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thecharacterchronicler · 1 year ago

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District Girl (Part 2) || (Peacekeeper) Coriolanus Snow x Reader || Smut

Outline: Coriolanus doesn’t like how friendly you are to other men and how much you ignore him on his evening out at the Hob. So he decides to leave you with a lasting impression of him.

Word count: 4’189

Warnings: possessive and obsessive behavior, power imbalance, unprotected s*x and explicit smut.

Author’s note: I wasn’t planning on making this a series, District Girl was just an attempt to get me out of my writer’s block to finally finish my other Coriolanus Snow series but since a few people requested more, here’s a part 2. Thanks for being so supportive of my writing, it truly means a lot. 🖤

(( Part 1 )) - (( Part 3 ))

They had been running for half an hour in the heavy heat, circling the barracks as their commander yelled orders at them. Coriolanus knew the man was trying to motivate his troops by insulting them, barking at them that they were worthless and useless, that even his grandma would do better at running in such a humid climate but this kind of tactical psychology didn’t seem to work on the young man. The more he heard his superior taunting them, the less he wanted to comply to his orders. He simply hated authority.

When he still was a student at the academy, he only had to show the due respect to his professors and - although the dean was an idiot - none of them had power over his every action and thoughts. Now as a peacekeeper, he was supposed to mindlessly follow orders from people regarded as better than him, even though some of them came from districts that were almost as poor as district 12. It was an aberration. One that Coriolanus would immediately fix if he had his say on how Panem was ruled.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, his pale eyes were burning with such intense sunlight. He felt uneasy. He dropped to his knees, his shirt so wet it was glued to his frame.

“Get up or get out, Snow!” The commander yelled, bringing everyone else’s attention on him. He felt embarrassed. He didn’t want the others to think that he was weaker than them. Especially not when Smiley seemed close to fainting too and Junius was paler than he had ever seen him before.

Coriolanus stood back up, wiping his face with his humid hand. He needed water. He needed to be dry. He needed a lot of things but running wasn’t one of them. So he left, heading back to the barracks under his superior’s disappointed glare.

He immediately went under the shower, letting the cold water wash the sweat and filth from his body. He knew he’d be sweating again the moment he’d step out from under the water and his dry spare uniform wouldn’t stay in this state for more than an hour or two so he took his time, closing his eyes and leaning against the cold bathroom tiles.

His heart was hammering in his chest, from the effort most likely but maybe also because, for the past few days, he hadn’t been able to look at his cock without thinking about your lips closed around it. He didn’t even know your name, you were just a district girl, and yet, you had invaded his every thoughts. Day and night, he kept replaying the events in his head, remembering how good it felt to fuck your mouth and what a lovely sight you were, on your knees in front of him.

He had been taking care of the erection such images gave him as well as he could. Most times, he was able to see you again when he closed his eyes and focused hard enough on recalling your features. He clearly remembered the color of your eyes because he had been mesmerized by them and the way they watered when he was mercilessly thrusting his cock down your throat. But, to his utter despair, he couldn’t quite picture what your body looked like anymore. He knew it was perfect, tailored exactly to his taste, but the images were vanishing from his mind the more days went by.

He turned the shower off, his cock hard and begging for relief again. Fortunately, his bunkmates were still busy being tortured by the commander so his dorm was empty.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, leaning to retrieve a piece of colorful fabric from underneath his pillow. He kept it neatly folded, ready to be used if he needed it. That piece of your skirt proved to be pretty useful in times such as this, when his cock was begging to fill you up again.

He ran the fabric through his fingers, remembering how that skirt hugged your hips. By the time he removed the towel from his waist, his erection was rock hard, practically throbbing with desire.

He closed his hand over it, the soft fabric of your skirt enveloping his sensitive skin as he slowly started to pump. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

A shudder shook his body, his need for relief becoming almost unbearable. The cool textile of your clothing felt nothing like the warmth and wetness he had found in your mouth. He was certain that your pussy wouldn’t be cold either, it probably would feel as unbearably hot and humid as the weather did. He tightened his fingers around his shaft, trying to mimic how tight he imagined you’d feel with his dick buried deep inside you. He increased the speed of his movements, imagining your perfect body bouncing in reaction, your eyes watering again from how brutally he was ramming inside of you and then, he’d spill his release in you. There would be so much that it would stain your panties afterwards. It would drip from your tight cunt. It would be a reminder that he had marked you as his.

Unfortunately, the image of you completely spent and dizzy with pleasure under him faded from his mind, replaced by the cruel reality. An important amount of cum was coating the piece of your skirt, wasted instead of filling you up.

He thought about trying to clean it up, wanting to make this keepsake of you last forever, and in pristine condition if possible. But the noise of the returning peacekeepers forced him to abandon the idea, at least for now. He quickly put his spare uniform on as footsteps were approaching and, just as the door of his dorm opened, he discreetly slipped the fabric stained by his seed inside his pocket.

“Man, training beat my ass today. I think it calls for a beer or two.” Junius told him, as he gathered his towel and soap for the shower. “Let’s go to the hob tonight.”

Music was playing, people were happily chatting and laughing, good spirits filling the old warehouse. Coriolanus only agreed to accompany his colleagues because he was in desperate need of a strong drink to numb his mind, but he didn’t like how the Hob still smelled like coal and sweat, even though it had been abandoned for a while.

The good mood of the residents of district 12, enjoying the music and a drink after a hard day at work, and the apparent excitement of his bunkmates did very little to help lift up his spirits. He had heard better music in the Capitol and clearly, alcohol was far more raffined and tasteful there than here. If anything, the drink he had been served tasted like fermented potatoes. But well, at least it did the job and helped him relax a bit.

But his calmness didn’t last long. His whole body shot up straight and alert when he saw your familiar face among the crowd, smiling at a peacekeeper that wasn’t him. It made sense that, sooner or later, he was going to see you again but he wasn’t expecting you to be the kind to hang out at the Hob late a night. But then, what did he know ? It wasn’t like he had any idea of what kind of person you were. All he really knew was that you were amazing at sucking his dick… It should have been enough. He should move on and stop thinking about it. About you. But he couldn’t.

“Hey boys, do you need a refill ?” You asked them, startling Coriolanus. He had been lost in his thoughts about you again, so deeply that he hadn’t noticed you approaching him and his cock slowly came alive at the sound of your voice.

Junius handed you his empty cup and you winked at him. Then, you turned around to take a look at Coriolanus’s glass, still fairly full.

“I’ll be right back with a cold beer.” You told Junius, smiling at him but barely acknowledging the other peacekeepers’ presence. Including his.

Coriolanus watched you make your way through the dancing crowd all the way to the bar set up in the corner of the warehouse. You slipped behind the counter, filling up Junius’ cup at the same time as you engaged in another conversation, with another peacekeeper.

“I think she was flirting with me.” Junius said, smugly. Smiley agreed, even clapping a hand on his back as a congratulating gesture but his enthusiasm died down once he noticed the way their friend was glaring at both of them.

He didn’t like you smiling so carelessly at everyone. Surely, many other men were as dumb as Junius and would believe that you were openly flirting with them. They’d probably attempt to flirt back. What if that bothered you ? Or worse, what if you liked it ?

And why were you ignoring him ? Out of everyone else here, he should have been the only one worthy of your smiles, and yet, you had barely even glanced at him. Could you have forgotten him ? Impossible. Not when you were obsessing him day and night, surely you must have felt the same. You probably touched yourself at night while thinking about him just like he did when he thought about you. Right ?

You walked back to their little group, handing a cup overflowing with foam to Junius. He paid for his drink, and you slipped the coin he gave you in the pocket of your apron with an enthusiastic thank you. That was when Coriolanus finally noticed what you were wearing today, the same kind of basic shirt you were wearing the other day and the same skirt, still torn and shorter than what he remembered, covered by a stained beige apron.

“Do you work here ?” Coriolanus asked you, finally managing to catch your attention.

“Yes, do you need anything?”

He stared at you for a moment, trying to figure out if you really didn’t remember him or if you were simply pretending, maybe out of politeness in front of his colleagues. But since he couldn’t interpret the fake smile plastered on your face, he shook his head to answer you and you nodded back at him, leaving his group without another glance at him.

He watched as you talked to other men, smiling and even laughing at one peacekeeper’s joke. His friends didn’t notice, thanks to the alcohol they kept gulping down, but he was growing incredibly irritated by your behavior. You didn’t pay him any attention, doing your job and, even when someone needed you to refill their glass nearby where he was standing, you still wouldn’t look at him.

Was he that forgettable ? Maybe. He could understand that you wouldn’t have cared about pleasuring him that much since you got nothing out of it after all, apart from getting out of trouble. He hadn’t exactly blown you away with his skills so how could you know what you missed ? Perhaps you needed him to show you what he was capable of too. Then you’d obsess over him just as much as he did over you.

Yeah, it was a good plan. He’d be a gentleman, approach you politely and sway you with his charm so that you’ll give him a chance to show you how lucky you were to be the center of his attention.

But there you were again, smiling at Junius as you brought him another cup of foaming beer and, judging by how Smiley clapped his bunkmate’s back again, he was about to make a move on you. How stupid could he be ? As if he could ever be your type.

“You know, I was wondering if you’d like to go somewhere more… Quiet ? With me ? You know why.” Junius told you, his wobbly voice betraying how many drinks he had had already. Coriolanus rolled his eyes at his friend’s pathetic attempt to flirt. It was even sadder that he knew Junius would have never dared to even look at you if he hadn’t drank four cups of liquid courage beforehand.

“Maybe later ?” You shrugged, with a smile that made Junius’s eyes go wide in shock. Smiley cheered for his friend because it wasn’t as bad as the refusal they were all expecting, which caused Coriolanus’ blood to boil. What the hell was wrong with you ? “I still have a few hours left in my shift.”

You walked away, leaving both peacekeepers staring in excitement and slight disbelief. Was it a yes ? A promise ? Even Coriolanus wasn’t sure what to make of it but he knew it definitely wasn’t the answer he had hope you’d give his friend.

He downed his cup in frustration - he too in need of a dose of liquid courage after all - and took off after you, following you all the way back to the counter. You didn’t notice him right away, busy filling up a glass for a patron but, when you walked away, he grabbed you by the arm, making you spill the beer over your shirt.

“I need to talk to you.” He said, very aware of a few pairs of eyes staring at him, an array of saviors ready to fly to your rescue if you showed any sign that he was bothering you.

“Crap.” You breathed, trying to clean up the drops that would surely be making your skin sticky later. Coriolanus took the glass out of your hand, placing it on the counter with a thud. You still were ignoring him and he was done being patient.

He dragged you to the door behind the makeshift bar, not knowing where it led but satisfied when he stepped into a supply room, filled with barrels of -most likely illegal - alcohol and a few crates of old bread. He closed the door, feeling instant relief as the music suddenly felt miles away instead of blasting in his ears. You stared at him, crossing your arms over your chest with an expression that made it clear that you weren’t happy with him.

