#sworn to the starlight

[eldritch-metal-squirrel]

Motivating myself to draw with a little nostalgia~ I'm particularly fond of these mixed media pieces from 2020 to 2022. ♡

[kalmeria]

welcome to the sato hinata-verse

[hanasnx]

Just found your Noir content. Glad someone is writing for him. Noir and breeding kink? Been thinking about Noir fucking me in a mating press ever since he attacked Starlight in season 2. He can hold me down and choke me out like that any day.

MINORS DNI 18+ NOTES: babe that fuckin mating press goes hard doesn’t it? goddamnnnnn. noir putting you in a mating press <333that whole thing with starlight was fuckin crazy i was clawing the walls

Rough grunts expel from BLACK NOIR’s nose with each sharp thrust, plowing into you from the angle the position provides. Folded up over yourself with no regard to your comfort, he’s got you bunched up in a way that pleases him. Heavy body leans over you, harsh hands on the backs of your thighs keeping you good and spread from him. You’ve certainly gotten more flexible since you’ve started fucking him. The edges of his armor dig into you, but you can’t even register it over the overwhelming sensation of being filled. Fat cock drives into you at a reckless pace, forcing air from your lungs as if its piston defines your diaphragm’s every move. You can barely breathe from being crushed.

There’s something different about his angle, not only is it mind-bending, tremors wracking through your body as your eyes roll so far back in your head they ache, but it’s the way he handles it. Grabbing you like he owns you, redirecting your body in any way he desires, muscling you into submitting underneath him so he can fuck your hole in peace when you squirm too much. Your cervix gets kissed by his tip occasionally, but he wants you to be still and take it. For his dick? You’ll do anything.

You let him mate with you. The way he’s fucking you reminds you of an animal. Pinning you down as if you’ll escape at your first chance, growls escaping him, possessively filling up your cunt with the wet sounds of a cock finding its home. Usually, you’re the dirty talker in the bedroom, but he’s effectively silenced you, yanking you into his bucks with his firm hold on your thighs.

It used to be difficult to tell what he’s thinking, but he can’t be more clear now. The stutter in his hips is a dead giveaway to his impending load, and usually this would be the point in which he’d pull out and fist his cock to cum on you. Stomach, face, ass, he loved to paint you. Instead, he’s keeping it in, not only that but he’s still moving. Like he wants to fuck a baby in you.

“Noir— Noir!” you scold, but he continues. Swollen cock bullying your insides as it twitches with need to cum. “Don’t you— don’t you dare—“ you’re able to get the words out, concentrating hard on forming a sentence when your brain is so empty. The idea of him cumming in you is appealing, but you don’t know how Supes work. You’ve never had that conversation with him. What if he’s not sterile?

Lips slot against your ear, and if you weren’t mistaken, you could’ve sworn they form and mouth the word “baby.”

[spacedace]

Had a dc x dp brain worm, feel free to use as a prompt <3

Sidenote, I decided to get fancy with the Ancients titles because of course I did lol

Shifting Where = Space (Danny)

Eternal When = Time (Clockwork)

Ever Onward = Speedforce (Ellie)

---

Bruce watched the footage again.

And again.

Again.

It didn’t make sense.

A week ago every television, radio, computer, phone - even the LED billboards - had been taken over to deliver a message. Across the United States. In every territory it held. Every military base. Down in the depths of the oceans where American submarines tried to creep past Atlantian patrols. In the endless cold white of Antarctica. Even far above in the International Space Station. Any place the United States Government had control over, any place one of its citizens found themselves. There was the message.

The face of an entity, human in shape but not in form. Hair as gleaming white as starlight, eyes bright as the twisting dance of the Aurora Borealis, skin as cold and blue as the tail of a comet. The entity wore armor as black as the depths of space with a crown to match, the later glinting and shifting with the twisting birth and death of galaxies. A cloak of nebulae danced down his shoulders, eclipsing the world beyond the entity entirely.

He named himself, jaw tight, expression serious.

High King Phantom of the Infinite Realms.

The Shifting Where. Son of the Eternal When. Father of the Ever Onward. His Epitaphs many and ever growing. The True Balance. The Bridge Between. The Devourer of Dark. The Last Child of Between. The Great One.

King of the Dead. King of the Infinite Worlds. King of so much more than Bruce had ever even known was possible.

King who had declared war. Who marshaled his endless armies. Who spoke of warnings, of efforts to reach a peace, of trying again and again and again to find a way to not plunge into violence and bloodshed. All things living come to call him King in time, he had no want or need to go out and hurry that along. But there were no options left to him now. He had tried for peace. He had been denied.

He would not see his people suffer any longer. Would not see those he’d sworn to lead and protect imprisoned by fools who had sworn themselves enemies to all the afterlives. Would no longer permit the vicious cruelty to continue.

The message was a final warning.

A final offer.

Three days, Phantom said. The United States government would have three days to release their prisoners, to begin the process of dismantling the laws that made death itself an illegal act.

If they refused, he would lead his endless armies personally in the war to come.

It had not been an idle threat.

Three days after the message, after Bruce and the rest of the Justice League scrambled to try and figure out just what it was it was all about, after Justice League Dark’s members shakily took turns explaining just how powerful the being that had gave that message was and how much danger the world was in should he and his armies march upon their world, war came.

Of all places, it began in a town in Illinois.

The sky shattered like broken glass above, Lazarus Green beyond, and the Dead poured out.

It started in Illinois.

It did not end there.

Bruce watched the footage of it all, eyes burning as he watched every second of CCTV footage, every shaky phone camera video, every news broadcast.

Most of them looked human enough. Changed in death, but recognizably human once. A pair of glowing teenagers on a motorcycle, a writhing shadow twisting about at their command sweeping chaos upon the battlefield. A young woman dressed to perform with hair a literal flame, burning bright blue and snapping furiously as she played devastation upon her enemies with her guitar. A child with corpse gray skin and luminescent green hair, flickering in and out of Bruce’s ability to see as if fighting against a law of existence to be visible, screaming orders to a skeleton crew from his place on deck of a 1700s ship that sailed through the sky, disappearing into clouds before raining down attacks from above.

There was more. Glowing skeletons dressed in the fashions of war spanning every culture going back millennia. Robots with weapons far beyond the technology they had even in the League. Creatures of myth and legend. Things of nightmares.

Leading them all, as he had promised, was Phantom.

He looked younger, smaller. Just a boy, really, a gangly teenager that hadn’t quite finished growing into himself. One holding power beyond anything Bruce could ever imagine, but still just a child as far as he could see, no older than Tim who’d just graduated high school. Frantic research found Phantom appearing as far back as human history, but those sightings had to have been after his death. Bruce can’t help but wonder how young the boy had been when he died, how much of that youth still clung to him through all these eons.

It wasn’t something he’d let him self consider normally, not with something like this.

A dangerous unknown appearing without warning and attacking with unimaginable power and seemingly endless forces. It was something that would normally eclipse everything else. Something that would make Bruce put aside the ache at seeing a face so young twisted in rage.

But.

He watched all the footage.

Civilians were put in the crossfire. Were shot at and endangered. Were left terrified and scrambling for safety in buildings that were rapidly being torn away by stray artillery.

But never by Phantom or his armies.

The dead, in fact, went very far out of their way to ensure civilians weren’t harmed. Sweeping people up out of the way of falling debris. Shielding them from attacks that would have most certainly killed a normal human. Some dead even helped evacuate, ushering a frightened and panicked populous to safety as gently as they were capable of. Some of the less human creatures - giant bear-like beings with horns and fangs and ice edging their burly frames - even rushed forward to offer medical aid.

When the sky shattered open and the armies of the dead swept in, they ignored the town below. They focused instead on what was discovered later to be the base of a secretive government agency. The dead’s fight focused on those individuals in sharp white suits, bearing weapons capable of actually injuring King Phantom’s people.

It was these agents that brought the fight to the streets to Amity Park. That fired recklessly and without thought or care to the casualties they could inflict. That didn’t seem to care if they killed a hundred civilians if it meant hurting just one of Phantom’s soldiers.

Bruce watched all the footage.

And again.

Again.

Phantom had declared war.

Phantom spoke in his message of being out of options, of attempting peace. Phantom gave three days time for the release of captives. Phantom lead armies who fought viciously but never once willingly harmed civilians.

Phantom declared war, but he didn’t want it.

“Amanda Waller has reached out.”

Bruce didn’t turn his attention from the screens before him, eyes burning as he followed Phantom as the King dove away from the middle of locked combat to shield a child from a pulse of green energy from something like a grenade another agent in white had carelessly thrown. The child was crying but unharmed. The left pauldron of Phantom’s armor cracked and shattered from a direct shot from the enemy he’d just been fighting that he’d turned his back on, a glowing green liquid uncomfortably like Lazarus Water dripped down from a smoldering wound.

