorized that Belle would have chosen a very specific fabric, fabled to have been solely produced by her mother’s company before it burned down in 1791—colloquially named, the Solaris Weave—as the Royal seamstress, Madame Fifi De Garderobe-Forte makes mentions in her later years of making such a dress with many embellishments more accustomed to Shibarad for the exact occasion.

To this day, only a swath of the fabric exist, displayed in the Richepierre museum. At 3PM, the seemingly ordinary piece of gold fabric is placed under the sun, showing its hardly understood property to reflect fractals of light despite not being speckled or beaded. Though many to this day try to replicate the exact fabric, the national conservatory has yet to allow proper studies of the material, fearing losing it and the very heritage of Rosedor.

More Under the Cut

This piece means a lot to me being nine years in the making to the date. It may seem trivial, but I've never invested on one singular idea for as long as I had this one dress. It's one of the main reasons I've taken breaks from art in a deeply personal sense, because I would start it and finish something and hate it after two days and redo it, only to not finish anything. It was a bad cycle to say the least.

Within those years, I have grown so much in terms of knowledge and respect for fashion as a whole art form, most especially in costume design more than just historical recreation and research. At some point, I just grew tired of slapping on a robe du cour and calling it a day. I love BTAB and I love Belle and the more I felt like, simply putting on a historically accurate garment with some fantastical embellishments was half the work. So, part of this personal journey had been coming to terms of what I wanted to do.

I'd like to think that the approach I've developed for these Princess Gowns moving forward is that I want to design a dress that fits for the character at that moment in their story—who they are, what it means to be wearing that dress, and the whole context of their journey and the world they live in. It was understanding what Belle has gone through in the movie in my head, parading as producer, writer, director, AND costume designer to a fictional film stuck in my head—inspired by the greats like Sandy Powell, Terry Dresbach, and Anthony Powell and Rosemary Burrows.

It includes having an understanding of her character, of how she relates to others, of world building, and even the fashion CULTURE of the region at large, because by then, I had completely forgone trying to write a story WITHIN our world and found so much more possibilities by writing these Disney stories outside of our world and reality.

So, we have this dress. A glittery gold dress of dreams that has been nine years in the making, a dress that represents Belle at that pinnacle moment—and maybe even my own 'closing of the book,' if you will.

I designed this gown with a healthy understanding that throughout her 2-3 year stay in the castle and forest, she would have had so many dresses of so many colors and styles. I was focused more on contextualizing different decades of 18th century fashion to become region fashions with the redingote and a la Turque being something more used in the kingdom's capital, while more pastoral a la reigne being what could have been 'it' with the court, amongst others.

A lot of this dress was designed with the rest of her wardrobe in mind in an attempt to differentiate it from others. No other gown will have the same neckline, the same silhouette, the same volume, and the same color. Not even her hair and makeup would be similar to the other dresses. So, it feels like a 'step forward' in fashion within the trends and context set up in the story by all the other gowns worn by her and others.

For Belle's dress, I gravitated towards the silhouettes of the 1730s-40s, where the hip wasn't too angular and flowed more naturally like a...bell (that's an unintentional pun). I think that it's the more pleasing option, though Belle would be wearing more panniers throughout the story too. I wanted something that made the Waltz (which in this universe, had already been developed) elegant and not too cumbersome and panniers just felt too bulky, because the dances associated with it didn't need close contact. So, in the mechanics sense, I found that this would work best.

I maintained a dose fo 1950s-60s references in my head. I would love Belle to wear something like a re-imagined Dior New Look gown while strolling with Adam in the greenhouse or pull up Lacroix for dinner, de Garderobe being a very 'keen' fashion innovator with Belle as her muse.

But in my story, she would stay away from one specific color—yellow/gold. It was her mother's color and, in grieving, she refused to touch it and anything that could harken back to her mother, like south-asian style embroidery and motifs. But I think as Belle develops her own style and the more Adam and her bond, the more she comes to terms with her mother's death.

There's a lot to the story I can't share at the moment, of how they meet and how they bond, and why they're stuck in the forest. There's too much to discuss, but be assured that a lot had been retconned.

So this dress was her 'bringing' her mom to meet the man she fell in love with, even if she can't admit it. It's her coming to terms with what happened and carrying her mother with her instead of looking back with nothing but heartbreak.

