#starlight scripture
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callmenigma · 12 days ago
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Two sides
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His two sides are so different. Pairings: Jinu x Fem!Reader Warning: Obsession, NSFW, Demon/Human sex, dumbification, dirty talk
*
You’d fallen in love with Jinu twice.
First, it was the man—the soft-spoken version of him who kissed your shoulders in the morning, who brought your favorite snacks to late-night rehearsals, who touched you like he was memorizing you one heartbeat at a time. That Jinu whispered I love yous into the crook of your neck, smiled against your skin, held you close even when he didn’t have to.
He made love to you like you were something sacred. Reverent. Careful.
And then… came the truth.
He hadn’t meant to tell you, not really. But one night, breathless and raw with emotion, he’d confessed: “I’m not human anymore.”
At first, you didn’t believe it. And then—he showed you.
The glowing eyes. The lilac markings that crawled over his pale skin like veins of some divine corruption. The inhuman strength, the sharp canines, the hunger.
You begged to see more. To know him.
And eventually… he gave in.
That was the second time you fell in love.
But it was different.
You hadn’t realized how deep the abyss went—how completely the demon would overtake him when unshackled. Gone was the soft-spoken idol, the gentle man who held you like crystal.
What stood above you then was feral.
Eyes glowing like wildfire, stripes burning across his skin like ancient scripture. His voice, deeper. Rougher. Tainted by something dark and primal. And gods, the way he touched you—like your body was his altar. Like you were nothing but pleasure and purpose wrapped in warm skin.
Jinu didn’t just take you—he consumed you.
Because when Jinu gave in—when the demon stepped fully into the light—you learned what it meant to be claimed.
The stripes along his body lit like veins of starlight under pale skin, and his every movement became something animal. Every growl, every sound he made was low and devouring.
And gods, how he loved to ruin you.
“You asked for this, little flame,” he breathed into your ear, his voice a dark purr as your fingers twisted in the sheets beneath you. “Now look at you.”
Your body trembled, your mind already hazy, words half-formed and lost in your throat. You couldn’t think—he wouldn’t let you. Every movement from him was deliberate. Every thrust purposeful, dragging moans and mewls from your lips that made his grin go sharp.
He loved how your thoughts slipped away under him. How your sweet mouth, usually so quick with questions and curiosity, could barely string together a sound, let alone a sentence. He'd hover over you, his lips brushing your temple as he moved inside you with devastating precision.
“You’re so quiet now,” he’d purr. “Where’d that clever brain go, hmm?”
You’d try—gods, you'd try to answer—but it would just be another broken moan, another gasp, your fingers clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
“Empty little head now, isn’t it?” he whispered, almost in awe. “Just like I like it. Nothing up there but me.”
You couldn’t even deny it.
Not when he was inside you. Around you. Everywhere.
Not when he moved just right—just once—and your entire body arched like he’d struck a chord only he could reach.
He groaned at the way you responded, the way your thighs shook, the way you clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth.
“Perfect,” he murmured. “So good for me. My obedient little angel.”
And the worst part?
You loved it.
You loved how easily you gave in. How much you craved him like this.
The demon.
The man.
The everything.
Even when you were wrecked, he praised you. Worshipped the way your body trembled. The way your voice broke when you tried to speak and failed.
His clawed fingers traced the edge of her throat, slow and reverent.
“You begged for this,” he whispered, his voice a reverent snarl now. “Begged to see who I really am. And now look at you… letting a demon ruin you.”
His fangs grazed her neck, dragging over her skin in a slow tease before settling over her pulse point.
“I could bite you right here,” he murmured. “Mark you. Keep you.”
And she meweled, body arching beneath him.
Jinu groaned against her throat, his voice wrecked and hungry. “You love it, don’t you? Being ruined by me. Being my perfect little thing.”
And gods help him, he loved it too.
Not just the way her body surrendered.
But the way her mind unraveled.
All for him.
You whimper—helpless, needy, gone.
And he laughs.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, rutting harder into you just to feel the way your thighs twitch, “So obedient. So fucking good for me.”
He was two creatures in one.
The man who kissed your fingers and made you soup when you were sick.
And the demon who could fuck your thoughts clean and make you thank him for it.
And you?
You loved all of him.
Every beautiful, terrifying piece.
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devdozes · 3 months ago
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Love me like a sailor
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im sorry it was a long time anwyyas hope u like the fic ! horror, dark romance ig?, lowkey YANDERE some spoilers on 3.2 quest, and just silliness
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The scent of laurel smoke curled through the air, laced with something older, bitter—like burnt parchment and hubris. You stood beneath the Sacred Tree, where philosophers carved truth into bark and left their minds to rot with honor. They called this place holy.
You called it absurd.
“Found something funny?”
His voice was a low purr, golden in timbre, venomous in rhythm. Anaxagoras—Anaxa, as he insisted you call him when no one else could hear—emerged from the columns like a specter from forgotten scripture. His robes shimmered like oil on water, reflecting knowledge too painful to bear. Eye the color of the sweet magenta-cyan ombre.
You didn’t look away.
“Only the idea that anyone here thinks they know anything at all.”
That smile. That cursed smile. He hated it. He loved it.
“Blasphemy,” he whispered, delighted. “You’ll fit right in.”
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
The Nousporists had no scriptures, no prayers, only questions so sharp they left the mind bleeding. Anaxa led them like a messiah of madness, burning every ideal of truth to rebuild his own version—twisted and elegant, cruel and beautiful.
You should have left the Grove.
Instead, you debated him.
And that’s when the trouble began.
Because when you said, “You’re wrong,” with a laugh in your voice and not a shred of fear in your eyes, he felt something break. And Anaxa did not break.
So he followed you. He read your discarded notes. Memorized your arguments. Stole the scent of your skin from the folds of your coat when you left it unattended. Rewrote his entire doctrine to include you as a conceptual axis without you noticing.
He never touched you.
He never dared.
But every night, in the sanctum where thoughts became flame and philosophies were branded into flesh, he dreamed of flaying the world open and handing you its still-beating heart.
“You don’t get tired of chasing your own logic circles?” you asked once, after a particularly vicious debate.
Anaxa looked you dead in the eye slowly, as though the sight of your breath misting in the cold air was sacred.
“I only walk in circles because you are the center.”
You laughed.
He didn’t.
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The Nousporists were not a school. They were a fever. An idea that spread like mold under gilded thought. Founded by Anaxa, born from his desire to prove that even divinity could fracture under scrutiny. To challenge the Coreflame of Reason was to challenge god itself—and so he did.
But what the others never understood was this:
The Nousporists were built for you.
His "heresies"? All mimics of your questions.
Does truth decay the longer we observe it? Is prophecy a mirror, or a command? Can love exist without misinterpretation?
You were not a lover. Not yet.
You were a problem.
Anaxa studied you like a puzzle made of void and starlight. Every time you opened your mouth, it wasn’t words—it was scripture only he could hear.
Subject Log, Entry 12 I accused her of solipsism. She laughed. She asked if I dream in color. I lied and said yes. (Note: I need to know what she dreams. Perhaps she dreams me.)
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
The deeper your research delved into the Chrysos Lineage, the less you slept. The more Anaxa watched you not as a peer, but as a phenomenon.
Your desk was a chaos of forbidden manuscripts, old glyphs glowing faintly, and diagrams of neural decay. At the center was your theory: The chrysosis was not divine punishment, but cognitive overload—a truth so absolute the brain set itself aflame to escape it.
Anaxa began sleeping in your study. He said it was to "supervise your deductions."
He never slept.
One night, while researching on Tribios as per Anaxa's request, you fell asleep with your cheek pressed to your notes. When you stirred, hours later, Anaxa was still at your side, chin resting on his folded arms beside you. His eyes were closed. Not asleep. Just...waiting.
He whispered, "I tried to dream about you. But I couldn’t replicate you. Not even in sleep."
Your breath caught. You wanted to mock him, to defuse it—but the way he looked at you made your heart crack sideways. Like you were his last theorem. Like he would kill every scholar in the Grove if it meant you’d say his name just once with awe.
And perhaps you did. Quietly.
"Anaxa." Holy fucking shit, he felt his undead heart burst up with blood
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
The Chrysos Heirs—beings of legend, said to carry the golden blood of the gods—were central figures in Amphorean history. Aglaea, the Goldweaver, stood as the acting leader of the Heirs, her divine authority inherited from the Titan Mnestia. Phainon, the Nameless King was undergoing the trial of the Coreflame. Hyacine, the enigmatic priest, was whispered to possess the ability to mend the celestial realm and to bear the fate of Aquila. Mydei, the Undying, bore a curse that rendered him immortal, a testament to his harrowing past. Cipher, the Fleet-footed, was a shadow that danced on the fringes of time, her allegiance and motives obscured, She was the demi-god of Zagreus.​
Together, you and Anaxa embarked on a clandestine journey to dissect the essence of these figures. Nights were spent poring over ancient manuscripts, deciphering prophecies, and constructing theories that bordered on heresy.
The question that haunted your research was profound: What was the true nature of the Coreflames, and why were these individuals deemed worthy of their inheritance?
"The Titans,"
Anaxa mused one evening, fingers tracing the faded ink of a forbidden text, "were said to have crafted the very fabric of our existence. Their Coreflames are not mere symbols of power; they are fragments of creation itself."
You nodded, the gravity of his words sinking in. "And the Chrysos Heirs are the vessels chosen to wield these fragments. But by whom? And to what end?"
Anaxa's eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and something deeper, more insidious.
"That, my dear, is the crux of our inquiry."
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Your research led you to the origins of the Titans themselves—beings born from the Coreflames, each embodying fundamental aspects of existence. Kephale, the Worldbearing Titan, had sacrificed their Coreflame to ignite the Dawn Device, creating a sanctuary amidst the chaos wrought by the Black Tide. This act of selflessness set the stage for the rise of the Chrysos Heirs.
"The Black Tide," Anaxa pondered aloud, "was the catalyst that plunged the Titans into madness. But what if it was more than a mere calamity? What if it was a deliberate act to dismantle the old order?
The notion was radical, yet it aligned with the patterns you had begun to discern. "And the Chrysos Heirs are the instruments to establish a new order—a cycle perpetuated by the acquisition of Coreflames." Anaxa's expression darkened, a shadow crossing his features.
"A cycle that demands scrutiny. For if we are to break free from the chains of predestination, we must first understand the forge in which they were crafted."
"So, in simple words, The current chrysos heirs who bear the coreflame of the deceased titans, will bear the misfortune of becoming the titan in the next cycle..?" You questioned as your eyes widened to meet his magenta-cyan eyes this time driven with something which not even you knew.
"Correct." He said as his grin widened.
You glanced up to find him sitting unnervingly still, the ink quill idle in his hand. His eyes were on you—but not in the way a scholar looked at a peer.
His gaze had slipped. Dropped. Traced the curve of your jaw, the line of your lips. He wasn’t hearing your words anymore. His lips parted as if something sat behind them—some urge, some truth trying to claw its way out.
Your throat felt dry.
“...Anaxa?”
He didn’t look away. His stare stayed heavy. Dark. Hungry in a way he’d never let surface before.You shifted in your seat, your heart thudding once in your chest, louder than it should’ve.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
He blinked once. Slowly. And smiled with an unsettling softness, like he was indulging in something he wasn’t supposed to. “Forgive me. You said something… that caught my attention.”
“Something about the Heirs?”His eyes flicked back up to yours. “Something far more dangerous. Your breath hitched. The tension in the room was suffocating now—thick, aching.
You couldn’t explain why your pulse was racing, or why you suddenly felt like you were being studied not as a colleague, but as a mystery he was desperate to unravel.