Clark stepped up to stand beside him as he watched, face worn and tired. The League had missed the first battle, but they’d been quick to appear at the rest. Phantom and his army ignored them unless they put themselves purposefully in the way of the fight. They were, as Justice League Dark had warned, vastly out powered by the entities fighting. A hulking giant knight made of shadow riding a nightmarish steed had driven Clark six feet down into the dirt when he’d attempted to make his way to Phantom directly to try and talk to the king.

The depth Clark had ended up felt like a warning of what would happen if he tried to get close to the king again.

It probably was.

“She said they have intel for us.” A faint twitch of fingers, jaw clenching, voice flat in that way that told Bruce his old friend was fighting back anger with everything he had. “That she has options for how to deal with the insurgence.”

Bruce shut off the monitors.

He’d seen enough.

Now was time to get answers to just what, exactly, Amanda Waller and the US government had done to cause the Dead to rise and rage.

---

Part Two Part Three Part Four

[bright-side20]

The Truth-Teller/Hofas Spoilers

It seems like people are hung up on Enalius possessing the TT in order to serve the Illyrian plot for Azriel, but in fact, that's selective reading. Let's see what is written in the books.

My sword blazed with light. That dagger shone with darkness. Both of them are crafted of the same black metal. Iridium, right?" She jerked her chin to Azriel, to the dagger at his side. "Ore from a fallen meteorite?" Azriel's silence was confirmation enough.

=Both blades are made from the same material of a fallen meteorite.

My father had never shown himself to be giving-long had he kept Gwydion and never once offered it to my mother. The dagger that had belonged to his dear friend, slain during the war, hung at his side, unused. But not for long.

Theia extended her hands toward the water, the offered blades. And on phantom wings, sword and dagger soared for her. Sum- moned to her hands. Starlight flared from Theia as she snatched the sword and knife out of the air, the blades glowing with their own starlight.

My mother returned that day with only Pelias and my father's blades. As she had helped Make them, they answered to the call in her blood. To her very power.

Conclusion: The Starsword and the Truth-Teller were both created in the same manner, crafted by Fionn and Theia. Fionn likely gifted the Truth-Teller to his best friend Enalius during the great war when Illyrians fought against the daglan to prevent them from reaching the Cauldron atop Ramiel. After Enalius's death, Fionn simply took his blade back.

_Azriel's secret lineage:

My mother eventually trusted only Helena and myself to seek the truth. She knew we could be of great use to her, because we bore the shadows as well as starlight.

=The blades simply represent both powers of the Dusk Court people: light and shadows.

We spent a month hidden in the enemy's stronghold, no more than shadows ourselves.

Doesn't that remind you of this :

ACOMAF:

“Like the daemati,” Rhys said to me, “shadowsingers are rare—coveted by courts and territories across the world for their stealth and predisposition to hear and feel things others can’t.”

=Daemati (mind reading) and Shadowsinger abilities are simply the powers of the Dusk Court/Avallen people, which is why they are rare, especially in Prythian.

_Foreshadowing from HOFAS :

Azriel, without Rhysand to translate, watched in silence. Bryce could have sworn shadows wreathed him, like Ruhn's, yet... wilder. The way Cormac's had been.

The male now held the Starsword at the ready, Truth-Teller gripped in his other hand.He must have had some sort of Starborn blood in him, then-a distant ancestor, maybe. Or maybe his possession of the knife somehow allowed him to also bear the Starsword.

That's a very obvious foreshadowing. It would explain why Azriel is so different from other Illyrians, why he can winnow, why Illyrians couldn't understand the origin of his Shadowsinger gift, and why it was merely assumed that he learned the language of shadows during his imprisonment.

_Az confirming that his shadows are magical:

His brows rose.... The shadows are made of magic, just very condensed.

_Where did Azriel find the Truth-Teller:

No one knows what became of Theia and General Pelias," I told countless generations. "They betrayed King Fionn, and Gwydion was for- ever lost, his dagger with it." I lied with every breath.

Silene made people believe that the dagger was also lost.

I made sure he knew that the buried weapon he'd need against the Asteri was down here.

While she told her son that the dagger is buried in the prison, therefore, Azriel found the Truth-Teller in the prison.

ACOMAF:

Azriel :"I'll go. The Prison sentries know me-what I am." 👀

So, tell me, what is more interesting: learning about Azriel's obvious Illyrian side, given that his father is an Illyrian, or discovering his secret lineage? Keep in mind that we know nothing about his mother. How did he manage to find the Truth-Teller? Why was he extremely possessive of it, yet decided to give it to Elain? This includes the famous scene that antis spent years trying to downplay, the scene in the coloring book, and on the ACOWAR cover.

_Can Azriel get access to the Truth-Teller's magic :

Can your dagger kill the unkillable, too?" "It's called Truth-Teller," he said in that soft voice, like shadows given sound. "And no, it cannot."Bryce arched a brow. "So does it tell the truth?" A hint of a smile, more chilling than the frigid air around them. "It gets people to do so."

This shows that he probably doesn't know the full potential of the dagger and that he used it for torturing people.

Vesperus took another step, steadier now, and smiled past Bryce. At Azriel, at Truth-Teller. "You don't know how to use it,do you?" Azriel pointed the dagger toward the advancing Asteri. "Pretty sure this end's the one that'll go through your gut." Vesperus chuckled, her dark hair swaying with each inching step closer. "Typical of your kind. You want to play with our weap- ons, but have no concept of their true abilities."

I think that Azriel is like Ruhn; he can wield the Starsword and the Truth-Teller. However, he cannot get access to their full power.

_Bryce using the Starsword and the Truth-Teller to kill Vesperus :

Bryce threw her power into the Starsword, light ripping through the black blade, willing it to tear this fucking monster apart- She willed it into Truth-Teller, and shadows flowed.

Elain :

Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.”

=The shadows were the Truth-Teller's magic; it had answered to Elain's will and magic, killing the King of Hybern. Y'all Keep in mind that Elain is the first female to wield and use the Truth-Teller since Silene.

I want to add

_If there is someone who would be a descendant of Enalius, it's Cassian, and it's already foreshadowed:

ACOWAR :

Nesta listened to the low-level Illyrian soldiers whispering about how Cassian had thrown that spear, how he’d cut down soldiers like stalks of wheat, how he’d fought like Enalius—their most ancient warrior-god and the first of the Illyrians. It had been a while, it seemed, since they had seen Cassian in open battle. Since they’d realized that he’d been young in the War, and now … the looks they gave Cassian as he passed … they were the same as those the High Lords had given Rhys upon seeing his power. Like them, and yet Other.

ACOSF:

At twenty-one, he’d still been drinking and brawling and fucking, unconcerned with anything and anybody except his ambition to be the most skilled of Illyrian warriors since Enalius himself.

Enalius being the Illyrians leader and Fionn's bestie / Cassian is the Illyrians general and Rhys's bestie. 🤷🏻‍♀️

[spacebarbarianweird]

Astarion with Bard!Tav headcanons, pls?

I have a soft spot for Bards. Once, a gender fluid bard who plays the same campaign as I do, scared a creep away and we never saw him again.

Thanks @thedomesticanthropologist for the dialogue. With her permission, I copied it here since it fits the mood of these two gremlins .

Check out her blog, it's amazing!

Hope you will enjoy these headcanons!

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion x Bard!Tav

Astarion is ready for everything when he meets you, but not for the fact you are the most unhinged person the Sword's Coast has seen.

The sworn enemy of many nobles whom you have offended in your songs.

Thrown up from numerous adventure parties for your horniness and a specific type of humor.

if you aren't beaten by someone's spouse for sleeping with a married person, you consider it a bad week.

All the Astarion's flattery? It falls flat!

There is nothing original in what he says. Nothing really interesting in his sweet words!

You could flirt better when you're five.

But you are curious.

Why is he using such cliche pick-up lines on you? Why is he so eager to do it? It's obvious he has no communication skills whatsoever! And hee sounds like a character from an erotic novel.

You are a professional, after all. If you wanted to seduce him, you would have sex the first two hours you two met.

So... you are waiting.

In the meantime, Astarion starts opening up. The real him is so much different from the 'seducer one". He sounds even innocent.

He finally invites you for a night of passion and, at this moment, you can't hold yourself anymore.

"I've been waiting… waiting since the moment we met…"

"So knives to the throat are flirting to you?"

"... I do recall saying it was a darling of a throat or some such, but- it's a line, it's not- you're not supposed to be really listening-"

"So I'm just supposed to be so distracted by your shirtlessness that you can say anything and I'll fall into your arms?"

"Listen, if I wanted to spend the night talking…"

"Couldn't you even bring a blanket? Give me the address of the person who taught you all this boring shit, and I will put my lute up to his arse! Gods!"