Good, that made two of you.

“Did you suck off every peacekeeper in this District to not even remember me ?”

“I do remember you but I didn’t know we were supposed to be best friends now ?” You replied, your tone impatient. “And what if I did suck everyone off anyway ? Could you really blame me ? Sometimes you’ve got to do what you can to ensure your survival. I’m sure you know what it’s like if you ever knew poverty. Maybe someone in your family had to do the exact same thing. Maybe they’re still doing it, who knows ? That’s just how the world works.”

He had to repress a grimace. He didn’t like to think about what his cousin may have done for their survival… And he liked it even less thinking about you, giving yourself away to all these men for the same reason.

“What do you want ? Another round in exchange of your silence ?” You asked him. It was exactly what he wanted. But now that he knew he was just one out of many others, it didn’t seem that appealing anymore. Not if it meant you’d be able to go on with your life afterwards, without thinking about him while he would stay completely captive of the idea of meeting you again. You looked at him and your eyes suddenly softened, a blush creeping up to your cheeks. “Did you… Did you just want to bring this back to me ? I’m so sorry, I’m so used to other men wanting to take advantage, I assumed you would too.”

Coriolanus was a bit confused by such a change in your behavior, you went from upset with him to relaxed in a matter of seconds and he wasn’t even sure he understood why, until he followed your gaze to the pocket of his uniform, from which the torn piece of your skirt was peeking out. He couldn’t give it back to you. He needed it. And after what he had done to it, he couldn’t even let you touch it. If you did see the dry cum covering the fabric, you’d know how he had lost his mind thinking about you.

“I’m nothing like the others.” Coriolanus stated, a bit vexed that you thought he was.

“I see that now.” You assured him, approaching him with a smile. You were waiting for him to pull the piece of fabric out of his pocket and hand it back to you but he couldn’t. He stayed still, internally panicking and trying to find a way out of it. In front of his silence, your eyes grew weary. “Unless you wanted to ask me something in exchange of it ?”

Dammit. If he didn’t react quickly, you’ll think he’s like the others again. You’ll think he wanted to take advantage of you and now he knew you were far more compliant and friendly when you trusted him to not do that.

“No, of course not.” He said, managing to keep his voice calm and low enough to not betray his panic. “In fact, I came to make sure that we’d be even.”

You raised an eyebrow at his words, curious to hear what he had to say. He smiled, glad that he had managed to catch your attention. Adapting his behavior and words in order to seduce the person in front of him was something he usually was good at, even though he didn’t have that many opportunities to practice his talents anymore.

“What do you mean ?”

Instead of answering, he closed the gap between your bodies and pressed his lips on yours for a passionate kiss he had often dreamed about. He hoped it would be good enough to change your mind, make you forget about the piece of your skirt he had discreetly tugged back into his pocket. But, as much as he wanted to make you lose your mind, his own thoughts grew hazy at how badly he wanted you. That kiss, as hungry and wet as it was, got rid of the last of his restraints. His body surged with desire, drawn to yours like a magnet, hungry like you were the only thing that could save him from starvation.

He reached low and cupped your ass in his large hands, hoisting you up in his arms. A surprised sound escaped your lips but you didn’t protest, circling his waist with your legs to steady yourself in his arms. He took a few steps until you felt the wooden table on which a few crates were stacked and you jumped when you heard the noise of them tumbling to the floor, making room for you instead.

Coriolanus sat you on the now empty table, his gaze wandering to your thighs, your skirt pulled almost all the way up. Both of you watched his hand tentatively reach between your legs, bringing your skirt and apron out of the way and revealing your panties. He trailed a finger over the fabric, feeling the warmth and humidity collecting between your folds. It reminded him of how it felt when his cock slided in your mouth, and the thought of what it might feel like to bury himself in your pussy this time almost made him dizzy with desire.

Every time he had thought about you, he had imagined fucking you sensless. Taking your pussy, shooting his release deep inside you and eventually letting you suck his cock clean afterwards. But, after what you had told him and now that he knew that what you wanted was someone who wouldn’t be egoistic enough to take and never give back, he had no choice but to fight against the almost painful strain of his cock aching for you.

It took all of his willpower to not give in when he slowly brought your panties down your legs. You were so ripe and ready to be fucked already. Was it the effect he had on you ? If he could get you this wet with just a kiss on the lips, he had no doubt that you wouldn’t ignore him ever again. Not after what he was about to do to you. To show you just how different he was from the others. And how he should be the only one allowed to touch you from now on.

He fell to his knees in front of you and parted your wet folds with his tongue. You gasped and his cock painfully twitched at the sound. He held your thighs apart with a strong grip on them. His tongue taking a few licks before pausing to fully taste you.

Delicious.

He licked a few more times, without any pattern in mind, just for the pleasure of tasting you on his tongue over and over again but, from the ragged breaths coming out of your mouth, it seemed that you liked it anyway.

When he felt your bud, right there under the tip of his tongue, he brought himself closer so that he could suck on it, causing you to throw your head back with a moan.

Then, his tongue wandered to the hole he so desperately dreamed about filling with his cock. He brought it past your tight entrance, making his nose press against your sensitive clit which got another moan out of you. Your hand found his head, dragging him even closer to you, as if you wanted him to get even deeper. So he did his best, continuing to gently fuck you with his tongue while the friction of his nose between your folds made your body tremble.

He gasped for air, moving away and instantly regretted it. You were leaning back on the table, one hand squeezing your boob, teeth biting down on your lower lip to keep yourself from being too loud. Your thighs were wide open for him, your pussy glistening with his saliva and your own arousal. Your clit was red, almost swollen from his rough sucking and it took every damn inch of himself to not instantly get up and shove his dick inside you. Your body was practically begging for it, so perfect and ready for him, as if you existed solely to be fucked by him.

But no, he wouldn’t give in. As painful as the perspective of taking care of his erection on his own, under the covers of his bed while his friends would be sleeping was, he was determined to leave an everlasting impression on you this time.

He took a deep breath and shoved his face to your pussy once more, making you whine and beg for release. Once his jaw couldn’t quite follow the rythym you needed anymore, he decided to use his fingers instead, pinching your mistreated bud while his other finger passed the tight ring of your entrance, exploring you deeper than his tongue could. He pushed it as far inside you as he could before he started his back and forth motions, mimicking what he would do if it was his cock filling you up.

He went faster. Faster. Faster. Until you gasped in pleasure, your walls tightening and pulsating around his finger. Your whole body contracted, your thighs closing in around his neck. Your mouth opened to let out a cry and once again, Coriolanus had to fight against his very primitive instincts to keep himself from shoving his hard cock in your mouth to silence your cries.

Once finally your body relaxed, he stood back up, a smug grin on his face. Of course, he would have liked being the one to get a bit of relief - he was still so hard and ready for you - but he felt oddly proud at how strongly you had orgasmed because of him. Surely, if his fingers and mouth could do that, you’d be obsessing and fantasizing about his cock for the rest of the week.

You wiped the sweat from your forehead and adjusted your hair and skirt, a lovely crimson blush on your face. You noticed the impressive buldge in Coriolanus’s pants and pressed a hand against it, wanting to thank him properly for the intense pleasure he had given you but he moved your hand away, shaking his head and kissing you instead.

“You’ve got to work and I have some friends to walk back to the barracks before they do something stupid.” He explained, his body violently protesting and wanting to let you give him some relief too but he was determined to follow his plan. “But maybe we could meet again sometime ?”

You nodded, still seeming a bit struck by the intensity of your orgasm. With a grin, he planted one last kiss on your lips before leaving the supply room, the torn piece of your skirt still securely tugged in his pocket.

♡ - (( Tip Jar )) - ♡

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killerpancakeburger · 1 year ago

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Outpace the dawn

Gif by @silverformymonsters

Summary: BG3 Spawn ending Fix It fic! Because I refuse to let him deal with the sunlight alone.

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Warnings/tags: SPOILERS obvsly, angst/comfort, non canon compliant.

Words count: 936 words.

A/N: It should be Gender Neutral, but if I fcked up since I tend to write from my pov, you can tell me and I'll correct it.

Yes the title is from that Hozier song. It got me thinking how Astarion would need to outpace the dawn from now on.

“So, what’s next for us?”

Astarion’s voice cut through the silence that followed your last battle, as your little group was gathering on a pontoon.

You had been thinking about what was to come for a while, actually. Probably longer than any of your companions have. Some might argue that it wasn’t the time for that, that you should have been completely focused on defeating the Netherbrain. But you couldn’t help it; it was a matter of life and death - Astarion’s life and death. Or rather, undeath and death. Since you’ve known that the brain was within reach, it had become an omnipresent apprehension in your mind.

The slaughter of the brain sounded the death knell of the tadpoles, and their disappearance inevitably meant that Astarion’s resistance to the sun would vanish like it never existed. Like nature rightfully reasserting itself by getting rid of this aberration that had been a vampire walking in the sun in the first place.

This knowledge has been haunting you for days and nights now. It was your first thought when you woke up and your last when you fell asleep. A knot of dread had settled inside your stomach, making it hard to fall asleep and to interact normally with the source of your worries. And right now, following Astarion’s question, the knot in your guts got even tighter, even more painful.

At any moment, any second from now on, your vampire lover would catch fire as surely as straw in the summer.

It was fine. You planned. You prepared for this. You procured a large, thick, hooded coat that was guaranteed to block the sunrays. It was even imbued with magic that made it impossible to tear, pierce, or rip in any way. It hadn’t been easy to acquire, but Astarion didn’t need to know that.

You were on the lookout for any sign of burning, wound as tightly as a spring while still trying to appear normal to the others.

“The world is our oyster, and she has many pearls we can choose from.” claimed Astarion, blissfully unaware of his fate.

He illustrated his remarks by spreading his arms far apart with vigor. The genuine excitement, the happiness in his voice almost made you sick to your stomach. Astarion’s displays of authentic joy were few and far in between, and this one would end as soon as it started. As fast as a vampire spawn left in the sun, as a pile of ashes on the ground.

You could barely bear to look at him. You didn’t have the heart to remind him of his imminent doom. He obviously had forgotten about it for the time being, and while the cruel reality was taking up almost all the space in your brain, like blaring alarms, you’d be damned if you took away from him his last, his only instants of light and warmth, of complete freedom, by reminding him. No Cazador, no tadpole, no mind control, no deadly sunlight, no slave and no master. Just an immense ocean of liberty, intoxicating, vertiginous.

“I honestly don’t mind what we do, once we get to- Ow!”

You instantly straightened up at the sound, like a wild animal who picked up the sound of an upcoming danger. For a terrible second, there was a twisted part of you who felt relieved. Finally, your gnawing, agonizing wait was coming to an end. Then, swiftly, the relief disappeared, flooded with your concern for Astarion.

“What the- Oh no. Oh Gods.”

Already his hands were fuming, his beautiful pale face sprinkled with silververy cracks like delicate porcelain. He had always looked more like a piece of art than a living being after all. The frantic panic in his voice was like a punch to the chest. In all your battles and struggles together, you had never seen him so horrified. Even against Cazador. Even a True Vampire had to yield to the Sun.