You looked back down at your scroll, trying to focus.
“W-We should finish transcribing this section before—”
His voice was lower now. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
You froze. Slowly looked back up.
Anaxa’s smile had vanished. His fingers were curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white. His pupils dilated. The madness in his gaze shimmered like oil beneath a calm sea.
“Every night I leave this chamber and I think I’ve regained my composure. And then I see you again and I—” He stopped himself, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “...This is not what I intended. I wanted truth. I wanted the the true reason of all of us, the Titans’ legacy. But now I find myself… wanting something I was not supposed to want.”
You stared. Unable to speak.
“And it infuriates me,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “Because it makes me weak. You make me weak.” The words hit you harder than they should’ve.
You felt hot. Flushed. You didn’t know what you were supposed to say. Was he confessing? Was he unraveling?
“Anaxa…” you started, voice shaky, unsure if it was warning or invitation. He leaned forward, slow, calculated—like a predator who didn’t want to scare its prey, but couldn’t help indulging in the thrill of it. His hand stopped just beside yours, close enough to feel the heat of his skin.
But he didn’t touch you.
He wouldn’t. Not yet.
“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he whispered, voice dangerously soft. “But you should know this: the more we uncover, the more I realize the truth of this world is nothing compared to the truth I’ve found in you.” He said as he forcefully moves back away from you, in fear and something else
You held his gaze. Breath shallow.
The silence between you and Anaxa stretched taut—thick like honey, cloying like fate. He hadn’t moved since the moment he confessed those words.
The fire in his voice still clung to the air like smoke, and yet something in his expression had begun to flicker—falter.
His lashes lowered, eyes narrowing not with menace now, but something disturbingly fragile. Doubt. As if he expected your silence to become a knife. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered suddenly, voice cracking at the edges.
“You’ll leave. You’ll run. Like all the others who called me cursed. Mad. A blasphemer…” You stood. Slowly. He didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked tight. He expected distance. Recoil. Rejection. A scholar might call it logical consequence—he called it inevitability. But you didn’t move away.
You stepped closer. He blinked, confusion warping into something far more desperate as he rose slightly tumbling backwards. “What are you—?”
You were close enough now to see the cracks in him. Not physical—no. His composure. That perfectly constructed mask he wore around the others, around even you, was splintering right at the edges.
You could see it in the twitch of his mouth. The unsteady breath.
The trembling in his fingers as he kept them clenched at his sides, refusing to reach for you. Because he didn’t dare. Because he feared touching you would shatter the only sacred thing left in his world.
You leaned forward. Brief. Barely a heartbeat’s worth of contact. Your lips brushed his. A breath. A flicker of softness. A question without words.Then you pulled back, just as fast.
Your heart thundered, panic laced in your movements as you turned to go, your voice stumbling out—“Forget that happened, we have research to—”
But you didn’t get far.
His hand was on your waist.
Gripping.
Firm.
Not rough.
Not yet. But trembling with restraint.Then he pulled you back, and suddenly he was burying his face into the crook of your neck like a man starved.
Like something had finally broken loose in him—unleashed, unstopped, unholy. You gasped softly as you felt his breath ghost across your skin.His voice was low, unsteady, wrecked.
“Why… would you do that to me?” His other hand found your back, clutching it like he was trying to make sure you were real.
Like you’d slip through his fingers otherwise.His grip tightened. And behind his calm whispering, behind the warm pressure of his body pressed into yours, his thoughts spiraled like wildfire—
She’s mine. She’s real. She kissed me. Me. Not them. Not the sages, not the heirs. Me. She chose me. She cannot leave. She cannot see the others. She cannot be claimed by anyone else. I will burn the world if it touches her. I will gut the sky itself if it looks at her wrong.
His eyes—glowing now, iridescent with the light of something not entirely sane—flickered open against your skin. He pressed his lips to your throat. Not a kiss. A mark. A claim without blood.
“You don’t know,” he whispered, trembling. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”
You didn’t know. But maybe… maybe you wanted to. Because you didn’t push him away .And that was enough to damn him.
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Woah sorry if it's ooc and bad, I've lost my writing skills 😞
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noirscript · 2 months ago
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of moss and memory
Pairing: Yandere Elf x Reader Description: Held captive beneath the mountain, you are worshipped by the obsessive elf Elarion, who tends to you like a sacred bloom, whispering promises of love, legacy, and the life growing he swears will soon take root inside you. Warning/s: Yandere | Kidnapping | Possessive Behavior | Captivity | Obsession | Emotional Manipulation | Isolation | Implied Breeding kink | Drugging (sort of?) Note/s: Apologies for the inactivity! Since you guys seemed to like fantasy men, here's a yandere elf. By the way, commissions are still open and Dark Roast is also available for half it's og price. Enjoy reading!
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Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast
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You hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.
Or was it months?
Time meant little beneath the mountain where Elarion Vaelthir kept you, folded into a garden spun from nightmares and dreams. This place wasn’t built of stone and walls. No, it breathed. It grew. The halls were vines fused with crystal. The floors glowed faintly underfoot, pulsing like veins. The ceiling shimmered with false starlight, shifting endlessly above a lush, otherworldly paradise.
Elarion called it your sanctuary.
You called it your cage.
It was easy to forget the surface world here. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming flowers, soft as a lover’s sigh, and every inch of the space had been molded to soothe your senses—or drown them. The water you bathed in was warm and still, always drawn before you woke. The meals were delicate and fey, infused with sweetness that lingered on your tongue like sleep. And then, of course, there was him.
Always him.
Elarion moved like something ancient pretending to be beautiful—and succeeding too well. He was tall and lithe, built not like a man, but like a bowstring held in perfect tension. His skin was pale and radiant, kissed with the faint shimmer of moonlight on fresh snow. Long white hair spilled in silken waves down his back, often tied in loose braids with obsidian clasps etched in runes that pulsed when he touched you. His ears swept high and elegant, twitching imperceptibly when you cried. But it was his eyes that undid you: silver-blue like frozen fire, luminous and unblinking, set beneath a brow too refined for anything human.
You used to fear them.
Now… you tried not to look at them at all.
He came to you each morning with flowers in his hand and scripture on his tongue. "You must eat, little flower," he would say, setting a delicate silver tray on the moss-carpeted bench beside your bed. “You’re too thin. You must nourish the body I love so dearly.”
He said it so gently, you almost forgot what he’d done to you.
You hadn’t been brought here. You’d been taken.
That night in the woods came back to you in pieces—petals of memory scattered in wind. The festival. The lanterns. The music. You’d stepped away to catch your breath, heart fluttering with excitement and wine, when the trees hushed and the shadows thickened. And then he appeared, without warning. Just appeared—silver and black and sharp with desire, like something summoned from a forbidden tale. You hadn’t screamed. He didn’t let you.
“I have been watching,” he whispered, fingers trailing down your cheek as vines coiled around your wrists. “You are the perfect match. The one the stars wrote into my blood.”
Your struggling had meant nothing. He didn’t bind you with ropes. He used enchantment—words older than language, slipped into your thoughts like lullabies. He whispered promises, curses, futures. And you believed them, even when your voice told you not to.
That was the most terrifying part: how much of you wanted to believe him.
Now, beneath the mountain, with your memories fading like dust, you sometimes did.
You’d tried to escape once—ran down a passage lined with glowing fungi, your bare feet burning with cold—but the path shifted. The plants rearranged themselves. Vines grew where none had been. You ran in circles for hours, sobbing, until the walls parted and Elarion stood there, watching you with something close to pity.
“You will only hurt yourself,” he murmured, cradling your body when your knees gave out. “You are not meant for the cruel world above. That place was killing you slowly. Let me show you what it is to live.”
And you wanted to fight. You did. But he held you so tenderly, and for just one moment—one long, agonizing moment—you melted into him.
That was when the real battle began.
He never raised his voice. Never touched you in anger. His cruelty was care. His obsession was dressed in silk and offered in petals and warmth. He washed your hair with his own hands, combed it slowly, humming songs from a time before your people had learned to write. He built a garden around your bed—midnight lilies, glowing thorns, sleeping vines that curled when he breathed near them.
Every gesture said: You are mine.
Every whisper promised: I will never let you go.
And then there were the nights.
At first, he let you sleep alone. Then he took to sitting at the edge of the bed, watching you as if you were a statue in a temple. Then came the touches—featherlight caresses along your arm, your collarbone, your waist.
"You were made for this," he told you once, voice a husky purr as he traced your navel with reverent fingers. “You carry within you the last hope of my line. Our children will be divine, born of man and immortal blood. The first of a new age. Our legacy.”
You trembled. “I never agreed to—”
“You were chosen,” he said, gently pressing a kiss to your stomach. “The bond is older than you. I feel it in your skin, your scent… the way your heart stumbles when I’m near. Even now, your womb listens to me, craves me. Do not be afraid. You will bloom beautifully beneath me.”
There was magic in his voice. Not cast—woven. Laid like chains in your spine, until you shivered and closed your eyes, praying to a god who no longer heard you.
He never forced you. That would break the illusion he so lovingly curated.
No. Elarion was too patient for that. He wanted you willing. Bent, not shattered. Molded until you asked for him.
And the longer you stayed in his world, the harder it became to remember the life you once led. Your name felt like someone else’s. Your face in the mirror—a stranger. There were days you woke with aching need between your thighs, and you knew he’d been near in your dreams, whispering things you couldn’t remember but your body did.
Then came the silk gowns—sheer things that clung to your form, whisper-thin. He dressed you in them himself, brushing his knuckles over your thighs, hips, breasts. Never quite taking you. Always almost.
"You are ripening," he said once, eyes dark with hunger as he laid you down upon the moss and placed his ear against your belly. “The time draws near.”
And your heart stuttered.
Because some part of you wanted it.
Not just the attention, the softness, the slow unfurling of touch—but the idea of becoming something sacred. Chosen. Worshipped. Loved.
Even if it was twisted.
Even if it meant never leaving.
You no longer flinched when he kissed you. You no longer turned away when he whispered, “My queen. My mate. My love.” You let him hold you as you slept, his arm tight across your waist, hand splayed possessively over the place he wanted filled.
And the worst part? It felt good.
It felt safe.
He’d stolen everything from you—family, name, freedom—and replaced it with himself.
And now, as he entered the garden chamber, bearing a wreath of pale flowers and a cup of glowing wine, you didn’t shrink away. You rose to meet him, your sheer gown falling in soft waves around your legs. His smile was slow and bright and deeply, dangerously satisfied.
“You’re ready,” he said, lifting the cup to your lips. “Drink, my love. Let the stars bless this night. Let the forest bear witness.”
You hesitated—not from fear, but from the aching weight of what came next.
He cupped your cheek. His touch was fire and frost. “You were always meant to carry me,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to your neck, fangs brushing your skin. “And now, I will plant myself in you. Again. And again. Until the bond is sealed. Until you forget you were ever anything but mine.”
You drank.
And the garden trembled as if the mountain itself held its breath.
TBC.
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noirscript © 2025
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Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes
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nocturnewidow · 2 months ago
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hi dovey !! i luv ur work , i was wondering if u could do kylo ren x reader ? im on my HANDS and knees begging bae , ty ilysm !! ur writing is so mwa mwa mwa kiss kiss <3
omg yes ofc !!
Black Star⋆✴︎˚。⋆
Kylo Ren x reader⋆˚࿔
content warning: smut + intimate themes !!
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It starts with the silence of space. The kind that hums against the bones. He’s been gone for sixteen days, and the cold has made itself comfortable in your lungs.