The date night is awkward.

You even don't have sex. You talk.

And you play your lute, singing some of the most offensive and inappropriate songs you know.

Astarion allows himself to relax.

He has never felt so safe with anyone. You can laugh all his fears away!

Vampire lords, tortures, violence. It all sounds … hilarious, not scary.

By the morning, you fall asleep. Astarion puts off his shirt to bathe in the sunlight.

When you wake up, you curse out loud.

"What is the fuck is this on your back??"

He explains and you take your lute to play one of the bard healing spells.

It wouldn't help of course, but you soothe his pain a bit.

You use the spells to cast away nightmares. And you also play music to help him meditate and avoid re-visiting bad memories.

Together, you form a murderous couple. There is nothing worse than a bard and rogue.

And you boost his self-esteem. He is afraid of Cazador, he is scared of him. But you -

You compose the most catchy and offensive songs about him.

They are pretty good, by the way, and some bards, including Volo, add them to their repertoires.

At first, it causes some anxiety to Astarion as if he can be punished for your actions.

But soon his fears start fading.

If it's funny, it's not scary.

Together, you defeat Cazador - and you've polished your vicious mockery!

When Astarion is finally okay with intimacy, you have a wild graveyard date which ends up with you two being arrested for disorderly conduct.

Post-game your destiny is decided. You are a traveling bard, after all.

You travel throughout Swords' Coast - singing songs and robbing your audience.

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @astarion-beloved @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati

[highlordofkrypton]

Hi, 👀 I was messing around with a bot and thought… what if Tamlin’s mind, in an attempt to cut all the strain and stress, decides to begin locking memories away. Like “You cannot suffer from something that didn’t happen” kind of thing, and causes him a case of amnesia where he doesn’t remember Lucien, or Feyre or the curse. Regressing to a more child/teen-like self.

His body shifting to fit his mentality until he’s a kid again and doesn’t recognize many of the folk in his house. He wonders where his family are, he wonders where his best friend Rhys is and refuses to see or talk to anyone until Rhys comes to visit him.

Lucien tries to care for Tamlin by taking on a babysitter/chaperone kind of role but Tamlin makes a pillow fort from which he refuses to come out until Rhys comes…

I LOVE this prompt so freaking much, it's so cute! I had to write you a ficlet, but you need to promise me not to put it into the bot. I'm not a fan of bot usage, and I'm against my work being run through it, but that said, here's how I see it going down!

(Sorry, I missed the pillow fort part, I got caught up in the feels of the ficlet.)

FROM THE BEGINNING The one where Tamlin forgets everything by becoming a baby again

The world is too big—too unkind. He can't take it anymore.

His mind eats at itself, and no matter how much he claws at it, there is no way for Tamlin to carve out the bits that cause pain.

It's all pain.

There's nothing left. His court is in shambles, and the manor that holds what little good memories is rotting. His mind is rotting.

I can't—I want to restart.

***

"Tamlin?"

It's been so long since Lucien has last lived here; he doesn't know how it went this far. This is his home, or what's left of it. A century ago, he had sworn an oath to protect it and to stand by his best friend and yet…

How easily we are swept away by our fears.

"Tam?" He calls softly through the empty manor.

The longer the silence reigns, the worse the worries in Lucien's heart become. He knew, he knew Tamlin wouldn't fare well alone. He should have stayed despite it all. Feyre isn't a child. She can take care of herself. She insists on it, rather, with her masterminding and machinations. Tamlin doesn't play those games. He never has and it was… unfair.

He was my friend.

There are a few haunts Lucien is familiar with. He goes straight to the Starlight River and—

"Tamlin?" Lucien's voice is nothing more than a surprised croak.

He descends the slope of the hill towards what remains of his friend.

By the water, a little boy with beautiful blonde hair splish-splashes in the water surrounded by his forest friends—a chonky raccoon, a clever long-lashed fox, a full-cheeked squirrel and the big-eyed slow loris that always looks surprised. Lucien has known these creatures for all their lives, and so has Tamlin.

"Tamlin," he says, and all the animals look at Lucien in wonder. He can't speak to them the way Tamlin does, but they worry. They motion at him, chirping and huffing about the baby they've been tasked with taking care of. "I've got it," he reassures them.

"Hey," Lucien says softly, smiling. "Remember me?"

"Fys!" Tamlin chirps, clapping. He extends his little hands and makes a grabby motion. "Fys!"

"You want fish?" Lucien asks, confused, but there's a pile of fish beside him already.

Then, it clicks.

Tamlin's eldest brother was names Enfys, and for a child, that name might sound very much like fish. He also had dark blonde hair that erred on the side of reddish in the right light. Children make associations with what they know.

"I'm Lucien."

"Lucy!" Tamlin grins, looking around for his friend. "Ice-sand?"

Lucien's lips dip into a frown. Tamlin doesn't recognize him as an adult. He offers a quiet sigh as he swoops his friend into his arms. Little Tamlin latches onto him, stroking his long auburn hair gently. Tamlin was always a gentle, loving child. He remembers that much from the few times they met as children.

"Mama," Tamlin asks, and it breaks Lucien's heart.

"Mama's gone. I'm sorry."

***

"Where is he?"

"In his room. Wait," Lucien stops the High Lord in his tracks. "There's something you need to know."

Rhysand doesn't know what to make of what's happening. He makes his way up to Tamlin's room, a place he hasn't visited in centuries. His heart hammers in his chest. So much has changed now. Things are so… broken between them. He didn't know what to make of Lucien's initial summons.

Why would he need me?

He can hear the sniffling through the door. Rhysand pushes it open and expects—

Well, Lucien had told him what to expect.

He needs to see a familiar face, is what the Fox had said. He doesn't remember me.

"Tamlin?"

The child rubs his face, curled in the too-big bed.

"Hey, Tam."

His little ears twitch and the sobbing quells for a second. He blinks his tears away to better see Rhysand. His sad eyes light up at the sight of him as he clamors to his feet, awkward like most children are at that age. He runs and launches himself with a bounce off the bed into Rhysand's arms, trusting him wholly and completely to catch him.

Rhysand swoops him into his arms, confused, but he eases when little Tamlin giggles.

"Hi," he beams.

"Hey, kiddo, I heard you weren't feeling well."

"No," Tamlin lies. "I okay."

"Good, I'm glad."

Rhysand hasn't the slightest clue where to start fixing this, but he thinks Tamlin may be onto something. Maybe they start at the beginning.

"Do you remember me? I'm Rhysand. It's nice to meet you again."

[ineffablerainstorm]

Above Crowley everything was colour. Explosive bursts of starlight, of bright fire painted the night sky. It reminded him of what it had been like before time itself. When entire galaxies had erupted into existence.

There was one key difference though: There were no angels here tonight. Only a man-shaped being that had been an angel once and wasn’t quite a demon now.

He was lying on his back on the roof of his apartment building in Mayfair. Next to him were several bottles of wine. Most of them had been empty for hours. It was New Year’s Eve and Crowley was alone.

No, not just alone. Lonely.

This was the first year in the existence of this planet that he would be truly on his own. Sure Aziraphale hadn’t always been with him as such. But he had always been somewhere. Only one small miracle away. Now earth had lost its guardian angel. And Crowley had lost everything that mattered.

Below him people were celebrating. Glasses were clinking. Couples were kissing.

Crowley had sworn that he wouldn’t cry (again). He did anyway as he whispered softly to the heavens:

“Happy new year, angel.”

Somewhere far above Aziraphale didn’t dare to whisper back. But he heard. And he saw. And he felt just as lonely.

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Where Fate and Stars Align

Tamlin Week - Day 2/Poet -Tamlin x Reader

Tamlin and Rhysand’s sister daydream of a life of love and poetry.

Warnings: Language, allusions to sex, implied character death

A sea of green splattered with the vibrant hues of varying wildflowers rolled across the meadow in gentle waves, flattening into a soft bed of earth beneath me, my head resting on my lovers chest, bare legs winding through his muscled thighs.

We’d laid in silence for an hour, the melody of spring lulling us into a peaceful daze. I’d spent the morning weaving flowers into his silken hair, his emerald eyes not retreating from me once as I sat on his chest, fingers trailing through those golden locks I adored so.

The world saw him as another heir to a throne but to me, he was a poet, a musician, a muse. I could spend entire days admiring the sculpted features of his face, exploring plush lips with my own.

Neither of us were made for the courtly affairs we were born into, we had the passionate souls of creatives - and here, tangled beside the pool of starlight we were just that. Two artists captivated by the beauty of the world around us, by eachother.

Tamlin pressed a kiss to my forehead, whispering into my raven hair. “Will we be poets in another life?”