He threw you a harrowing look, like he was bidding you goodbye before bolting. As if you were going to leave him to deal with this alone. Already you were rushing towards him, the life-saving coat in hands. You wrapped it around him as fast as your hands would allow, put the hood on, and gently grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him so his covered back would take the blunt of the light.

“There we go, you explained softly. This will block the sun.”

“You’ve got this, and I’ve got you.” you added, mirroring his own words.

You were smiling sadly, trying to be supportive, to not add to his burden. The look in his eyes was hard to describe, an intense blend of heartbreak, vulnerability, and gratefulness.

“Well… It was… it was nice while it lasted.” he managed to articulate, his voice breaking like he was about to cry.

You could feel your heart break in response like an echo.

The magic sunproof coat was in no way a solution. Barely a bandage on a sinking ship. You had to get out of the sun, quickly.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you some shadow, uh?”

Your encouraging smile was as fragile as a spiderweb. You could feel it teetering on the edge of an abyss.

Astarion simply nodded, like he didn’t trust his voice anymore. It was fine. He was already expressing so much through his gaze.

You put your hand on the small of his back, barely applying any pressure, threw a telling look over your shoulder at your other companions, and you both started your search for protective darkness between the walls of Baldur’s Gate.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion fanfic #fanfic #fic #bg3 fanfiction #yes i know i said i was doing rolan - lol - but i already written half of this one so i might as well finish it right?#x reader

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threestarsaboveclouds · 1 month ago

Note

Have you ever observed a star falling off its place?

Recently encountered records of dreams involving dancing stars with long, trailing, bright tails and was wondering if anything like that has ever occurred on the firmament

TSAC: Falling stars are a common occurrence among the celestial spheres, yes. In the past, ancient astrologers considered such changes in the Firmament to be a bad omen- a shifting of the Spheres must be a sign of some worldly karmic imbalance. However, the studies of more contemporary astronomers, such as my creators, the Firmamentalists, recognize that the sky is not static, and is in fact a dynamic, changing thing. These disruptions of the status quo were considered to be a tiny part of a larger universal Cycle, one that stretches too far into both the past and future for mere mortals to properly comprehend. Such considerations played a large part in my own design and construction; iterators, who operate on much longer timescales, would be more capable of making sense of this larger Great Cycle.

There are many different examples of “falling stars”, the most common conception of the idea comes in the form of meteors. As debris from far above the planet’s surface falls towards the ground, it will burn up in the atmosphere in a streak of light. Despite their impressive brightness, most meteors are smaller than a grain of sand and burn up completely before they can reach the surface. Those large enough to survive atmospheric entry will impact the ground as a meteorite. Most of these meteorites are very small, and are a large contributor to the buildup of dust upon high-altitude surfaces.

Another example of “falling” or “dancing” stars are comets, which manifest in the night sky as faint, starlike lights with long, glowing tails.

Comets were often considered to be a sign of misfortune. They were very hard to predict, and often appeared in the sky with no warning. Unlike meteors, comets often persist for days or even weeks, before disappearing. Due to their unpredictable nature, they were considered aberrant by early astronomers and were regarded as harbingers of bad luck; surely anything that defied the order of the Celestial Spheres must be a bad omen.

However, as telescopes and other observational equipment improved, comets became much easier to discover, and their movements were charted in much greater detail. It was revealed that they were not unpredictable; in fact, they follow their own orbits around the Sun, albeit very elongated ones. Comets originate far from the Sun, where they reflect little sunlight and are hard to detect. Their highly elliptical orbits take them closer to the Sun, where the ice trapped within them begins to sublimate into gas, creating their distinctive glowing tails. Thus these comets were not abnormalities; they were merely another facet of the Celestial Cycle.

I believe the dreams you mentioned are referring to comets, owing to their long tails and unpredictable movements. However... the commonality of such dreams is odd, considering the rarity of comets. Most average individuals may only have the chance to see a handful of them in their lifetime.

I will admit that the domain of dreams is outside of my purview; my studies mainly focus on the Carnal Plane. Some theorize that dreams are a conduit through which one may access other planes of existence… it may be possible that these dreams are referring to something else entirely. As an iterator I am unable to dream, so I have never experienced the phenomenon myself. In the end all I can do is speculate.

#communications manifest #rain world #iterator oc #three stars above clouds

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fairiers · 8 months ago

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Welcome to Days of Sunset!

Once again, this drawing was for another Sunlight IAP raffle event in a discord server.

The event name was decided to be called "Stylish Summer Soirée". I searched for some summer soirée poster designs on Google and Pinterest, which inspired me to draw a dusk beach scenery to match the event.

The second pic is promo text included version.

The process of the drawing was a bit challenging XD It took me some time to study sky colours, shadows & ocean waves/foams look under the sunset.

I also did chromatic aberration aka RGB split effect in this poster. You may take a look at the flame, logos and text XD

Lastly, here's the messy timelapse for the work if you're interested!

#sky fanart #sky cotl #sky children of the light #days of sunlight #days of “sunset”#summer soiree poster #art #skyblr #thatgamecompany

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tulippanes · 5 months ago

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𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑

osamu m.

.𖥔 ݁ word count 1.2k

.𖥔 ݁ warnings ➙ mentions of blood, obsession, heavily hinted at cannibalism, no specified gender for reader but hinted at fem

Osamu Miya is a man known for his food, for his talent in cooking, maybe even a little for his charming accent and sweet little smile. He cooks but he does not feed on. Other bellies will be full yet his will always be empty. A bitter thought. It's envious, almost. How others can enjoy such food, his food that he cooks. But that's just it. His food, his creation, though not his to consume. For nothing will ever fill such a nuisance of a stomach he has no matter how much he devours.

You came along, however, as a bright, shining light one may call hope; brighter than the sun itself. Your smile so sweet it almost gave him a cavity. You were so blinding he couldn't help but do a double take. Or a triple take? Quadruple? Whatever it was, he couldn't keep his eyes off of you.

Words escaped past your pretty lips like a melody he couldn't help but feel entranced by. "Do you have any recommendations?" you had asked.

"Everythin' here is delicious. Why not order one of everythin', hm?" he joked. You laughed, a sound of amusement that made his smile turn a little wider. Perhaps too wide.

He hummed, "Why dontcha have a seat and I'll bring a lil special somethin' out for ya?" He saw the way your eyes widened ever so slightly and how you protested. How that wouldn't be necessary and you didn't want to be a burden.

"Ya ain't bothering anyone," he affirmed. You weren't, you certainly didn't bother him. The reluctancy is notable but you found a free seat anyway. He cooked up three different onigiri, maybe he'd impress you. His restaurant isn't popular for just no reason after all.

He walked out from the kitchen and up to where you sat. The sunlight shone upon your skin and his mouth goes dry. He stared for a moment too long before he snapped out of his reverie. He came up to you while placing down the plate of food. "Enjoy," he said. With a small thank you, he watched as you ate.

A resentful feeling bubbles up inside him once more when your eyes sparkled at the immaculate taste of his own cooking. A clenched jaw soon relaxes once your eyes met his. Yes, just even looking at you felt so filling. He wondered, what would it be like to have a taste?

"It's really good! Did you make this?"

"Of course."

You praised him so genuinely it created butterflies in his stomach. Or maybe it was a grumbling noise that almost resonated gurgling.

You had left not long after a hearty conversation you gave him. The next day, you strolled inside. Then next, and the next, and every other day after you came and ate. No matter how short nor how long your stay was, you were always there. There was a connection, although his definition of connection is vastly different from what you may had imagined. Your very being, your very presence, caused the vacant belly of his to stop its painful twisting and turning of guts. His hunger was a thing of the past when he was with you.

You were his faith, whether it was to your knowledge or not.

He asked you to a date on a fateful day and you accepted. To you, that had been your first error. To him, that was his first success. Such a wonderful night ended on such a wonderful note. A kiss under the moonlight, in darkness that prevails all. It was passionate and suffocating. He had to savor your taste to not forget, to relish in this consumption that was purely you. Had you not tapped his shoulder, such kiss would have been one of death. He apologized, you said it was alright. Your second error and his clock was ticking.

The more time spent the less your presence fulfilled that aching starvation. He needed more, he needed the whole of you. That crazed look in his eye hidden behind a façade of affection. Well, he did like you. He loved you just in an aberrant manner.

He was getting desperate, nipping at your skin that can be deemed as playful but was so much more deeper than just "playful". You teased how he could eat you up if he could. He laughed in response.

"I would," he teased back. You didn't think of it any more than measly silly banter. You possibly should've.

He invited you to Onigiri Miya after closing hours to celebrate the month you two have been together for. You dressed up to prettily for him that he cooed once his gaze landed upon you. You were perfect. Then that grumbling belly of his echoes throughout the empty restaurant.

"Someone's hungry," you giggled.

Osamu simply smiled and brought you into an embrace. He nuzzled his face to the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent that was uniquely you. The noise of his stomach grew louder and the want was too overwhelming. It'd always been the same thing. He ate and was left unfulfilled. The more food he swallowed, the more he ached to skew the hunger away.

He'd almost forgot you were the beaming light in his life. You were there for a reason, for a meaning. A meaning he would meet that night. This would be the last error you'd make and this would be the last puzzle piece he'd place.

His arms tightened around you, the action caused you to pat his back. "You're awfully clingy tonight," you awkwardly chuckled. He said nothing in return.

Then his arms tightened more, veins bulging out from his skin. You called his name but there was so answer. The cracking of a twig and his arms loosened. He'd hold you close, gentler, as your body ran cold. He would have to heat you up in some way, wouldn't he?

Your skin as soft as it always was, his teeth sinked in. A rusted crimson flowing out with a distinct metallic smell that can quickly turn pungent and acidic fills the air. A simple glimpse of the vital fluid may make one feel faint or even retch at the smell. Not for him, not for his inconvenience of an empty belly he had.

The view of the color is what made his hungry grey eyes grow wide; his pupils to dilated with a sense of satisfaction. It's enough for his lips to part with heavy breaths, drool dribbled down his chin similar to a slobbering dog awaiting its meal.

It's never easy to fill the anomaly he called starvation. He'd searched for nourishment that was desperately desired and he found it. He found it within you. Osamu would wipe the fluid that resembled red lipstick off his lips, staring down at you; the person that'd ameliorated his deep gutted hunger that constantly haunted.

You'd become one with him as you belonged. It was fate. It's become a clarity that would soon be gone, until the hunger returns as it's destined to be. He'd still have you in a form of which is taboo. But at least it's still you. It'll always be you.

a/n first oneshot n its abt cannibalism💀 inspired by an essay i did for my english class ok its almost 2 am and this got me out of my writers block now im tired

#haikyuu!!#hq #haikyuu #osamu miya #osamu miya x reader #osamu miya x you #miya osamu #horror #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #oneshot #hq osamu #haikyuu osamu

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lionsongfr · 5 months ago

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Ancient Sizes Headcanon

aka why are Everlux so small and Imperials so large?