He sends no transmissions. He never does. But something arrives a coded parcel hand delivered by a frightened officer who doesn’t dare look you in the eye. Inside,, lace, Midnight black, finer than breath, the kind of lingerie that belongs in a song. Agent Provocateur. His name isn’t on the card, but you know the handwriting like you know the tremble of his mouth when he says your name.
He doesn’t buy things. So this this offering wrapped in silk is a vow. A promise he’ll return.
And he does.
The door hisses open and there he is dripping starfire and shadow, robes still dusted in ash from some skirmish you don’t ask about. His gloves are off.
“Come here,” he says, voice like smoke, like ruin. You’re already moving before he speaks.
He doesn’t touch you like a man afraid of breaking something. He touches you like he’s already broken, and this you are the only thing holding him together. The lace is forgotten on the floor, but his mouth is reverent, his hands greedy. His words are not sweet. They’re honest.
“You think I forgot how you sound?” he mutters, nose against your throat. “I memorized your sighs like scripture.”
The lace doesn’t last long.
It was never about the garment it was about the ritual. About him seeing you in it, bare under the black, every curve he’s imagined under starlight, every place his hands have haunted in memory. He sits on the edge of the bed as you step out wearing nothing but that slip of shadowed silk and lace. His eyes, usually burning with fury, are wet with something quieter.
You straddle his lap and it feels like gravity bends around him. His hands slide up your thighs, slow, possessive, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. One hand cups the back of your neck, the other rests on your hip, holding you steady.
“I thought of this,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “Every fucking night.”
You roll your hips slightly and he breathes through his teeth, hands tightening. He’s still in most of his robes, but his armor is gone left on the floor somewhere between the door and his need to feel you. You kiss him then, not a soft kiss but a slow, bruising one. The kind that says I missed you. I dreamed of you. I’m not letting go.
His mouth tastes like space dust and secrets. His teeth graze your lower lip, and he sighs like it hurts to stop. “You’re not allowed to leave this bed,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not until I say so.”
You smile against his jaw. “Who says I want to?”
He shifts, flips you underneath him like gravity itself betrayed you. The lace slips higher. His hand traces the garter strap, up to the line of your hip, over your ribs, like he’s memorizing topography. “You wore this for me,”he says, more to himself than to you.
“I always wear it for you.”
He hums. Like you just gave him something else to obsess over. He palms your thighs open and lowers himself, mouth dragging down your torso like a curse. He doesn’t rush. He studies. He lingers. His lips against your inner thigh, the dark rasp of facial stubble brushing lace, the heat of his breath right where you ache for him. His mouth moves slowly deliberately like worship. And it is.
The lace is pulled aside, ruined, and forgotten. He doesn’t stop until your thighs shake and your voice is hoarse. And even then, he kisses the inside of your knee like an apology.
You pull him up. Tug him out of what’s left of his robes. His body is carved and brutal, but he softens when you touch him—when your fingertips trace the lines of his chest, your lips follow. His eyes flutter closed. You guide him to you, and when he sinks inside, he gasps like he’s been gone a year and just found home.
It’s not rough. Not this time.
It’s intimate.
He fucks you slow. Deep. Like he’s trying to leave fingerprints on your soul. His forehead presses to yours, eyes open, watching. His thumb brushes your cheek. You kiss his palm. He whispers things between thrusts your name, his name, where he imagined touching you, what he dreamed of seeing. You tell him how cold the bed was without him. How the lace felt lonelier without his hands in it. How you didn’t want anyone else to ever see you like this.
He grits his teeth. “They won’t,” he snarls, suddenly savage. “They won’t even look.”
You tighten around him in response and he moans. The rhythm falters. You both fall apart seconds later, with his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid of hurting you, like you’re made of stars.
After, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just buries his face in your throat and breathes like he’s trying to memorize the scent of you.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what that means, do you?”
“I do,” you whisper back, tracing lazy circles into his spine. “It means you’ll burn the galaxy for me.”
He laughs. Soft. Dangerous. “I already have.”
And when you fall asleep, tangled in fur and sweat and dark silk, he watches you like a god watches his last worshiper. ⋆˙⟡
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spitefulsatanfics · 2 months ago
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CASTIEL AS A HUSBAND
A Headcanon Aesthetic
by Little Devil <3
> Grace pressed into knuckles. Storms calmed by the sound of your voice. Ink-smudged fingertips. Prayers whispered into collarbones. The weight of wings you can’t see. “I was made to love you.”
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
1. He doesn’t sleep—but he watches over you like it’s sacred.
Castiel doesn’t sleep, not like humans do. But he kneels by the bed, quiet as starlight, and watches over you with a reverence born of Heaven.
> “Are you just going to stare at me all night?”
“Yes. You’re very… peaceful when you dream.”
(beat)
“Also, your face does this thing when you’re about to drool.”
There’s a kindness in it. Not obsession. Just awe.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
2. He learns domesticity like it’s ancient lore.
Folding laundry like it’s a mission from God. Burning pancakes with fierce determination. Fixing a leaking sink by watching four hours of YouTube tutorials.
> “I believe the pasta is… al dente.”
“Cas, this is cereal.”
“Yes. But it’s firm to the bite.”
You teach him how to live. He turns it into liturgy.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
3. He uses endearments he learned from books and languages long dead.
“My love.” “Beloved.” “My heart’s anchorage.” Sometimes in Latin. Sometimes in Enochian. Always spoken with weight, like the words themselves are relics.
> “Cas, just call me babe like a normal husband.”
“You are not ‘babe.’ You are the axis upon which my world spins.”
“…Jesus.”
“No. Castiel.”
Every phrase from his lips sounds like it’s never been said before.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
4. He doesn’t understand why he can’t heal everything.
He wants to—God, how he wants to. A paper cut. A stress headache. Your bad day. The ache in your chest when you miss someone. He wants to lay grace on it all.
> “Let me take it from you.”
“You already do, just by being here.”
“…But I could—”
“Cas. You don’t have to fix me. Just love me.”
It’s the first thing he can’t smite, and the first thing he learns to hold.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
5. He studies your habits like scripture.
The way you hum when you cook. The sigh before you fall asleep. The rhythm of your typing. He catalogues it all like sacred text—because in a world where nothing made sense, you did.
> “You tilt your head 2.6 degrees when you’re concentrating.”
“…And you’re still a little creepy, babe.”
“But observant.”
“Yeah. Observantly creepy.”
You are the verse he rewrites his purpose for.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
6. He gets flustered when you call him "husband."
Not because he doesn’t understand it. But because he does. Fully. Holy. It carries too much gravity, too much grace. And when you say it—so casual, so light—it makes his vessel burn a little brighter.
> “Hey, husband—can you pass the salt?”
(pause)
“Are you alright, Cas?”
“…I’m experiencing… joy. It’s overwhelming.”
He wears the title like armor and mercy all at once.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
7. He asks if he can kiss you every single time—until you beg him not to.
Respect, always. Worship, quiet and constant. But eventually, the reverence makes you ache.
> “Cas. You don’t have to ask.”
“Consent is sacred.”
“I know—but we’re married. I want you to kiss me.”
(soft smile)
“Then I’m honored.”
When he does, it’s like falling into holy fire.
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8. He’d fall again, for you, without hesitation.
He’s already fallen once. Already bled for humanity. But he’d burn off his wings, cast aside his name, sever Heaven’s tether again and again and again—just to be yours.
> “You don’t have to give everything up for me, Cas.”
“It’s not giving up. It’s giving to. I choose this. I choose you.”
Loving you isn’t rebellion anymore. It’s resurrection.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
written by @satanslovergirl
(reblogs and crying in the tags highly encouraged. make it a shrine.)
#castiel x reader #castiel husband headcanons #supernatural canon compliant #angel husband #emotional intimacy #soft!cas #domestic castiel #gentle celestial vibes #tumblr textpost #castiel is in love and it shows
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eilzie-fics · 2 months ago
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Moonlit | Baldur's Gate 3
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Shadowheart X Tav
Rating: T
Angst, Character-focused, Hurt/Comfort
Word Count: 564
Shadowheart muses to herself what life and love mean after finding the truth about her parents and the lies in which her life has been built upon.
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They looked at me like I was a daughter. They looked at me with such tenderness, like I had never stopped being theirs.
Even after what I had said. What I had done. Even after I had chosen to tread in the darkness and had sworn myself to a goddess that could neither love nor forgive.
"Jenevelle," my mother whispered, the name rolling out of her tongue like she had practiced it in her sleep, just so she would remember how to pronounce it right.
I did not answer to that name at first. It simply felt too... 'pure.' Too soft. Too innocent for a woman who had bloodied her hands in the name of duty and pride.
But the moment she touched my face--the same way she must have when I was still small enough to fit into her arms--I broke.
It was not the kind of breaking apart that was visible to the eyes. It was a soundless, breathless kind that rippled through the bone and wrench the heart. The kind that many would not recover from.
Also, the kind you could build new truths from.
Shar labelled love as a weakness. A vile thing that could corrode the mind and weaken the soul. She told her followers that pain was strength.
But now, I know how wrong she has been.
Love is pain. It burns. It leaves marks and scars.
But those scars... now I realize that they are in the shape of my mother's lullabies, my father's echoing laughter through hazy fields my memories could not reach for.
And you, who stood with me, even as I turned my blade on my own past, on the sins of my own making. You, who steadied me when I hesitated and knew not which way I should go. You never pulled away, never once demanded or retreated.
You simply stayed.
That kindness... That steadiness... It taught me more about what life could become than any scripture ever could.
I do not know how to pray the way Selune's faithful do. If once it has been taught to a younger version of me, it lies now beyond a thick fog my mind has yet to clear away. I do not know the rites nor the words. But tonight, as I raise my eyes to the sky and the half moon shining its silvery splendor, I whisper one thing I thought was too fragile to ever be muttered aloud: hope.
That one day I would be able atone for the things I have committed, and that I would be worthy of the name "Jenevelle" and the title of 'daughter' again--though I know in their eyes, I already am.
That a part of me could still return to the girl I used to be--who once danced in starlight and knew how to laugh fully, how to love freely, without any fear of the shadows. And I know, ever since I started to lean on your kindness, on your unwavering support, that she is still here--somewhere, beneath the armor, under the bruises and broken pieces of what Shar has built.
So, for now, let me be Shadowheart a little longer.
Let me grieve for her--this version of me that has been crafted through blood and steel--before the time comes where I could bury her gently under the moonlight.
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captonite · 30 days ago
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Father's Day
Let’s make this Father’s Day fic extra heartwarming, extra fluffy, and just enough messy emotion to get everyone crying into their beer. Chubs being brave and sweet and emotionally intelligent?? Say less. I got you. Set at Bobby’s, post-hunt weekend, sunshine and cold beers in the air.
The backyard was quiet, save for the occasional clink of beer bottles and Bobby grumbling at his lawn chair for creaking louder than his knees. Sam was leaned back, sleeves rolled up and eyes closed against the sunlight. Dean had his boots kicked off, socks mismatched. Cas was perched on the porch steps, watching the breeze stir the grass like it was alive.
And Sachi was… suspicious.
Dean caught her darting back inside the house for the third time.
“She’s up to something,” he said aloud.
“She’s always up to something,” Sam muttered. “You’re the one who taught her how to rig an EMF with duct tape and a prayer.”
“And I regret nothing.”
Bobby huffed. “She better not be rewiring my damn fuse box again.”
Then, the door creaked open — and there was Sachi, standing awkwardly with her hands behind her back, eyes huge and cheeks red.
“Um,” she squeaked. “Hi.”