And she looks damn good with her mama's color, I'll tell you that much. I know that on one hand, gold can be a color of greed and temptation, but for me, I think gold is 'pure' and 'luminous.' I wanted her intentions, those she cannot find the courage yet to speak, be clear and transfixing.

Another aspect was the symbolism of her and Adam's relationship. I know that flower garlands were in use in some gown throughout the 1750s-60s. I also know Lehengas are sometimes worn with a copious amount of flower garlands too, so I had this idea of just overflowing her dress with jasmines, which are a very common fixture even here in the Philippines with a context of spirituality as we usually put it on sacred images and statues. So, while on the shallow sense, it may come as a merging of two cultures, for me, there's a bit of sanctity, the same image evoked as Belle and the Beast danced under heavens and smiling cherubs.

In a story sense, the rose on her left chest represents her heart blooming for Adam, as if sprouting forth the gold, illuminating her like the sun as he is her sky...her space. It's as much a love letter to him as it is to herself and her mother, because I wanted to emphasize her POV in their story too, of how she felt safe and loved, away form ridicule and prejudice.

And lastly, the hair. Okay, so part of the journey was figuring out her hair. With a 1950s facade, for the longest time I focused on maintaining the curls of the rococo period and conflating it a lot with the waves of the 1950s, so you will see a lot of sketches with that. It wasn't until I tried understanding the overall silhouette of court fashion that I had my eureka moment and realize that the volume was more important than what's...within said volume. And, funnily enough, after trying SO HARD to avoid the hair bun...I ended up with a hairstyle that unintentionally pays homage to it.

My only regret is not finding a way to highlight the shoes HAHAHHAHAHA. I'm mad, because I really wanted to draw the shoe but I didn't want to ruin the way the gown flowed already.

TIMELINE

2016-2017: "Bitch, They've Hit the Pentagon."

As a kid, I was always exposed to fashion magazines since my mom used to be subscribed to a whole lot of them. I would look at Harper's Bazaar and Vogue, smell the perfume samples that came with them. I've always had a sort of inherent, passive interest in fashion but not enough to know the designers and the motifs.

But then, I saw a leak of Belle's gown in the 2017 version and...I lost it. I was convinced I would do a better job designing it, but hell, I think anyone would. Back then, i was obsessed with simply remaking the original dress and making it 'pretty.' Of course, as you can see, I based some on the broadway gown and afterwards, it sorta developed into this romantic, 2000s punk dress with lace fingerless gloves and whatever. HAHHAHAHA, at that time, I didn't really care for 18th century fashion...so...

2018: "Roco-NO? I think you mean, Marie Antion-YAS!"

I think the biggest step during this era was me falling in love with the fashion of the 18th century. I was exposed to Outlander and other shows and I started watching youtube videos deep-diving into court fashion, so I started veering away from anything vaguely 1840s-60s and literally went a hundred years BACK.

Sadly, it came with hang ups too. IDK what the hell I was doing with faces, honestly? Also, I was really forcing the off-the-shoulder V-boob neckline far too much, even when it was...very hard to make sense off construction-wise.

2019-2021: "Wait a minute...Desi...Belle?"

At this point, I've fleshed out the story in my head for more diversity, not just because diversity matters, but I wanted more things to be different in the settings and the world the Disney Heroes are based in. I wanted the idea that trade and intermingling of cultures was far more common and recognized and I thought that Belle being biracial was a good choice, and something I related to.

I guess that's what was the most important development during this period. Though note how I initially wanted her to have henna on her hands but I decided that that would be better at the wedding. In addition, there was little effort to make the actual gown reflect her heritage.

2022-2023: "Screw it, I give up!"

During this time, I was doing my internship, so I lost interest in designing and art in general. It was just hard to concentrate, really, but still, I think that there were a lot of aspects to these deigns that ultimately lead me to the final design.

2024-NOW: "And They All Lived..."

So now, we're here at the present. It's been such a long time coming and I feel relief to be able to share this and move on, so to speak. Even if I have a lot of creative energy and a better relationship with my art, I've come to realize that I can't make a dress I love without having a whole ass story to fantasize about.