I warmed at the thought of him chasing me through space and time, living the vibrant lives that we only dared dream of, dancing the nights away, making love and art in all of its magnificent forms. He’d write limericks and play the fiddle, I’d paint and maybe even learn to play the piano.

We’d live in a studio apartment along the Sidra, sharing our art within the rainbow of Velaris. Or perhaps we’d live in one of the more liberal cities tucked away on the continent where art as a profession was respected and not seen as merely a hobby of the elite with time to spare. Another world, even, where war and grief did not exist.

My delicate fingers traced the curved ridges of his abdomen, “You’ll be the poet, I’ll be the painter. I don’t have the way with words that you and your silver tongue do.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Silver tongue, yeah?”

I hummed at the implication in his tone. “Yeah.”

Turning on his side to face me, head propped on a hand he held my face gently in the broad palm of the other. “Any world where I spend my days by your side, putting my tongue to use in either lyrical or the most salacious of ways is a world I would fight for.”

“Hmmm.” I pondered, tucking a lock of golden hair behind his ear. “In our world, we get to be lovers, not fighters.”

Tamlin let out a somewhat incredulous laugh. “I think you’ll always have that wild streak in you, and silver tongue or not, I am but a mere male. I’ll surely give you plenty of reason to fight a time or two.”

My teeth found my lower lip as I considered. He wasn’t wrong. “That’s not fighting, it’s passion. We’ll turn fighting and fucking into its own art.”

Tamlin’s hand dropped from my face, trailing along my breast, to the indention of my waist, and down to the curvature of my ass. With a little squeeze he only asked, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

We made love in the meadow, tumbling in the grasses, playing the passionate parts of poet and muse. It was almost- almost believable, until a male voice called from the forest. “Tamlin! Get your ass back to the manor before father has your head.”

Tamlin stiffened. “You need to go.” He pressed a desperate kiss to my lips. “See you in a few days?”

I frowned. “I have to travel with my mother to Windhaven this weekend but once I’m back, we can plan our great escape.”

He looked at me as if he were truly considering it and honestly, if he ever took me up on the idea, I’d go for it. A life of love and peace, what a life that would be.

Pressing one final kiss to my forehead he whispered. “I’ll see you soon, my love. Go before my brother sees you.”

Tamlin hurried into the forest and I could have sworn a whispered, “Who was that?” carried on the wind to me.

And now I wait where fate and stars align.

Through time

Through space

Through love eternal

My poet tried to save me.

This world was not made for us.

—————————————-

Tags: @tamlinweek

General ACOTAR list: @lilah-asteria

[skele-bunny]

ngl I could've sworn ud mentioned phantom having kits at some point(idk WHEN or WHERE but I could've sworn there was SOMETHING) so I was. Looking to ask for more and found the phantom/aether instead and Had To Know :3

now im just thinking of what adjustments would be made for phantom,,,, sure tour wouldn't last the whole pregnancy but he's little, they'd have to tailor stuff probably. and then DEW??? I'm assuming ?? In the fics where dew had calida, bc zephyr was present, it was during popestar tour, so there was NOTHIN to hide that baby, unless she was just rlly far back and close to the spine for him.

Ooo you might be thinking of Phantom/Dew/Swiss' baby Starlight!! (Also, note, not the same timeline for Calida and Comet! Two whole seperate timelines /info)

Ohh yeah it'd be much different then Dew's whole thing 😭 guy had NO way of hiding, tight ass uniform until he got upgraded to one of Zeph's uniforms, his bass was his only thing but even that didn't help all the time LMAO. Terzo tried his best okay 🫡 give my man his props wjekdk /silly Dewdrop was a runt, so while she was pretty far back and hidden and he didn't have much of a bump, it was still obvious the further he got until 8 months

Dew essentially took the entire back of the bus, even after Calida was born. They still had a tour to do. And there was orders that they couldn't just cancel, so now they're in a panic of what exactly to do. Dew doesn't feel safe at ALL leaving Calida with someone. So, a quick call, and Special is there. For "interviews", of course. He's hanging out in the green room the entire time, and during intermission Dew is right there. It's only a week like that before he's able to just curl in the nest with her and finally, FINALLY heal up. He's been bleeding nonstop from the constant strain, and finally started letting the others help him out.

Dew had a pretty rough and traumatic pregnancy & birth, but he doesn't regret how anything went one bit. His little sunshine is worth every single second of it.

Now, Phantom would've been taken care of more properly. They know more, there's more studies being carried out, more accessibility services for the ministry. It's a different era! Plus, he has a bigger pack with more diversity and similar instincts. Rain, Aurora, and Cumulus would be their biggest comforts. When they needs a good cry? Those 3. When he needs reassurance he'll be a good parent? Those 3. Just wants to be dotted and loved on? Those 3.

Mountain and Dew are his safe guards and their voice when he can't find it. One of the stagehands got irritated at Phantom bc he "wasn't doing anything and just standing around holding cords", and Mountain just glared so hard and quite literally told them to shut the fuck up. Picked Phantom up, sat him on his drum throne, and kept working.

Just like Dew would've been, he's not allowed to carry heavy items any more so they're stuck on cord duty, stick bag, and the softer percussion items. Not allowed to be alone, either. Slipped one time and that was already too many. Usually has someone accompany him to the bathroom, out and about in town, he just... Can't be alone. Honestly? It helps Phantom, too. Not only for safety but they feel better that someone is always there.

He's given permission for naps during set up once he's finished, and a lot of sitting breaks! Also like Dew, Phantom's anatomy is tiny. Aether wants them on bed rest as much as possible as he's a high risk essentially. So during shows you'll see him sitting on the steps or on Swiss' platform! He totally keeps up their silly antics the best he can that doesn't pose a risk!

Definitely tailoring, and has to have cooling pads placed in his uniform before performances as he gets super sick from the heat.

Silly thought I had midway writing this: Magick surges are still there and progressively gets worse the more he's along.

Phantom sneezes, and his guitar strings just break instantly.

Maybe they're crying really hard and sets off more light flickering before just shutting off their equipment completely.

Maybe a little rage fit because he's mad at themself, or just something that set them off, and Cirrus' phone short circuits and the screen cracks.

Pray for Aether. /Silly /aff

[eldritch-metal-squirrel]

~ digital art dump cakes ~

2019 - 2023

Metal band fanarts and inspired OC's, Hello Kitty and pose studies ~ And I'm still too much of a derp to set up my Ko-Fi page correctly. (Sorry, Goose!) ♡

[middleearthpixie]

The Ties That Bind ~ Chapter Three

Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.

War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.

An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...

Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.8k

Read on AO3.

When supper was ended, Eirlys watched as musicians took their places at the far end of the hall, near where doors opened to the terrace overlooking the southern portion of the forest. Her mouth went dry as she realized she would most likely be expected to dance with her fiancé.

Her fiancé. A man she’d exchanged but a handful of words with and who though her spoilt and pampered. Wonderful.

Perhaps she’d be able to sneak away from the dais whilst her father was otherwise occupied with speaking to their guests. 

It was not meant to be.

As she rose from her chair, Thranduíl tuned toward her and smiled. “Not so fast, Eirlys.”

Her spirits sank, even as she forced a smile back. “I’m afraid I don't know what you mean, Papa. I was but stretching my legs.”

“I feel it only proper for you and Thorin to begin the festivities this evening.”

“I was not aware we’d be celebrating anything this evening.”

Thranduíl’s smile wavered, but remained in place. “Did you think we wouldn’t celebrate? A wedding and not just any wedding, but a royal wedding, calls for celebration, don't you think?”

Ordinarily she would have agreed and under any other circumstances, she would have been the first one out on the dance floor. She loved to dance, loved a good party, and Mereih Nuin Gilliath, or the Feast of Starlight, was one celebration she looked forward to all year. At Tauriel’s wedding to the dwarf prince Kíli last autumn, she’d danced a hole clear through her slipper. She was normally the first one on the dance floor and the last one to leave it.

But she wasn't feeling quite so celebratory this night. Even so, she bobbed her head. “Of course it does, Papa. I’m… I’m simply adjusting to the knowledge that I’m getting married when I have yet to even be courted.”

A hint of color rose along her father’s high, sharp cheekbones. He knew as well as she did the importance of courtship. It was a way to determine whether a couple was compatible enough for marriage, as when elves married, it was for life. And while she hadn’t had any particular suitors in mind, she had always thought she would at least be courted prior to being married. 

“Eirlys, you know why this must be different.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I like it.” At her father’s long look, she sighed and nodded. “No, of course I understand. I suppose I am but adjusting and doing so very badly.”

Thorin stepped up behind Thranduíl and she forced a smile as he said, “I do hope I am not interrupting.”

Thranduíl turned toward him. “Not at all. In fact, I’ll let the two of you talk.”