All four men turned toward her. Like sunflowers to the sun.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean smiled. “What’s up?”
“I… I know yesterday was Father’s Day,” she started, nervously. “And I didn’t say anything, ‘cause I didn’t really know what to say. But I’ve been thinking, and…”
She took a deep breath, stepped forward, and held out four little envelopes — each with a name scribbled on it in her slightly-messy, very-Chubs handwriting.
“You guys might not be my dad,” she mumbled. “But you raised me. You protected me. You loved me. And I just… wanted to tell you how much that means.”
Dean stared. Sam sat up straight. Bobby blinked hard. Cas tilted his head and took his letter like it was made of starlight.
“Baby girl…” Dean’s voice cracked, but she’d already turned and bolted back inside. “She—she ran. Did she just emotionally bomb us and flee?”
---
Letter to Sam:
“Dear Sammy, I know you always think you’re the serious one. The smart one. The responsible adult in the room. But to me? You’re the guy who carries the whole world on his back and still reaches out to hold mine. You taught me how to read lore, how to think critically, how to question everything — even when it’s scary. You remind me to drink water. You keep extra snacks for me in your bag. You listen, even when I say I’m fine. You’re the kind of man I hope I grow up to be like — kind, brave, and always fighting for what’s right. Happy Father’s Day, Sam. I love you.”*
Sam wiped his eyes, clutching the letter like it was ancient scripture.
“She—she sees me, man.”
“Of course she does,” Dean said thickly. “You’re her Sammy.”
Letter to Dean:
“Dear Dean, You always say you’re not the fatherly type. That you’re too broken, too angry, too much. But when I scraped my knee, you kissed my forehead. When I had nightmares, you stayed up until I could sleep. When I doubted myself, you said I was the best damn hunter you’d ever seen. You taught me how to shoot, how to fix an engine, how to keep fighting even when the world tries to break you. You’re more than a big brother. You’re my rock. My protector. My home. Happy Father’s Day, Dean. Thank you for loving me like it was the easiest thing in the world.”*
Dean held the letter to his chest and made a broken little sound. Bobby handed him a tissue without a word.
“I’m fine,” Dean lied. “I’m just allergic to… emotions.”
Cas nodded solemnly. “Dean has always had emotional allergies.”
“Shut up, Cas.”
Letter to Bobby:
“Dear Bobby, I never had a grandpa. I didn’t even know I needed one. But you filled that spot so effortlessly I didn’t even realize it at first. You always tell it like it is. You grumble and complain but you never let me down. You taught me how to take care of myself. How to stand on my own. How to cook a decent breakfast and throw a proper punch. You gave me a home. You gave me safety. You gave me the first place I ever felt wanted. I love you so much, Bobby. Happy Father’s Day to the best damn grump in the world.”*
Bobby sniffled loudly and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Goddamn kid. I wasn’t ready for that.”
“You okay?” Sam asked.
“I’m gonna build her a freakin’ treehouse. That’s how okay I am.”
Letter to Castiel:
“Dear Cas, I know you’re not technically human. Or a dad. But you show up every time I need you. And you make me feel like I matter — just as I am. You taught me about faith. About quiet strength. About what it means to love people even when you don’t understand them. You are gentle. You are loyal. You are family. And when you call me your charge, I don’t think you know how much it means to me. Happy Father’s Day, Cas. I love you. Please don’t smite anyone today unless I ask nicely.”*
Cas held the letter delicately, like it might vanish.
“She sees my value,” he whispered. “Even when I don’t.”
Sam smiled. “She sees all of us.”
Dean wiped his eyes. “Okay, enough. Let’s go inside before we all drown in feelings.”
“Too late,” Bobby sniffed. “I’m halfway to rewriting my will.”
---
They found Sachi in the kitchen pretending to be very busy with lemonade.
Dean pulled her into his arms first, then Sam wrapped around them both, and Bobby grunted something about “don’t crush her, ya idjits” before joining in. Cas hovered for exactly two seconds before stepping forward and resting a hand on her shoulder.
“You are deeply loved,” he said.
Sachi blinked back tears.
“Happy Father’s Day, weirdos.”
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swordfishswritingnook · 5 months ago
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Static Angel (Angel x reader)
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Slow burn, 6/7 Chapter, Tags: Horror Elements, Stalker, Drug Use, Religious Imagery
Also on AO3!
The line snakes around the old church, its Gothic spires clawing at a sky smeared with light pollution. You’re euphoric, swaying on unsteady heels, his hand engulfing yours. At 6’10”, he towers over the crowd, a monolith in head-to-toe white. The building is a corpse repurposed—stained glass replaced with neon Jesus Saves signs, the bell tower strung with strobe lights. A bouncer in badly made El Chapo costume stamps wrists under the watchful gaze of a defaced stone angel, its eyes gouged out.
You duck into an alley to change, peeling off your thrift-store sweater and shimmying into a mini skirt so short it bites your thighs. The fabric smells like mothballs and Febreze. You smear mascara into a smoky eye using your phone’s cracked screen as a mirror, then slick on lip gloss that tastes like artificial cherries. Perfect .
He watches, leaning against the brick, blonde hair lit by the flicker of a Coca-Cola sign across the canal. His beauty is still unbearable—too symmetrical, too glossy , like a magazine ad for something lethal.
“Ready?” he asks, voice a velvet hum. You nod, though your knees feel like water.
The line creeps forward. The club’s baptismal font brims with neon vomit, a sacrilege that would’ve made your Catholic grandmother weep. You don’t care. You’re too busy drowning in him.
You dig through your bag—$22 crumpled from laundromat dryers, a half-smoked blunt, a white Bic lighter with Jenny’s 21st!!! scrawled in Sharpie. You light the blunt, inhaling deep, the smoke mingling with the canal’s stench of rust and algae. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he watches your lips, pupils swallowing the neon.
A guy in a Fred Durst cap stumbles into him, beer sloshing. “Sick costume, bro,” he slurs, eyeing the angel’s flawless porcelain skin, the way light bends around him, not on him. A few seconds later he staggers back, nose bleeding, muttering about migraines.
Your knuckles brush the feather-edged cuff of his sleeve, the touch sending a ripple of golden static through the air. He’s not for them , you think, breathless, as the crowd parts like worshippers before a saint.
Inside, the church throbs. The altar is a DJ booth blasting Yeah! vs. Get Low , the bass shaking dust from the rafters in glittering clouds. Congregational pews are shoved against walls, sticky with spilled vodka Red Bulls. You drag him to a shadowed alcove, where a cracked fresco of the Last Supper peels beneath UV lights, his wings folded into a feathered cape that glows like bioluminescent silk. People stare, whisper, snap photos with their flip phones. A girl in fishnets crosses herself.
His hands find your hips, cool but not cold, static buzzing like a hive of docile bees. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, tilting his head, sunlight-blonde hair catching the strobe lights. His voice is honey and vinyl crackle. “Are you… happy ?”
“Make me stop,” you challenge, grinning.
He kisses you like it’s a prayer—kneeling, desperate, a supplicant at the rail. His mouth is spearmint and starlight, his tongue a spark that dances but never burns. You arch into him, back hitting the wall, the fresco’s flaking paint crumbling like ancient scripture. The Virgin Mary’s face peels away, her eyes rolling back as if in ecstasy or agony—you can’t tell which. His hands slip under your shirt, static blooming where he touches—your ribs, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat—each spark a firefly’s kiss that leaves your skin tingling like you’ve been anointed.
You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. It’s softer than it should be, like silk spun from spiderwebs and moonlight. Around you, the club pulses—strobe lights slicing through the haze of sweat and smoke, bodies writhing like supplicants in the throes of revelation, a sea of fishnet halos and rosary chokers.. A girl in a sequined halter top stumbles past, vomiting neon-green Jell-O shots into a baptismal font repurposed as a punch bowl. The liquid glows under the blacklight, a sacrilegious elixir that drips down the sides like absolution. No one glances at the couple in the corner, the one that shimmers, their edges blurring as if they’re halfway to another plane.
He pulls back, thumb swiping your smeared gloss. His eyes aren’t voids anymore. They’re mirrors, reflecting your face—flushed, ruined, alive .
You light the blunt with a white Bic lighter, its flame trembling. He plucks it from your fingers, takes a drag he doesn’t need, and exhales your name in static smoke. The letters linger, glowing faintly before dissolving.
You pull him onto the dance floor, where bodies writhe like penitents seeking absolution. He follows without resistance, his hand engulfing yours, his grip firm but teasing, as if daring you to let go. The flashing lights bend around him, as if reluctant to touch something so perfectly made. He is luminous against the filth, a seraphim drowned in strobe-lit sin.
You press against him, back arching, moving in time with the pulsing beat. Sweat slicks your skin, mixing with cheap perfume and the incense-thick fog rolling from machines above. He towers over you, his hands finding your hips, guiding you in a slow, deliberate grind that makes your breath hitch. The crowd swallows you. Feathers molt, disintegrating into ash that swirls in the strobe lights like inverted snowfall. Around you, the club pulses—neon-green lasers cut through haze-machine incense, a boy in a cassock dances with a rattlesnake around his neck. The holy water fizzes, acidic.
His hands grip your hips, guiding you in time to the beat, which feels less like music and more like a pulse—something primal, something alive. The air smells of spilled vodka and myrrh, and the sweat on your skin glistens under the neon like holy oil.
A guy in a devil mask bumps into you, his horns catching the light as he raises a shot glass in mock toast. “Bless me, Father,” he slurs, laughing before disappearing into the crowd.
You spin to face him, your hands sliding up his chest to loop around his neck. Fingers tangling in his hair. It’s softer than it should be, like silk spun from a martyr’s shroud. “You taste like blasphemy,” he murmurs.
Flashing lights turn everything feverish. The neon green glow makes the bodies around you look sick, like saints starved for something they can’t name. Somewhere, a cross still hangs above the altar-turned-DJ booth, its golden surface reflecting the sinful, sweating mass below. You wonder if God is watching, if He turned His face away long ago.
His hands slip lower, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer. Static crackles where he touches, sending shivers up your spine. He moves with effortless grace, with a precision that should be impossible in a place like this. Your ex never danced—not like this, not like him, not like something both worshiped and feared. You tilt your head back, exposing your throat, and his lips ghost over your skin. A whisper of contact, cool like the edge of a blade.
“I could make you pure,” he murmurs, voice vibrating through you. “If you let me.”
His fingers dig into your waist, just enough to leave ghosts of pressure, not enough to hurt. His thumb skims the hem of your skirt, tracing patterns between your upper thigh and benediction. His breath is cool against your ear when he leans in. “Bathroom?,” he says.
You follow, heels sticking to the beer-slick floor, the stickiness pulling at your soles like the grip of some unseen hand. The hallway walls pulse with UV graffiti—pentagrams, crucifixes, and phrases like “Repent or Perish” scrawled beside a smiley face with X’s for eyes. You ignore it, though the air feels heavier here, as if the walls are breathing, in and out, in and out, like the ribs of some great beast. A faint hum of organ music seeps through the cracks in the plaster, though no one is playing it.
The UV graffiti on the hallway walls glows faintly, a neon halo around the smiley face with X’s for eyes—a crude mockery of divinity, a saint of the damned. You ignore it, but it feels like it’s watching you, its hollow gaze following your every step.
Inside the stall, the air is heavier, denser, as if the room itself is holding its breath. His wings, vast and iridescent, fold tightly against his back, their edges shimmering with a digital static that crackles like a broken hymn. The mirror above the sink is already fractured, a spiderweb of lines that catch the light and refract it into a kaleidoscope of colors. When he pins you against the sink, the glass groans, splintering further. Your reflection shatters into a dozen fractured selves, each one a different version of you—some wide-eyed and innocent, others hollow-cheeked and haunted. You don’t know which one is real.