Sure, I have a few designs for the other princesses with their own huge stories that make it easy to find direction, but I can't confidently say that I would want to keep making stories for all princesses moving forward. I would love to, of course, but I don't want that to be the whole reason for my blog to catch attention.

Keep your eyes peeled for more disney gowns, but I do hope you stay for some other projects i want to do, maybe some muscle daddies in cute dresses, fashion designs I wish were on the National Costume category for Miss Universe or DRPH, and maybe some studies here or there and gay pinups.

I hope that for those who have stayed here reading all of this to have a wonderful day and to never stop creating and chiseling away at your block of marble.

Maraming Salamat!

#my art #fashion #art #disney #belle #disney princess #historical fashion #costume design #costume redesign #elseworld #beauty and the beast #rococo #desi #fashion illustrations #fashion design #disney fanart #gold

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httpsxarien · 8 months ago

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Romancing Mr Half-Devil | SPARDA’S HISTORY

PAIRINGS: Vergil Sparda (Devil May Cry) x Alessa Vera (Original Character)

SUMMARY: the history of the lovers’ family, and how fate binded them together.

Many know the tale of Sparda, the strongest of all demons, who defeated and brought an end to the Demon King, Mundus. But what the books often forget is that Sparda was not alone when he started his rebellion. Accompanying him were two remarkable humans: a holy priestess and the first devil hunter.

Ludwig Vera, a nobleman from the time when Sparda still served Mundus, is recorded as the first devil hunter in history. He hunted demons with a legendary weapon, a trick-sword that would become a cherished family heirloom for centuries: The Holy Eclipse. This blade, rumored to be blessed by the holy priestess, could only be wielded by those who shared Ludwig’s blood. The Holy Eclipse, a chosen twin-blade that transformed into a dual-wielded saber and dagger, was said to have annihilated hundreds of thousands of demons during Sparda’s rebellion.

Ludwig met Sparda during a mission, and the two dueled fiercely. Sparda, impressed by Ludwig’s power, struggled to defeat him. Some say Ludwig had a significant influence on Sparda’s decision to turn against Mundus. Demons feared the Vera name for its sheer strength and the legacy of power that Ludwig’s descendants would uphold. An honorable man, Ludwig swore his clan to fight demons for eternity.

Next, there was the Holy Priestess, Sienna of the Solari. During Sparda’s rebellion, witch trials were rampant, and Sienna became a target. Her people were massacred by demons, leaving her the sole survivor. Belonging to a religion known as Sacra Divina, which revered the Goddess Of Light - the goddess taking form in the Divinity Statues all around the world, could channel divine abilities through her faith. Caught using these abilities, she was nearly burned by the common folk. Sparda, however, rescued her. In gratitude, she helped seal the Temen-Ni-Gru, her blood mixing with the Devil’s.

With the battle won and no more blood to be shed, the devil hunter and the holy priestess found solace in each other, creating a family line destined to intersect with Sparda’s. Their descendants would continue to battle demons threatening humankind. Unfortunately for them, they were only mortals, which meant that they could not accompany their demon friend for much longer. Despite this, Sparda stayed close to their families, honoring the bond he shared with the two humans who accepted him despite his monstrous nature.

Eventually, Sparda made a family of his own. The Legendary Dark Knight Sparda became known to humans as either a myth, a god to be worshipped, or a terror to those who faced him. Through his enduring presence, he bridged the worlds of humans and demons, leaving a legacy that intertwined with those of Ludwig Vera and Sienna, the holy priestess.

But to his family: his loving wife, Eva and his pride & joy Dante and Vergil - he was nothing but a normal man that loved and took care of them.

And as a reunion for old friends: he invited the Vera family, that also has two children with them, Alessa and Hector, unaware that by doing so, he’d connect their family into one and destroy it.

#devil may cry #dmc vergil #vergil x reader #vergil sparda #devil may cry vergil #dmc #dante #dante sparda #nero #nero sparda #nero vera #alessa vera #dmc x reader #devil may cry x reader

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milksuu · 1 year ago

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❝ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ❞ ─── ☾⏺☽

pairing: yandere!aphelios x solari!priestess!reader (LoL)

warning: non/con, fem!reader, possessive/obsessive behavior, mentions of blood/violence, religious/fanatical behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, minor drug use, implied kidnapping, implied forced relationship, semi-public sex, unbalanced power dynamic, runeterra au

notes: sorry besties, he's a 10 but he's bat shit insane. (so an 11) also any mention of 'her' is the moon goddess, not alune. (we're leaving that sweet summer child out of this.) and for those who aren't aware, phel can speak when not under the influence of noctum, but unable to communicate with alune, which is uh...great in this case. (also not me wanting to write a second part like how why help?)

