#carved from light and shadow alike

[shisasan]

MARINA EEЯRIE | Sacred dress

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 1

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

notes; Yo everyone, I'm back with another fanfiction featuring our lovely Shadow Singer. Hope you all like it <3 Just a small reminder: English isn’t my first language, so I’ve tried my best. Enjoy the first chapter!

next

The dusk sky draped the House of Wind in soft shades of lavender and rose, its tall windows open to the gentle, jasmine-scented breeze of Velaris below. Rhysand’s office, spacious but not ostentatious, offered a panoramic view of the starlit city, where lanterns were beginning to glow and laughter drifted upward like a distant, cheerful hum. The high shelves, carved of dark wood, were lined with neat rows of books and rolled charts, their parchment edges softened by centuries of use. A low-burning lamp cast warm light over a desk scattered with papers, quills, and a half-filled inkpot.

Madja stood near the window with Rhys, both of them watching as wings and shadows moved quietly through the city’s streets below. The old healer’s posture was poised despite her age; her long, silver-streaked hair was bound in a simple braid. Time had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth—soft marks of the centuries she’d spent mending flesh and bone, soothing pain, and whispering encouragement into the darkest hours of countless lives.

Rhysand kept his gaze on the vista beyond the glass, arms folded casually, the glow of faelight catching in his violet eyes. He knew Madja had come here for something particular. She wasn’t one to linger unnecessarily, nor did she shy from speaking her mind. The hush in the room was comfortable, respectful of the weight of the moment.

Madja cleared her throat softly, her voice as calm and steady as it had been through all the emergencies and late-night visits to the healing rooms. “Rhysand,” she began, her tone gentle yet determined, “I need to speak with you about a matter of some importance to me.”

Rhys turned his head slightly, giving her his full attention. “Of course,” he said, voice low and reassuring. “What’s on your mind?”

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, as though considering each word carefully. “I’ve served this court for a very long time. Longer than many remember—tending to soldiers, midwives, children, courtiers, High Lords and Ladies alike.” Her gaze drifted toward the city lights, as if recalling memories that danced among those glowing streets. “It’s been my honor and my purpose.”

Rhysand inclined his head, respect and gratitude shining in his eyes. “We owe you more than can ever be repaid, Madja. Your skill, your kindness... You’ve saved so many of us in ways we cannot count.”

She offered a small, affectionate smile. “I know my role has mattered. But Rhys,” she paused, and the name alone carried a lifetime of familiarity that few could claim with him, “I find that my hands are not as steady as they once were. My eyes grow weary by candlelight. My back aches after hours bent over the injured.”

A slight breeze stirred the curtains, and the scent of night-blooming flowers drifted in, a gentle reminder of how time moved ever forward. Rhysand said nothing yet, allowing her the space to say what she must.

Madja continued softly, “I believe it’s time for me to step back. To retire from my duties as the court’s primary healer.” She turned to face him fully, shoulders squared, but her gaze kind and open. “I’ve trained many capable healers over the years. The work will continue. The Night Court does not lack for talent or compassion.”

Rhysand exhaled quietly, pressing his lips into a thoughtful line. The notion of Madja not being there—her swift and sure presence absent from their healing wards—seemed strange. She had always been a constant, a quiet pillar in the court’s foundation. But he would not deny her what she deserved.

“Are you certain?” he asked gently, voice low enough that it felt like they were confiding secrets rather than discussing court affairs. “If you wish fewer hours, or only to train the younger healers, we can arrange that.”

Madja shook her head, a decisive yet kind gesture. “No, Rhys. I’ve thought this through. I’m old, my friend. Old, even by our standards.” A hint of dry humor touched her tone. “My future lies in rest, in tending a garden rather than wounded flesh. I wish to spend whatever years remain in quiet peace, perhaps in a small cottage overlooking a meadow or stream.”

In the quiet that followed, Rhysand reached out to gently clasp her hand, the gesture sincere. “We’ll ensure you have all you need. A place of comfort, security—whatever you desire. And know that you will always be welcome in these halls, never forgotten.”

Madja squeezed his hand, gratitude and affection shining in her eyes. “I expected nothing less. You have all grown into fine leaders, fine friends. It eases my heart to know I leave the court in good hands.”

Rhysand released Madja’s hand gently, taking in her decision with thoughtful acceptance. The room felt quieter, a hush that allowed them both to measure the weight of this change. He crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk, considering how best to carry out her retirement. There would need to be someone to fill her role—someone skilled, empathetic, and unshakably capable of handling whatever the Night Court might face.

“Have you thought about who might take your place?” Rhys asked softly, meeting her steady gaze. “I can’t imagine you leaving us without a successor in mind.”

A hint of pride lit Madja’s eyes, a spark of confidence in the future she was preparing to leave behind. “Of course I have. You know me better than that, Rhys. I would never abandon my post without ensuring someone could step into it seamlessly.”

Rhys inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if he had expected nothing less. “And who have you chosen?”

Madja’s grip on the windowsill tightened slightly, not in apprehension, but in anticipation of sharing something long-cherished. “I have someone perfect in mind. A child of the Night Court—an orphan of the first war against Hybern, in fact. I took her under my wing when she was very young, taught her the basics of healing and care.”

Rhysand’s brows rose, curiosity piqued. He could not recall all the children Madja had trained personally, centuries and centuries blending faces and names into a kind tapestry of service. “Who might this be?”

“Y/N,” Madja said, voice warm with fondness. “You may remember her. She was quiet but determined, always studying late into the night, always asking how to ease pain more efficiently or mend a broken bone with fewer scars. A true healer’s heart.” She paused, letting the memory breathe life into the silence. “A few centuries ago, she left the Night Court to travel among the other courts and even beyond Prythian’s borders—visiting unknown continents, I believe. All to deepen her knowledge and hone her healing skills.”

Rhysand searched his memories, vague images surfacing: a young, focused individual hovering near Madja’s side, attentive as a student could be. He had been too busy with rebuilding and healing wounds on a much larger scale then, but he remembered the name faintly, the glimpses of a dedicated figure slipping through the halls.

Madja continued, “I reached out to her a few months ago, requested her return. I told her of my plans, that I would soon step down and that I wanted her to take my place. She agreed. She should be arriving any day now, if my calculations are correct.”

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully, pressing his fingertips together. “So Y/N will take on your mantle,” he said quietly, more to himself than Madja. “If you trust her, then I will welcome her home with open arms. I know the court will benefit from such devotion and training.”

Madja’s smile deepened, an affectionate and proud curve of her lips. “She will do well, Rhys. She’s grown into a capable healer—perhaps even more skilled than I. She brings with her new techniques and knowledge from lands we can barely imagine. It is only fitting that someone so dedicated should stand where I once stood.”

Outside, the city’s laughter and murmurs drifted into the room. Rhysand and Madja stood in quiet agreement. As one chapter closed gently, another prepared to open. The Night Court, always at the crossroads of past and future, would soon meet the one who would continue its legacy of healing and mercy.

The winter air carried a quiet hush as you approached the gates of Velaris. The land slumbered under a light blanket of snow, crystals glittering like tiny fallen stars beneath the moonlight. It had been centuries since you’d last seen this city, and now each lantern-lit arch, each faint silhouette of distant rooftops, stirred memories long tucked away. The cold breeze nipped at your cheeks, but you were well-prepared: a heavy, fur-lined cape draped over your shoulders, its generous folds keeping out the chill. Beneath it, your traveling garb—leather boots crusted with frost, worn gloves, and trousers meant for long rides—hinted at the countless roads you had trodden in your self-imposed exile.

Your horse’s breath plumed in the crisp air, its dark coat standing out starkly against the snowy ground. Every hoof-fall was muffled by that thin layer of powder, giving the night an even gentler hush. Above you, the eagle circled again, a lone sentinel under a sky brushed with starlight and the faint glow of a crescent moon. It cried softly, its voice echoing in the stillness, as if announcing your return.

Velaris—once the place of your youth, where you learned the first steps of healing under Madja’s patient eye—felt both familiar and strange. You had wandered distant courts, continents with different climates and creatures, honing your craft and expanding your knowledge. Yet here, now, the curve of a familiar street corner, the warm glow of lamplight on old stone, tugged at your heart. It was nostalgia mingled with quiet apprehension, the weight of centuries settling gently on your shoulders. Back then, you had left as a young apprentice, uncertain and hungry for wisdom. Tonight, you returned as a seasoned healer, with secrets and skills gleaned from every corner of Prythian and beyond.

At the gate, a couple of sentries wrapped in thick cloaks watched your approach. The lanterns beside them radiated a comforting warmth against the frosty night. They noted your horse’s slow pace, your cape embroidered subtly with practical patterns, the saddlebags heavy with bandages, tonics, and texts. They glanced upward at the eagle, curious, but found no threat in this silent dance of traveler and guardian.

One guard stepped forward, voice muted yet carried easily through the still air. “Late traveler,” he said, respectful but cautious, “state your name and purpose.”

You drew the reins gently, bringing the horse to a stop, your dark mount stamping once on the snowy ground. A faint smile touched your lips as you pushed back your hood, exposing features sharpened by experience, softened by understanding. Even now, the cold flushed your cheeks slightly, and a strand of white hair slipped free, catching the moonlight.

“I am Y/N,” you said, your voice steady and warm, echoing with an old familiarity. “A healer returning to the Night Court. I believe I am expected.”

The guards exchanged a glance—this name carried weight, a quiet rumor of a healer summoned home by Madja herself. They stepped aside, allowing you entry, no further questions needed. Beyond them lay Velaris, blanketed softly in winter’s hush. You remembered it bustling with life in greener times, but even now, beneath the snow and distant laughter, you felt the city’s heart welcoming you home.

With a gentle press of your heel, you urged your horse onward. The eagle’s shadow passed over the gate, and then it soared above the rooftops, perhaps to find its own perch. A familiar scent drifted through the crisp night air—something like cinnamon and distant hearth fires. You took it in, remembering quiet evenings of study and healing in warm, lamplit rooms.

You had left as a student, eager and uncertain. You returned a master of your craft, ready to shoulder the responsibilities your old mentor had chosen for you. The quiet crunch of hooves in snow was the only sound as you entered Velaris, a place you had not seen in a hundred lifetimes, yet still knew in your bones.