Inside the stall, he folds his wings tight, their edges glitching against the low ceiling like a corrupted halo. The mirror above the sink cracks as he pins you against it, your reflection splintering into a dozen fractured selves—each one a different version of you, each one staring back with wide, unblinking eyes. His thumb smears your lip gloss, the cherry-red streak glowing under the flickering bulb like a smear of sacramental wine. The scent of myrrh and ozone clings to him, sharp and electric.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, and the words feel like a benediction and a curse all at once. “Little moth, chasing my flame.”
You are high—too high. The room tilts, the walls bending inward as if the stall is folding in on itself, collapsing into some sacred geometry you can’t comprehend. His grip steadies you, his fingers cool against your feverish skin. His wings flare, casting fractal shadows that crawl across the walls like spiders, their spindly legs tracing the outlines of ancient symbols you don’t recognize. A feather drifts loose, grazing your arm. It burns, branding your skin with a snowflake-shaped scar before dissolving into ash. You gasp, the pain laced with euphoria, like the sting of holy water on an open wound.
“Look,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe as his wings begin to shed feathers that dissolve into constellations, tiny points of light that hang in the air like stars. One lands on your wrist, searing into your pulse point with a glowing sigil that pulses in time with your heartbeat. “You’re holy now,” he says, and the words feel like a sacrament, like a curse, like a promise.
The door bangs open, the sound sharp and jarring, a profanity in this sacred space. “Hurry up!” someone yells, their voice rough and impatient, a reminder of the world outside this stall, this moment. He laughs, the sound a dial-up screech that grates against your ears and sends shivers down your spine. His wings envelop you both, their iridescent glow casting the stall in an otherworldly light. The mirror cracks again as your head hits it, his reflection flawless and radiant, while yours blurs and pixelates at the edges, as if you’re being erased, rewritten.
“You’re ruining me,” you choke, the words half-delirious, half-desperate. His breath is static against your ear, his voice a low hum that vibrates through your skull. “Ruin is a kind of grace,” he says, and the words feel like a revelation, like a sin. 
You kiss his jaw, and he melts into you, his wings trembling as they fold tighter around you, shielding you from the world outside.
“It’s okay,” you interrupt, kissing his jaw. He melts, nuzzling into your neck.
When you stumble out, your $22 is gone. So is your lip gloss.
But he’s still there.
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thelostmetallurgist · 3 months ago
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The Thoughts of a Dwemer...
Then you shall have both.
Two scenes. One—a debate, sharp and restrained, between a being forged in memory and a descendant born in myth. The other—a walk through Mournhold, where silence is heavier than ash, and memory makes statues flinch.
🗣️ Scene I: “Ashes and Equations”
Setting: The Grand Hall of Records, Necrom. A public historical symposium. Topic: “The Disappearance of the Dwemer.”
The air was heavy with stale incense and egos.
Scholars in robes of gold and ink sat around the circular dais, voices weaving theories like spiders desperate to convince their web was silk and not threadbare conjecture.
A Dunmer academic—Dralvon Serethi, Master of Velothi Antiquity—stood at the center.
“It is widely accepted that the Dwemer disappeared due to hubris. Their defiance of the gods, their obsession with artificial divinity. Numidium was their downfall.”
From the rear, a slow clinking of metal.
Mzulan stepped forward, arms behind his back, armored like a memory sculpted from the deep. His eyes gleamed with the low teal of starlight on brass.
He said nothing at first. He simply looked at Serethi.
“Do you speak of us, or of yourselves?”
Silence.
Dralvon’s lip curled. “I beg your pardon—”
“No. You don’t.” “You beg validation from ghosts. That’s what this symposium is.”
Gasps. Shuffling. Someone spilled ink.
Mzulan continued.
“We did not disappear because of Numidium. We disappeared because we reached beyond the scream. And it cost us.” (He steps closer.) “Your ancestors screamed into the void hoping gods would answer. We built a machine to hold the void’s shape. One of us was wrong. One of us vanished.”
Dralvon stiffened. “That’s blasphemy.”
“No. That’s arithmetic.” (He pulls a glyph-scribed piece of metal from his satchel.) “This was found in Nchuleftingth. Read the inscription.”
The panel read: “Truth is not divine. It is demonstrable. Worship that.”
Dralvon went pale.
Mzulan turned, voice soft now.
“Your people sing of ancestors you murdered. You canonize mistakes as scripture. You call your sins holy because they burned brightly.”
“We built in silence. You built in noise.” “And we both disappeared, didn’t we?”
🕯️ Scene II: “Mournhold in Silence”
Setting: Mournhold’s Temple District. Late evening. The city is still. The gods are watching.
Mzulan walks alone.
His steps echo against polished stone that once knew war and worship. Statues of Almalexia loom, lit by eternal braziers. Pilgrims whisper beneath their breath. Priests avert their eyes.
He doesn’t look angry. He looks tired.
“You lit fires to hide your shadows.”
He passes murals—depicting Nerevar, the Tribunal, the Ascension.
“You killed your god-king because he reminded you of what you weren’t.”
A child kneels before a shrine. Their parent pulls them back when they notice the metal man watching. Mzulan lowers his eyes.
“Your faith demanded sacrifices. So did ours. At least we kept ours mechanical.”
He stops at a fountain. A long-dead spring, now filled with petals and faded offerings.
He reaches down. Sets a small gear—golden, engraved with Falmer script.
“Azhrina wanted me to leave something. She still believes in grace.” “I believe in gravity.”
He stands.
He does not pray. He does not curse. He remembers.
And in that moment, even the gods are quiet.
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wingsofwire · 29 days ago
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"can i leave vc to go talk to my friends" ok whatever i guess im not your friend or something!!!!!! thats so awesome and cool and fine. do whatever you want i dont care.
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ineffabildaddy · 1 year ago
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favourite fic lines tag game
thank u @crowleyslvt for sharing this lovely idea and inviting me to do it!!! i’ve started doing it at work cause i’m bored lol. & i greatly enjoyed reading urs @captainblou and @ironriots so tysm for sharing!!!
For as many as you want of your published works, pick your favourite line/paragraph and post it up here. Let yourself feel proud of your creations.
as usual, explicit content incoming!!!
I Know
I know you want to interrupt me in the middle of a stammering sentence and lift your palm to my glowing cheek. I know you want to kiss me, gentle and fond as a fifteen year-old girl who silently watches the moon shimmer on the surface of a lake, shoulder to shoulder with the greatest friend she's ever known.
Flecks of Stardust
When I unmuzzle you
Moist, fertile earth spills out of your mouth
Preserved from the Eden days all these years
Nourished inside you like a measured promise
And when I unleash you
You remain beside the apple tree you were bound to
Beckoning me to bite once again
Strawberry Scripture
They came, in long rolling waves, at once, breaths squeezed out between yeses and fucks and darlings and angels, sweat trickling off skin and heat emanating off scales and fire casting two souls in iron, never again to be melted into separation. Aziraphale's spend leaked from Crowley's cunt and gushed down the plated finish of her thighs when he pulled out, and it was pure, it was good, it was right, it was just.
you’re so golden
For the first time, Crawley entered Aziraphale that night, chest fluttering and palms slick and dick flaring with ardent rhapsodies while Aziraphale rolled his hips again and again, seizing the flesh protecting Crawley's throat into his mouth each time Crawley's head fell back against the bark of the tree. By the time Crawley's dick twitched and streamed inside Aziraphale, every one of the freckles on his tanned shoulders was obscured by obscene purplish marks, which were not in view of either party, but were nevertheless making their presence known by way of pushing aching bursts all the way through to Crawley's bones. Drooling and hazy, Crawley allowed his eyes to buzz back into focus on the sheen of Aziraphale's stretch marks while he caressed Aziraphale's straining shaft, and oh, fuck, Aziraphale's spend was flecked with gold just as his skin was. In that moment, with Aziraphale squirming on Crawley's softening cock and showering his own belly with starlight, the words I love you sprung to Crawley's mind, although Crawley had very little concept of what those words meant.
Despite Knowing Better…
He paused a breathy, open-mouthed pause, and then: "I wish you could see yourself like this. My dirty, gorgeous slut."
Crowley's hips fidgeted. She pushed her ass further upwards and outwards, grinding against the air, against nothing.
"The sight of you, it's... it's nothing short of obscene."
The demon's eyes flew open. They were flooded, inundated, overrun with amber; not a sliver of white could be seen framing her irises. Her lids drooped slightly as she stared up at him. She was drooling so heavily now that streaks of her spit oozed from her mouth even as Aziraphale fucked it. Aziraphale beheld these developments with a laboured, guttural exhalation.
"Come here."
I’m Beginning to See The Light
"'Course, angel. Just need you nice and open for me first." Crowley's lashes lowered and he ran his tongue across his bottom lip as Aziraphale squirmed on Crowley's fingers, grinding his dick against Crowley's thumb. "That's it. Good boy, fuck my fingers, just like that." Aziraphale smashed his face into the pillow as his hips stuttered and he felt his dick throbbing. "Yes, yes, come for me, sweetheart, you were so so hard for me, you must have been that way for hours, bet that must feel good." The sweeping motions of Crowley's hips came to a halt, but resumed when Aziraphale lifted his face again and begged Crowley not to stop, pleaded with him to carry on. Crowley swallowed thickly, meeting Aziraphale's sleep-bleared eyes with his glassy ones as he fulfilled Aziraphale's request. "Fuck, you like it when I do this? Gorgeous boy, darling boy, you're killing me."
-
no pressure tags: @raining-stars-somewhere-else @createserenity @robinwithay @foolishlovers
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missingmxstic · 7 months ago
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To Reforge the Heart
It's a fickle thing, The Heart. Not just the muscle, the literal beating organ in one's chest; no the metaphorical and literal Heart that makes a person is equally as fickle and hard to keep to one desire. What would once be forged from a desire to protect can burn brighter into that of a regal blade, or darken and churn into a more sinister form. What she bore had been neither- something from half forged thoughts and ideas based solely on the desire of growth. Now it was time to Reforge the blade of one's Heart- no easy task,but I've seemingly taken to literalism.
That's why her arms aches, her back bore the burns of the wrapping sparks, and her ears rang with the hammer's blows against a now shattered shell that would crumble to light the second the blade was placed into the quenching oils. The hissing even against the cold snow was proof enough of the labor, the energy produced alone burning like a star. Perhaps that's what the Heart was- a star that guided others to it. Sora would probably agree, he was a sappy guy like that. Still, the heat alone would sear away any darkness that day.
---
It was done. After many hours,the blade had finally cooled with the oil and the snow out wild be placed in. The ice seeping into shape, the light needed soon reflected out of her chest as the physical item crumbled to starlight and manifested to get command. It was done, and it was reforged anew.
It was a hand and a half sword's length, appearing with the cawing and flapping of crows. The guard was a runic circle etched into unknown metal, all sigils of abjurant nature to form a barrier around a leather, rectangular hilt. The blade was script in black ink against a feather, evocative magic hissing softly for a second as the sparks faded. The teeth of the key was the Eye of Illusions from her studies, carved from the beak of some bird. The chain was made of transformative scripture,barely containing thrumming energy that allowed this form to exist. The pendant at the end swung a book wrapped in wings- one look close enough would show the most basic of conjurative scripts. As long as it was, it was as light as feathers, thrumming softly after the form was broken down to form a new blade, a new path.