You never thought you’d stare into the pale visage of the Lunari man the village whispered about.

The one with a vacant face but deadly occupation. Your naïve belief in your own safe keeping was nothing more than an illusion. The sun always faded below the misted cliffs, only for the moon to take its place above the mountain’s highest peak. An endless cycle of hierarchical dominance that rinsed itself in blood and repeated in constant turmoil. Tonight would be no different.

“Don’t come any closer.”

A failed attempt to embolden your voice beyond a meek plea. You stiffened at the thunderous closing of the temple door. A clambering echo vibrated through the marble floor and pillars, past the rows of worship, up to where you stood at the crest of the ceremonial altar. The remaining resonance rattled and sang up your spine, shaking the candle light pinched between your fingertips.

The figure sauntered forward, stepping into the drapes of moonshine filtering from the glass atrium above. Before you stood a deadly beauty; a handsome face rapt with enticing secrets. With a painted crescent that mocked your own solar marking of gold. His lips were a perfect horizontal line, and it was difficult to imagine the ability they possessed beyond lethal silence. His hallowed expression screamed danger—but there was no running away—not when the black abyss of his eyes invited you to stay.

Not as a guest, but as his permanent resident.

“I’m warning you. Take one more step, and I’ll scream. The guards will come and they won’t hesitate to kill you—”

Your voice went taut inside your throat. Your breath sewn shut against your lungs. The weapon he carried listless at his side drenched itself in various hues of red. Fresh enough to steam in wisps around the sharpest point of the blade.

He stalked forward. The clack of his predetermined steps quickening the pace of your heart. When he stood at arms length, you felt the coldest touch of night. The veins layered beneath your skin pounded, flooding every inch of you with mortal dread. It was sickening to think the flush of your flesh would only make the spill of it all the better. The ‘Weapon of The Faithful’—titled by his own blasphemous people—spoke true. His name…you wished you could cleanse it from existence.

“Aphelios.” You damned the name like a plague upon all of Mount Targon. “Murderer. Blight. Heretic!”

You jabbed and swung your candlelight in a pitiful attempt to create distance. His free hand quipped against it, sending it clambering to the ground, banishing the flame to the surrounding night. Creating a hazier veil of darkness where there was only one true light—his moon.

Out of sheer disdain, you attempted to slap his face in recoil. His unarmed hand caught you by the wrist, remaining still as you struggled to free yourself from his trained grasp. With force, he pried your hand open, palm exposed. He brought the skin of it to his stiff lips. Unmoving, he lingered there. His lashes fluttered closed; taking a moment of peace, a moment of prayer.

A moment for sanctum.

His eyes then winged opened, boring into you, through you. Body, bone and soul. And all you could do was tremble within them. Sinking without escape into those black depths of…nothing.

In one swift motion, he brought the blade upwards, slicing through the thin linen of your garments. In a precise vertical line, your gown split into two equal halves. The insignificant barrier between you and him slipped to the ground, splaying like rags at your feet. Your head pounded for you to scream, but your own voice felt lost to you. Knowing it was all meaningless.

No one would hear you.

No one would save you.

Weakened by the surmounting despair of it all, if he hadn’t already had a hold on you, your legs would have given to the earth.

“No—“ you choked out, eyes brimming with tears. It must’ve looked pathetic; the way you placed your only free arm across your exposed breasts. As if any decorum of modesty would spare you. “Please—just kill me. Do nothing else but that. I beg of you.”

Your final sob for mercy reached ears that may as well have been carved of stone. He stalked closer, forcing your lower back to meet the mantled altar behind you. He’d sheathed his weapon, and took both of your hands within one tight grasp, in case you had half a mind to oppose him. You dipped your chin, heaving through a prayer with mournful hics and sniffled utterances. His advancing weight forced your trembling legs to part, and slotting himself between, created a space where your faith could never exist.