Size references can be found here: The Largest and Smallest Dragons | Dragon Share | Flight Rising

I know that probably the real reason why Everlux are so tiny is related to them being “bookwyrms” and the reoccurring trope of being “too small to be found”- yet I wanted to ponder a bit why the Everlux are small using lore connections.

Be forewarned, this be long and rambly!

Veilspuns make sense to me for being so small. The Shadowbinder wanted dragons who could spy on others, one who could weave through the brambles with ease, one who could trick and lie and girlboss hypnotize. Small things can be hard to see, hear, catch, and kill. They are the flies on the wall listening to your every conversation.

But out in the sunlight, on the wide-open plains of Light, a small creature is easily picked off by predators (even if they are a dragon). The Everlux’s soft bubbly bodies seem to lack the scales to withstand the dry heat of the sun. They are small and fragile, and run away from combat. They have hidden themselves in the small groves of trees in their cozy cocoons, much like the mice and rabbits of the field make burrows. Their lairs let in light as much as possible, but it seems so odd that a dragon of the Light would hide itself away from the full sun.

Imperials are said to be Light’s firstborn, they are large, scaled, and strong fighters who use their size to advantage. Yet they are Moden dragons, and not Ancient like the Everlux. Sure, the distinction of Moden and Ancient seems thin, but it suggests that Ancient came before Modern dragons- so how can Imperials be Lightweaver’s first yet be born after the Everlux?

Imperials have a unique creation from other dragons, they are an “amalgamation of bone, blood, and the shed essence of the Lightweaver--excavated from ancient battle sites of the First Age. This reclaimed essence was a finite resource; no new Imperials have been shaped by the gods in a millennia”. In the epilogue we read that most dragons were created from the magic of the deities: “the wyrms used their respective magics to create children in their image.”

I headcanon that when the Pillar of the World broke and the Shade was shattered, that elemental magic was disrupted and spread thin across the world. Over time it collected back into ley lines like rain collecting into rivers. Since magic is needed to create dragons, the size of Ancients was determined by the amount of magic available and time spent creating them.

Plague and Nature had their own pools of magic in the form of the Behemoth and Wyrmwound, and Arcane is made of magic. But yet, somethings went wrong. Auraboas are big, which is odd since most rainforest animals tend to be smaller. They were also stuck in a Loop of time, unable to interact with the rest of dragon kind. Aberrations are more medium size, which makes sense since the Wasteland could probably not bear a larger dragon’s appetite. Yet they were deemed failures and left to mutate till they became strong. Aethers are medium size, which would make it easier for them to perform fine motor functions like writing, engineering, and crafting. Yet they developed a hunger for paper, inhibiting the ability to perform those tasks. They all had the magic, but they were created too quickly, imperfectly.

The rest of the elements settled around the largest slabs of their scattered Pillar (a source of magic), changing the lands to suit their needs. Yet the lands still lacked large ley lines of magic, and thus like a well, the deities had to wait for the Pillar chunks to refill with magic. Lightweaver is a perfectionist, she wanted a big dragon, an impressive dragon, quickly, and the amount of magic available was not enough. She dug into ancient battle sites and found traces of her shed essence. Yet something went wrong. Her firstborn progeny began to fuse into monstrosities. An impurity in the magic resource that could not be burned away. And so, she destroyed them and hid their scrolls of creation away (as to how they got out and distributed is another story).

But yet the other gods had started making their own dragons, and Shadowbinder’s children were sneaking into her domain with mischievous intentions. Not much magic was left after the Imperials, and she was so eager to make something to show. So, she made them small. She made them create silk to make beautiful instruments and cloth…and to tangle up tiny Veilspun. She made them prefer the softer sunlight of the forest...so they could also catch those naughty Veilspun. She had them create paper so she could continue her study on Imperials and maybe one day remake them anew. She had them run rather than fight because she could not bear to lose more of her progeny. And she had them chronicle their lives so that they know that every day is precious.

#Flight rising #FR headcanon #lore #Light Flight #Everlux #Imperial #ancient #my headcanon #long post

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rot-aberrations · 1 month ago

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The full version of the narration @daboyau wrote for the TMNT Au Comp ask.

==========

The cloaked figure approaches, dark water dripping from sodden folds of time-worn fabric. It may have been orange once, but silt and sun have warped the color to a shifting expanse of patterns and colors that make your head ache a little to look at.

The water pools beneath your feet, warm and rippling like something living, and from beneath the shadows of the cloak a fist extends. The sight of it makes the breath catch in your throat and brings with it the unnerving sensation of the ground dropping away beneath your feet.

You look down, just to be sure, and your reflection in the water is smiling back at you, only there are too many eyes and teeth and that smile stretches until the edges of that too-wide mouth split open, wounded, hungry—

You turn your attention back to the offered hand.

There are too many joints, but you still recognize the callouses that come from hours spent perfecting a craft, the grooves of art supplies and cooking utensils worn into each deft finger. Gold ripples across the appendage with every slight movement, though, chipping away at healthy green scales like pieces of broken pottery.

Your eyes follow the cracks as they wind their way up his hand and wrist, delicate spiderwebs of softly glowing light disappearing beneath heavy almost-orange fabric. It seems to pulse in beat with your own heart, and at first glance it is like sunlight reflecting off of moving water. When you look closer, though, you can’t help but think of infection and rot, boils filled with pestilence, just waiting to burst.

It looks painful.

Your stomach churns at the sight, something itching at the back of your mind, a wrongness that feels like teeth poised at your throat and an endless abyss beneath your feet.

You resist the urge to look back down towards the water beneath you, the knowledge that something Other would be staring back settling like hands around your neck.

(The desire to look still itches behind your eyes and beneath your nails, a siren’s call to sink beneath waves and give yourself up to the endless deep. It’s unsettling, how much you want to give in to it.)

You shudder, and the fisted hand waves a little bit, trying to get your attention. You blink, swallow down the discomfort and uncertainty, and hold your own hand out, palm up, to accept whatever it is that’s being offered.

There’s a happy little hum from within the folds of the cloak, a flash of a smile with sharpened teeth. There’s a glow to that shadowed face, gold caught behind teeth and rippling in the depths of his eyes.

Something is dropped into your hand.

It prickles against your palm, and when you drag your eyes away from (…Mikey..?) you find a bracelet resting there.

You squint, lift it closer to your face to inspect it, doing your best to ignore the fact that there are whispers echoing in your ears, wordless voices all clamoring to fill the space between your skull and brain. You focus only on the piece of handmade jewelry, noting the intricate way its needle-like components are woven together to create a ouroboros out of delicate fish bones and polished sea glass and rough-hewn twine. You trace the continuous pattern of it until the world around you spins.

“Good luck,” the aberration of Mikey says.

His words are layered and unsettling, a dozen voices echoing across open water just to reach your ears. But it is still familiar; you can hear the smile in it, know what expression he wears without having to peer beneath the shadows of his hood.

Something about that fact makes the hazy edges of fear begin to recede. You’re pretty sure you manage a smile as he turns on his heel and flounces away, leaving a trail of dark water in his wake. The bracelet sits heavy in your hand, and even though your mind feels clearer the more distance put between you and him, you can’t help but think that you can still feel those whispers tickling at the back of your mind.

#tmnt #rottmnt #dredge game #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt au #tmnt crossover #daboyau writing #tmnt au competition #aberration mikey #rise of the aberrations au

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drippingmoon · 1 year ago

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Merry new year to everyone, again! 🥳💞🥂

I know it wasn’t an event this year, but writing a yearly wrap-up is really therapeutic, you know? So I decided to continue the tradition, and if anyone wants to join me, absolutely view this as an open invitation^^ Introduction is over, and now let’s see what 2023 looked like:

(spoilers: I adored it. I'm also probably going to make this my fixed post, in case anyone ever wants to catch up with me. And also because my second baby, AoS, is growing, and it doesn't have an intro, but I can't leave it out.)

Stats

Aquiver, Aglow: 181k (draft 4) + 195k (draft 5) + hmm, draft 6 is an outlier, because I didn’t rewrite from scratch, so I’m unsure of the written word count. I didn’t change much from draft 5, so I’d say an extra 15-20k. Total word count: 376k+

Remains of a Night: 120k

Aberration of Sunlight: 134k

This was definitely my most productive year to date. And I got so hungry: the more I wrote, the more I just wanted to keep writing, and honestly? I’m proudest of myself for literally carving writing time whenever I got a spot into my schedule. Mostly it was from 8pm-11pm, but I had a mad run where my only free window was from 1am till I literally felt I was dying… I’ll talk about that separately🤣🤣👌

Though, I'm seriously understating it.

Like a lot of other people, I would have all these hours when I was younger when I didn't have anything to do, yet I'd still find some excuse not to write. "I'm waiting for the right time." "I'm anxious I'm not going to get it right." "Tomorrow! Tomorrow I can start right from the morning, and I'll have more time to write, yeah?" or "I'm too tired now, it's late..." and so the snowball rolled down and downhill and I found every reason under the sun not to write, now that I think about it. Sigh. So much time wasted. But I can't regret it either, because I needed those baby steps at that time.

And now! Now I do what I thought I'd never learn to: I prioritize, and I actually organize my daily stuff so it's not so impossible anymore to have a little bit of writing time. I don't take it for granted either. It feels like such character growth for me, I'm immensely proud of it.

And for the record? This year was a huge improvement over yesteryear mentally, too. It turns out, what I needed to get over my word count anxiety… was to be faced with people who literally didn’t give a fuck about it, and just cared about the story. One of the most unexpected things beta stage managed to do to me… was to quench all my anxieties. It’s as simple as that. I read and enjoy very long books. People also do that. So, I’m very happy to say I’m no longer in a tizzy about ‘quiv. It might kill my chances for trad publishing, it might not. I’ll be happy come what may.

Because it’s so simple how working on ‘quiv or thinking about it makes me joyous, and now I can just enjoy that freely. I will miss writing this story so much. I really will. But at least I’ll have it forever to reread, and I hope this thought brings comfort to everyone who also has problems letting go, like it does to me.

Let’s break it down a little, shall we?🤩

Aquiver, Aglow◇◇◇

My little star of the hour. How fond I am of it.

Like you could glean from above, ‘quiv went through three drafts this year. More specifically: in the first part of the year, practically almost as soon as February arrived. I knew it was getting closer to the final version, and gave me the push to finish all three back to back. I couldn’t justify anymore the bazillion AUs I do with rewrites (basically, WHAT IFs from events, WHAT IF it went this different way, WHAT IF Tyrone actually said this here… and so on and so forth. I wanted to test out as many pathways as possible, and did I exhaust every one of them in existence? Definitely not. I don’t think that can happen, you just keep getting new ideas. On and on. What happened, instead, is that these couple different pathways, at some point, cemented themselves as canon in my mind. I didn’t want to tease myself with alternatives anymore, and that’s when I knew they would be it. Some bits from the first draft, some from the third, some from the second. Some were even draft 6 originals!