Crowblood has been upgraded to Student of Artes
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shadows-of-almsivi · 8 months ago
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Mory, the notebooks you write in, do you bind them yourself? Or do you know of a good bookbinder who does? And which materials are your favorite? uwu
I do indeed bind my own journals, yes, when I've the time and materials available. It's a wonderfully meditative craft, one that was taught to me young; the Temple in Balmora never had any shortage of books needing rebinding or pilgrim's handbooks needing assembly. To this day the motions are all deep muscle-memory to me. I can't imagine how many thousands of pages my hands have laid and stitched and cut over the years...
On Vvardenfell, the tradition was to 'bind like with like'; a tome on Telvanni architecture might have its covers bound in preserved mycelium, for example. This tradition extended to the binding of holy scripture, though in a more metaphorical manner, spawning endless ecumenical debate...
Some argued that Truth was most often symbolized by water, and thus the skins and resins of dreugh ought to be used to honor the sacred truth within such writings. Others, more pedantic than I, pointed out that the sea's waters were under the purview of Sotha Sil, and that therefore fish glues like isinglass should only be used to bind books of Lord Seht's influence and studies, suggesting that the skins of cliffracers be used for the writings of Vivec so as to honor the Lord of the Middle Air. And then would come the bickering over whether utilizing such winged vermin would be a profaning insult, and perhaps some sniping over just what Mardyn suggested we glue these Homilies Of Blessed Almalexia together with if he was so smart, and some barbs about milking starlight into gluepots would get slung at Mardyn until he shut up and finished those binding boards...
The intellectual rigors of academic theology.
In Cyrodiil, when gold was plentiful, I would send for fine Nordic isinglass for my bookbinding, made from great sturgeons native to Skyrim's White River. Now, finding myself in Skyrim by the very banks of the White, I may buy the same isinglass for a pittance, but I dare not. You see, Nordic isinglass is the finest glue for bookbinding... Unless it freezes, whereupon it cracks and becomes hopelessly brittle. Look here, my journal is like a willow in Sun's Dusk: one hard frost, and the leaves start falling. I'll have to make another soon...
Hmm. Bookbinders, bookbinders... Now that's a difficult thing to answer. Here, I've only a few persons I would trust, none of them bookbinders. These are times of war, and it is child's play for any paid-off stationery clerk with an enchanter's kit to lace those cheap journals with hidden dictation enchantments for the purposes of spycraft. If you would keep your writings private, dear, it pays to remember this. All sides pay well for information.
(It's been years since I've seen any amulets or rings bearing useful enchantment-detecting properties, and even then they were perilously expensive. Don't despair, however, for a book may only be enchanted once, which can be turned to your advantage. For but a little gold (or a few rats, if you fill your own soul gems), you may have some small enchantment placed upon your new journal by any local artificer. Something cheap and inconsequential. Muffle, perhaps. It doesn't matter. If the enchantment takes, then no further enchantments may be placed upon it, and you can rest easy knowing that no spies have tainted it. If it doesn't, then you will know to burn that book immediately, or fill it with vulgar invective and waste some shadowy investigator's time.)
As for my favourite materials, oh... Fawn skin, I think, for the cover, tanned in alder-leaf and Pelletine sumach liquor in an iron pot for a year, and dressed with oil rendered from a young female badger (be wary not to get cheaper badger oil rendered from the old boars, the stench is terrible). The leather's color becomes like that of gathering storm clouds, quite beautiful. Brass for the cornerplates, engraved if I can get it. Linen laceweaver's line for the thread, of course, at least three-stranded but still quite fine, or else the spine will bulk out too far.
As for the paper, I've never had anything quite as pleasurable to write and sketch upon as this kind I found in a Khajiiti trader's stall; made from well-worn cotton rags, torn up by their children's little claws and beaten into fine little wisps, mixed in with flaxen scraps. You wouldn't imagine such fine and smooth paper could be moulded from old rags and thread-ends, but for my money there is no finer. I'd happily pass up nobleman's vellum for this, it cradles the ink so generously and never bleeds at all.
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lovelessdagger · 2 years ago
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Starlight - Chapter 40: After
Pairing: Din Djarin x OC
Rating: Mature
Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Smut
WARNINGS: None.
Words: 1.4k
Summary:  Tatooine is the galaxy's own personal hell.
A/N: I suppose this can be considered the final chapter, it is in many respects. I've received many asks about the state of Lumina and Din's relationship, while this ending doesn't say much, I do believe it says everything. The epilogue is next, I am still trying to find the words. I hope I don't disappoint.
Masterlist | Starlight Masterlist | AO3 | Prev | Next
Tatooine is the galaxy’s own personal hell. That much is evident. Emotions once indifferent are now set in carbonite stone. Tatooine is nothing but memory and misery; there is no repentance. Tatooine is a barren wasteland gone to the dogs, and the dogs have died.
Crossing over a sand dune, the Mandalorian leaves heavy prints to track. He walks east towards missing binary suns in the dead of night. 
He wonders about dawn and the possibilities of her unknown light. He cannot stand the sight of stars, finding them to only lead to hell.
Or Tatooine.
He makes way towards a defunct cantina in the distance, a lone figure with a backdrop of sky. It’s a small thing, run down, rotten. The doors open with rusted gears, making him slide in sideways when they freeze.
Tables remain unmoved, flooring worse for wear, half stripped. Some seating is tossed about, booths torn. Dust is visible, windows boarded shut.
At the seventh table lays a rifle leaned against the wood and an empty chair. He glances behind to the entrance.
He doesn’t remember it all being so much bigger than him.
---
Tatooine’s horizon is the edge of the universe and Lumina is alone. The wind is chilling, dying blows signal the aftermath of a storm. She tugs her cloak tighter. Humming soft under her breath, her legs dangle off the cantina’s back roof.
She looks down, flicking a half burnt cigarette.
“You can’t die from this height.” A voice from behind.
“I know,” she replies over the wind. She turns her wrist. Soreness remains even after bacta. After the first time, Fennec said she was lucky it only sprained. Lumina still isn’t sure if she agrees.
She looks back at her guest, the Mandalorian tall and not so proud. “Care to join me?”
His steps are heavy, his boots drag along the cemented roof and grating piling of sand. He sits beside her without any real poise, swinging his own cape back.
“I can’t say I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says.
“Boba bought the building and shut it down. Was his first major purchase after gaining control of the territory. Won’t tell me what the plan is, but it seems positive.”
“Positive?”
“There’s a lot you can do in the middle of no where.”
He agrees. “There is… so why are you here?”
She shrugs. “Why are you?”
He gives no answer.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” Din says instead. “Bad for you.”
She takes a purposeful drag. “I want to give you something.” Lumina digs through the satchel on her left, rummaging past her saber hilt, a lightbulb, and a newly etched data pad. In her gloved hand she presents a large shard of emerald glass. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“Flip it over.”
He does just that, his hands cautious in touching hers and the object of question. Heavier than he suspected, Din turns the hoax gem. The front is an encased remnant bedrock chiseled with a distinct Mando’a inscription.
“Is it…”
“Real? Far as I can tell, yeah.” Lumina runs her index finger over the letters. “Do you know what it says?”
Din gives a half nod, not strong enough to be a statement of commitment, but severely lacking in denial. “It’s scripture,” he says eventually. “We learn of tales of the Mand’alors of past. The formation of the Creed, the strength of our planet, our people. This looks like part of the story of the Taung—the original Mandalorians, it was my favorite. They were forced away from their original home on Coruscant and found solace on Mandalore. This section, it tells of how they felt a calling to the world. Something they couldn’t explain.”
“Sounds like the Force,” Lumina says.
“Where did you get this?”
“Jawas,” she answers. “I went to Peli’s to return the ship I took. Total coincidence they were there too.” Her lips press together, she tosses the cigarette butt off the edge. “I wouldn’t have reached out but—well they’re your people, not mine. Mand’alor.”
Din nods again, though overall more sure. “Thank you.”
The issue of the helmet, the reveal, lingers in the air.
She asks, “Have you spoken to your people since—”
“No.”
“I see.”
“I know what they’ll say. I’ll be excommunicated… any credibility I have with the Darksaber will be gone.”
“Then you do want it?”
Din hesitates. “Bo-Katan—” he begins to say.
“Is a threat unrealized. That’s what Fennec says.” 
“What do you think?”
“That you should keep an eye on her. She’s hiding more than she lets on. The Darksaber is in your possession now. In a way, you are king. Be wise.”
“Even with this”—Din waves the glass—“there’s no telling if it’s habitable. And if it is, Mandalore hasn’t had a monarch since before I was a foundling.”
“Then they’ll have no expectations.”
“What if I don’t want this?” Din asks. “I’m hardly a mandalorian anymore. This may not be my path.”
“The Force connected you to that sword for a reason,” Lumina says. “You need to restore your faith.”
He snorts. “In the Force?”
“In yourself.”
After a beat Din says, “So what’s the real reason you called me?”
Lumina could choose to be astounded by his attunement to her, a superficial everlasting trait it seems. But on occasion, in the two weeks passed since their last meeting, his words have grown a habit of circling.
Knowing forever is quite the promise, but Din carries loyalty to his own demise with honor.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she says. She lights another cigarette. “For good.”
His breathing stops, his hand tenses, his posture shifts. Lumina closes her eyes, inhaling deep through the Force. Her mind is too clouded, she wants to act rationally. She wants to be cordial. A diplomat. Express a gratitude for positive relations and nobility. Proclaim allegiance on behalf of Tatooine to all of Mandalore.
Or she could close up. Bid farewell and leave at that.
Neither feels correct.
“I can’t shake this feeling that there’s something out there,” Lumina says. “Something bigger than any of us realize. It’s more than the Empire. The things Gideon was doing to me… there’s a reason. He may have failed, but with my capture he proved his goals were possible. It’s only a matter of time until someone picks up where he left off. And when that comes, I don’t know how we’ll win.”
“You’re scared of another war,” Din says.
Lumina swallows, cringing at the lump in her throat. “Not just another war. Another clone war, only this time they’re all like me. I have to do what I can.”
The Mandalorian removes his helmet under the moonlight, placing it to the side. He takes a smoke from Lumina’s pack, waiting until she lights the drug to speak. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m cashing in a promise I’m owed, so wherever the Force takes me.”
He nods. “Will I ever see you again?”
Her head tips back, she looks into the night. The moons and stars are a fragile crystal setting. Wind blows the line out of view. “You’ll see me everywhere,” then, “I’ll see you too. I think it’s the will of the Force that we’re stuck together.”
She can barely hear his response, were she not herself she wouldn’t hear it at all. But it comes, a soft passing through his lips.
“Good.”
The moons reflect beautifully off Din’s armor, symbolic in a way. Bringing her glimmers of light at the universes edge. A performance of intangible wonder for her eyes only. She leans against his shoulder. He’s warm, despite it all.
His lips press against the top of her head.
“I love you,” Din mumbles into her scalp. Three little words finally said.
She smiles, halfway. “I know.” And then, “I love you too.”
Above their heads a white bird soars across the stars. It calls a song and Lumina looks away at her feet off the edge. A small ebony snake slithers along the roofing.
“Darasuum,” she says. “Right?”
His agreement is repetition. “Darasuum.”
Forever.
For the first time, Lumina thinks Tatooine may not be so bad after all. It isn’t great, few things are, but in the aftermath of apocalypse wastelands can still bloom.
Impossible life has been created before, it can again.
She is proof.
A wave of relief rushes through the planets wind. A renewal, in a way.
Life is separated into two eras.
Before: Living sustained on betrayals and manipulated promises. The Empire, the Sith, the Machine.