You didn’t want to look at him, or rather, you couldn’t. Tears scorched your vision and seared down the round of your cheeks. You flinched when he took your chin, raising your blurry gaze to meet his. In those darkest of pools, something gave. An insignificant speck of light gleaming into a faint existence. His lips moved, but there was no sound. Instead, you traced the words from the bow of his mouth.

‘Forgive me.’

Your heart clenched. Diluted blood spiked with fear drowned your consciousness. It left no room for thoughts to linger; whether or not you imagined even an ounce of sympathy reflected in those sedated eyes. Whether or not you imagined he said anything at all.

The entire world scattered away when he brought your face closer, and kissed away the tears staining the corners of your eyes. You fought to pull away, but he held firm, both your chin and hands locked in the cage of his fingers. From your cheeks, he skimmed his ghostly lips to your mouth. He muffled your protestive moans by filling up your mouth with all of his tongue.

He gave you the salt taste of your own tears. That, and the taste of something else. A saccharine flavor with notes of floral and bitter earth.

A reaction flourished; a slight tingle of your lips at first. It made his tongue feel hotter against yours, as parts of your upper mouth went numb. A stream of lukewarm paralysis seeped past your soft palate, filling every nook and cranny of your mindscape. Yet, the secondary symptoms didn’t stop there. An opposite wave traversed down your throat to your stomach, spilling fire throughout every layer of nerves. You clenched your lashes tight, shuddering a gasp into his open mouth.

When the pain settled into a dull simmer, you wondered briefly, had he felt it too? Had he consumed such a substance by choice? If that was a taste, what pain did he endure if he drank it like an offering of wine?

You didn’t want to imagine the terrible effects it might’ve had on his person. Not if it gave you even a single drop of sympathy. It was revolting enough his saliva was poisoning your pure sense of self. The fog of it sullying your inhibitions, stripping away your layers of moral preservation. To the absolute vitriolic parts of yourself, it made you consider…

What would it be like to be touched?

It was too sick and cruel of a thing to do to you. Since birth, you’d devoted your body and soul to your divine Goddess; The Golden Sister. You wanted to be disgusted by allowing the gift of yourself to become tainted by some awful man. No—he was worse than that. Or any word you could craft and cut the corners of your mouth with. He was, by biblical history, a Lunari man born from the cataclysmic eclipse of two moons. A day that marked the day of reckoning of the Solari faith and your people.

Your clouded senses and busied mouth made you unaware that his hand left your face to trail the mounds and curves of your body. A light touch drifting to your inner thighs. You jolted when a finger graced the sensitive hood of your exposed clit. Your thighs squirmed at his side as you attempted to jerk your knees. It did nothing and stirred nothing from him. Except bolster his conviction, tempting a finger lower, teasing your folds already glistening.

Although light-headed, you ripped your mouth away and nipped at his lip. It sprang forth droplets of blood, enough to taste his iron on your tongue. A trivial satisfaction.

“May you burn at dawn,” you condemned and spat at his lips.

Unflinching, he withdrew his hand and brushed over the blood mark you left. Sweeping it across his bottom lip, along with your saliva, he rolled the consistency between his fingers in private contemplation. Before he looked you dead in the eyes and stuck his fingers inside his mouth. Sucking and licking till his fingers dripped. Watching sent a lightning strike coiling down your spine.

He loomed his weight forward until your back met the altar mantle. With your palms pinned above your head, and legs coaxed wider. His coated hand repositioned down to your entrance, and you writhed with any strength your body could lend. His hold wrapped around your wrists squeezed, gentle in its reprimand. He leaned down to brush his face at the side of your cheek.

“Please…for your own sake.”

Your eyes widened at his frayed whispers stringing together. Breathing life into what seemed like an empty shell of a person. The frigid space between his mouth and your ear kindling with the slightest bit of warmth. It was what you feared the most. Forced to accept he was every bit human, with a horrid courtesy to use polite words and a pleasant, sickening tone. More insult to your injury. You wished he hadn’t spoken at all. Letting you believe in your mind that he was more aberration or phantom. Or anything else that carried not a single hint of a beating heart.