As soon as you passed through the gates, you swung your leg over the horse’s side and dismounted with a practiced ease. The animal, sensing your familiarity, snorted softly, its breath making small clouds in the winter air. The snow crunched beneath your boots as you took the saddle in hand, leading your horse forward at a leisurely pace. A few onlookers spared curious glances—travelers weren’t uncommon in Velaris, but your arrival at this late hour and in these quiet conditions drew subdued interest.

You let your gaze drift, taking in the sights around you. Velaris had always been a jewel among cities, but under the moon and dusting of snow, it gleamed with a serene kind of splendor. Buildings of carved stone and elegant wood bore soft, golden lights that spilled onto cobblestone streets. The scent of fresh bread and distant hearth fires mingled with the crispness of winter. You noted subtle changes—new sculptures in gardens, fresh murals adorning certain walls, the hum of gentle magic woven into everyday corners. It had grown even lovelier with time.

You had heard the tales, even far away on foreign shores: the once-hidden city revealed to the world, the ferocious attack it had endured, and the grand victory that followed. Rumors traveled quickly among healers and traders, and from what you gathered, Velaris had suffered but risen stronger, its spirit unbroken. The idea that your old home, once so secretive, had been thrust onto the world stage still left an odd taste in your mouth. You’d never imagined such an outcome all those centuries ago.

And Rhysand—when you’d left, he’d only just ascended as High Lord after his father’s passing. You remembered him as calm, shrewd, haunted by new responsibilities thrust upon him too young. Now, you’d learned that he had reigned through wars and alliances, reshaping the Night Court into something more open, more formidable. Most astonishing of all was the whisper that a High Lady stood beside him, equal in power and rank. Such a thing had been unthinkable in the old days, when tradition and suspicion ruled the courts.

You ran a hand along the horse’s neck, both reassuring it and steadying yourself. Time had flowed like a great river, carving new courses in this land you once knew. The Night Court wasn’t just shadows and silence anymore—if anything, it hummed with a brighter, more inclusive magic.

A small smile tugged at your lips, though touched by nostalgia. You wondered if you would still recognize old acquaintances, if any remained. Madja, of course, you would know. She was the reason you had returned. But what about the healers who trained alongside you, or the courtiers who once sought your help for quiet fevers and twisted ankles?

Your breath fogged in the cold as you carried your saddle and led the horse onward into the velvety night of Velaris. In that soft hush, surrounded by lamplight and murmuring streets, you acknowledged what had been and what now was. A thousand changes had come to pass while you walked distant roads, yet here you were again—a piece of the past stepping into the present, ready to adapt and serve once more.

With a gentle tug on the reins, you guided your horse through Velaris’ winding streets until you reached a small inn known for accommodating travelers with mounts. The sign outside bore simple script and a painted image of a horse’s head, letting you know this was a place that catered to riders who needed both rest and a safe spot for their companions. A narrow stable area hugged one side of the building, the wooden stalls visible through an open arch, and the soft whicker of other horses drifted out into the cold night.

You tied your horse securely at a hitching post near the stable entrance, giving it a few soft strokes along its neck and murmuring quiet words of reassurance. The inn’s lights glowed warmly through its windows, promising respite from the chill outside. Carrying only what you needed for the night—your saddle and a small bag slung over your shoulder—you stepped up onto the worn threshold.

Inside, the inn’s atmosphere enveloped you like a comforting blanket. The interior was modest yet inviting, with low ceilings supported by dark wooden beams that lent the space a cozy, intimate feel. A large hearth crackled at one end, its firelight dancing across the polished floorboards and simple, sturdy tables. The scent of mulled wine and hearty stew drifted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of old wood and woolen fabrics. A few patrons sat scattered around, some nursing tankards, others finishing quiet meals, their murmured conversations melding into a pleasant hum.

Lamps hung at intervals along the walls, their warm glow illuminating the simple artwork—landscapes of rolling hills and starry skies, scenes that might be familiar to travelers who came and went. A rack near the door held thick cloaks and traveling staffs, and straw mats by the hearth encouraged weary wanderers to warm their feet by the flames.

Approaching the small counter near the fire, you found a stout figure in an apron waiting, brows lifting slightly at your approach. The innkeeper—a middle-aged fae with kind eyes and a no-nonsense posture—took in your travel-worn attire and the faint smell of stable hay clinging to your clothes without judgment.

“I need a room for the night,” you said, voice low but clear. You placed a few coins on the counter, enough to cover lodging and a decent meal. “And a safe place for my horse,” you added, gesturing out the door with a tilt of your head.

The innkeeper nodded, pocketing the coins and scribbling a note in a ledger. “You’ve chosen the right place, traveler. We’ve a stable hand on duty tonight, and plenty of hay and water for your mount. I’ll have your belongings sent up to your room—top of the stairs, second door on the right. Will you be needing dinner?”

The gentle crackle of the hearth made you realize how hungry you were. “Yes, please. Something hot.” The tension of your long journey began to ease as you spoke. Soon, you would have a warm meal and a quiet room, a moment to gather your thoughts before facing the days to come in Velaris.

The innkeeper nodded again. “We’ll have stew and bread ready for you in a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”

You thanked them quietly and made your way toward a table near the fire. Settling down, you let the warmth seep into your bones. Outside, the snow continued to fall lightly, dusting the night-silenced streets. Inside, the inn’s modest comfort wrapped around you, a gentle reminder that, for all the changes beyond these walls, solace could still be found in simple things: a crackling fire, a hot meal, and a secure place to rest.

You thanked the inn’s attendant who brought your things upstairs—your saddle and bag neatly placed in one corner, your personal items laid out on a small bench. As soon as the door closed, you set about making yourself comfortable. The tiny room was modest but cozy: a single bed with a thick quilt, a wooden chest for your belongings, and a narrow door that led to a private washroom. The lamp on the bedside table glowed softly, illuminating rough-hewn beams overhead and the simple woven rug underfoot.

The bath you drew was warm and fragrant, a rare luxury after so many months on the road. You sighed as the hot water embraced your tired muscles, steam rising to blur the edges of the lamplight. Every ache and tension slipped away, replaced by a gentle calm. You lingered there longer than you intended, letting the warmth and quiet stillness soothe the raw edges of your journey.

Eventually, you stepped out, drying off with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender. Pulling on more comfortable clothes—soft trousers, a loose tunic, and thick socks—you immediately felt lighter, more at ease. Settling into the single chair at the small desk, you opened your sketchbook. The pages bore neat sketches of rare herbs, diagrams of organs and nerve clusters, annotations in your own careful handwriting describing remedies learned in distant courts. You added a few more notes now, clarifying a technique you’d picked up in the Winter Court for combating frostbite injuries—how their healers used crushed frost lily petals to reduce swelling.

You’d barely finished jotting down a final sentence when a gentle knock sounded at the door. Crossing the tiny space in a few strides, you opened it to find the innkeeper’s assistant holding a tray. The rich aroma of stew—savory and warm—wafted into your room. You offered a quiet thanks, voice hushed as if not to disturb the hush of the night. The assistant nodded politely and retreated, footsteps receding down the hallway.

Placing the tray on a small round table by the window, you pulled up the chair. The stew steamed before you—thick and hearty, with chunks of root vegetables, tender meat, and herbs that reminded you of home. Next to it was a small loaf of crusty bread and a pat of butter, already soft enough to spread easily.

As you dipped your spoon and brought the first mouthful to your lips, the flavors bloomed across your tongue—rich, comforting, and exactly what you needed. Your gaze drifted past the rim of the bowl to the window. Beyond the glass, the Sidra River shimmered softly under starlight. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the night, catching in the glow of distant lanterns. Across the water, the Rainbow—Velaris’s famed artistic district—was lit with gentle hues, colors blending seamlessly into the darkness.

The scene was a masterpiece of tranquility: the star-flecked sky, the quiet city, the snow falling softly as if trying not to wake the world. You savored another spoonful of stew and leaned back, allowing the moment to settle around you. Here you were, in a city you’d left centuries ago, come home to take up a mantle left by your old mentor. So much had changed and yet this moment—warm meal, quiet window, gentle snow—reminded you why you returned. Comfort, safety, purpose, and memory woven together in a tapestry of starlit peace.

You finished the last of your meal, wiped the bowl clean with a piece of bread, and gently pushed the tray aside. The steady warmth of the stew had settled in your stomach, making your limbs feel pleasantly heavy. Outside, the snow continued its quiet descent, dusting the rooftops and the narrow streets with sparkling powder. The lamplight in your room seemed softer now, the hush of the winter night wrapping around you like a familiar old cloak.

Rising from the small chair, you crossed the room and extinguished the lamp on the bedside table. Only moonlight and the reflection from the snow-blanketed city remained, sending faint silver shapes dancing along the floorboards. You slipped beneath the quilt, the scent of wool and lavender drifting from the linens. The mattress gave slightly under your weight, a gentle cradle after so many hard beds and forest floors.

Your thoughts drifted naturally to the meeting you’d have the next day. Madja’s voice echoed faintly in your memory—her gentle, steady guidance so many years ago. Tomorrow, you would see her again, no longer as a wide-eyed apprentice, but as a seasoned healer returning to take up her mantle. The idea hummed softly through your mind, a mixture of anticipation and a quiet, nervous pride.

The distant murmur of Velaris lulled you: the soft creak of settling beams, the whisper of the Sidra’s current, the faint call of a night bird. Within moments, the fatigue of long travel and the comfort of a true bed smoothed away the edges of wakefulness. Your eyelids grew heavy and closed, shutting out the gentle glow of stars and snow.

Wrapped in warmth and memory, you drifted into sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would begin a new chapter—one you were finally ready to embrace.

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[snail-day]

About to head to a pole dancing class with the girlies and it got me thinking. Strip club owner!Sukuna thinking.

Thinking about how he’d catch you practicing after hours, stage lights casting long shadows over the velvet walls, the scent of smoke and something sweet lingering in the air. He’s leaned back in the corner, beefy, inked arms spread over the back of a plush booth, legs spread wide open, a strain in his slacks. Red eyes watching over you, half-lidded, framed by messy, picked tinted lashes and marked skin that looks like it was carved by gods and sins alike.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” he’d say eventually, voice gravel-warm and soaked in amusement.

He doesn’t get up. Just crooks a tattooed finger. “Come here.”