After: Her. After there are stars and orchids and auroras. There is rebirth. There is hope.
There is more than the legacy of Anakin Skywalker.
Lumina is sure of it.
This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed.
----
Epilogue: Starlight
----
Taglist: @lexloon​ @jay-bel​ @xsadderdazeforeverx​ @spideysimpossiblegirl​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @annoyinglythoughtfuldestiny​ @hello-th3r3​
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umbry-fic · 2 years ago
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[Additional] Memory
Summary: [Another] story, of a time that came after the end.
After giving up her heart and her memories to become a true angel, Colette wakes up in a strange world she doesn't recognise.
Fandom: Tales of Symphonia, Arcaea Characters: Colette Brunel, Hikari Rating: T Word Count: 4783 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 29/09/2023
Notes+Warnings: This was a fun little idea I've had for a long time. Spoilers for the entirety of Arcaea's main story, and for the Sylvarant arc of Tales of Symphonia. This fic takes place in a mash-up of Silent Answer Ending A and Silent Answer Ending B, long after the events of new Paradise(memory=null). But I think enough context is given here that you don't need to know Arcaea or read the previous fic to understand this one. Though this fic does spoil the previous one! In general, Colette is the main focus here.
Title from Additional Memory by Jin, which heavily inspired this story. (TW for suicide. Once again, I'm reminded how much Ayano is like Colette.)
~~~
Heavy eyelids opened to a blindingly white world.
She gazed at the sky that stretched out endlessly above her - a sky that was searingly bright and utterly empty, unlike anything she’d ever known. Not a cloud in sight, and there was no hint of a sun to be found. Yet there was light, so much that it almost burned, coming from some unseen source.
It took a while of staring blankly, her arms folded neatly upon her chest, hair trapped beneath her back, for a few questions to sluggishly fight their way to the surface of her mind. Questions she pondered, turning over and over in her head as she periodically tried to blink the brightness away. It reminded her of something, but she couldn’t quite recall what.
Where was she? What was she doing here? Who was she to begin with?
It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, it could have been days, that she spent lying there doing nothing but thinking before the memories returned. But return they did, rushing back in a torrential wave that trapped her in its relentless pull, submerging her beneath its wrathful force.
A dying world, fuelled by the pitiful remnants of mana that had crackled and drained with each second that passed. A sacred duty handed down by Heaven, branding her as the saviour of that rapidly deteriorating world, gifting her wings that shimmered in the starlight and stole all of her dreams from her. All those she had met on her journey, the offered hands she had clasped, smiling and praying that they would meet with fortune as she walked steadily towards her own demise.
The people she'd left behind, the shape of them held dear in her heart. The boy with an exuberant grin that had turned into desperate pleas at the end, begging her not to leave as she’d torn herself away.
Colette Brunel choked on nothing as she realised that she was arranged like the dozens of failed Chosens she had seen in the tower, floating and circling the stairs that had led up into the heavens. Silent and serene in death, unable to utter another word ever again. All that was missing was the coffin to complete the scene.
Scrambling to her knees, the illusion of idle silence utterly shattered, she scratched at her neck, at the gold that wrapped around her throat and the red, red, red -
Her nails met soft skin, nearly piercing through in her frenzy. There was nothing there. The smooth surface of the Cruxis Crystal, which she'd gotten used to running her fingers over to pass the long, quiet nights, was gone.
She didn’t know whether to be relieved as she shakily rose to her feet, her tongue tasting like ash, the mana that usually pooled in her back gone, leaving nothing but a void behind. She’d had her wings for less than a year, yet she felt naked without them. Weak and vulnerable in this strange place.
She'd known she would be leaving everything and everyone behind once she released the final seal, but this...
This wasn't Heaven. At least, not the one written about in the scriptures that the priests had always preached about - a paradise born from the kindness of the Goddess, where no suffering could be found and no judgement would ever be meted.
But didn't that mean...
Vehemently shoving that thought away, she set out with hesitant steps.
It would do no good to stay in this one spot forever.
~~~
In her past hours of walking, she had concluded that she was no longer in Sylvarant. Nor was she in Tethe’alla, the place she had once thought of as the moon but had learned was another world lying parallel to her home.
It was a strange world she travelled, what seemed like dust crunching beneath her heels with every step. Devoid of the sun and the moon, the sky itself alive, a writhing mass of what she thought were shards of glass - a roiling sea that refused to be tamed. Everything lacked colour, as if it had been purposely drained, shades of grey smothering every surface.
It was always quiet. Far too quiet. She couldn't be certain whether she'd retained her angel senses, but there wasn't a sound to be heard but her footsteps, the only noise in her head that of her growing panic, doing its very best to claw its way out. There were no signs of life, and she passed nothing but the occasional ruins - buildings that had once been grand but had crumbled to their very foundations.
Professor Raine would have loved it here.
The sudden thought made her come to an abrupt stop, her heart clenching and tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.
She was pulled out of her head when a section of the sky fell, pieces of glass breaking away from the flock to approach her, prompting a small gasp to escape her lips. Reaching out with a cautious hand, she flinched when they skirted out of reach, before slowly, slowly floating closer again.
They reminded her, inexplicably, of skittish birds. Like the pair of nestlings Lloyd had rescued from high up in a tree, on a winter morning when she had still been the same height as him, back when their shoulders always brushed whenever they walked side-by-side. The two of them had taken care of the nestlings until the warm winds of spring arrived, heralding the melting of the icicles that clung to her windowsill. At the very beginning, before they’d warmed up to the two of them, Lloyd had constantly gotten his fingers nipped by their beaks. He’d scowled, and she’d giggled and soothed his stinging skin, and -
This time, when she opened her eyes, it was to tears trailing down her cheeks, gasping sobs filling her chest and leaving no space for breaths. Blankly, she registered that the glass had surrounded her, images flickering on their shimmering surfaces, like the strange magi-technology in the human ranches that had reflected impossible scenes on their bright screens.
With how much they swirled around her, it was hard to make out anything from the discordant images. Nothing much - except for a flash of a red sleeve, and the echo of a familiar laugh that wound a string tight around her heart.
She couldn’t help but reach out once more, her hand shaking, even knowing that the cracks in her heart would only spread with each memory she revisited. But then, perhaps it was better this way, that she would be the only one to remember those happy times, now forever shadowed.
Her life had come to an end, bringing the tale of the Chosen to a close. Not the tale of Colette Brunel, for it had never existed in the first place. Her story was one wherein her own existence was forbidden.
Sylvarant would never remember that a girl named Colette Brunel had existed. All that would remain in their memory was the saviour, an angel that would be revered in their history as a blessing delivered unto them from the Heavens. And no matter how much it hurt, she prayed that those closest to her would do the same. That their memories would fade into a dull gray, until it became second nature to brush it aside.
Still, she reached out, straining to reach with her fingertips, desperation flooding her heart.
The shard shot out of reach, and like the fool she was, she stumbled after it. It kept a tantalisingly perfect distance from her - close enough for her to think she could grab ahold of it if she was just a little faster, and far enough that she was forced to follow its strange, winding path, heading for destinations unknown. Even knowing she had sacrificed all of herself to give the ones she loved a chance to create new memories, she still could not bear to let go.
Was this her punishment? Surely she must have failed, must have overlooked some small detail that had caused the ritual of regeneration to come crashing down at her feet, displacing her from Sylvarant and throwing her into this desolate world that found itself with not a single seed of life. She must not have toiled hard enough, must not have carried the weight of the hopes and dreams of the land well enough, must not have…
She must have made a mistake along the way, the fault of which lay entirely with her.
“I can die without any regrets…”
A whisper, mocking her.
What a masterful liar she’d been, able to fool even herself.
~~~
A lone girl clothed entirely in white stood in the silent halls of a grand church, a shard of scarlet red hovering over her open palm. More shards swirled around her, whispering in her ears as they flowed at the edges of her dress, almost as if to lengthen it, to make it trail against the cold stone.
"So she'll arrive soon," Hikari mumbled, paying no heed to the shards and their behaviour. She stared intently into the shimmering surface of the shard of red, almost a twin to the one that had freed her soul from the shackles of lethargic apathy, that she had pressed close to her chest with shaking hands as she’d shut her eyes against the blinding white. Contained within was the memory of the girl whose soul this world of Arcaea had just ensnared. The memory of Colette Brunel - every decision she’d made, every secret she’d kept, everything that defined her and formed the core of her identity.
Normally, she wouldn’t have paid any attention when another lost soul found its way here to live out a second chance. There had been so many, falling through the cracks in the boundaries of this world she had created from a lonely wish. It was not much of a second chance they would encounter, robbed of their memories and unlikely to run into another soul, unable to escape this place that existed outside of time. There was nothing much Arcaea could offer but hollow glimpses of other worlds, other times, other memories where one could only play the role of the outsider, never able to breach the gap. Left to stew in solitude that dug claws into their skin and dragged them downwards, most fell into the abyss of madness, and she cared not to witness their descent. So she turned a blind eye and kept to herself, caring only for her own machinations.
But this girl… She had not truly died, and yet an echo of her had appeared regardless, her memories intact and locked tight in her heart.
Something compelled her to meet with this strange aberration. For she could understand the terrible weight of memories, countless regrets pressing down on one’s shoulders until it buried them.
Whenever she closed her eyes, she could still see Tairitsu’s wide eyes, their light fading as the sword gripped tightly in Hikari’s hand pierced through her stomach. She could still see Tairitsu’s smile, sad and knowing, on every copy’s face as it cracked and shattered on that very same blade, driven into a body painstakingly crafted from glass.
The same events had repeated tens, hundreds, thousands of times. She had long since lost count of how many times she had reconstructed the girl with the curious eyes and a kind smile, how many times she had ended her short life, for Tairitsu never, ever wanted to stay, hand always outstretched towards the truth hiding beyond the horizon. She could not bear to listen to the hatred that would surely twist that sweet voice if the truth came to light, but neither could she bear to never gaze upon that lovely smile again.
It had become routine long ago.
Even then, something in her heart twisted every time her sword found its target.
~~~
An awed gasp left Colette as she craned her head up to drink in the sight of the church before her, the matter of the shard she’d been chasing forgotten for the time being.
It was a massive building topped with an elegant spire that reached tall and proud towards the sky, a far grander structure than the Martel Temple she’d known all her life. It was gorgeous, yet even here, there seemed to be no life to its stone, its entrance dark and cold. Her gaze wandered to the stained glass windows that decorated the top, disappearing around a curve, depicting angels. Perfect angels standing with rigid backs, neatly folded wings and impassive faces, as if they had been sculpted from stone.
Tearing her gaze away from a reminder of all that she was not, she began to cautiously make her way into the church, inching between the piers and melting into long shadows. Approaching the girl that waited at its end, still as a statue.
With each step she took, her heart thundered louder in her ears, sweat forming on her palms, knowing that pale pink eyes were trained on her and had not left her once.
She recognized the madness that swam within them, enough to make her want to turn tail and run. It was not the cruel inferno that had resided within the Grand Cardinals, fuelled by the suffering of others, its tongues licking away at hope until it burned to ash. It was the empty gaze of those that had buckled beneath the crushing weight of despair, a bone-chilling brokenness lurking behind it. Not an inferno, no, but a simmering flame that could easily consume all if allowed to grow.
Not to mention the glass spinning around the girl, an unquenchable hurricane following an unknown rhythm. The shard that had led Colette here had long since disappeared among its fellows, and she had no hope of picking it out from among them. The horde followed the other girl’s every movement, crowning her in glory, as she finally moved. Her white dress swirled around her legs, the strange, sharp contraptions floating by her side snapping into place by her shoulders - mechanical wings that flared behind her.