“I don’t want to hurt you…not anyone, really.” Again, comforting yet noxious. And it made whatever was inside you throb so terribly. As if he could sense it, he reached for it. His salivated finger split through your folds, sliding into the heat of your cunt. It elicited a drawn out whimper as you felt the sensual brush of it against a bed of tingling nerves. Gradually revealing a hidden desire you hadn’t wanted to gratify him with.

“But you…and your people…need to accept what can’t be denied any longer.” He punctuated his words with each thrust of his finger as it curved into that crescent shape you despised so much. Yet, you couldn’t deny the way it made your most feminine parts unravel at the seams. ”No matter how high your sun rises, my heavenly moon will always eclipse it. And fill the sun with Her beauty for all to see.“

A hitched whine fluttered past your lips as he easily slipped a second finger. While the heel of his palm pressed in circles, spreading your arousal and stimulating your plumping clit. Your cunt unashamedly sucked on his long fingers, encouraging him to mold and form you into what he needed you to be—a conduit for the undying affections of his faith.

“You might not see it, but the divine path has been shown to me. The one that’s led me to you. You can feel it at least, can’t you?” He flexed his digits and plunged a third finger. Deeper than the last, fuller than before. Your hips rolled forward on their own accord, craving every bit of attention from his touch.

With deliverance, you answered the question with a wail and arch of your back. Your whole body washed its nerves in a blinding heat. His fingers curled and flexed at your hungry walls clenching around him. It pushed a gush of sticky fluid from your twitching hole into his circling palm. Coming down from the spasms, you sobbed at the humiliating response of your body.

“So you do feel it.” There was a hidden sentiment of relief in his otherwise placid delivery. As if he’d purged the last blot of doubt that restrained him. You swallowed a mouthful of whines as his probing fingers continued undulating inside you. “Your body…it’s begging to devour me in all its warmth. And mine, yearning to take all your bright stars and bathe you by moon glow alone. Wanting us—and only us—to become one.”

Without warning, he emptied you of his fingers, a filthy squelch following with it. You sucked in a gasp at the crippling cold he left you with. But he wouldn’t abandon you for long. Shifting in the dark haze above you, he unsheathed his length from his garments and pressed himself against your sopping cunt. He dragged his fullness against your swollen and slicked folds. He wasn’t even inside you, yet you felt an agonizing cramp fisting in your stomach.

“By Her orders, by Her design…” he spoke through tight whispers, strained by his own anticipation. Pressing his full weight down, he hovered mere inches above you, panting bouts of aroused breaths against your lips. “Let us Converge.”

You squirmed and bucked underneath him. “Nn…not with you…anyone but—!”

You broke off into a high-pitched cry as he stretched you open, filling you up till he bottomed out, and pressed up to the hilt of his hips. He silenced both of your newly coupled hymns with his mouth, and each lap of his tongue matched the tempo of his generous thrusts. The sharp, intrusive pinch died as quickly as it came—the insignificant remnants of toxin dulling bits and pieces of certain pain receptive nerves. A gift, perhaps, in this instance. He had also prepped you well enough to accept all of his adoration, as intended. Another gift, as someone of his ‘giving’ nature may phrase it.

Pulling away slowly, the tip of his head rubbed graciously against every ridge of your swelling walls, before languidly pushing back, going past where you seemed to end. Beyond your farthest points you hadn’t thought existed. Pressing and rubbing all your soft spots and cervix with careful deliberation.

Then again, and again, and again.

“Can you feel it…my devotion…” he groaned into your open-mouthed kisses, continuing to work himself inside you. You weren’t even sure if he was speaking to you, or through you to his false Goddess.

His free hand found the round flesh of your breast, rolling your budded nipple delicately between the pad of his thumb and index. The other hand, squeezing at your captured wrists, but never tight enough to bruise. He had you lulling in a spellbinding rhythm underneath him, your hands fastened above your head, and hair spilling over the opposite side of the altar. When his mouth left your full lips, he possessed the nape of your neck, sucking the delicate skin above your life line. Your mewls, laced with the chasteless sounds of his base squelching at your entrance, leapt your pulse to an unreturnable pace.

“So warm,” he moaned low, staving off a growing need to revel in his own whines of ecstasy. “This pure sunlight of yours…I’m blessed to be the one who takes it. And you should be too. What an honor it is to be of service to my moon.”