“Papa, wait—”

He didn't give her the chance to protest, but stepped around Thorin and strode toward Legolas, who sat with Balin and Dwalin on the opposite side of the Great Hall. Swallowing her words, Eirlys turned to Thorin. “I hope you are settling in.”

“I am, thank you.” A hint of discomfort flittered across his face. “Would you care to dance? Although, I must warn you, I am not the most graceful of dancers.”

“That would make us even, for neither am I.”

He held out a hand. “Shall we, then?”

Eirlys stared down at that hand. It was massive. Where elven hands were slender, with equally long, slender fingers, Thorin’s were far different. The hand he offered was large and square, with thick, slightly stubby fingers. Heavy gold rings adorned his fore-and-ring fingers on that hand and Eirlys thought she could use those rings as napkin rings, they looked so big.

“Of course.” She laid her hand in his, the difference between his darker skin and her own almost-porcelain skin striking. As their palms touched, a jolt raced along her arm, one that had her snapping her head back to look at him. 

But if he felt it, he gave no indication. Instead, he closed his fingers about hers and gave a gentle tug to lead her out to the dance floor.

Once they were out there, Eirlys wasn't exactly certain of what to do, as she had no idea how dwarves danced. Thorin, however, seemed to have to such trouble, easing an arm about her waist before catching her hand in his free one. She was several inches taller than him, but it certainly didn't seem to trouble him in the least as they began to move.

Up close, she realized his eyes were not dark, as she’d assumed, but were instead a pale blue, beneath heavy brows that were as black as the long tangle of thick hair that fell halfway down his back. Hints of silver streaked through the otherwise raven curls, were woven through the braids at his temples, even threaded through his full beard. She had to admit, the dwarf king was strikingly handsome. 

She’d never been this close to any of the dwarves and where she would have thought they stunk of moss and dirt, she was instead treated to a heady scent of leather mingled with crisp mountain air. Her first instinct was to inhale as deeply as she could, but knew he would find it odd if she did. 

“I wish to apologize for what you overheard,” he said as they swept along the perimeter of the dance floor. 

“For saying it or for saying it loudly enough for me to hear?”

“My words were not meant for your ears.”

She held his gaze. “That is hardly an apology, Your Majesty. But then again, if you truly feel that way, perhaps you shouldn’t offer up an apology uttered only to assuage your own guilt.”

“My own guilt? Why should I feel guilty?”

“Oh, I don't know. For making a snap judgment about me when you know nothing about me, perhaps?”

“You assume much about me, Princess.”

“Do you mean to suggest that, although we’ve not exchanged but two words until this moment, you know me?” She shook her head slowly. “Because that is quite the skill, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’ve had enough dealings with elves, and your kin, that it seems quite safe to assume I know enough.”

“Do you know what happens when you assume, Your Majesty?” She kept her voice as light and airy as she could. “It makes an a—”

“Ah, there you are!”

Eirlys turned to her left to see a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Thorin smiling up at her. Lady Dís. She was the mother of the dark-haired elf who’d married Tauriel and unlike her king, not dour or brooding at all. 

Thorin glanced over at her. “What is it, Dís?” 

“I was going to see if I could steal you for a moment, but since you’re busy—” Dís’ dark blue eyes slid in Eirlys’ direction and her smile widened—“I have no desire to intrude.”

“It’s hardly an intrusion,” Eirlys replied with a smile, pulling away from Thorin. Placing a hand against Dís’ shoulder, she gave the dwarrowdam a gentle nudge toward him. “Enjoy yourselves.”

She didn't wait for Dís to reply, but turned on her heel and strode away from the dance floor, hoping for a moment that she was creating a new relationship. One that would absolve her of her need to marry Thorin in the end.

“Why did you do that?”

This came from Legolas, who lounged near the doorway, arms crossed, one foot planted flat against the wall. She moved to his left, out of the doorway, and looked over at him. “Why did I do what?”

“Let her break in on you.”

“You know as well as I do, I want nothing to do with this upcoming marriage, so if Thorin just happens to fall for another—” she paused at his smirk—“what?”

“He’s not going to fall for her, Eir, any more than I might fall for you.”

“What?” She turned her gaze back to the couples on the dance floor. “Why not? They seem quite compatible.”

Legolas chuckled, his sleek blond hair rippling like golden water as he he shook his head. “Compatible? She is his sister.”

“What?” 

Eirlys’ heart sank as Legolas nodded. “She is. I spent quite a bit of time with her at Tauriel’s wedding. She’s the more outgoing of the two of them.”

A heavy sigh rose to her lips as she linked her fingers at the small of her back. “I am not getting out of this wedding, am I?”

He looked over at her. They were quite often mistaken as twins by outsiders, for both favored their father with their nearly-white blond hair and wide blue eyes, but he was older by nearly five years.

Those blue eyes narrowed some as he shook his head. “I doubt it. Father worries. You know this. The sooner you are safely tucked away somewhere, the more soundly he will sleep.”

Her gut curled at his words. “Tucked away? Do you both think me so incapable when you know—you know—I’ve trained just as hard as you.”

“I know. And he does. But, he—you know why he is as he is.”

She knew. It rankled, but she knew. And as she looked back out at Thorin and Dís, and to her surprise, Thorin smiled at his sister. It was amazing, how a smile could change a person’s appearance, for he went from handsome to incredibly so with that one smile.

“Eirlys?”

She started. “What?”

“You’re staring at the dwarf.”

“I was not.”

He grinned. “Oh, but you were. But worry not. I’ll not tell anyone. You can go on pretending you hate him.”

She sighed softly. “I don’t hate him, though. It would be easier if I did, I think.”

“You act as if you’d like to see him buried in a very deep hole.”

“I just—I don't want to be treated any differently than you are. And for Papa to simply decide—without even asking me how I felt about it, mind you—that this was how it had to be? I don't think I can be faulted for being less than thrilled about it.”

Legolas’ eyes narrowed. “He didn't ask you first?”

She shook her head. “No. He called me into the Throne Room and told me this was the plan and why. Apparently he and Thorin had worked out just about all of the details before even telling me it was in the works.”

Surprise widened his eyes now. “I thought he’d have at least mentioned it to you. It’s been planned since Tauriel’s wedding.”

She stared at him for a long moment as his words sank in. “What?”

He nodded. “Yes. I’ve known about it since the night of and thought you did as well.”

“No.” Anger bubbled deep in her belly. “I was kept in the dark about it all. Not one whisper of it reached my ears.”

She looked about for her father, finding him at the back of the Great Hall, deep in discussion with one of his aides. Her first instinct was to confront him right there and then, but before she could even take a step, she thought better of it. As much as she hated this situation, as much as she resented not even having her opinion asked for on the matter, she knew no malice clouded his decision. She knew why and understood, even if it rankled just the same. 

With that, she sighed softly and pushed away from the wall. “I think I need a bit of fresh air. Excuse me.”

Without waiting for Legolas to respond, she skirted him to make her way out of the Great Hall and down the long corridor leading to her own chambers. The walkway was open on her right, the forest just beyond her reach as a cool breeze wafted through the trees. It was chilly, and snow occasionally found its way through the canopy to the forest floor, but she preferred it over the more interior walkways, especially when she had much on her mind, as she did now.

So even Legolas knew she was to be, for lack of a better word, given to the King Under the Mountain and yet no one thought that perhaps she should be made aware of their plans for her life. That Legolas knew and said nothing hurt, as they were always each other’s strongest ally. For him to know something of this magnitude and not say a word to her? She saw that as a betrayal and that stung. It stung badly.

With a soft sigh, she sank onto the woven railing. The forest was silent, and it was a silence that only ever came with a snowfall. She loved the snow, and wondered if this would be the last snowfall she might ever see, since she would soon be living beneath a mountain. A bit dramatic, as she thought she’d most likely be allowed to venture outside once in a while, but it wouldn’t be the same.

Nothing would be the same. 

She didn't know how long she sat there. Time had a way of losing all meaning when she was lost in her own thoughts. And tonight, she was definitely lost in her own thoughts. She’d spent more and more time in her own head since her father told her of his plan for her and not for the first time, she wished her mother lived still. She wanted so much to ask for her advice on her situation, on how to deal with a man like Thorin of Erebor, who saw her as a nothing more than a helpless girl accustomed to being waited on hand and foot. 

But most of all, she wanted to hear that all would work out as it was supposed to work out. Because she was terrified that she was going to be trapped with a husband who would not make life miserable for her, but one who would ignore her instead. 

“Your Highness?”

She started at Madris’ low voice and twisted to peer over her shoulder as her maid strode toward her. “I didn't worry you, did I?”

Madris nodded. “You did, but I was hoping it was because you and your intended had decided to sneak off for a bit.”