And when you climb into his lap, your knees brushing the cool leather, his palm meets your waist, calloused and warm. His thumb rubs slow circles against your skin as he murmurs, “Relax.” Then, guiding. Rolling. Each rock of your hips is coaxed from you, not forced - dragged from somewhere deeper, slower, needier.

“Yeah,” he mutters, smoke curling past his lips as his red eyes drag down your body, lingering on the way you tremble just slightly against him. “Now you’re starting to feel it.”

The hard line of him presses against your core, clothed but unmistakable. But he doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t thrust or grab. Just lets you move - grind - drag across him until your breath stutters and your rhythm falters.

His other hand slides up your back, fingers tracing the dip of your spine, catching lightly at the hem of your top. His rings are cool against your skin. His voice is even cooler when he speaks again.

“You’re too damn sweet for this kind of job,” he mutters, almost like a confession. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

But his eyes flick back up to yours, lips parted around the cigarette still burning slow between his fingers.

And his hand never leaves your hip. As he coaxes you to continue like the good girl you are.

[iheartmira]

Hallo! To make it simple May I request a Shadow milk or Mystic Flour Cookie x Sibling Reader who looks nothing alike?

Basically, in the past, the reader and Mystic or Shadow used to be close to eachother, but They had to watch the reader be taken from them when the beasts were sealed away. So now in the Persent where they with Gingerbrave & Friends or Dark Choco and the other Mystic/Shadow realizes it was their sibling and get somewhat mad at the cookies for putting their subling in danger before reunioning with them again after dealing with the others

In all, it's just Angst to fluff, Thank you and Have a good day/night!

"the reflection i lost" shadow milk & sibling!reader

✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

he remembered you.

not in fragments or dreams, but vividly, painfully, like a wound that never scabbed over.

you had looked just like him once. a perfect match. two halves of the same spell, created from the same dough and carved by the same magic. your laughter had echoed alongside his in golden halls long before the truth soured and the world turned on its champions. before he became the villain.

before they tore him away. before he watched you vanish behind blinding light as the seal snapped shut.

shadow milk cookie had lost many things over the ages: his place, his power, his name. but losing you was the one that never stopped hurting.

he didn’t recognize you at first when you stood among the others. too different. too unfamiliar.

your dough was brighter, your aura calm. your clothing, while elegant and strong, carried none of the flair he once draped you in. you had lost the shadow in your gaze, the chaos in your step. but there was something in your eyes, quiet, watchful, that made his stomach twist in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries.

and then you spoke. just his name.

"…shadow milk?"

his mismatched eyes widened, pupils shrinking, the swirling chaos of his shadows stilling mid-performance. he froze in the middle of his theatrical flourish, staring at you like you were the only thing left in the world that mattered.

"you," he breathed. "you’re here."

the other cookies tensed. gingerbrave stepped forward, ready to fight. "shadow milk cookie… step away! you’ve caused enough chaos!"

chaos? chaos was nothing compared to what surged in his chest right then. he snapped his head toward the group, a sneer twisting his mouth.

"you dare," he hissed, voice layered like echoing mirrors. "you paraded them around like some pet soldier while i rotted in the dark!"

pure vanilla cookie stood at your side protectively, hand on his staff. "they chose their path. as did you."

"and what path was that, hmm?" shadow milk cookie barked out a laugh that cracked the air like glass. "to be abandoned? sealed? forgotten while my sibling stood at your side?"

you stepped forward then. "stop," you said softly. "please." and just like that… he stopped.

you stood between him and your friends, your arms slightly raised. not out of fear. not out of weakness. but out of recognition. out of love. your voice trembled. "i thought you were gone. for so long." his shadows shimmered, flickering like stage lights behind him. he took a hesitant step forward, arms lowered, his jester-like posture breaking. "and i thought they took you from me."

"i stayed," you said. "because i didn’t know where else to go. because i didn’t remember everything… not until now."

his eyes softened, just barely.

"then come," he said, voice lower now, less a taunt and more a plea. "come with me. away from this stage of fools. let us write our own act."

the others began to protest. you raised a hand to silence them.

your voice cracked. "let me say goodbye."

and to their surprise, shadow milk cookie waited.

the walk away from the others was quiet. when you were far enough into the shadows of the forest, you turned to face him fully. you reached up, brushing your fingers across his sleeve.

"you’ve changed."

he smiled sadly. "and you… you’ve become a stranger."

you both stood in silence, surrounded by trees and silence and years between you.

then he opened his arms. not dramatically. not with flair. just open. honest. and you stepped into them. his hold was tight. desperate.

"i missed you," you whispered, your voice muffled against his ruffled collar.

he buried his face in your shoulder. "i thought i’d never hear your voice again."

you didn’t pull away. and when he finally let go, he pulled back with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "let them believe in their neat little endings. but you… you’ll always be my beginning."

✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

‹𝟹 �� ⠀⠀ˑ˚₊ ·⠀interested in requesting? check out my pinned!

© 2025, iheartmira

[agentstarkid]

WHAT THE GODS TRIED TO BURY ✦ 01

✦ WORD COUNT: 2.7K

✦ WARNINGS: violence, gore, language. no beta'd, we die like the suriel.

✦ MAY'S RADIO: I should be packing up my room bc I'm running against the clock, but what am I doing instead? starting a new series for azriel 😅 I told myself I wouldn't post this until I had a couple of chapters done but what I lack in self-control I make up for in anxiety so here we are 🤪 also this is a way to celebrate the first time any of my works reached 1k notes, so thank you so much for all the love on you are the one (to make me lose my mind)!!!! 🖤

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She stood atop the highest peak, the wind tangling through her hair like it knew her, like it had always known her. Below, stretching far beyond the horizon, was a kingdom unlike any she had seen in waking life. 

Towers kissed the sky, carved from pale stone that shimmered like trapped lightning. A river, dark and glimmering with untold power, cut through the land like a vein of liquid night. The sky overhead churned with clouds, the edges pulsing with something raw, untamed.

This place—this kingdom—felt like home.

But she did not know its name.

A voice, neither friend nor foe, drifted on the wind.

“Daughter of the Storm, the hour draws near.”

The words slithered down her spine, familiar yet foreign. She turned, searching for the speaker, but found only shadows stretching long over the stone. The air was thick with the scent of rain, with the electric charge that filled the air before lightning struck. And then—

Screams.

The sky split open, the clouds fracturing like shattered glass, and from the wound in the heavens came the storm. Not rain, not wind—lightning. Bolts of pure, burning energy lashed at the earth, turning stone to fire, reducing towers to rubble. The river ran crimson red with blood.

She tried to move, to run, but her body was frozen, her feet anchored to the cracking ground beneath her.

Then, in the smoke and ruin, she saw them.

Eyes—gold, argent, cerulean—staring through the chaos. Eyes that burned with recognition, eyes that pleaded, eyes that condemned.

Her heart thundered against her ribs as words, ancient and powerful, filled the air.

“When the heavens fracture and the land weeps, a forgotten soul shall rise from dust and ruin. Their name lost, their fate unwritten, yet bound to shadow and storm alike. Should the storm be unleashed, the world shall bow—or be undone.”

Lightning struck the ground at her feet, the force of it ripping the world apart. She was falling—falling through fire, through time, through memory. The voices screamed around her, words lost in the cacophony, and for one breathless moment, she saw herself standing amidst the destruction, wreathed in crackling power.

She saw herself becoming the storm.

Then, nothing.

The scent of damp earth and aged wood clung to the air as she jolted awake, the remnants of the dream still crackling through her bones. Her breath came fast, shallow, her pulse thrumming against her skin as if her body still remembered the lightning that had torn through her mind.

The shack around her was barely more than a ruin—four crooked walls of rotting wood, a sagging roof patched with old cloth, and a stone hearth where the last embers of a fire smoldered weakly. The floor was hard-packed dirt, littered with dried leaves that had been carried in by the wind through the cracks in the walls. It wasn’t much, but it had been enough. Enough to keep her hidden, enough to let her rest between the endless wandering.

She exhaled, pressing a trembling hand against her wrist, where the faded marks started to run upwards like veins of pale lightning beneath her skin. They were barely visible unless caught in the right light, etched across her arms and shoulders in branching paths—proof of a power she did not understand, a claim she had never given permission for. Even now, the markings felt warm, as if something within them still stirred, waiting.

Shaking off the last shivers of the dream, she swung her legs over the side of the makeshift bed—nothing more than a pile of furs and stolen blankets. The cold bit at her bare feet as she stood, stretching the stiffness from her muscles. She rolled her shoulders, testing herself. The dream always left something behind, something lingering in her bones like an ache that had no name.

Outside, the air was crisp, thick with the scent of fallen leaves and distant smoke. The Autumn Court was beautiful in a quiet, cruel way—the trees forever caught in the dying embers of the season, the sky a dull gold in the early morning light. But beneath that beauty was rot, hidden beneath layers of leaves and centuries of oppression. She had seen it in the faces of the fae, in the way they kept their heads down, in the desperation that lurked behind their eyes.

A sound pricked at her ears—high, keening, raw.

Screams.

The breath in her chest stilled.

For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she was still trapped in the dream, if the bloodshed and ruin had followed her into waking. But then another scream rang out, sharp and desperate, carried by the wind from the path below.

She knew that farm.

A poor couple, lesser fae farmers who had nothing but the dirt beneath their feet. She had seen them when she first scouted this place, had watched them tend to their meager crops with tired hands. They were no threat to anyone.

And yet—

Another scream, followed by the sharp clang of metal.

She didn’t think.

Her hand found her weapon where it lay against the wall—a curved, double-edged blade, long enough to slice through armor but light enough to wield with speed. The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, fitted perfectly to her grip, and the metal itself bore no ornamentation—just dark steel, unyielding and deadly.

A gift. A remnant of another life.

She moved swiftly, slipping through the broken doorway and into the early morning mist. The wind howled through the trees, rattling the branches like bones, but she barely noticed. Her steps were silent, practiced, and by the time she reached the edge of the farm, she had already assessed the situation.

Raiders.

Four of them, clad in patchwork armor, their faces hidden beneath crude masks. One had the farmer on his knees, a rusted blade pressed against his throat, while another tore through their modest home, searching for whatever scraps of wealth they might have. The female was sobbing, struggling against the grip of the largest raider, his hand fisted in her auburn hair.