It’s a bit of a weird process. I definitely didn’t need to reach draft 3, and meet Mezusa, because I could’ve feasibly made it work with just Yles in the story. It still would’ve made sense, though in a different way. But if I hadn’t… I might’ve missed one of the best characters I’ll ever probably have created, and the story (and Yles) is much stronger for her, if you ask me.

For that matter, yes, full rewrites every single draft might take a lot of time and effort, but honestly I don’t think I’d ever change my writing process (save for the moments of frustration when I think I will lol) because of the sheer satisfaction of it. Whoever said so long never to settle on the first version, I owe you a beer and probably some curses as well lmao, but very lovingly. You shaped my writing life.

I don’t have much else to share about ‘quiv, other than it’s off with my beta readers my beloved, and maybe a tentative promise that, if anyone wants, you’ll be able to read this precious ball of hope of mine relatively soon. This story is so gentle to me. And as much as I loved to write and work on it, I dearly hope that whoever decides to give it a go, is treated just the same. That’s the only wish I have.

I also don’t know if I’ll go trad or self-published. Instincts say trad, because I fuckin’ suck at marketing (fact), and I know I’d grow resentful if I’d have to put so many hours into advertising when I know I could instead… write. I’m a writer. That’s the only thing I know how to do. Trad, however, might not be as kind on a ~200k as life’s been, so I might not have a choice. If it comes down to that… I’ll just treat it as I do everything. I don't love this story any less if I just write, publish without a fuss, hope that maybe, just maybe, a reader or two will stumble upon the story and we could talk. Maybe we can have the fun of our lives, create some genuine connection. I know that’s applies to a lot of writers. I hope we can accomplish it.

And so, I’ll finish this section of the wrap-up with a kiss to my ‘quiv, for all the warmth it’s ever brought me. It’s come so far, I know it can live distinct from me from now on. It brings me great comfort. And I look forward to the times I’ll reread it, and we can relive our best experiences together. Never thought I’d get to this point. Thank you, ‘quiv.

Remains of a Night♤♤♤

Mwhahaha! And because ‘quiv took all the pressure, this left AoS to be an extremely fun and spirited experience. Literally the chillest I’ve ever been writing. In many ways, it’s more my thing than I expected ‘quiv to be: I get to murder characters left and right, it’s more plot-heavy and banking on the tension created by a creature that horrifies the characters down to their marrow, but still the only way to defeat it is to know it better, which, uh, might have unpleasant consequences for them. It’s got chase and stealth scenes, and it always shoots me with adrenaline to think about them. In short, exactly my jam.

It’s not a new book, nope. You knew it before as Aberration of Sunlight, but from the get-go I felt it would be bigger than ‘quiv. Very fortunately for me, I had a place where to break it, and behold: there’s RoaN (book 1), and AoS (book 2). There might be a third book, which I dearly hope not because titling sucks, but it depends on the Sycamine arc. More on that in AoS.

One last thing to note, before we delve into the story (hoo-ray for earlier drafts, because I can talk more frankly about them). This is the culprit of my 1am writing adventures!!😫❤ My schedule became too packed, then NaNo came round and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to honor how AoS began, because it was last year’s NaNo, aaand I’m happy to say I won NaNo, somehow, with 56k down before I died. At that time, I only had one section left to write (from both books), otherwise, hahahaha, yeah, it wouldn’t have flown. Still, most of draft 2 I’d written in September-October, with my fairy lights, late nights, and cups of hot cocoa, exactly like how life should be<3

Alright. We’re going through them chapter-by-chapter again, exactly because I love seeing the titles so much:

ACT 1

Cracked Visor, Scorpion Grass

I did it! I did! Twas another shower thought I managed to get down in time. Bare broken sentences, but they did the impossible, and arranged this chapter into a structure I adore to bits and won't ever change. (And 'quiv's naughty voice left me alone for once and I could write it properly!) While I don't think I'll ever be happy with a first chapter (not as a concept, but the writing — part of me will always wish that the reader just had all the information already lol), this one is in the right place.

It pays its respects to the story of the broken helmet at the foot of a spaceship, and how it reconnects Madigan with all the people who'd suffered from being tethered to the planets when they yearned to fly, but the Beast punished them cruelly for it. It makes him feel phantoms of their efforts. The tone is exactly what I needed this story to start from: melancholy and numbly hopeless, against the backdrop of the Beasts's echoed cries.

Rain Through the Universe

Unlike 'quiv, because RoaN and AoS are way more plot-heavy, it's not as easy to change things willy-nilly (whereas 'quiv was all about character bonds and dynamics). As such, it's very similar to draft 1. Because of that, I'll frankendraft next (select and combine drafts 1 and 2, rewrite to connect them) and afterwards I'll try something I've always wanted to. (Scrivener keeps hinting at it!) I'm gonna split the chapters into scenes, and focus on those individually and how I can just rewrite them and set their purpose in stone<3 I'm excited!

As for the chapter itself, gods, I love the atmosphere. Just the wreckage of a sundered ship, and Madigan’s sudden madman appearance making a lasting impression on Spica, because how could it not. They no longer answer distress calls in that age, it just means more dead bodies. In fact, they're forbidden to. Madigan instead brings him what he himself lacks: hope. And a lot of crawling around while dreading the Beast's lambent eye opening, and oh my, the moments are really flying by😈👏 extreme fun for me as the writer.

Aberration of Light

If you remember, the books follow two timelines, which will connect at some point. The first and main one is Madigan and Spica’s story. The other is Holloway’s, in the distant past of that universe, and who’s been dubbed the most selfish man in existence. That’s important, because of how the Beast came to be. But that becomes important later. For now, a weird-ass new recruit has joined the ship, and the witchy crew will very soon start making bets if she’s the Beast in human flesh, which really wouldn’t bode well for their future.

Night Falls On Their Reflection

Draft 2 became Spica’s draft. It was high time. He didn't exist in the original idea beyond chapter 2, but he refused to die with his story untold. And now he's one of the most independent thinkers I've ever written. Now he's Madigan's son (yes, even at 25), best friend, back-to-back partner all in one, and I could watch the trust and mutual respect between these two forever. To be sure: Madigan comes up with the dumbass plans, and Spica's only too happy to follow him through everything (it is good fun.)

He's repaying the incredible kindness Madigan's shown him when answering his distress call, after all.

But it goes a bit further than that, doesn't it? Madigan is used to watching over myriad people. He's the Superintendent of his planet, and while he genuinely loves people, kindness is his default. It doesn't go further than that for him. He doesn't necessarily think people need, much less desire his presence there beyond Madigan extending help, and most of the time, he's content with that. Kindness does make him happy. And it should be the same with Spica now, shouldn't it? He's kind, but he's not Spica's family, nor ever will be. Yet he immediately feels a connection with the boy, that has nothing to do with bonding over escaping-a-cosmic-disaster. And so does Spica.

This is the moment when Madigan starts feeling guilty, for stepping where he should not. But here's the beauty of Spica's character: he's nothing if not dead sure of his own feelings, and what he sees with his eyes. It's okay if Madigan keeps unexpectedly taking steps back. For very long, there'd been nobody to support Spica's beliefs. So he does the same, as when he followed his heart to go into dead space: he believes in himself and Madigan, and that their paths aren't meant to diverge. They mean too much to each other for that to ever happen.

(In short, and legend says you can still hear me screeching about these two ten thousand years later, I love these two so much, and especially the parallels between Spica going alone into outer space and loving Madigan.)

(And, okay, obviously all these developments don't happen in a single chapter, but I couldn't stop gushing🤭🥰.)

Who Puts These Tombs in Ice

Overall, I think draft 2’s Luitgart performed worse than draft 1. Mainly it's the setting I want to revert (still an icy, sempiternally dark hell, but with different ice constructions) because some of the beats are a huge improvement, and again, I gotta combine the two. Otherwise, I’m still as obsessed about the Luitgart arc as I’ve ever been, and huge thanks to it for being so strong it could function as an ending of its own, allowing me to split the book.

Gettin’ into spoilery territory, but I have to un-kill Madigan so many times it leaves me in hysterics. That was what I was supposed to fix this draft. It got worse. Considerably.

(One constant: the chapter being a love letter to Madigan, and how his first answer will always be to help the other, no matter if they deserve it or not<3 and finally, finally, he gets acknowledged for it, and the favor returned.)

ACT 2

Lemon-Dotted Days + Remnant

Two Holloway chapters! I’m actually massively pleased with how they’ve turned out. Last year, I said the main issue was that I had an outline, and that never works for me. So I did what I do best and rewrote everything from scratch, and the result is both uncanny and… unexpected.

Unexpected, because I never in my life thought Holloway’s voice would make me laugh so much. He’s supposed to be unsympathetic, but then you get his interactions with Saintlark (the new crewmate, possibly Beast) where they’re contemplating the harvest of a nebula, and he’s harshly critical of it, which gives Saintlark hope… only to go deadpan One Moment Later: if they’d used the nebula to prolong their lives instead of bolstering the war, they wouldn’t have died like clown idiots.

And, they could’ve maybe stolen immortality from the nebula. They would've had to share it with him, of course. Or he would've murdered them to get it.

That, my guys, is his personality in a nutshell.

I have a lot of feelings on Holloway now, and most involve me huffing and slapping my forehead while groaning, but oh my gods. Was it ever so fun. And wait, wait, wait. Since I'm talking of humor (apparently a lot of comedy fit into this horror lmfao) I have to show you guys the following section🤣🤣👏:

Corpse Snow

The drifters are set howling on the ice. They share glances, five separate vehicles nodding at each other. Madigan revs up the engine, splitting the air with a jet of steam and vibration.

The last of the marines are climbing into the box. A figure flashes past Madigan’s drifter — and he leans over, teeth grinding because of his ribs, and he does his very best to grab someone by the back of their suit and pull. Workout days were never his strength, though. He only succeeds in stopping them in the frost smoke.

It’s Spica dangling from his hand, expressionless.

Lieutenant Hahn instantly seizes on the situation. He throws Madigan a long, withering look. “Whatcha doing, Boss?” he asks softly, about to unhinge his jaw again.

Madigan nudges Spica into the drifter. “Picking up your boy.”

Spica gets the hint and deposits himself into the front seat, glancing from his father to his Superintendent. He seems to give up on whatever’s going on, and makes himself cozy in the frosty spot. And Madigan, of course, pretends not to notice Hahn’s drifter sliding closer.

“And you didn’t consider I might want to have my son with me?”

Madigan looks up and sighs. “Lieutenant, dear Lieutenant,” he starts pleadingly. “Why won’t you show some leniency to a poor, wounded man?”

Hahn’s drifter stops, summoning a breeze across the icy floor that gently rocks the other vehicle. His breathing distorts the comms with static. “And what exactly is my son right now?”

“My trusty navigator,” Madigan answers easily.