Eirlys managed a humorless laugh. “Worry not, Madris. He is hardly enamored enough of me to wish to sneak off.”

Madris sank onto the railing alongside her, her clasped hands in her lap. “Why do you say this?”

“He thinks me spoiled and pampered and a right silly girl,” Eirlys replied softly, her cheeks growing warm. “I daresay he certainly does not see me as the sort worthy of sneaking off with.”

“Then he is a fool,” Madris said bluntly, “and not worthy of your thoughts.”

“Be that as it may,” Eirlys shook her head, “it still stung to hear.”

“I imagine it did, but he will learn the truth sooner or later, once you’re married and you might take delight in making him eat his words.”

That brought a wan smile to her lips. “If I ever do, you mean.”

“You will,” Madris reached over to pat her hand, “and I’ll wager the satisfaction will be sweet. We both know pampered is not exactly a word anyone who knows you wold describe you.”

Eirlys offered up a long look. “But spoiled is?”

“You are loved, my lady. And the only child who is not spoiled is the one who is not loved. And whether or not you see it now, His Majesty does love you.” As Eirlys rolled her eyes, Madris clicked her tongue against her teeth. “He does and you know this, Your Highness. And in time, you will see this to be true.”

“Be that as it may, at the moment, I am feeling decidedly unloved.”

“I know. But it won’t remain that way. I’ve known your father for a very long time, and I’m positive he would not have chosen this man if he did not think you would be happy in time.”

“Madris—”

“Trust him, my lady. You will see.”

Eirlys slipped down from the railing, shaking her head. “I have no choice, Madris. That decision was made for me and now everyone has to hop for the best. But, if it doesn’t come to pass, their lives aren’t the ones that will be ruined, will they? No. It will be mine and I’m supposed to smile and hope for the best.”

“It’s all any of can do. And just remember, things work out as they are meant to, even if you do not see it at the time.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Eirlys replied softly. “It’s not nearly as comforting for me, I’m afraid.”

“I know. And I know patience is not your strongest attribute, but you must try to be patient as well.”

Early sighed softly. “I know. And I’m trying, but… it is not easy.”

“No, it isn’t.” 

“And Papa isn’t perfect. He makes mistakes.”

“This is not one of them. I refuse to believe otherwise.”

“You have no idea how I hope you’re right, Madris. Because I do hope that you’re right.”

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[alpydk]

A second prompt!

Tav had to survive the main story because they have vengence to dole out on someone from their past. When the day finally comes, either they can't do it or someone else (maybe Gale?) gets to the target first.

~🐕

Greetings Anon! Thank you for the precious angst prompts which I'm taking at random. I present you with the first one, which, as they always do, went a little off course and probably hasn't gone as you want it... Oops. But I hope you like it and it does have angst!

Red Roses

Word Count - 1513 words - CW - Angst, grief, God!Gale, themes of death, attempts at poetry.

It started with red roses, The smiling of a wife And flowers bloomed with welcome sun The beginning of my life.

Tav looked over the letter for some time after the party, the heartbreak apparent to everyone around her. It had been six months since the defeat of the Netherbrain and their minds had become their own, but it didn’t take tadpoles to know the thoughts running through her head. Gale had been there only moments before, power emanating from his pores, his eyes aglow like starlight, and she had fallen to the floor as he’d left her with nothing but the tears she’d held onto in hope now falling so readily.

This was not the first loss the high elf had been through before in her long life. There had been the human friends who’d passed because of their short lifespans, there had been the authors and poets dead to adventure, there had been so many during the Thay war, and the pain remained the same, but the loss of a loved one never got any easier. After the death of her first husband, she’d sworn never to love again, and she’d become cold to the world around her, refusing to share her past or open up to others. It was only as she’d journeyed with Gale that Tav had found herself back in her memories of her first love.

“Ascal, the poetry can wait,” she whispered, leaning over the shoulder of the chestnut-haired elf. He smelt of birch tinged with ink, and she breathed in his scent.

“My dear Tav, my muse and inspiration, poetry waits for no one. It comes with the shine of your eyes, the flush of your lips, the golden sun of your hair.”

Life had been one moment of happiness after another with him. She’d sat in the window of their small cottage as the rain had poured, watching as the petals of red roses bowed with the weight of the heavens, listening as Ascal plucked at his lute and mumbled lyrics of bright-eyed damsels under his breath. There had been picnics in fields of wildflowers, Arbor Coast White shared between them as the stars shone above them like remnants of the past, each one a soul watching down upon them with nothing but blessings.

It was not long later she learnt the harshest of life’s lessons, though, that death was but a word away.

Walking along the forest path, fresh flowers picked in her basket, Tav didn’t initially catch onto the smell of smoke that rose amongst the trees and wilds around her. It was only as the shadows built up that she saw the darkened plume that spread out above the tree line, heard the distant crackling of flames and the shout of those who lived nearby. The basket was ditched on the wayside as she started into a run, knowing deep in her heart where the source of the fire was and she longed to know that Ascal was safe, that he’d be stood outside, covered in soot but with a grin on his face.

It started with red roses, But soon plunged in the knife. The thorns as sharp as broken glass, The ending of my life

Time heals all wounds is what Tav had been told repeatedly and as an elf, she had plenty of time, time to mourn, time to grow angry and cold at the world. Nobody knew how the fire had started that morning, only that it had occurred suddenly with no witnesses. The flames had spread quickly throughout the wood and thatch of the roof, through the various books Ascal had insisted they kept, through the Arbor Coast White that left shards of glass scattered in the ashes. Nothing had remained of the life she had once known. There were only the ruins that crunched beneath her leather boots and the memories of stars that no longer shone for her.

Twenty-seven years had passed since that day, the ache still as fresh, the guilt still in her mind that maybe she could have done something differently that day. If she’d stayed at home, maybe she would have smelt the smoke and got them both out; maybe if she’d been quicker, she could have put out the flames or found him before the cottage collapsed. Maybe she could have just died with him. She’d tried to find the source of the fire many times, but all she had been left with was confusion as neighbours had denied there having even been a fire, as some questioned who she even was. Nothing made sense and even the gods refused her pleas for answers.

The first she really connected with after all those years was Gale. His poetic prose reminded her of all she had lost. His chestnut hair that smelt of sandalwood and ink brought her to those days of rain on rose petals and each moment she spent with him, she found herself back with Ascal once again. Mumblings of bright-eyed damsels and conjured fiends of wildflowers and stars only for her made her smile once again. She felt happy. It was only as the days passed she realised how different Gale was from her husband, how, although he had hope, he lacked the mindless optimism she’d once known. He was much more ambitious than Ascal had been, as hurt as she was, and filled with a self doubt she’d only ever seen in herself, but it was these qualities that drew them together. Their loneliness spurred them both into each other’s arms with reckless abandon. Again, she had loved, again her heart had driven her forward, and again the stars had shone down.

It started with red roses, But soon came down the scythe. And petals turned to darkened ash, The ending of my life.

Tav had been tempted by Gale’s offer of godhood, but she knew she couldn’t take it. She couldn’t see Ascal from another plane and not be able to reach him, and she couldn’t let go of her own mortality knowing what currently lay at the end of her life. Though she loved Gale, Ascal was what her heart called for, and she needed to know what had killed him before she could move on. Looking at her with disdain, Gale left her upon the shores of the river, and she knew the opportunity would never be presented to her again. It was as she unfolded the letter, though, that she knew she had made the right choice, as her tears began to fall, not with grief, but with a buried rage.

Does he live within his mother’s ageing heart, weeping for those roses? She could see the scarlet petals in front of her eyes, the raindrops on the windowpane. She saw the young boy with chestnut locks and deep brown eyes that lived nearby as he ran through the storm with a book hidden under his arm. It had once been a pleasant memory, but now she knew the truth. Rumours had gone round of strange happenings with the child, of sparks and flames he couldn’t always control and the watchful eye of the goddess Mystra ever present in his life. They had just been rumours, but now the dots connected as if constellations in the sky and she knew. Tav knew how the fire had started with flames licking upon the roses, how the neighbours had forgotten, thanks to the goddess, how Ascal had died alone and afraid.

She struggled for breath, trying to understand the cruel joke of the gods, how they would hide the truth from her, how they would use fate to bring her and Gale together. She wanted to find out if he had known all along about the fire, or had he been the pawn of Mystra back then, just as she’d seen during her travels? Her heart ached with anger and the fresh mourning of both Ascal and Gale alike, and it took everything in her to not scream to the sky and curse every god above.

She’d once been fuelled by vengeance; of the words she would say and the actions she would take, but now she had been left with nothing. There would be no justice or closure for her. The one at fault she’d allowed to ascend, and his name would be spoken for centuries to come, either in reverence or scorn. She, however, would be nothing but a footnote in history, a wilted rose petal on a dusty windowsill, a single conjured star as the magic faded.