She inhaled slowly. Cold. Controlled.

The rage did not own her.

She owned it.

And then—she struck.

She moved like the storm she had always been.

The first raider didn’t even hear her coming. One moment he loomed over the farmer, his blade pressing into the trembling male’s throat, and the next, a sharp whisper of steel cut through the morning air. Her curved blade sliced clean through his arm at the elbow, the severed limb falling to the dirt with a dull thud.

The raider screamed—a raw, gut-wrenching sound—but she was already moving, twisting the blade in her grip and driving it into his throat before he could turn on her. Blood spattered across the cold earth as she yanked the blade free, pivoting just in time to dodge the wild swing of another.

Lightning cracked in the air around her, snapping like a living thing—wild, restless, waiting to be unleashed. It coiled around her limbs in barely contained fury, a silent promise of destruction should she allow it to slip free. The remaining raiders didn’t notice at first, too blinded by their own arrogance. But then the scent of ozone thickened, the fine hairs on their arms stood on end, and the air itself hummed with warning.

The second raider lunged, but he was slow. Sloppy.

She ducked beneath the heavy axe that came for her head, feeling the wind of its passing ruffle her hair. Before he could recover, she drove her elbow into his ribs, hard enough to crack bone. He staggered, gasping, and in that moment of weakness, she struck. Her blade arced in a wicked curve, slicing through the exposed flesh of his thigh. The wound sizzled, the scent of charred flesh thick in the cold morning air. Not from fire. From the lightning that arced along her blade, sinking into his body like the storm had chosen him as its next victim.

He dropped, writhing, his screams swallowed by the crackling energy that still snapped at her heels.

Not dead. Not yet.

She let him bleed.

The largest raider—the one holding the female—finally released his captive, shoving her to the ground as he turned to face this new threat. He was broader than the others, his armor thicker, his sword heavier.

Good.

She welcomed a challenge.

“Fucking witch,” he spat, his voice laced with fake bravado.

She only smiled. Let him believe that.

He came at her with brutal efficiency, his blade a blur of steel. She parried, deflecting the first strike, then the second, her feet moving effortlessly across the dirt. He was strong, but she was faster. He swung low, aiming for her legs, and she leapt back, just out of reach. His mistake.

She surged forward, closing the distance between them in the space of a breath. The moment her palm met his armor, the crack of electricity sent him jerking violently, his body convulsing as sparks danced across his skin. With one hand braced against his armored chest, she drove her knee into his gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He stumbled back, gasping, and she didn’t give him time to recover.

Her blade flashed—once, twice.

One deep slash across the inside of his wrist, forcing him to drop his sword from numb fingers. Another across his throat, clean and precise. His eyes went wide as he gurgled, trying to hold his neck together with trembling hands.

He fell.

The last raider had already started running.

Coward.

She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders as she debated chasing him down. But the farmer's wife was still sobbing. The fight was over. The real battle—the survival—was theirs to endure now.

She took a slow, steadying breath, forcing the lightning back, pulling it into herself until the air around her stilled. Until the only thing left of the storm was the faint, lingering hum in her veins.

The second raider laid on the ground, the charred wound on his thigh exposed muscle and tendons. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps, blood pooling beneath him, soaking into the earth like an offering. His hand clutched at the gushing wound, but it was futile. His eyes—wide, full of terror—locked onto hers, silently begging.

She did not grant mercy.

With a single, fluid motion, she drove her blade into his chest, piercing through flesh and bone with practiced ease. His body arched once, a strangled gurgle escaping his lips before he slumped back, lifeless. Blood splattered in warm droplets across her face, her chest—bathing her even more in its sticky embrace.

She exhaled slowly, flicking her blade to the side, shaking off the excess crimson.

She turned to them, her blade painted red, her breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her. The farmer was staring at her—not with fear, but with something close to awe. 

“They won’t come back,” she told them, voice low and firm. “But if they do, you run. Don’t hesitate. Just run.”

The farmer nodded frantically, his wife barely able to lift her head from where she wept into the dirt.

She wiped the remaining blood from her blade with a torn scrap of cloth, slipping it back into its sheath as she turned away.

She had been careful. She had stayed hidden for centuries.

But today, she had left a trail of bodies behind her.

And in the Autumn Court, where power was hoarded and fear was currency, someone would come looking for the one who had wielded the wrath of the storm.

The tavern door burst open with a violent crash, the scent of spilled ale and damp wood mixing with the stench of sweat and fear. Conversations halted, the low murmur of low-life patrons replaced by the heavy, ragged breathing of the figure that stumbled inside.

The raider was a mess of torn leathers, grime, and blood. His face was a map of terror, pale and slick with sweat, eyes darting wildly as if expecting death itself to follow him through the threshold.

“The storm,” he gasped, voice raw, fractured. “It walks—it walks among us.”

A few patrons turned back to their drinks with unimpressed grunts, uninterested in the drunken ramblings of a failed thief. But others leaned in, intrigued, watching as the male staggered toward the nearest table, gripping its edge like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“It was a ghost,” he went on, more desperate now. “A demon cloaked in lightning. It—It cut through us like we were nothing. Like we were already dead.”

A bark of laughter rang out from a lesser fae male nursing a tankard near the hearth. “Lost your nerve, have you?” he sneered. “Was it a farmer’s stick that did that to you?”

The raider’s wild eyes snapped to him. “You don’t understand.” His voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “It moved like a shadow—like death. And the lightning—it came from her.”

A ripple of unease trickled through the tavern.

In a dimly lit corner, a hooded figure sat in perfect stillness, the flickering candlelight failing to reach beneath the heavy fabric obscuring his face. He had been there for some time, silent, unnoticed, watching. Listening.

His presence was unremarkable, a shadow among many, a whisper that did not stir the air. And yet, nothing in that tavern escaped his notice. Every shift in movement, every tremor in a voice, every flicker of candlelight against a blade’s edge—all absorbed in silence.

But this—this tale of lightning made flesh—this had his full attention.

Slowly, he set his untouched drink aside, gloved fingers tracing the rim of the glass once before withdrawing into the folds of his cloak.

The raider was still muttering, half-delirious. “She isn’t real. She can’t be real. But I saw her. I saw her eyes.”

The hooded male rose from his seat in one fluid motion. No one saw him move. One blink, and he was there—the next, he was gone.

The shadows swallowed him whole.

The night was thick with mist, the kind that curled around the trees like grasping fingers. His steps did not disturb the ground, his presence barely a whisper against the howling wind.

The clearing was empty—at least, to anyone without the right eyes to see.

But he knew where to look.

A shift in the shadows. A figure, standing at the base of a gnarled oak, cloaked in midnight. The air around him seemed still, as if the very world was wary of him, holding its breath.

The spy halted a few paces away and bowed his head. “I bring news.”

Silence. Then—

“I’m listening.”

The voice was low, quiet. A blade unsheathed in the dark.

The spy exhaled. “It’s more than a rumor this time. A raider—one of the thieves we marked—came into a tavern, raving like a madman. He spoke of lightning. Of a storm given form.”

A pause. Barely a shift in the air, but the wraith felt the change, the interest sharpening like a knife’s edge.

“Go on.”

“She slaughtered his crew.” The spy lifted his gaze, though the hooded male remained still, unreadable. “He swears lightning came from her. That it was part of her.”

For a long moment, there was nothing. No response. No reaction. Just the sound of the wind whispering through the trees. Then, finally—

“Where?”

The spy barely suppressed the shiver that threatened to crawl up his spine. “A farm, not far from one of the villages. He believes she was staying nearby.”

Another pause. Then a shift, the subtle movement of a predator setting its sights.

“Do you think she's real?”

The figure at the tree tilted his head slightly, as if considering. The faintest gleam of hazel eyes flickered through swirling shadows, sharp as a hawk’s, unreadable as the night itself.

Then, the shadows curled around him, swallowing him whole.

By the time the spy blinked, his master was gone.

And somewhere, beyond the reach of drunken fae and murmured legends—within a grand manor nestled along a broad, winding river that shimmered like the deepest sapphire—violet eyes watched and waited, yearning for word of something, or someone, that could change the course of his people’s fate.

[idkfitememate]

Love Written in the Stars

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : SAGAU!CREATOR x Reader

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. : 3.7k

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : Fluff & angst

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : Y’all… I couldn’t help it… you tall as FUCK (If you haven’t noticed I like making reader big because we’re always tiny and it sucks-)

The Creator - They whom created all - was a benevolent Being.

The stars and beyond the known universe mortal and immortal eye could see, was ruled by Their gentle hand - that of which carved mountains and forged rivers in Their awesome image - and claimed by Their loving heart.

The Creator - that of whom bleeds in golden blood and cries tears untainted and pure - had no name that can be said by Teyvatian tongue. No one language - be it Old Inazunese or Forgotten Liynese or Ancient Mondstan - had a single name for It. No one title seemed enough to envelope even a fraction of Their power. Not a single word one may have used to describe It was enough.

Nothing was ever enough.

That’s why every nation had Shrines and Temples and Churches dedicated to Their honor. The ripest fruits, the shiniest metals, and most beautiful of arts and culture and literature and knowledge - anything a person could think of would be given to The Creator. In hope that maybe a person would be blessed.

That perhaps they may be recognized by Them.

Like the Acolytes.

Strongest of the strong in terms of Vision and Element users. Gods and mortals alike blessed with the ability to create large bursts of energy and fearsome attacks.

The front lines.

The most blessed.

The one whom worshipped the most.

If these Acolytes were not helping around their nations they were preying, spending no time for themselves. For how could they? Being blessed in the eyes of their Creator to have even a fraction of The Creator’s power for a blip of a second was more that what their life would and should ever be worth - they owed their entire puny existences to their Creator what kind of awful children would they be to not give their everything - lives, fame, money, worldly possessions, etc - to their almighty Creator?

And so, this was Teyvat.

A land ruled by a merciful Creator who was heard - but not seen - and loving to their subjects.

Until you came.

When you wondered into Mondstadt, the first thing noticed by the people was how similar you looked and acted like their Creator. Long loose-fitting clothes that left little to the imagination flowed around your body with mystifying patters and colors. Your feet lightly - barely - touched the surface of the earth, giving you a sense of floating as you aimlessly flitted around the area, seemingly entranced with worldly wonders like a sheltered child who’d never seen their own shadow.