“Sir’s emotional walking stick?” Spica pipes in at the same time.

They both look over. Spica’s quietly turned to the navigation, as serene as daylight, seemingly oblivious to how Madigan's expression changes, lightning-fast. He quickly hides it under the guise of a polite mask, as the marines stir and turn their attention on them. They’re snickering.

Lieutenant Hahn throws up his hands, giving up on everything.

This is also the first 30k chapter I’ve ever written. It's everything I've ever wanted to do with ice.

Heart of the Void

The end of the book. Originally, it was the ending section to Corpse Snow, but since it already got so ungodly long, I chipped off that bit and I have to say I’m very happy with how it works as an epilogue! So it ends the frosty, weary journey, and I can’t see the two books as separate yet, but here we bid goodbye to the first.

Aberration of Sunlight♧♧♧

I did the unthinkable and created a fifth arc. This might not seem like much to you, but I was screaming bloody murder you guys😭😭😭. Sigh. It’s so sigh. For so long, AoS consisted of four clear-cut acts, but it was necessary. With the introduction of Sycamine, and making it two books, it was just needed. It’s still one of the worst things I’ve ever done because I was used to four😃💔

(The chapters continue from where RoaN left off – from chapter 10, to 21.)

ACT 3

Retro Spectrum

Sycamine, oh Sycamine. Definitely the break I needed before Days in Darkness. It made for a really neat beginning. It’s calmer, focusing on the knowledge they have on the Beast. It’s also a reflection on Procyon (their main star) and the story of the two straggler dog constellations, and what they'd been running away from. I liked the direction it took. It veered away from the Beast for a bit, so the tension kept expanding in the background. And when it returns, well... maybe they shouldn't have been so eager to see it again🤭.

It suffers from the same syndrome as draft 1’s first chapter… it’s there in the vicinity of the idea, but too much to the left. Not bad for a first attempt. The setting annoys me – I really don't enjoy writing cities, and AoS didn't change that. So, for our next try, I was thinking... maybe we don't need to be on the planet, but up close and veeery personal with it. It's a secret❤.

And, oh gods. I put a moustache-twirling villain in this. And then I couldn’t stop myself from naming some sucker Sweetman Calories. I don’t know what happened to me during those days, but I’m crying🤣🤣🤣.

Toast to the Light

Holloway and Saintlark’s story is slowly coming to an end. Unexpectedly bleaker than draft 1, yet it feels much more sincere. Holloway has a way of saying everything Saintlark needs to hear. No surprise. They did that to themselves.

Dissonant Recognition

Ahhhh, the Madigan-is-slowly-losing-his-grip-on-reality chapter, or maybe he should really stop staring into the suns. One of my favorites<3 Also because it features Moren (!!!) who has a blast staying in the grey morality area, because she doesn’t know if her actions could ever matter, or if she could change anything. Does she just exist? Is she a player or just pawn? Who knows. Besides that, she gets along great with Spica. They form such a teasing duo, the level of mutual respect they felt for each other on sight was a delight to write. My favorite ally of theirs, even if her destiny lies elsewhere.

Night Beneath the Elevator

Best title hands down, dethroning Solgesis. I’m going batshit crazy about the visuals, it's exactly my thing. This half-light slanted over an elevator waiting in a rundown basement to be boarded. And there's something underneath it, and always has been. Something insidiously creeping up and waving its tendril fingers at you as you're just waiting for the fucking thing to ascend. Immaculate, guys, I'm telling you, and I'm cursing my hands because I can't make a wallpaper of this. I want to eat that atmosphere.

Time-sensitive missions, y'all.

And why the heck did nobody inform me I was going to add Command as an actual character and have them talk with Madigan?! That entire convo, made up entirely on the spot but somehow with a direction, made me realize what an idiot I’d been for not doing it sooner. They mean so much to Madigan, after all.

(And Mariya. So much Mariya in these chapters.)

ACT 4

Loop System

Like Who Puts These Tombs in Ice, draft 1 might’ve done it better. Not Spica and Madigan, though, because of the sheer development Spica’s been through and the dynamic he’s managed to form with the crew. It's different from Madigan’s, but similar enough that it’s got Hahn commenting lightly: [Spica’s] picked up quite a few habits from Madigan, hasn’t he? Almost as if they’ve gotten very very close, huh? How about Madigan tell him more?

(I adore writing Hahn.)

Outreach

Another Holloway chapter. Doesn’t have the punch of the kids subplot from draft 1, but this just makes it worse for Saintlark personally, because, this time, the consequences are on her.

Days in Darkness

I knew the moment I first got the idea this would be my favorite chapter. Well, it finally happened in draft 2: when the entire crew is here, this time, and ready for the final countdown, to relive the experience of being trapped in a ship that's disintegrating. No more heroes left behind. I'd been so tired writing this chapter in draft 1, but this time around it was incredible. Everything went up sharply from here, both in terms of events and how on fire I was.

(Maybe less than the gorgon, but I was.)

ACT 5

Echo Terminal

The first of the two log chapters.

I've never written smoother, more visual chapters than in this period. Days in Darkness changed me so much, I was writing day and night by this point and couldn't get enough. Well, I hit my limit in the second half of the very last chapter, but I am beyond satisfied. Even the Beast's metamorphosis took me by storm, because I'd been wondering what the final verbs, the final images, the final design for it was going to be. I didn't expect it to come to me this early, and with such thrill. Those were my very best days of the year, and I toast to them.

(And I knew it was going to be fantastic when Halo's Warthog Run OST started blaring in my head, with as much adrenaline.)

Where, Now? + Solgesis

My beloved. The second and last of the two log chapters, but it’s Noelle Saintlark’s log.

Holloway’s timeline ends here. Or maybe it just gets carried into the future. I thought I’d want to rewrite his parts again, make the plot just a tiny bit more psychedelic and nonsensical because it’s so close to the Beast… but Solgesis put all my fears to rest. Even the formatting and layout is a bit of that special thing I’ve always wanted to try, and it really changes the perspective of the previous chapters. There's a new confession that stands at the heart of Holloway's stories.

Honestly, the only thing that needs urgent working on is the anger at the end of the chapter.

Anger is so hard for me to write sometimes. Not because I don’t connect with it, but because I feel self-conscious writing it. The wildest I felt it was when I tackled 'quiv's chapter 3 and Imera's Turning speech, both in quick succession (before I'd even written draft 1. I'd been taking notes.) Since then... I just thing back to how keenly I'd felt that anger, and I kind of intimidate myself out of it. Kind of like a natural resistence, I quench it from myself. Which is actually hilarious when you think about it. It’s like I’m going I BANISH THEE FROM MY BRAIN because generally, as a person, I dislike feeling and operating on anger. But no worries. I’m going to find a way around it.

Watch me😎.

What Goes Around…

(Now it’s the time for me to start crying some rivers, and, alright, it won’t be visible so I’ll say it: the chapter titles are holding a conversation, guys. They speak to each other. And sometimes it’s both sides of the same coin, like how What Goes Around (comes around) hints here. If you take two chapters, one from the beginning and one from the end (for example 1 and 21) it'll tell you a little secret. Okay, What Goes Around and Rain Through the Universe communicate through their plot, which I can’t spoil but of course it has to do with Madigan and Spica and how they first meet… but there is one title pair that does it best visibly.

Lemon-Dotted Days and Days in Darkness.

And I hadn’t even planned this. All the parallels I wanted to draw… I feel like they built themselves, guys. They really did, and it makes me so wildly happy I don’t even know how to stop my hands from flailing.

And, with them being 21 chapters, they meet in the middle, on the one unpaired chapter.

Called Toast to the Light.

I friggin’ love everything.

New Sunrise, Forget-Me-Right

Of course, Forget-Me-Right is a play on Scorpion Grass. But it’s also such a gentle name for the chapter, because everything ends here. Lying on their backs, staring out into the universe, and it really, really is over. Just a dark horizon on which stars flare and bloom. And suddenly, that maddened rush to make every sacrifice count, to remember every soul they’ve encountered because the legend says the Beast absorbs you when it kills you – all that suffocating pressure dissipates. Lightness remains. Because they’ve protected each other.

For the first time in my writing journey, blood rushed to my head with such emotion I had to stop writing, which never happens. I had to look up and exclaim, holy fuck. But how could I not, considering how the story ends for the Beast? I am speechless. A lot of gorgeous surprises this draft.

Conclusion□●□

Whew, what a year it's been! As for how 2024 will probably look like, though I don't like making plans: finishing the beta stage for 'quiv, and tackling RoaN and AoS's draft 3. Thaaaat one I'm actually starting on Christmas, when I can (finally!!) reread draft 2 with my mug of hot cocoa (or maybe mulled wine for a change) and, no surprises here, I'm hyper stoked for that<3 <3 <3 I legit can't wait to see where the new draft brings them. I might not have set any expectations for them, but they're vying to keep up with 'quiv and I adore it🤭❤

As for my lovely friends... well, you know by how I spam your tags how much I adore you and wish you happiness forever🤩🥺🥳 I don't know what my activity will look like in the near future, so for now I won't be saying anything, and my semi-hiatus continues. Semi, because you're unforgettable and I crave to see what everyone's been up to and (!!!!) what you've written!

So let's meet in 2024 again, and all the best wishes to you, the reader🥰🥂❤.

#ayearofwriting #2023 #aquiver-aglow #aberration of sunlight

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speedartist-skyliner · 4 months ago

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Happy holidays! Making a drawing and a pixel animation who am I? I don't draw these characters a lot -Talking about Irina Gonshira and Kishin Yakuni.- But I love these guys. They;er Cookie versions are having fun. Cole is showing off the little magic trick she can do by making and lifting a bit of snow.to make some snowfall. The only one out of these I think I know what type of cookie they are is Irina how is a Konpeitō -star candy- cookie. Kishin may be a pop-rock cookie. And Cole is probably a pomegranate cookie that was dyed blue and got a little burnt. And if you wondering how she could have green parts. My family was experimenting with vegetable butter -for fun- and the inside of the cookie we made was green. They tasted the same and they weren't bad.

But they are cute, right? I did my best since I hadn't drawn in this style before. And I don't know a whole lot about Cookie Run, besides some characters that show up on my dash. I hope you guys like this gift for this holiday season.

Kishin/Irina belongs to @shycroissanti

Cole belongs to speedartist-skyliner -Aka me-

#aberration of the elements #Sunlight Force #myart #my art #oc #my friends oc #cookie run #have a happy holday #friends ocs #Demon #demon slayer #demon slayer ocs

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speedartist-skyliner · 2 months ago

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Beautiful. My heart, I love this so much! You did great on Cole and Taffy. I didn't expect that you would draw more than Taffy. I do love Owls. I love a lot of animals and have just been having fun talking to you about them.