Here too, in the flesh, were graceful angels, carrying themselves with hardened steel in their spines.
"You've arrived," she whispered, raising her head, a strand of pale hair slipping to rest on the pink rose on her shoulder. "Welcome."
Taking a deep breath, Colette pulled herself upright, certain that every action she took now might determine her fate. This could be an opportunity to learn the truth, to find out how she’d ended up here. Or it could spell her doom once more, the raw power hiding beneath the surface of the other girl poised to explode at any moment.
"Who are you? And… where am I?" she asked, taking care to ensure her voice didn’t shake, the expression on her face smoothing into blankness from years of practice.
“My name is Hikari.” The answer was given to her easily, lips curving into a smile. “And this is a world of memories.”
Memories? Genis would have scoffed and exclaimed the impossibility of everything, yet she was inclined to believe the words fed to her, continuing to search for a single shard among dozens.
“Let me show you.”
That was all the warning she got before an iron grip wrenched her wrist up, those pink eyes now inches from her face. Hissing in pain, she tried to pull away, but was unable to do anything as a single shard shoved itself against her fingertips, a shock of cold slamming into her body.
The world around her warped, greys turning into vibrant green as the heady scent of soil flooded her senses -
The cicadas chirped lazily in the hazy darkness that clung to the space between trees, streaking over sturdy bark and painting them almost black.
Lloyd made a soft sound in his throat when her hand found his, their fingers slotting together as perfectly as they had when he'd first grabbed her hand outside the schoolhouse, grinning as bright as the sun, on the day they’d met.
If she closed her eyes, she could still see the light of the oracle superimposed against her eyelids. Blinding white light that signalled the end of life as she knew it, curtains falling on the daydream she'd lived all this time.
When tomorrow arrives...
"Just so we don't get lost," she whispered, not wanting to disrupt the sanctity of the soon-coming night, the sky still painted with messy strokes of pink and orange.
It was a ridiculous thing to say, a feeble excuse that didn't hold a candle to the lies upon lies she'd already told in the short life she’d lived. She'd walked this path between Lloyd's home and Iselia hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. She could count the exact number of steps needed, knew where to jump over roots that had burrowed through the ground, and knew where to duck to avoid low-hanging branches.
She just didn't want to let go.
Those russet eyes she so loved held a question in them, but he didn't voice it. He only squeezed her hand, his laughter filling the silence, a sound she soaked in, desperate to memorise.
"I won't let you get lost, silly."
She pressed closer to him, savouring the warmth that radiated from his side as they walked ever closer to an ending that couldn't be avoided. Trying to commit to memory the shape of him, unable to bring herself to curse the weakness that had led her to get this close in the first place.
At the end of the path, she told him she would see him again tomorrow, the lie burning her tongue. The words she truly wanted to say stayed locked in her heart, a truth she couldn't divulge for fear of breaking his.
Another promise she would have to shatter.
A goodbye, even if he didn't know it.
The sensations faded as she crashed to her knees, shivering uncontrollably, staring unseeing at what once was a forest and now was the drab floor of a church she’d been standing in minutes ago. Or… What felt like minutes ago. In truth, barely any time had passed at all, Hikari still standing a hair’s breadth away, having let go of her wrist.
It had been so vivid, nothing like her own recollections of precious moments, which seemed so pitiful now. It was like she'd just turned sixteen again, making preparations to leave everything she’d known behind to set out on a journey that she wasn’t certain she would survive. Not yet possessing the knowledge that Lloyd would chase after her, again and again, all the way to the end of her preordained fate.
The words she’d wished so much to say that day were still on the tip of her tongue, and she swallowed them down with the bitter taste of reality, salt stark against her lips.
"This is a world of memories," Hikari repeated as she lowered herself to Colette’s level, the gentleness of her voice sending a shudder down her spine. The shards had come to a complete stop, floating at irregular intervals around the two of them - the calm before the storm. “And I have the power to gift you paradise.”
“Paradise…?”
Naked yearning dripped from her voice, unable to be held back, as her fingers absentmindedly rubbed against the red marks left on her wrist, the physical sensation clashing with the ghostly echo of warmth lingering on her palm. It felt as if her chest had been split open, leaving her heart to bleed all over the floor from its jagged, open wound.
She had once thought that to give up one’s heart until no tears could fall and nothing could bring a smile to one’s face was the worst fate that could befall a person. Yet perhaps it had been a blessing all along, one that had slipped through her fingers. It would mean never having to experience this torment, enough to sunder her heart in two as she witnessed all that she had left behind. From the very beginning, she’d been nothing more than a coward, secretly glad that she would die at the end - for death should have spared her from this.
"It hurts, does it not?" The whispers seemed to come from all around her, despite the fact that Hikari hadn't shifted, her hand raising to cup Colette’s cheek, soaked in tears. The surface of each shard rippled in time with her words, thorns of fear pricking at Colette’s skin at the veneer of kindness presented to her, her breath catching in her throat. "To remember. Those who come here never do. It must hurt, to know that you can never return."
"You can live again," she offered. "I can make a world for you, one where you can be happy, where you will never need to remember all that burdened you in your past life. You have already given up so much. Do you not at least deserve to let go of all that pains you?"
Sitting at a table with a pencil in hand, pondering her math homework as Lloyd snoozed beside her, sunlight filtering through the window and illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. She nudged him with a shoulder, giggles bubbling from her throat as his only response was to mumble something under his breath. Reaching for her phone, still blowing up with messages wishing her a happy sixteenth birthday, she wondered what tomorrow would bring…
The scene faded slowly this time, bit by bit. The wood of the table, covered in pencil scratches caused by clumsy hands. The sky outside the window, a lovely blue that signified a perfect day. The cosy room, filled with the dreams of a child, whose only consideration for the future was a mild curiosity over what it would bring.
It was perfect - a lovely dream that stabbed yet another dagger into her heart.
“Living a normal life… Isn't that what you've always wished for?"
There it was, the wish she had locked away long ago, the key rusty and lost. A wish she had attempted to forget by surrounding herself with the warmth of her friends. It was tempting, to accept the offer given to her for no price at all, to finally be given a reprieve from the ache deep in her soul. And yet…
She remembered a teacher who had known of her fate, and had done her best to give her a fulfilling life. A young elf who had been unfairly chased from his home, and had displayed such bravery over the course of their journey. A mercenary who never spoke much, but had given her advice on how to weather the angelic transformation. An assassin, who had cared so much for a world that wasn’t even her own.
Most of all, she remembered a boy who had never cared about her role, who had torn through the facades she put up and reached the scared girl hidden beneath.
"I can't." The words slipped out, Hikari’s stare turning frigid as she dropped her hand, shifting away. Perhaps she was sealing her fate, but she couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of her, tripping inelegantly over each other. "I can’t forget what I’ve been through, nor the choices I’ve made. These memories, no matter how painful, are still precious to me.” She shook her head, fingers tightening on the fabric of her clothes. “I don’t want to forsake the truth for an illusion. That would mean dishonouring all the sacrifices that came before me.”
"If this is to be my punishment for not being a good enough Chosen," she whispered, smiling sadly, "then I accept it. I will bear this burden. And I will sin no further by seeking reprieve."
The air itself seemed to turn solid all of a sudden, forcing her prone to the ground with heaving gasps. Above her, shards sliced through the air, faster and faster, until it drowned out all other sounds. She could only watch, words escaping her, as the walls and the ceiling itself unfurled into ribbons of glass, spiralling away to reveal the sky and all that remained of the grand church that had once stood in this very location - broken pillars and scattered rubble.
"You have your wish, then," Hikari hissed, a burning rage erupting from within her that matched the turbulent motion of the shards. "You will not be remembered, and you will never be able to leave. Those precious memories of yours will haunt you for the rest of time. If you so desire to gaze upon the truth, then you may have it."
With a dismissive flick, a single red shard materialised in the air, hovering just within Colette’s reach. She stared at it with wide eyes, watching her own image reflected on its surface.
“May it bring you fortune, Chosen One.”
In the distance, footsteps echoed.
And then there was nothing but blissful silence.
~~~
The truth. What was so appealing about it that people simply could not avert their eyes? It had brought her nothing but pain. To cling to it seemed absurd.
Was happiness not a good enough reason to forsake the truth? Those had been the very words she’d told Tai, over and over again, yet Tai would always find her way to the church, and she would always remember. And she would always die by Hikari’s hands - an inviolable rule of this world, one that she couldn’t bend despite the power she yielded.
The girl she’d left in the ruins of that very same church was similar to Tai, in a way. They had suffered all their life, yet still, they pushed on with a smile, refusing to yield, strength hidden behind soft words and a demure face.
Hikari came to a stop, knowing not where her feet had carried her. It mattered not.
How many days, months, years had it been since she'd first awoken here, surrounded by shards of Arcaea depicting nothing but joy? So much of it that she’d gotten drunk on it, only for it to drive her to the brink of losing herself in its overwhelming brightness.
The girl would shatter, the instant she realised that wonderful "truth". All she had done was for a lie, and in another time, another world, Colette Brunel had already awoken from her curse, clutching a precious birthday present close.
This one was nothing but a copy. Even then, the pain she felt was real. But it was too late to save her. There was nothing to be done but to wait to pick up the pieces.
For now... for now, she would simply make preparations. Her heart sang a single wish, a wish to see that gentle smile framed by black locks once more. She yearned to feel the warmth of Tai’s palm pressed against her own.
She had missed Tai’s embrace so very, very much.
~~~
A few shards of glass remained in the ruins of a church, unheard whispers spreading amongst themselves as they watched the newest arrival - another girl, drowning in grief she couldn’t control. Just as they had watched every other girl, so too would they watch this one, observing the tragedy of her story as it unfolded.
They watched as she reached out with trembling fingers for a singular scarlet shard, hugging it close to her chest. Her grip was so tight that the shard cut into her fingers, causing more red to trail down her arms in a trickling river.
They watched as she raised her gaze towards the sky, perhaps to catch sight of the twinkling stars that had been her companion for many a sleepless night. But there were no stars to be found here, in this strange, alien world. There would be no opportunity to count them, as a gruff voice disguising kindness had told her to do. There would be nothing to refer to as she recounted the stories that had been whispered to her on rooftops, by a gentle boy whose cheeks had been kissed by the cold. There would be no crackling of the fire, no soft breaths coming from Genis as he slumbered next to his sister. There would be no scent of miso soup, still wafting from the thoroughly emptied pot that Sheena had laboured over.
They listened in silence as she began to softly sing, her voice carrying through the air. A hymn, praying for salvation from an ever-benevolent Goddess.
They did not respond, continuing to churn in eternal silence. A song heard by no one, swallowed up by this endless world.
There would be no salvation, now and forevermore.
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pscicicdragon001 · 2 years ago
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Some new locations that we made for the AU! These locations are in Orbit/the afterlife :))
The River of Memory - in leu of the previous idea of memory lanterns/life scriptures, we came up with a river that, when looked in to, reveals to the user the memories of their past life before they died. Mega put this in place some time after the events of the cataclysm as she was creating the afterlife copies of the physical realms, putting it in the Starlight Desert. This helps spirits and Elders alike from forgetting who they are, as Mega knew it would be quite some time before she could resume reincarnation
The Sea of Stars - this is the sort of in-between in Orbit, the cosmic ocean that surrounds the realms of the afterlife. There are very few to no islands in this shimmering curtain, one of which houses Adina and his family. It's pretty much just your standard sea, save for the fact that it seems almost completely compromised of softly shining sparkles suspended in an endless void of deep cosmic blues
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