You wanted to hate everything about it. The way he kissed you, the way he moved inside you—but you couldn’t. Every stiff and engorged part of him pressed almost lovingly against your most vulnerable parts; but that wasn’t the proper word for it. His affectionate caresses were zealous in origin. Not even for you. And boderlined a hedonistic doctrine you couldn’t describe. It would’ve been better if he were a man of barbaric qualities; rough and brutal. Not purposeful and diligent and—dared you admit it—tender. If he were the former, then your disgust could be justified, and your body would refuse him in its own rightful way. But it defied you, the lecherous thing. Insisting you melted beneath him and reduce to nothing but a drenched mess. Completely at the mercy of this Lunari man’s act of worship.

“Are you finally realizing it now? How generous my Goddess is compared to yours.” He abandoned the curve of your throat. Within the flush of his face, his eyes were suppled in absolute vindication at your shameless image. “How willing you are to accept me—to accept Her.”

“N-No…I’m…not…I won’t,” you pried your tongue for words.

He drawled out a quivering whine from your mouth. His body picking up to an impassioned pace, rutting into your sweltering heat. Tethering on his own abandoned pleasure. Your legs pushed themselves wider, opening yourself up more for him, drawing him deeper to pound against the tender knot growing in your belly.

Choked moans tightened in his throat. Your radiance gripped him with conviction, burning him so divinely from tip to base. Dragging him closer to your complete consummation. His fingers caught the contour of your face, tilting your head back. Your already swimming eyes rolled to follow, and watered at the sight of your Solari Goddess. Carved out from the temple wall, her sacred marbled gaze met your disgraceful expressions.

“That’s…hn…alright. You can lie to me. I’ll—we’ll always forgive you. But can you say the same for your deity? As she watches her little sunlight being pleasured by the moon’s devoted weapon. I—ha…doubt it very much.” An airy laugh cut through his thick moans intertwined with yours. He continued, inhaling and exhaling his words, raspy and down right broken. “It’s—almost our time…as reverence…your insides…with all of my…”

You couldn’t refuse the vile implication of his words. Not when his thickened, throbbing cock lapped achingly against your muddled core. Your blood boiled, draining out from your collapsing bodily veins to well up inside your stomach. Applying a pressure that made you want to burst into unmendable fractals of yourself. And you did—that tight knot broke in an instant, dilating your insides in a blaze of heat. Flooding you so wholly, you almost forgot to breathe through your delirious sobs of release.

When the smooth ridges of your walls clamped down, you heard it first as a moan of afflicted surrender on his part. Then, the cock buried inside you pulsed. A stream of white-hot fluid poured into you, shooting well past your cervix, bathing your womb with his warmth. But he didn’t stop there, continuing to indulge. He pumped and pushed the concoction of unified fluids till it poured past his base, and dripped in milky heaps from your hole. His pelvic and abdominal muscles shuddered as his hips rolled slowly but needingly, nursing himself through his over-stimulating climax.

From your tearful, half-lidded gaze, you witnessed a wet glisten in his own eyes. Whether induced by overwhelming pleasure or pained remorse, you would never know. You didn’t want to know.

It didn't matter.

They evaporated the moment he blinked again.

When the heaves and pants subsided, only the echoes of your whimpers remained. Unfastening his grasp from your wrists, his icy hands cupped your sulking face, idly running his thumbs across your soaked cheeks.

“I understand your pain. Believe me, I do. But no amount of tears will keep the celestial cycle from shifting in the moon’s favor. Like any phase, there will be a moment when you won’t hate me as you do now. You might even come to...love me.”

The way he paused made it seem he had no sense for the word. Or what the difference was between what was love and obsession. The look he possessed didn’t instill solace, either; his eyes mere slits of black against his porcelain face. Promising the moment you dared turn away from him, the back of your neck would bleed.

”I swear to you. From this night on, you’ll burn brightest by my reflection. And only my reflection. So long as there's breath and blood in this body, I’ll protect your sunlight from ever fading in the hands of anyone less deserving than mine. By cosmic fate, you’re my entire purpose, my entire existence...” he bent and kissed the solar marking painted on your forehead. “My orbit.”

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