How do most pets react to water? Do they love it or hate it? How would they react to Taffy, a water serpent? - It is Cole's pet companion.-

Also, is Caramel a long-eared owl? By the way, to look at a new object, an owl must swivel its head. Owls can rotate their heads to about 270 degrees, offering them a wide range of sight. Unlike other birds' eyes, owl eyes look forward, each eye seeing the same object from two different angles. This means that Caramel is looking at someone, staring into your soul… affectionately~. A group of owls is a parliament. Baby owls are called owlets.

I believe that all pets get along with other pets! But I also believe that the ones who would like Taffy the most are Ebla, Otto, Ikki and Sunny xD

And one other thing, just a silly interaction :D sorry if I messed up a lot in the drawing(〃ﾉωﾉ)

#aberration of the elements #Sunlight Force #Hope everyone likes this treat #friends ocs #Demon #demon slayer #demon slayer ocs #oc #ocs #moots oc #Sunlight Force fanart #Irina Gonshira #artists on tumblr #artwork #traditional art #pets #Cole #my oc

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not-a-space-alien · 3 months ago

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Two Sides of the Same Coin: Chapter 9

Story Masterpost

On AO3 👈👈👈👈👈👈👈👈👈

In this chapter: Astarion meets old friends, new friends...and old enemies.

***

Balance between nature and civilization was kind of a bullshit concept, in Astarion’s opinion, but they were managing to pull it off here. The former shadow-cursed lands had a nice mix of mossy, sturdy buildings and open pastures, orchards and forests intermingling with farmland and gathering places where people sold their wares and children played innocently in the sunlight. Halsin took care of Astarion attentively, making sure he was comfortable in every way anyone could.

It made Astarion sick.

But it was working, so far, to keep him safe. This was probably his best bet.

Astarion sat on the low wall surrounding Halsin’s cottage, enjoying the sunshine. This part was nice, at least. He got to enjoy the sunshine again. Somehow, he could feel it through his cloth skin. Gale really was a miracle worker, not that Astarion would ever admit it.

And down the road, he saw something he’d been dreading: A confrontation with Tav.

A disgusting, throbbing brain trailing a mass of writhing tentacles floated down the cobblestone path. That was the one creature he undoubtedly had no desire to meet, the creature that had used to be his lover, then his friend. Who’d showed him what he needed, then abandoned him.

Maybe what you need is a friend, not a lover.

He'd imagined himself holding that hand forever, until it'd been attached to someone transmogrified into an aberration. The last time they’d talked… He’d told her she was special to him, and he didn’t want to lose her, and she’d been upset of course. She made a grand sacrifice to save the world, and now Astarion was too freaked out to even look at her. She’d told Astarion of course I’m still in here, and Astarion had run away anyway. Like he did for all his problems.

It was hard to tell who felt more horrible about it.

But she wasn't fair to him either.

You didn’t help me with Cazador. You saw me tormented by the idea of my master finding me and bringing me to heel and you didn’t think it worth the time. They’d been pressed for time, of course, but…

But…

Could she really not have taken a few minutes to stop by Cazador’s place? If she loved him? If she was his friend?

Astarion watched the mind flayer hover in his direction, then threw himself off the wall and into the bushes. The mind flayer floated on by, apparently giving him no notice.

Well, he’d just made a fool of himself, then. He wiggled his little legs to try and dislodge himself, but the branches were poking him and holding him steady. “Gods. This damned shrubbery.” He pulled harder and tore his doll shirt. “This damned nature!”

Unbelievable. He’d thrown himself into a prickle bush to avoid Tav and Tav hadn’t even had the decency to find him anyway. And now he was stuck here. For who knows how long, because he’d insisted to Halsin that he was fine being left alone and didn’t need a babysitter.

“Hey, look!”

Speaking of babysitters… One of the many, many annoying children running around this place scuttled on by, noting his little foot sticking out. “What’s this?”

“A doll, I think,” said a second child, and sweet gods above, then a third child spoke: “Is it moving?”

“I’m a cursed doll,” Astarion said. “If you touch me, you’ll die!”

He should have shot for a less easily disproved lie when the child reached out and picked him up by the foot. Well, at least he was out of the bush now. “Put me down!”

“It really is an enchanted doll!”

“Let me see it!”

“Daddy Halsin said-”

Astarion struggled to free himself from their grips as they fought each other. “Damn you all to the Hells!” Was that an insensitive thing to say to tiefling children? “Put me down!”

“We think you had better do as the magic doll says, children.” The children instantly fell still at the voice, the thrumming undertones and the hint of a hiss in every sibilant. Kar’niss’s feet tapped the cobblestone as he advanced on them, head bent low under a sunhat shading his face.

“Daddy Halsin says you can’t hurt us,” one of the children proclaimed, with much less bravery than the statement would seem to suggest.

“Daddy Halsin also says we can play with our toys,” said another, and they all took a step back as Kar’niss reached them, one of his front legs stretching towards them.

That was all he had to do. They dropped Astarion and shrieked, running away at top speed. Kar’niss watched them go, squinting against the light.

Astarion rolled over and brushed the dirt off himself as best as he could. “Gods! I never thought I’d be happy to see you.”

Kar’niss let out a rumbling growl. “We are blessed with good sensibilities,” he said, and Astarion could not tell who he was mad at, if anyone. He reached a clawed hand down. Astarion warily backed away, trying not to look too disgusted.

“Do they want a lift?” Kar’niss said. “Two legs only, and so small, the walk is long and the light is bright.”

Astarion sighed and walked into Kar’niss’s hand. The drider bent back upwards like a weighted bird popping back up from a glass of water. “Where would the little one like to go?”

“...Can we just take a walk? Anywhere but here.” He never thought he’d want to take a walk with such an abomination, but, well… maybe Kar’niss was the only one here who could really understand what he was going through. Having your body modified against your will. Living in darkness for so long.

“If they wish.” Kar’niss started to walk, keeping his eye on the path. “They should be aware our day vision is not very good.”

“I’d noticed. I thought you were all about the light? And keeping the shadows at bay?”

“The light no longer returns our feelings. It has always been a lie.” His forelegs stabbed the ground with irritation, but his callous, clawed hands came up and shielded Astarion delicately. “We protect as best as we can. And we… do not sleep soundly, throughout the day.”

“I don’t blame you. The sunlight is beautiful. I thought I might never see it again. Maybe being like this isn’t all bad.”

“We are exhausted. We boil with worry as soon as we lie down.”

“About what?”

Kar’niss let out a hiss from the sides of his abdomen. “It is not important. Has the little one gotten any closer to breaking his toy curse?”

“You don’t have to call it that.” Astarion just sat there in Kar’niss’s terrifying claws for a few moments, letting himself be carried and swaying slightly. “Your hands are a lot gentler than I expected, to be honest.”

“We can be gentle.” He sounded pissed off about it.

“All right, all right.”

“Master Halsin runs this place, and Master Halsin wants it to be peaceful.”

“Is that so?” It was a new voice, and one Astarion hadn’t expected to hear.

Although maybe he should have. Since Cazador had become the vampire ascendant, he could walk in sunlight now, too, after all.

***

Taglist:

@whumpsday @appelsiinilight @thatonegothlady

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #Astarion #angst #giant/tiny #gt #gianttiny #Halsin #kar'niss

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calchexxis · 10 days ago

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Bleed For Me - Chapter 1

Written for Amestris_Duran. Read on Ao3.

In the sunless city of Artemestra, there are three types of people; the Pure, who were born without the taint of sorcere, and who make up the majority. About eighty-four per cent of the population is designated pure by age thirteen. Then, there are the Aberrant—those cursed with sorcery—although that aberrancy rarely manifests before puberty. They make up roughly twelve per cent of the remaining population, though many are purged before they can fully mature.

The remainder are the Touched.

They are the most blessed and the most cursed. The ones granted gifts by the Watchers On High with which to hunt the aberrant and protect the pure. All children who display the signs are taken to the great Fortress-Cathedral of Saint Ilya, Patron of the Holy Hunt, and are trained to become the finest hunters of monsters and nightmares. They are the holiest of holies, and the noblest souls, for their very flesh is made sacrosanct by the Watchers and by countless hours spent in purification. Each one trains endlessly with their gift, of which thousands have been recorded in the annals of Saint Ilya, to best serve the Papacy of Artemestra.

There are many general names for these gifts; Kenning, Blessing, and Ordainment are among the most commonly used in ritual and amongst the populace of the pure. Among the hunters themselves, though, as well as their supporters, only one name is ever used.

They call it ‘the knack’.

Knacks are studied extensively by clerical scholars of the faith. They are examined, cross-examined, peer-reviewed, and codified so as to best assign their use in the Deviants War that we wage every dawnless night of our lives against the minions of the Vast. Whenever a new knack is discovered, it’s a sign of great good, and of the Watcher’s favor, although it has been over two decades since the last time a truly unique knack was recorded in the annals.

That knack belonged…belongs to Gabriella von Zeidlr, and I have loved her since the day I first laid eyes on her.

I took the corner hard, grinding my heel into the concrete pavement as I bolted down the alley. Greaternight fell heavily in the lesser districts of Artemestra, where the miracles of sunlight enjoyed by the high districts only dimly reached, and the alley was almost pitch black for it. The streets were lit by towering streetlamps of heavy steel, their precious sunstones held within a cage of thrice-blessed silver and gold, but they were few and far between down here, nothing like bright enough to fend off what was chasing me.

The funny thing is, I’m not even really sure why I’m running. In theory, I suppose I could make for one of the gates demarcating the district borders. They’re beastly things of the heaviest metal attached to great clockwork steam engines that lift and drop them at the command of the gate engineers, and are more than enough to hedge out an aberrant. I would have to be very lucky to make it that far, but again, in theory, it was possible.

I’m not running toward the gates. I’m not running anywhere.

I’m just running.

Tears streak down my cheeks as I bolt past the polished windows of backalley shops. Though nothing else of them is clean, the panes are always polished, because it is said that a clear reflection turns back ill will and the sorcery of the aberrant.

All it shows now is the juddering zoetrope of my passage as I sprint. My long red hair flies behind me like the torn pennant of a beaten army, and my lightly armored habit and skirts flare raggedly around my ankles, the hems stained with blood and mud. My lungs are burning with exertion, and the muscles in my legs feel like they’ve been filled with molten lead, but still, I run. It has nothing to do with where I’m running, after all.

I run because she’s chasing me.

I run because it’s the only thing I have left to give her.

There’s a whistle of passing air, and then the dim cut of light at the far end of the alley ahead of me abruptly blackens as a figure lands between me and it. I only get a glimpse of her, but it’s enough to set my heart racing anew. She’s as beautiful as the day I met her. As beautiful as every day that I was blessed to see her thereafter.

Even in the dark, her skin was like pale gold, and her hair fell like straight sheaves of buckwheat over her shoulders and down her back. Her stature was heroic, with broad shoulders, and a lean, sharp jaw, and she was still wearing her hunter’s garb; a tunic of silk stitched with silver prayers, over a long flare skirt slit nearly to the waist, offering sinful flashes of gorgeously muscled thigh and calf. Gabriella’s thigh sheath was bare of its guardless silver athames, lost in her last battle, but still…

Morning, bless me, but she is as beautiful as the day she died.