The people of Mondstadt bit their tongue as you walked around, seemingly on another plane with a hauntingly gently smile placed gently on your lips, serene mind seemingly hours away from the watchful eyes of every Mondstadtian watching you like hawks above a sparrow. You were unaware. Unfrightened. Unchallenged.

Then Barbatos descended.

His voice, usually like a playful breeze, whipped around like a wind storm as he spoke to you:

“Whom DARES copy the looks of Teyvat’s Master and DARES try to get away with it!!?!?”

The people of Mondstadt hid behind walls and pillars, having never seen their God so offended - really, they had never seen him be anything but jovial in this lifetime, stories of his wrath long being buried under snow in Dragonspine and in the seas surrounding his Nation.

Anemo wrapped around your body and lifted you, though in both Barbatos’s and his people’s furies they could not see how his angered winds became light wisps as they lifted you high - like an offering.

His shouts of threats and death went through deaf ears as you stared at the small Archon with wonder, reaching a hand out and patting his head.

The world itself seemed to stop, the whipping winds dying down as his already wide eyes became even wider. His wings fluttered and feathers rose. His breath stuttered when you ran manicured nails across his scalp, a soothing sensation trickling down across his very being.

Everything seemed to stop. No one breathed - besides you who continued to pet the God’s hair. The silence was deafening, enough to hear a dandelion seed whisk through the air. Venti’s eyes traveled up to your own and you smiled - he shuddered.

It was instantaneous, really.

The sharp feeling of winds searing through your flesh and bones, ripping your wrist and hand away from your body. Venti’s blank expression scorched your soul, your smile dropping in favor of surprise. Your lost limb flew through the air and landed before the startled Mondstadtians.

Red.

Your blood, was red.

It was immediate, the way you were thrown to the ground and bound by those with Visions, tight and painful did the ropes squeeze around your ankles - not your wrist for you had only the one now. The gag of leather they stuffed in your mouth was hard and smelled awful, and the bag they threw over your head was stiff and scratchy.

You barely struggled as they took you, paraded you around town, and eventually threw you in some dank dungeon, rank and humid, and left you to rot.

Weeks passed, perhaps even a month. You didn’t know how you had survived but you had, and you were wretched from your cell, still bound and gagged, and thrown onto… something. And it started. A parade… maybe a caravan? You couldn’t see but you could feel the climates change as you were dragged about Teyvat, met with the cheers of vicious civilians who threw foods and rocks at your bound form, much to the amusements of nearly all Gods you came across.

After Barbatos removed a hand, Morax took his turn and stabbed a Polearm through one of your thighs, leaving it there for the wound to fester and decay. Beel did the same, slashing across your chest so that your Red, ‘unholy’ blood would be on display.

The only God who showed you any sympathy was Nahida - it would feel rude to call her by her Godly name when she treated you with more humanity than any other human you had encountered. While her subjects cheered for your death, she sat silently, ashamed. When asked if she wanted to stake her name on your body, a mark to show Sumeru would never forgive, she gave you little more than a cut on your arm. While her nation was distressed at her action, you felt the truth. She had healed you, set a seed in your soul so that warmth spread through your veins and numbed the stabbing pain of all your other wounds.

You’re sure you saw her smile.

However, it was the same through all other Nations. Furina made a show of it and formed a water bubble around your sack, dampening it so you would be waterlogged for the rest of your journey, slowly water boarding you. Mavuika did something similar, slamming a club into your scull till a sickening crack echoed through the arena, met with joyous cheers.

Finally, you made it to the Tsaritsa’s land. The people in charge of transporting you left you in your now torn and rag-like fabrics - no longer flowing and white - and soggy sack, so that you would feel the full effects of the bone freezing chill of Shnez.

She seemed uninterested when you first met her, or at least you thought so, then your entire bottom half was frozen, skin long since numbed and blue from the frigid temperatures.

With the parade done - which was a month long campaign - you were taken to some kind of middle point, where all the Nations gathered to witness the finale of your misery: your execution.

The blade was sharp, ceremonial carvings gracefully curved over its surface, glinting in the midday light. The roar of the crowd was deafening, if you could’ve, you would’ve moved your one hand to cover your ears from the noise, but naturally, you were tied down. The damp sack had been ripped from your head so the crowd could watch the life in your eyes die, which creeped you out.

The honor had gone to Barbatos, being that it was his Nation that captured you. You could vaguely hear Morax mumbling under his breath but ignored it in favor of looking to Nahida.

Where every other Archon was standing strong, sure, she wasn’t. She was shaking, small tears dolloping her eyes. She was scared, worried, so you offered her a smile. You could hear the confusion run through her head at your grin. Though before any words of comfort could be offered, it happened.

The pain was brief, quick. The searing pain you felt through your neck and throat passed by immediately leaving you in painless bliss for a moment. The deafening cheers from the crowd silenced as the light left your eyes.

Barbatos raised the sword high.

The crowd roared.

Nahida clasped her hands together, holding back tears.

It had been done.

Or so… they thought.

The skies grew dark in mere seconds, wind and rain whipping across the gathered crowds of mortals and immortals. The Gods looked to the skies in confusion, should their Creator not be proud of what they’d done?

A blink and they would’ve missed it, the hand that guided the winds took Barbatos by the neck and squeeze, before throwing him down onto the earth before his subjects. Both the Archons and Acolytes looked around, weapons raised.

The wind continued to whip, Barbatos desperately trying to get control but the winds refused to listen to the traitor. A storm began to brew, and it was only mere seconds before a mix of hale and rain poured from the sky, lightning catching unsuspecting crowd members off guard. The Archons tried desperately to regain control, teeth gritting and gnashing but nothing worked. As regular civilians began to cry, Their voice sounded.

“You dare to lay a finger on my beloved?” They whispered, and even despite this their voice made bounds above the storm. Their voice was soft as snow and rung like a bell. The storming clouds parted, giving way for Them.

Slowly They descended, birds singing Their praises as nearby animals bowed. It was as the Teyvat itself sighed in relief when Their bare foot touch ground.

The gods mouths gaped, long having resigned to a life where they may never seen Them, only to see Their heavenly beauty after years of silence. Quickly they fell to their knees, heads hung low with noses pressed to the wet mud. Their followers quickly bowed, faces pressed to the floor as They found their footing on the soft earthy ground beneath Them.

Their figure glided across the floor, not sparring a passing glance to anyone, only slowing as They came to your beheaded body. A whimper left Their lips when They picked up your head, hugging it tight to their body while glaring at the gods.

“… How could you…” They cried, voice swept up by the winds and traveling through the crowds. Eyes widened as pants grew from the now steady stream of tears running down Their face.

“I-If I may be so bold, Your Grace-“ Barbatos started, but he was silenced by a single harsh glare from Them.

They held your head close, pressing kisses to your forehead and whispering as They gilded over to where your still bleeding body lie. Gods and Acolytes watched in wonder as They placed your head onto the stump of your neck with care, humming while energy flowed through your body.

Eyes widened as your wound healed itself, color returning to your skin and muscles loosening. They took you into Their hands, holding you bridal style as your torn and weathered clothes rebuilt themselves at Their silent request. Golden power flowed in your veins, glowing proudly.

The Archons and Acolytes stared on in both fear and adoration as you came back to life, eyes opening to find Their’s staring right back. You smiled, which led to a chuckle, pressing a palm against Their face, grunting at how some of the Archons had to hold back noises of shock.

“My dearest, you came.” You mused, “I had begun to worry.” Everyone seemed to gawk at your causal tone while you situated yourself in Their arms, sitting up and wrapping your legs around Their waist and arms around Their shoulders. They grabbed your thighs and sighed, nuzzling into your neck.

“I would’ve come sooner my love, but knowing you, I waited. I hope this cured that morbid curiosity of yours?” They whispered. Nobody strained to hear what They said, as the world had fallen silent with Their appearance.

The Gods flintched… ‘My love’..?

You hummed pulling a lock of their hair into your hand and twirling it, thinking.

“I think it did,” you decided, “but, I don’t much like having one hand, I’ve found.” Barbatos shuttered. It was evident he was holding back tears to everyone, shaking as he knelt with the sword still stained in your blood before him.

Their eyes widened for a moment before nodding, one hand leaving your thighs and reaching for your wrist, assessing the damage. Their other hand drifted, a newly formed arm taking its place as the old one felt across your body for scars, wiping them away as though they were made of dust. They pressed a kiss to the stump of your wrist, golden light slowly over taking the spot until a hand blossomed like a golden rose.

You smiled and laughed joyously at the new hand, flexing fingers and rotating your wrist. You turned to Them with pursed lips, then used the new hand to grip Their hair and pull Them in for a kiss, Their hands tightening around your thighs while They leaned impossibly closer into you. You parted the kiss, the both of you flustered and grinning.

“Hehe… are you alright, dearest?” You hummed, staring at Them with Their blissed out expression. They simply giggled, nuzzling Their face into the other’s neck.

“… My Lord?” The call was soft, nearly silent. The world itself seemed to pause, the only true audible sound being your breathing.

Their hands tightened around your legs, gripping the flesh with animosity - though They were still careful enough to not leave bruises. Slowly Their head towards the call, eyeing all the Archons behind them with hatred. They scanned the row of shivering gods… besides Nahida.

She stood strong, hands clasped as she stared up at the both of you. Then, her head bowed low. The stern silence that encompassed the area lifted - if just slightly - at her display.

“Your Grace,” she began, “Please accept my most humble apologies-“ “There is no need for that, child.” They interrupted. A hand silently took the small God’s chin, tilting her face from side to side.

“You are Lesser Lord Kusanali… Buer, correct?” They asked. Nahida nodded. They hummed.

“Then there is no need to apologize. You did no wrong.” Their words were clear. Concise. They left nothing for interpretation. Every other Archon’s eyes widened as a hand found itself into Nahida’a hair.

“You did well, child.” They praised. The Dendro Archon herself stood still - rigid - as Their hand found and caressed strands of hair. Her breathing slowed as she leaned into Their touch.

The world was silent at the praise for the littlest Archon - all others in shock as they watched on. You still sat snug in Their grasp, hands clutched at Their shoulders while you lazily watched the praise as it happened - weariness in your bones ignited the large yawn that breached your lips.

“Is my Love tired?” They cooed - leaving you to whine and push away from droves of hands trying to pinch your cheeks. Onlookers still sat in shock as Their playfulness matched yours.