Tav wiped away the tears from her reddened cheeks and left the party alone, anger replaced with numbness and resignation. All she could do now was wait to die, hoping that the gods she now cursed would take pity on her and let her find comfort in the arms of Ascal, let her see the stars shine and the roses bloom once again.

It started with red roses, And nights of shared breath. The petals delicate in my hands, The beginning of my death.

[amethystunarmed]

Old Men Should Be Allowed to Sob in Privacy

Word Count: 1,849 AO3 Link Part 1 A little less than a week after the murders at the Starlight Theater, Paul cleans out Ted's desk.

Paul didn’t think he would ever be doing this. To be fair, there were a lot of things Paul didn’t think he’d do. Skydiving, moving out of Hatchetfield, going to see any musical that happens to be playing at the Starlight. But this? This was very much not something he expected. 

On principle, he hated going into Ted’s office. Being perfectly frank, it stank. Paul didn’t know what cologne Ted used (or what smell he was trying to cover up) but the stench overwhelmed him and he got a headache just by stepping foot through the door. A chemical aftertaste settled in his mouth and stuck with him for the rest of the day. 

Even worse than the odor was the fact Ted tended to take anyone stepping foot into his office as an invitation to start a conversation. The last time Paul had taken papers to Ted in his office, Ted had trapped him in small talk for nearly an hour and a half, switching between asking invasive questions about his dates with Emma and lamenting his own troubled love life. Paul learned more about Ted and Charlotte in that time than he had ever wanted to know. After that, he had sworn off ever returning. If Ted needed something, he could get up and get it himself.

And yet, here he was, not only in Ted’s office, but going through his desk. He is sure that Ted would have choice words to say if he were here, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? 

Ted isn’t here.

The flower arrangement outside is nice. For as much as Melissa openly despised Ted, she picked a tasteful bouquet. It sits next to the office door on a side table she pulled from the break room with a picture of Ted’s work headshot. He knows she also sent out an email to the whole office to collect donations for help with the funeral arrangements, and he thinks people are actually donating to it. It is all very tasteful, and so very not Ted. Paul can practically hear him bitching about it, complaining that they didn’t use one of his thirst traps from his Tinder. The thought actually makes him choke up, so he shoves it away. 

It had taken Paul a while to enter the office. For what felt like years, he had just stood there, staring at the dead-eyed picture of Ted on the table, holding the empty box in his grasp. He was there so long, so lost in thought, that when Mr. Davidson walked up behind him, it nearly made Paul jump out of his skin. 

Mr. Davidson looked tired, worn down in a way he never does. Paul knows he normally kept a box of Red Bulls in the trunk of his car; the guy was practically synonymous with the phrase “pep in his step.” Seeing him exhausted like this makes Paul’s skin itch; it’s uncanny.

Mr. Davidson had asked about Charlotte, and Paul had said he hadn’t known where she was, like he hadn’t heard her sobbing when he’d passed the single bathrooms earlier. He had asked how Paul was doing, and if he had heard from Bill, and if he had needed anything, anything at all. It reminded Paul of that last long office conversation he’d had with Ted. Paul had wondered if Ted had actually been trying to annoy him, or if Ted had just been shooting the shit with the man he apparently considered to be his best friend. It made Paul’s head spin, and he gave Mr. Davidson single-word, emotionless answers to compensate for how his brain was reeling.

Mr. Davidson had offered to clean out Ted’s desk for him. Told Paul it isn’t his responsibility. Paul almost took him up on it, almost handed over the box so he could go and just sit with his head down on his desk for a few hours. But he remembered the look of relief on Peter’s face when Paul said he would do this, and shook his head. 

So here he is, rifling through Ted’s desk and feeling like some kind of voyeur. There aren’t too many personal items. It’s mostly files and notebooks full of snippets of code that Paul places in a stack for Mr. Davidson to sort through later. But he does find a few things. 

A little solar-powered hula dancer. A half empty bag of Twizzlers. A sticky hand Ted terrorized the office with after a trip to Pizza Pete’s last year. A mug with a picture of a unicorn that says “I’m Horny.” An orange puzzle box Paul remembers Ted cursing over when he should have been working.

A picture frame holding what Paul assumes is Peter’s most recent school photo. A candid shot of younger Ted holding a child upside down by their ankles at the beach is tucked into the corner. It is the happiest Paul thinks he’s seen Ted. Tears well in his eyes and he furiously wipes them away.

“How’s it going?” Someone asks from the doorway and Paul nearly drops the frame.

“Bill?” Bill hasn’t been back to the office, not since the... everything that went down at the Starlight. He honestly doesn’t look like he should be back now. It seems like a light breeze would knock him over. There are dark caverns under his eyes and his normally pressed shirt is rumpled. He isn’t even wearing a tie. “I feel like I should be asking you that,” Paul answers slowly. He places the frame into the box on the desk so his hands are free if he needs to catch Bill. He is not confident the man won’t drop into a dead faint at any moment. “Should you even be back?”

“I’m fine,” Bill says, obviously lying. Paul lets him. “I was going stir crazy alone at the house, figured work would give me something to focus on. But seriously, how are you doing? How’s Richie?”

Terrible, Paul thinks. He wakes up screaming most nights, and won’t calm down until he has me and Peter in his sights. Then he sobs for Ruth until he passes out. I haven’t gotten more than three hours of sleep a night since last Thursday.

Her funeral is Friday and I am not sure he is going to be able to handle it.

“He’s been struggling, but he’s a strong kid. He’ll get through.”

Bill nods and hums, but doesn’t question Paul’s lie anymore than Paul questioned his. “And Peter? Have you seen him since?”

He hasn’t left my house since that night. I mentioned going back to his apartment to him and he had a panic attack so bad we nearly had to call 911.

Paul nods. Bill hesitates. Richie had told Paul, when Peter was napping on the couch, about the confrontation outside of the Starlight, about the accusations Peter had hurled at Bill. Paul knows they aren’t true. Honestly, he is pretty sure Peter knows they aren’t true. But, considering the expression on Bill’s face, Paul isn’t sure it is something his friend has worked out for himself yet. 

“And how... how is he doing?”

Even worse than Richie, somehow. He is either fretting over what casket material Ted would prefer or staring blankly at a wall for hours while we gently try to bring him back into his body. We tried to send him to school and the school nurse called me in hysterics after it happened during class. It’s why I’m here, doing this, so that it’s one less thing he has to worry about.

Paul sighs. “He is about how you would expect. I know his girlfriend is trying to support him.”

Stephanie will sit with him and hold his hand and try not to cry as he has no reaction. I saw her on the news with her father while he talked about how the tragedy affected even his house, and the blank look on her face makes me scared to let her go home.

“It’s good the kids have a support system,” Bill says. “It sounds like you’re keeping a close eye on them.”

“Emma and I have been looking into therapists, just to give them a little more guidance. She’s been a godsend.” 

I saw the stricken look on her face when she realized it was one of her professors who had caused all of this. Her voice has been gone for days since she has had to take over as the main singer at Beanie's. She works double shifts most nights, but she still tosses and turns no matter how tired she is. She calls out for Jane in her sleep. I see the way she stares at Peter, the grief that pulses just below the surface, but she clams up when I try to help.

“Good, good,” Bill says absently. “That’s good.” His eyes have locked onto the box of Ted’s things. He swallows.

“Do you want to look through it? See if there is anything you want?” Paul asks, and Bill fervently shakes his head.

“No, I couldn’t.”

“I’m sure Peter wouldn’t mind.”

Bill chuckles wetly. “I am sure Peter already hates me enough.”

“That’s not true.”

“I killed his brother.”

Paul’s heart spasms. “Bill...”

“I didn’t even try to reach for him, after that director pulled the gun out. I just let him lie there.”

“Bill, he was shot in the head. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I went and checked on him, after... but... but there was so much blood.” Bill looks down at his hands, like he is still seeing them coated in red. “And... and his face...” Paul swallows. Ted had been shot in the back of the head, and the bullet had exited through his forehead. Peter had sobbed when the funeral home had recommended a closed casket. Paul is just happy they hadn’t given in to Peter’s demands to see him. “It... It was all my fault and I didn’t even try to save him...”

Bill’s breath hitches. Paul has never been good at dealing with crying people, but he has had a lot of practice over the last couple of days. He guides Bill to Ted’s office chair and sits him down. Bill slumps against him, and Paul places a hand on his shoulder to offer what comfort he can.