“Oh, Mirabelle.” Her voice was the same husky rasp as ever. The voice of someone leaning in close, breath hot on your ear, to tell you a secret. “Where are you running to?”

I throw my shoulder against the door to my immediate left and bash it open, barreling into the building—an old, abandoned hostel—because it is my only other route besides turning my back on her and retreating. I’ve never turned my back on Gabriella von Zeidlr in my life, and won’t do so now.

Her laughter follows me down the hall, and despite myself, I smile. Every inch of my body is slick with sweat as I hit the stairs and take them two at a time. In my single glimpse of her, limned in the dim light of the alley, I saw her as I knew her in sunnier days, and in all respects save for one, she was the same as ever I remembered her. The Gabriella I have had the great honor to fight beside, to support, and to heal at the end of her missions, had always possessed eyes of the most fervent emerald green.

The Gabriella chasing me has eyes the color of blood.

It occurs to me as I take another turn into an empty hall that the word ‘chase’ doesn’t really do justice to what Gabriella is doing. Chase implies, in my own mind, some measure of equal footing, although I’ll admit that may be my own linguistic biases showing themselves. Rather, I will call what Gabriella is doing now ‘pursuit’.

The aberrant has touched her, and she is no longer the hunter that I knew. Now, she is the predator and I am the prey that she pursues. I am the mouthful of meat and blood that will sate her when she finally catches me, and she will catch me at her leisure, not mine. I know that no matter how far or how fast I run, I won’t escape. I know that she could catch me at any time, were she to truly try.

Instead, she pursues me patiently. She lets me tire myself out, wear myself down, and only once I have collapsed onto the floor, panting and gasping for breath, unable to do more than swat ineffectually at her claws, will she fall upon me. I’m not sure what it says about me that the thought of that makes me smile all the wider. Nothing good, I’m sure. I don’t care, though. I no longer care for the doctrines beaten into me since my girlhood, nor do I care for the imprecations of the priests or their condemnations. The day that Gabriella von Zeidlr died, I lost my mind, and now I am fleeing her pursuit for the last time because it is the only way that I can show her my love anymore.

I take turns blind, sprint up stairs, but no matter how far I go or how quickly I move, I cannot escape the sound of her laughter. Every moment, I swear I can feel her breath on my neck and her teeth scraping the skin just beneath my ear, but when I cast my gaze back, the hall behind me is empty. She haunts me now much as she ever did.

But all pursuit comes, eventually, to its timely—or untimely—end.

The last hall I turn down is a dead end, but I keep running. I run for the room at the end of the hall and throw myself against the door. It holds fast, sturdy despite its age, and I stagger back, pull the pneumatic pistol from the holster at my hip, and blow the lock to splinters. The silversteel stake fired from the barrel buries itself in the floor beyond the door that I kick open, and there, at the far end of the room, is a window.

I don’t remember how many stories up we are, but at this point, I don’t think it matters, so I run for the window, and I don’t slow down. I run, jump, and curl into a ball with my arms and legs guarding my vitals as I throw myself at it.

But my reflection is not what greets me in those half-polished panes.

Perhaps I should mention now what Gabriella von Zeildrs ‘knack’ was that made her so terribly dangerous. It gave her eyes where no eyes should be, and doors and windows where no one ought to be able to reasonably reach. Every reflective surface, which was said to be a shield against the touch of sorcere, became, for Gabriella, a gateway.

In the annals, it is called: Mirrormere.

A pale hand, whose fingers taper to delicate claws, emerges from the wide window pane to catch me fast by the throat. Her grip is like iron, and I choke as my momentum comes to a crushing halt. My vision swims, and I flail helplessly against the corded muscles of her arm, but to no avail. The glass ripples like water, and beyond it, I can see not the alley that should be past the window, but instead the distorted image of Gabriella, with her eyes of arterial red meeting mine.

She drifts through her glass gateway like a wraith, suspended in the air by some unearthly will. I am worn to the bone; my red hair hangs lank and matted to my face and shoulders with sweat, I grip her wrist with no strength in my fingers, and I can barely muster the energy to kick my legs at her as she emerges fully into the empty room.

And then she smiles at me, and tears cut tracks through the dust on my cheeks as I see the predator glint in her eyes and the flash of dim light off of her bone-pale fangs.

“Caught you.” Even in the dimness of greaternight, there is something luminous about Gabriella as she carries me across the room, suspended above the floor like a puppet.

Something that stirs a primal warmth in my belly.

I throw a kick at her abdomen anyway. I won’t give up. I won’t let whatever is left of my Gabriella see me roll over and die, even though that’s exactly why I’m here with her. Maybe it’s madness, but I cannot live without my Gabriella. I will not live without my Gabriella. It matters not that I didn’t tell her the truth when it could have meant something—that I only ever dared to show my love for her in the polished shine of her weapons and the careful stitching of her armor and garment wards. It matters not that the only time I allowed myself to touch her bare skin was to wipe away the blood from her wounds and suture them closed, when all I wanted was to kiss each scar on her body until I reached her lips.

I showed my love for her in all of those ways and more.

Now, I show it one last time in this game of cat and mouse.

“Mirabelle…” Gabriella’s voice is a husky purr as she says my name. “Why did you have to come back?” I swear I can hear a hint of her old voice in there. Something almost like grief colored with exultation. “Why did you have to tempt me again?”

I work my jaw soundlessly, trying to speak around a closed throat.

She continues to drift forward, carried by whatever unseen will has untethered her from the laws of gravity, until my back is pressed against the wall. I kick again. I scratch and claw and fight with all my fading strength, and Gabriella just watches, smiling beatifically as I drag red lines on the skin of her hand and rest, land my knee against her gut, and kick at her knees, until I quite literally can more no more, and only then does she accept the kiss of terra firm once more.

She lowers down until her bootsoles settle softly onto the creaking floorboards, then continues to lower herself, bending at the knee and letting me slide down until I’m seated and slumped against the wall. Her grip loosens, then pulls away, leaving a palm-shaped bruise on my throat, and I gasp for air as she takes my chin between a finger and thumb.

“Mirabelle.” Her voice is a rosy whisper as her eyes start to glow from within, going from red to luminous scarlet. “My darling Mirabelle…you’ve always taken such good care of me.” Gabriella presses the pad of her thumb to my lips. “Let me make your death sweet.”

I kiss the soft skin she offers me. It’s all I have left in me. She smiles all the brighter at that. Her hand falls to the hem of my skirts and lifts them, pushing them past my knees as she reaches between my legs. I shiver as I feel Gabriella push my soaked underthings aside, and I don’t miss the way her smile widens further when she feels the state of me. I am not ashamed anymore, though. I’m not ashamed of the way I used to muffle my voice at night as I cried out her name while I pleasured myself, nor of how I let my eyes linger on her in the baths, or how my hands would rest on her longer than necessary when I was tending her wounds.

“That’s my girl,” Gabriella murmured as one finger—then two—slipped inside of me, and one arm looped around my back to cradle me against her. “That’s my Mirabelle.”

Another shiver rolled through me as I leaned against her and tried to pretend that she still smelled of sandalwood and blade oil, and not like a butcher’s shop. “I’m sorry, Gabby,” I choked out even as I rocked my hips against her fingers. “I sh-should have been with you…should have—”

“Ssshhh…” Gabriella nuzzled against my neck, then lolled out her tongue and ran it up my neck and over my cheek, lapping up the trickle of tears that were left there before moving her lips to the lobe of my ear and whispering, “You’ve never done anything wrong in your life, my Mirabelle.” She curled her fingers and pressed the pad of her thumb to my clit, dragging a ragged cry of pleasure from my lips. “You’re sweet and darling, and perfect in every way, and I have thought so since that day I laid eyes upon you, and every night thereafter. Don’t you know that every hunt was not to protect this blighted city, but to protect you and you alone? For you? My raison d'etre?”

Gabriella’s fingers find new and pleasing places that even my own had never touched. I wonder if it’s because she knows and has known me so well for so long, or if it's simply because she is the one touching me. Her cool skin soothes the fire inside me, even as it coaxes more lewd sounds from my throat. I don’t even try to hide it. I don’t try to muffle myself anymore. I spread my legs further, giving her more space, and mumble her name over and over as she draws back to stare lovingly into my eyes.

I can see her there.

My Gabriella.

I can see her behind the predator she has become. I can see her horror and her guilt and her hatred at what she’s doing and what she’s become. I can see the raw revulsion in her, and I know that she would end herself before harming me if only she could. But the aberrant has taken her, chewed her up, and regurgitated this monstrosity shaped like Gabriella von Zeidlr, and now there is nothing like enough mortal left in her to stop herself.

Oh, blessed morning. She looks so hungry.

I will never have my Gabriella back, but I can still take such good care of her. So I roll my hips and throw back my head, I moan her name and let her see the wanton creature I become every night after I part ways from her. I let her see, in my eyes, her own reflection of that noble huntress; with her gold hair caught in the darkling winds of greaternight, framed by the moon, and flashing like an orphan strip of morning. I let her see, in me, how I would kneel at the altar of holy morning each night that she hunted and pray fervently for her return until either she came to fetch me—bloodied and victorious—or til I collapsed from exhaustion and hunger, as I did the night she died.

Her jaw is hanging open as she grips my waist and starts fingering me with a greater tempo and lust. Her eyes are practically coals, now; burning with need and hunger, and I watch saliva pool at her lips and teeth to drip down her chin as her eyes track away from mine to fixate on my neck.

Then she curls her fingers one more time, pressing against some rough, sensitive spot inside of me, and I cum with a ragged cry. I feel myself spill over her hand, soaking my skirt and thighs, and in that instant of deafening pleasure, her jaw unhinges and she lunges for my neck.

And stops.

I look down at her, waiting for the pinch of pain that will herald my death, and instead find her jaw locked around neck, but stopping just shy of piercing the skin. Gabriella’s fangs are pressing firmly, indenting the flesh beneath them withing breaking it, and I know that just a little more will be my end. The moment she tastes my blood, whatever fragmentary will remains to her will dissolve like candy floss in the rain, and I will die.

“Don’t grieve for me,” I whisper as I watch blood spill from her eyes like tears. “For without you, I am already dead.”

And I turn my head, baring my neck further, and driving her fangs just slightly into my own flesh.

The moment my blood wells from the pinprick wounds and touches her tongue, Gabriella tackles me to the ground, pushing me to floor as she bites hard on my throat. I cry out, half in pain and half in pleasure as she begins to drink deeply, and at the same time her fingers continue to work inside me. I clutch at her feebly, no longer fighting, as I stare up at the window that looks out and up into the skies of above sunless Artemestra, and as my body grows cold, I climax again to my Gabriella’s fingers.

It’s the last thing I feel as this lightless world fades away.

#original fiction #dark fantasy #dark romantasy #dark romance #vampires #love and death #the inherent eroticism of dying by the hand of your vampiric lesbian situationship

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