“M… My Liege?” The moment was broken by a small, trembling voice. Both your and Their gazes moved to the other Gods - Archon title stripped away in your mind - to see who had the audacity to speak.

Focalor. Her hands were clasped together - much like Nahida’s had been - with a shaky smile plastered to her lips. Any softness in Their eyes vanished when They stared at her.

“My Liege, if I may be so bold-“ “You are being bold by speaking to me after your crimes, but continue.” All the other gods jaws dropped. Focalor began to shake, tears staining her eyelids.

“O-of course! Uhm.. My Liege, my Lord, our Shining, Glimmering, Illustrious-“ “Get on with it.” “Y-YES!! What exactly is your… uh… relationship with the false one?”

Silence quickly swept over the stage.

Flustered, Focalor jumped up, tears fulling streaming down her face. She blabbered on and on - excuse after excuse about how it had become habit and how she no longer meant it and blah blah blah… you stopped listening as she brought up the others and their influences, which led to a rising argument.

The air grew suffocating as Focalor dragged more gods into her arguing, completely unaware of the stewing wrath of your Love under you. You huffed at Their expression, leaning over and pressing a kiss to Their cheek.

“I think,” you whispered, “that just leaving now and allowing them to fight it out would be best. And funniest… mostly funny.” Their head tilted towards you, humming, a grin growing on Their face. Before They could respond you lit up.

“Can we take Nahida too? She was sweet.” Their grin turned to small chuckles and a nod at your question, resulting in a fist pump from you.

“All this time has made you quite sadistic hm?” You flushed, face hot and laughed back.

“Maybe just a little.” You mused. They smiled and silent reached a hand to Nahida - who was unfortunately engrossed in the argument before all of you - and gently lifted her into a pair of arms.

Nahida looked surprised as you pressed a finger to your lips and winked - before all three of you lightly disappeared in a cloud of light smoke, rising into the sky, leaving the now loudly arguing gods behind to fight before their shell-shocked followers.

Like losers.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🎂🍦🍩୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

The halls of the Chapel were silent. That silence was then promptly broken by the sounds of six distinct walks through the halls.

You sat on the lap of your Love, resting against Their chest to nap - disturbed by the marching from down the halls. You groaned, shoving your head into Their chest, causing them to laugh.

“Looks as though we have company, Dear.” They sung - your only response was a groan.

You both listened, unmoving, as the steps grew closer and closer. You didn’t turn around when they entered your main throne chambers.

Together to footsteps stopped - and in their place six loud thuds echoed as each god fell to their knees. You sighed and pressed further into Them, taking some strands off hair between your fingers and curling them gently.

“Why have you six come to us?” Their voice did well to hide Their anger. Eyes hidden from all but your own glared down at those before you both - those whom would never be worth your time again.

“We have come… to… apologize.” Said Morax. The silence that then filled the air was palpable - able to be sliced through with a knife.

They only stared at those below you while you continued to simply lay on Them, soft breaths bordering on snores. The awkwardness of Their lack of response seemed to be weighing on their shoulders because after a few more minutes of silence, Beel spoke up.

“We are apologizing because we recognize that we made a mistake, My Lord.” She was curt and straight to the point. It almost pissed you off - if you weren’t so tired and bored of the interaction all ready, you huffed into Their neck and They sighed back. With a wave of Their hand, They answered with one word.

“Dismissed.”

You could hear the gods hearts shatter under Their cold gaze - some started and sputter and mutter while others softly gazed at the floor with blank expressions.

“B-but you Illumanence!! Surely you must understand it was just an- an… an accident we-“ “Silence.”

All speech came to a screeching halt. Your closed eyes pressed against Their neck as the order hung in the air. Their hands ran across your spine and shoulders in a soothing way - but Their eyes never left the pitiful forms of those gods before you.

“My allowing of your continued existences is enough of a mercy for such… insolence. Begone with you. Leave. Before I change my mind…” This was the coldest you had ever heard Their voice.

The air grew icy with Their demand and within seconds - the gods had left. There was no reason to continue to grovel, especially with you in Their arms.

“They are gone now, Love.” You hummed, pressing yourself further into them, as though you wanted to combine and become one with Them. They giggled.

“Mmmm… I wanna take a nap.” You mumbled, barely shifting as They picked you up in Their arms as they rose.

“That would be beneficial… considering the tea party we are set to have with Lesser- ahem. I mean, Nahida this afternoon.” You lifted your head with a lazy grin.

“Yippiee…” You cheered, half-heartedly raising an arm before dropping it with a sigh.

“Mmm that was tiring… I don’t like hearing their voices.” You whined. They hummed, continuing to walk you both to your quarters.

“I could get rid of them-“ You snorted.

“No no, that won’t really do much for us heh.” Your voice became more whispery as you got closer to your bedroom. They hushed you, caressing your head.

“You won’t have to see them again if you don’t wish, love.” The door clicked open and silently slid shut behind you. They gently placed you in the large, plush bed in the middle of the room.

You watched as They moved about - the sounds of water running in the connect bathroom soothing your mind. Sunlight beamed through the window gently, warming your body some as you slipped under icy sheets that began to warm beneath your body.

The world began to drown out as your eye lids slowly shut - the last thing you hear being Their voice.

“Sleep well my Darling, I love you.”

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : GUESS WHOS BACK. BACK AGAIN. This was not the best but I feel it’s pretty good for first thing back :3 also FUCK YOU TUMBLR FOR FUCKING MY DRAFT UP DIE-

[mya-valentine]

Wounds and Care

Synopsis: After a brutal mission, Toji begrudgingly lets you tend to his wounds, pretending to be indifferent but secretly savoring your care.

The metallic scent of blood lingered in the air as the door creaked open, revealing the towering figure of Toji Fushiguro. His broad frame filled the entryway, casting a long shadow across the dimly lit room. A slow, steady trickle of crimson dripped from a gash above his brow, carving a sinister trail down his sharp cheekbones before disappearing into the curve of his jaw. His clothes, already tattered from the brutal mission, clung to his body, damp with sweat and blood.

You barely had time to process the sight before he muttered, "The hell are you lookin’ at?" His voice was as rough as ever, but there was a fatigue in his tone that betrayed just how much the fight had taken out of him.

You sighed, crossing your arms over your chest. "What do you think, Toji? You’re bleeding all over the place."

"Yeah, well, it ain't the first time," he grumbled, kicking off his shoes and trudging inside. You heard the sharp inhale he tried to mask as he moved, a telltale sign that something hurt far more than he was letting on.

Rolling your eyes, you stepped toward him, gently grabbing his arm to steer him toward the bathroom. He flinched at first, a reflexive reaction, but ultimately let you guide him.

"I'm fine," he muttered.

"You're really not," you countered, pushing open the bathroom door and flicking on the light. It cast a harsh glow over his battered body, highlighting the deep bruises blooming across his skin, the angry cuts that marred his arms and torso. His shirt had been sliced open in multiple places, stained with dried and fresh blood alike. You grimaced.

Toji caught the expression and let out a low chuckle. "What, lookin' at me disgusts you now?"

You shot him a glare. "I'm looking at a man who doesn’t take care of himself and thinks he’s invincible. Sit down."

He grumbled something incoherent under his breath but complied, dropping onto the closed toilet lid with a heavy sigh. His muscles tensed as he rested his forearms on his knees, watching you with sharp dark eyes.

You turned to grab the first-aid kit from the cabinet, setting it down on the sink before wetting a washcloth. When you turned back, he was watching you, his gaze dark and unreadable.

"You gonna patch me up or just stand there starin’?"

You ignored his teasing and knelt before him, gently reaching for his face. He stiffened slightly as the damp cloth made contact with his brow, wiping away the streaks of blood. He hissed when you pressed a little too hard on the cut.

"Baby," you teased.

Toji scoffed. "Careful, sweetheart. Call me that again and I might start thinkin' you actually like me."

You smirked. "Oh no, whatever will I do?"

His lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile but refused to let it show. Typical Toji. He'd rather bite off his own tongue than admit he liked the attention you were giving him. But you saw the way he leaned into your touch, the way his eyelids drooped slightly as your fingers brushed against his skin.

As you continued cleaning his wounds, you let the silence settle between you. The only sounds were his slow, measured breaths and the occasional wince when you hit a particularly tender spot.

"This one needs stitches," you murmured, running a finger along a deep gash on his side. The flesh was torn open, likely from a blade. "What the hell were you fighting?"

"Some asshole," Toji muttered. "Ugly bastard with a sword. Didn't go down easy."

You shot him a look. "Clearly."

Grabbing the suture kit, you threaded the needle with practiced ease. Toji watched you, his eyes flickering with something unreadable as you knelt between his legs, carefully stitching the wound on his side. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, his muscles tense with each pull of the needle.

"You've done this before," he noted.

"Had to learn," you replied, focusing on your work. "Being around you means patching up injuries is practically a weekly routine."

His chest rumbled with a low chuckle. "Guess I keep you busy, huh?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're lucky I care."

The words hung between you, heavier than you intended. Toji’s gaze flickered to yours, something unspoken passing through his eyes. He didn't say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched in the smallest of smirks.

"Yeah," he muttered after a moment. "Guess I am."

You didn’t press for more. Pushing Toji for emotions was like trying to squeeze water from a rock—damn near impossible. But you knew him well enough to recognize when he was saying something without actually saying it.

Once the stitches were done, you cut the thread and pressed a bandage over the wound. "There," you murmured, running your fingers lightly over his side, checking for any other serious injuries. His stomach was taut under your touch, his body sculpted from years of combat.

You caught the way his breath hitched slightly when your fingers grazed his ribs, his muscles twitching.

"You ticklish, Fushiguro?" you teased.

He scoffed. "The hell kinda question is that?"

"You just flinched."

"From pain," he lied, shifting slightly.

You smirked, trailing your fingers lightly over the same spot. This time, he grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. "Quit it," he muttered, but there was no real bite to his tone.

You grinned. "Fine, fine. Baby."

Toji rolled his eyes, but there was a ghost of a smile on his lips.

You finished bandaging the rest of his wounds, carefully wrapping gauze around his arms and chest where needed. The silence between you was different now—softer, more comfortable. Toji wasn’t a man of many words, but his presence spoke volumes.