Later, Paul will go to Mr. Davidson’s office and tell him he is taking Bill home. Mr. Davidson will tell him to take the rest of the day and Paul will drive Bill home and make them both slightly burnt grilled cheeses and convince Bill to call Alice and tell her he loves her. He will drive back to his home and make sure Richie and Peter have actually eaten something and that they have started on the schoolwork that Stephanie drops off for them every evening. That night, he will collapse into Emma’s arms and finally let himself sob, because it’s not fucking fair.

But for now, he just lets Bill cry against him and tells his friend that it’s not his fault.

[bright-side20]

Azriel /Shadowsinger;Starborn

I wanted to write about why I believe Az has a secret starborn lineage ever since Hofas was released, so here it is:

Acomaf : “Like the daemati,” Rhys said to me, “shadowsingers are rare—coveted by courts and territories across the world for their stealth and predisposition to hear and feel things others can’t.”

Rhys compared Daemati to the shadowsingers because they're both rare.

Hofas: My story begins before I was born." The female's voice was heavy-weary. Tired and sad. "During a time I know of only from my mother's stories, my father's memories." She lifted a finger to the space between her brows. "Both of them showed me once, mind-to-mind. So I shall show you."

Thea and Fionn were Daemati, so it's a power of the Dusk Court people.

Hosab: Night haired Helena, from whose golden skin poured starlight and shadows Hofas : My mother eventually trusted only Helena and myself to seek the truth. She knew we could be of great use to her, because we bore the shadows as well as starlight. We spent a month hidden in the enemy's stronghold, no more than shadows ourselves. By the time we returned to our mother, we'd learned the truth.

Helena and Silene both possessed the power of shadows, they worked as spies because of it. Light and shadows are the power of the Dusk.

Conclusion :Both Daemati and Shadowsingers are Dusk Court people's powers, and they are rare in Prythian because most of them left for Midgard.

Acofas: Though the cobalt Siphons were proof that his Illyrian heritage ran true, even the rich lore of that warrior-people, my warrior-people, did not have an explanation for where the shadowsinger gifts came from. They certainly weren’t connected to the Siphons, to the raw killing power most Illyrians possessed and channeled through the stones to keep from destroying everything in its path. Azriel nodded his agreement, his shadows twining around him. Most of the camp women had ducked into their homes when he’d appeared. A rare visit from the shadowsinger. Both myth and terror. Az looked just as displeased to be here, but he’d come when I asked.

The Illyrians have absolutely no idea where Azriel's power came from. It's not related to their own magic, and he's even somewhat of a myth to them. I think if his power came from a special Illyrian lineage like Enalius, they would know, given their attachment to their culture and history.

*Shadows nature and abilities :

I'll start with Bryce comparing Azriel's shadows to Cormac's shadows:

Hofas:

Azriel, without Rhysand to translate, watched in silence. Bryce could have sworn shadows wreathed him, like Ruhn's, yet... wilder. The way Cormac's had been.

And then Az admitting that it's a magical power:

The shadows are made of magic, just very condensed.

Hosab,Cormac :

“You can teleport,” Bryce said, voice low..... Well, that explained how he’d shown up at Ruhn’s house party.... Once he’d had them, he’d simply walked right out of a shadow in the doorway.

“Where did you inherit the ability from?” Cormac squared his shoulders, every inch the proud prince as he said, “It was once a gift of the Starborn."

And then back to Hosab, Cormac says that his ability to winnow is because he's Starborn. We also know that Azriel can winnow through shadows, which could be attributed to his secret Fae lineage.

_Also There are similarities between Cormac's father, the twins' power, and Az's power :

Hofas: Shadows whispered over Morven's broad shoulders, trailing off his scaled armor. "He was a defiant boy. I thought I'd beaten it out of him long ago." Acomaf: It was an effort not to stare at Azriel as he watched them head up the steep street, arm in arm and bickering with every step. The shadows gathered around his shoulders, like they were indeed whispering to him, shielding him, perhaps.

The shadows talk to Morven just like they talk to Azriel.

Hofas: The twins opted to live. A shield of shadows slammed against the reaching spears of lightning. It was all Bryce needed to see before she burst into motion.

Acowar : “Enough, Azriel,” Rhys ordered. Perhaps those shadows that now slid and eddied around the shadowsinger hid him from the wrath of the binding magic. The others made no move to interfere, as if wondering the same.

The Twins' shadows were able to shield them from Hunt's Lightning just like the shadows shielded Azriel in the High Lords meeting, and nobody understood how it was possible.

*Last but not least :

About the troves :

Nesta stiffened. “If they’re all enchanting you to forget, how is it that Azriel was able to remember and bear the information here?” “Perhaps once you learn of it, recognize it, the spell is broken,” Amren said

Azriel was the one who brought the information about the troves . I think it could simply be because he's Starborn, so he has the ability to still remember them.

And of course, the last thing is him being able to wield the Starsword:

The male now held the Starsword at the ready, Truth-Teller gripped in his other hand.He must have had some sort of Starborn blood in him, then-a distant ancestor, maybe. Or maybe his possession of the knife somehow allowed him to also bear the Starsword.

After Hunt's daddies issues, I know that she could make Az somehow special, Illyrian-made, but I think this makes more sense and is more interesting: we know that his father is an Illyrian lord, but we don't know anything about his mother. Perhaps she could be a half-breed, he would still look like a full Illyrian but with a special power from his Fae lineage.

[gojos-thot-patrol]

HIIII how have you been?? <33

Candy here, and dear lord have you heard about a star being named after satoru?? Literally, my first thought about it is that should tell this news to you and maybe request (if you’re not doing anything and up to writing rn) because i thought this star will really spread heart-wrenching fanfictions about him, something related to a star with satoru, i kept thinking about him and sugu and stars defining their fate.. sorry this is so vague, tell me if you want details hihi,

hope you’re doing so finee, have some candy babes 🫶🫶

CANDY HELLO DARLING HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?!?!

They named a Star after out boy?!?!?!?!? I'm gonna be emotional-

Okay okay, so I am currently working on kinktober BUT I'm gonna take a break here and wrote a lil warm up for you for two reasons.

The opening line to the fic instantly came to me and I couldn't not wrote a drabble at least

once you're one of my named anons or moots, you get special treatment <3

That being said, I call this one

Starlight.

When you first saw Satoru Gojo, you could have sworn whatever higher power there was put the stars in his eyes by hand, carefully and meticulously placing the celestial sparkles to make the most breathtaking eyes you had ever seen.

You saw galaxies when he laughed, constellations connect when he smiled, you were sure your heart exploded into a thousand celestial galaxies when he finally asked you out. You had fallen in love with Astraeus himself.

The only person Gojo seemed to love even half as much as he loved you was Suguru. The two boys beyond inseparable. Suguru would talk about astrology and you could see the celestial bodies in Gojo's eyes dazzle with adoration. You couldn't blame him. Suguru had a charm to him that made it impossible not to fall into his orbit. It only felt natural when Gojo suggested Suguru officially join your relationship.

You remembered the countless nights you had spent cuddled between your loves, watching movies until the early morning light. You remembered how in love Suguru was with the moon and how fascinated was with the stars. Spending entire nights out under the glittering sky on full moon evenings, dancing and laughing and falling in love.

You remembered the first time you saw the luminaries in Gojos eyes explode, marking the inevitable heat death of your universe. When word of Suguru's betrayal came out. You saw entire galaxies collapse in real time as he coped with what felt impossible. It wasn't the last time you saw the black holes form there.

You though they would never glimmer again after Suguru died, By Gojos own hands no less. You didn't spend the nights under the stars anymore. Instead they were spent at home, with him curled into your side. The stars weren't in his eyes anymore, they were glimmering in his tears. Nothing you did seemed to help. He needed time.

He slowly recovered, though his eyes never dazzled quite as bright as they used to. He recovered, and you recovered with him. He found joy in new things. In raising his son Megumi, in teaching and leading his kids to creating a new world for Jujutsu Society. He found a purpose beyond just being the strongest. You swore the stars in his eyes dazzled exactly how they did the first day you met him on the day he asked you to be his bride.

It was the last time you would ever see the stars. You remembered taking comfort in the soft glitter of his eyes when he told you he would win, and then feeling impossibly betrayed when he never came home. You couldn't cope. The sun had died, the universe had proven it's self to be cold and uncaring.

That is until you the full moon. It was weeks after Satoru's funeral, and by all means you had plans to just ignore it, finding it almost too painful without your darlings. And yet, once the time came, you found yourself drawn into it's orbit.

You swore you saw those stars smiling down at you. The ones you had fallen in love with all of those years ago. You just knew, some cosmic comfort assured you, Satoru was okay. You could hear Suguru in your heart. "Thank you, for fixing what I broke. I'll take care of it from here Darling."

You knew they were okay. And one day, you'd see them again. But for now, at least you still had Satoru's stars in your life. And if you ever missed him, you had the entire galaxy to remind you he was never truly that far away.