When you finished, you sat back on your heels, looking him over. "You should rest," you said, standing and stretching. "No more fights for at least a few days."

Toji snorted. "Can't make any promises."

You shot him a look. "Toji."

He exhaled heavily, rolling his shoulders. "Fine. I'll take it easy. Happy?"

You nodded. "Very."

As you turned to put away the first-aid supplies, you felt a hand wrap around your wrist, stopping you. When you glanced back, Toji was looking at you—not with his usual smirk or teasing glint, but with something else. Something quieter.

"...Thanks," he muttered.

Your eyes widened slightly. It was rare for him to express gratitude outright. You offered him a small smile. "Anytime."

Toji held your gaze for a moment before releasing your wrist, letting you go. As you left the bathroom, you swore you saw the faintest hint of warmth in his eyes, something deep and unspoken.

And even though he’d never admit it, you knew he secretly enjoyed the attention.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[itacats]

Rain of Shadows

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: Emotional detachment and isolation, Conditioning and dehumanization, Mentions of violence and combat situations, Subtle introspection on trauma and identity, use of code name for reader, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: You are thrust into an unfamiliar world filled with new faces and unspoken challenges. As you navigate the tension between duty and something deeper, questions begin to surface—about loyalty, purpose, and the bonds that tie people together. Change is in the air, but whether it’s for better or worse remains uncertain.

A/N: This story is my attempt to blend introspection with action, exploring the psyche of someone forged into a tool but yearning for something more. Rain’s journey is both literal and metaphorical, as they navigate the challenges of missions and emotions alike. Also, writing Soap's quips was dangerously fun, and if you can imagine his voice while reading, you deserve a biscuit. 🌧️🪖

Rain of Shadows Masterlist

Part 1 - A New Assignment

A familiar coldness curls around your heart, a constant presence you’ve carried for as long as you can remember. It doesn’t stab or ache—it suffocates, a frost that numbs the shards of longing you don’t fully understand. What is there to long for when you’ve been raised to forget?

Your earliest memories are a patchwork of harsh fluorescent lights, echoing orders, and the sterile tang of disinfectant. The concept of a childhood is as foreign to you as warmth or family. Those luxuries were stripped away before you could form an attachment, replaced with a relentless regimen of drills and exercises designed to carve you into something beyond human. A weapon. Efficient, unyielding, and devoid of unnecessary emotion.

And yet, in the quiet spaces between missions, that hollow ache lingers. It’s not enough to distract you—distraction is a failure in your line of work—but it gnaws at the edges of your purpose, whispering of something missing.

Your code name is Rain—chosen with precision by those who forged you. Fluid, relentless, unobtrusive. Like the rain, you move quietly, leaving destruction in your wake. But unlike the rain, you bring no renewal.

The sky above the training grounds burns with the last remnants of sunlight, the horizon painted in bruised hues of purple and gold. Shadows creep over the facility, deep and sprawling, mirroring the ones within you. The whispers of your handlers cut through the stillness, sharp and deliberate, carrying the weight of yet another mission.

This one feels different.

Task Force 141.

The name carries an air of infamy, even among the circles you operated in. Their reputation is sterling, their methods unorthodox, their success rate unparalleled. They are a unit forged in battle, bonded not just by skill but by a camaraderie you can’t begin to comprehend. And now, your handlers have decided to throw you into their ranks.

It’s not the first time they’ve embedded you with other operatives, but there’s an unfamiliar edge to their instructions this time—a hesitation, perhaps, or an unspoken expectation. You don’t bother speculating. It isn’t your place to ask questions, only to obey.

Captain John Price stands at the forefront as you approach, his silhouette backlit by the fading sun. He doesn’t move like a man weighed down by rank or responsibility. Instead, he carries himself with an ease that speaks of experience, of surviving where others didn’t.

His face is lined, weathered by years of battle, but his eyes remain sharp, assessing you with the precision of a tactician. You’re used to being appraised, but Price’s gaze feels different—not cold or clinical, but weighted, as if he’s not just measuring your skill but your soul.

“This is Rain,” Price announces, his voice steady and commanding. “They’ll be working with us from now on. I expect you to show them the ropes—and learn a thing or two in return.”

There’s no fanfare, no embellishment in his tone. It’s clear that, to him, you’re a soldier, not an experiment. The thought is… unusual. Unsettling.

Before you can dwell on it, another figure steps forward, breaking the tension with a grin as wide as the horizon.

“Show ‘em the ropes?” says Soap—John MacTavish, his Scottish accent curling around the words. “I was thinkin’ more like throwing ‘em in the deep end. Sink or swim, eh?”

Soap radiates energy, his mischievous expression framed by a mess of auburn hair. He doesn’t seem to view you as a threat—or if he does, it’s in the way one warrior sizes up another before a friendly spar.

Beside him stands Gaz—Kyle Garrick, his posture more subdued but no less confident. His dark eyes sweep over you, assessing with quiet intensity. “Don’t underestimate them just because they’re new,” he says, his tone measured but edged with a subtle challenge. “You might be the one sinking.”

The banter feels alien to you. Familiarity between teammates is not something you’ve been taught to expect—or value. Among the operatives you’ve worked with before, loyalty was transactional, fleeting. Here, it feels… genuine.

And then there’s Ghost–Simon Riley.

He stands apart, a silent monolith in the gathering shadows. The skull-patterned balaclava he wears is stark against his dark uniform, lending him an air of menace that seems almost deliberate. His posture is relaxed, but his presence is anything but.

Simon doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but you feel his eyes on you, cold and unyielding. Unlike Soap’s teasing or Gaz’s quiet scrutiny, Simon’s gaze feels like a scalpel, peeling back layers to expose what lies beneath. It’s unsettling, but not unfamiliar.

You’ve been watched your entire life—studied, measured, judged. And yet, Simon’s scrutiny feels different. It’s not clinical or calculating. It’s… human, somehow.

As Price continues to speak, laying out expectations and protocols, you find yourself glancing between the men who will now be your teammates. They laugh and rib each other with a warmth that feels out of place in the world you know. You wonder, briefly, what binds them together. Shared experience? Mutual respect?

When Price mentions camaraderie, the word catches in your mind like a thorn. You’ve read about it, observed it in others, but never felt it yourself. It’s a bond that doesn’t fit into the cold, efficient world you inhabit.

Soap nudges Gaz with his elbow, whispering something you can’t quite make out, and the two share a quiet chuckle. Simon doesn’t join in, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, a tilt of his head that suggests he’s listening. Even in their silence, there’s an understanding between them that you can’t begin to fathom.

For the first time in years, a flicker of doubt worms its way into your mind. These men are not like your handlers, nor like the operatives you’ve been paired with before. They don’t see you as a tool to be wielded, a weapon to be pointed at a target.

You don’t know what they see.

The thought lingers as the sun disappears completely, leaving you standing in the growing darkness with strangers who might one day call you their own.

If you would like to be tagged in this story, let me know!

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

[chernabogs]

Monody

Inc: Malleus x Reader, with special inclusion of Malleus' grandmother, Lilia, and Sebek's mother. Warnings: Existential crisis, brief allusion to death WC: 2k+ Summary: Fae loved rarely, but when they did, it was an all or nothing event—there was no hesitation when it came to that plunge.  And this scared him.

She never remarried. When he was younger, his mind didn’t quite wrap around it as he would look up at her portrait in the palace halls. Her, and his mother—a mere child at the time—with her sombre gaze and blank expression, ungiving of any thoughts she had as the portrait was made. She was youthful herself, enough so that surely any Fae in the Valley would have sought her hand, and yet she never replaced the ring his grandfather gave her, nor did she take it off. 

What a silly move, he may have once thought. Are you not lonely? Are the ghosts not driving you away? 

Ghosts can do little to provide warmth at night, and ghosts are all that Black Scale Palace had. A skeleton court with spectres in the rafters. Once there may have been merriment and joy, but that was well before his hatching. His childhood consisted of hushed conversations in dark palace halls, faces that aged well before their time, and a heavy silence that lingered in the air. 

There’s a mausoleum for his family near the palace grounds, and it’s in this place of death that he first discovered the horrors of love. In the stagnant interior, where stone tombs with his family members' faces carved on them rest, he would hide as a child from tutors and guardians alike. The flickering of eternal flames on the wall provided enough light to see the features of those he would never meet. On newfound legs with newfound hands he would touch the face of his mother, of his grandfather, and of all those who came before, mapping them onto his own like he was trying to find a part of them in him somewhere. 

His grandmother found him there once. He expected a scolding, but instead she stood in silence, letting him explore until she finally cleared her throat to alert him of her presence. 

"This is grandfather?", he would ask her, in the innocent manner that children often do when topics of death arise. And she would nod, as he moved to the next tomb. "And this is mother?", he asked, and she would nod again, her gaze once more ungiving to the thoughts in her mind. 

"Do you miss them?"

He didn’t know loss the way she did at the time. He didn’t know the pain from losing your love, from losing your daughter, from not knowing if the last member of your family will live or not. 

"I do." He remembers her answering. She stood by the door as she spoke, as though afraid to enter further, afraid to approach the faces that she once saw with life and now only knew in dreams. "I miss them greatly."

"Why?" He had turned to look at her. Her face was washed in shadows, but her eyes—he would always remember her eyes. They were blank as she looked at him. 

"Everyone misses the ones they love when they leave us. You cannot speak with them, or hold them, or tell them how much they mean to you. All you can do is stand here—and stare."

He had turned back to the tomb of his mother, with her sombre gaze and blank expression. With features of stone she felt cold to touch, and Malleus suspected the shiver that ran up his spine was not simply because of the mausoleum's temperature. He looked back at his grandmother again, at the way she stared at the tombs that surrounded them, before he hurried to her side. 

He did not want to love, he decided then, in a rash thought fuelled by a child's fear. He did not want to be like her one day, at the entrance of a tomb alone, with only the option to stand—and stare. 

Love is for the lonely. 

_______________________________________________

He knew the Zigvolt girl from the scarce Court events that he was allowed to attend. She was much like her father—loud, with electric green hair and scales adorning her cheeks. She towered over the others with a presence that commanded attention and a laugh that drew all eyes to her when she let it free. As a child, he had found her noisy and irritating, a feeling he had commented to Lilia on more than one occasion. 

Then one day she was not there. The absence of sound, of that loud laugh and commanding tone, jarred him briefly and he had ventured to Lilia to question where the young socialite had gone. 

"Do you miss her already?" Lilia had chuckled, causing Malleus’ brow to furrow in response. 

"Is she ill?" 

Illness was the only explanation he could fathom, despite never experiencing it himself. Then he saw Lilia’s expression—a brief flash of sympathy—before it fell back to benign amusement. 

"No, not ill. But I dare say we will be seeing less of her at events of the nobility from here on out." Was all he had offered back, as frustratingly cryptic as always. 

It was through Malleus’ unspoken-of (yet highly developed) talent for eavesdropping that he gradually began to piece together the scandalous tale of the young socialite and the dental assistant she had found herself enamoured with. 

When Malleus learned the man was a human, he had decided that the Zigvolt girl was as foolish as he had suspected. Tensions still lingered with human-kind, and every Fae knew that the shortness of a human's lifespan compared to their own made relationships a ridiculous idea to pursue. Why would one wish to intentionally hurt themself by loving something that would leave them so soon? Surely the brief halcyon days that such a romance would bring would not be worth the bleakness that follows when the coffin is set in the earth? 

"She’s happy," Lilia had mused as Malleus pried into the relationship even further. "Baul, less so, but I think even he is gradually warming up to the idea."

"But why?" Malleus had asked, scowling as he did. "Why choose him when she knows he’ll die soon?"

Lilia had fixed Malleus with an unusually stern look at that. The two stood in Lilia’s cottage, facing off against each other with Malleus—in the typical teenage temperament—looking frustrated in turn. "She’s foolish."

"Love makes fools of us all." Lilia had countered then. "When you know you have found the right person, you care little for the obstacles that stand in your way. You would tear the world asunder for them. Death may end it physically, but the feeling will always remain."

"Foolish." He repeated, shaking his head and turning away. "What is the point of being so vulnerable when you know it will only last a moment?"  

He had been invited to the wedding. Although he did not go, he had been told the Zigvolt girl had radiated a joy so great that it put even the brightest of the sun's rays to shame. 

Love is for the fools. 

_______________________________________________

Ramshackle was a dorm of ruins. Even from beyond the gates, he could hear the sound of the floorboards rotting and the cement cracking under the weight of time. It was a soothing melody of decay that seemed to lighten his heart significantly whenever he passed by at night. There was something so lovely about seeing places of life now stand as monoliths in the night. 

Which is why, when he saw a light on in the window, it had irritated him deeply. At first he believed that students had crept in for a fright—something he would be more than happy to give them—until a figure had stepped out and stood on the porch, watching him. 

He stood by the iron gate, and stared right back. 

They faced off against each other for a long moment before the figure trekked down the pathway—he could hear that gaudy shuffling—and came to a stop before him. 

A human. 

A plain, rather forgetful human, who looked up at him like a child with an expression of both confusion and concern. 

The encounter had been brief, enough so that he figured he would forget about it as soon as he returned back to Diasomnia. And yet, it still lingered in his mind in the coming nights, accompanied by an odd spark of eagerness for what would happen next. 

What name shall you give me? What role shall I play? 

The gifting of a name was an intimate act often reserved for those closest to one another. He had never been close to anyone beyond family and those affiliated with them. This stranger in the night, one of curiosity and caution, would be the first he would forge this connection with. 

The name you had granted had been laughable, and it took all of his self-control not to crack a grin when you announced it with such pride at the next encounter. Your naivety was charming in a quaint, adoring manner. That was not the only aspect that drew his interest. Your resilience, your ambition, your compassion to the students around you that so greatly contrasted what he had grown up witnessing in his years at Black Scale Palace. You were refreshing. 

There was a feeling there. It unsettled him. He didn’t tell Lilia about it; rather, he secured it in a locked box in his chest, pushing it away and dismissing it as a mere interest over your willingness to be so at ease with him. Sometimes that feeling rattled around and made him feel nauseous, both with himself and with you. Other times, it was though it never existed at all. 

Things changed when he over-blotted. 

Perhaps it was a cruelty on his part to let you be exposed to the horrors and the tragedies that had plagued his homeland for so long. Perhaps a part of him craved you to know it, to know him, so you would realize that he was not the kind of person you had built up in your mind. He gave you death, and loss, and sorrow—

And in the end, you gave him forgiveness. 

He tore the world asunder like Lilia had once alluded to and you had stood through it all, your gaze never wavering, your heart never shaken. He hated it. He hated you (what a lie). He wanted to force you out of existence so that the locked box in his chest could finally be put in the ground like it deserved. He wanted to force Silver, to force Sebek, to force Lilia. The loss of control sent him spiralling because he had always, always, had that at least. 

The aftermath of it all was humbling. 

Broken words and broken apologies had poured from his lips to those who he held dear. He had met the eyes of the boys he helped raise and the man who had raised him. He had looked to you, his friend, his confidant, and perhaps something more—though the thought of that terrified him more than anything else. Black blot was soon washed away and the world began to push forward despite the rotting briar thorns that covered the land, a mausoleum of its own to the actions that occurred that night. 

He had never been to a medical ward, but he was there now, and so were you—sitting by his side, yammering on about some mundane thing that was glossing over his mind. It was on that cot that he had finally forced himself to turn and really look at you. 

A human. 

A plain, rather forgetful human. Nothing about you should have stood out for him, and yet when he looked your way, it was as though the entire world faded out except for your voice. The locked box in his chest felt heavy. He wanted to rip it out and toss it aside. 

You cannot speak with them, or hold them, or tell them how much they mean to you. All you can do is stand here—and stare. 

His grandmother’s words replayed in his mind like a broken record. Fae loved rarely, but when they did, it was an all or nothing event—there was no hesitation when it came to that plunge. 

And this scared him. 

A human. You were a human. 

How long did that give you? 60 years, maybe. 70 if you were fortunate enough. 178 years already felt like a blink of an eye for him, so surely 70 would be just as quick?

He thought about the Zigvolt girl again as he continued to listen to you talk. He had considered her foolish once, but now he realized perhaps it had been envy that he felt, rather than disdain. She had the courage to grasp on to an opportunity despite knowing that it would last only moments in her lifetime. Meanwhile here he was, silently watching you with valuable words unable to leave his throat. 

He looked away to the white ceiling above. A plain, empty space that one could lose themselves in quite easily. 

He wanted to be like the Zigvolt girl. He wanted to be like his grandmother. He wanted to be like Lilia. He wanted to tear the world asunder once more, to shield you away from death as it crept closer and closer with each night that passed. He wanted you. He wanted you, so much so that it ached in his body. 

But he couldn’t do it. Not to you, not to himself. He loved slowly, and someone like you deserved a more fulfilling experience than what he could provide in your lifetime. 

So he simply lay there, and continued to listen to you speak. 

Love is for the lonely.

Love is for the fools. 

Loving you is for someone much bolder than he.

[pastelpengwin]

I got three newish adopts that I made ref sheets for and never uploaded them here. So here they are now: Nature's Bounty, Ānhaga and Flower Child.

Name: Nature's Bounty Nickname/s: Bounty, Nat

Species: Zebra Pronouns: He/Him Cutie Mark: A fish hooked on a fishing line that swirls around it. Info: Nature’s Bounty is a fish wrangling enthusiast and camping extraordinaire. He can live off the land for months and figure out where due north is with a rock and a stick. The only bounty he's hunting is fish for their useful oils and growing creature populace in the Equestrian kingdom. But maybe he wouldn't mind a more exciting job here and there… Nature's Bounty grew up Casabronco in Farasi where he picked up his love of fishing. After many, many years of travel, he eventually settled down in Breton-On-Trot where he befriended a pony from the past, Sagr. They became friends over their shared love of the wilderness and sharing stories over a tankard of mead. Nature's Bounty taught Sagr modern Ponish. 

Name: Ānhaga

Nickname/s: Ana

Species: Shadow Pony

Pronouns: She/her

Cutie Mark: None

Info: Ānhaga is one of the last surviving Shadow Ponies, beings who once roamed the border between light and dark, they served as guardians of balance, but over time their numbers dwindled until they became nothing more than a myth. Ānhaga retreated into solitude, she became the guardian of forgotten places and ancient knowledge. She's an echo of a bygone era, of a time when the barrier between light and dark was thinner, and she will do what she must to protect the balance. Her name means 'one who dwells alone' in Old Ponish. While Ānhaga does not have a cutie mark, she does have a symbol she carves over the gates to Sgàil Hollow.

Name: Flower Child

Nickname/s: Flo

Species: Earth Pony

Pronouns: She/her

Cutie Mark: A red and orange flower with a happy face

Info: Daughter of Tree Hugger and Mage Meadowbrook, Flower Child is a carefree pony who grew up travelling Equestria with her mothers, their nomadic lifestyle and her mother's love of nature instilled in Flower a deep respect for nature and helping ponies and creatures alike. She is skilled in botany and natural remedies, and while she loves travelling she decided she wanted to live, semi-permanently, in Breton on Trot, while staying in the town she works as a Horticultural Therapist. She quickly became friends with the townsponies who go to her for plant care advise. One of her closest friends is Nature's Bounty, whom she has a lot of respect for his survival skills and his respect for the fish he catches. 

[thatlotuscookie]

hello how are u doing😊 could you please write for dabi x fem!reader who is a solo villain. and before you meet your soulmate u meet a chibi version of them, and you usually meet them when you turn 18, but reader didn't so she thought that she doesn't have a soulmate and then one day chibi version of dabi appears out of nowhere, and the chibi has dabi's personality and that's super cute because of its size. and i would like this to be about how reader deals with tiny chibi and how it warms up to her

✧･ﾟ: a/n : hiii anon!! im doing great and i hope you're doing good yourself. thank you for requesting! this is so adorable :33 i hope you enjoy, and that i captured everything in the right way<33

✧ Title: ✧ Tiny Flames ✧ ✧ Characters: Chibi!Dabi x Reader (Fem!Reader) ✧ Genre: Romance, Action, Comedy ✧ Rating: T ✧ Summary: You’ve made a name for yourself as a feared solo villain. As your eighteenth birthday arrives, you eagerly await the appearance of your soulmate's chibi form. But when midnight strikes without any sign, you resign yourself to the belief that perhaps soulmates are just a myth. However, after a particularly exhausting mission, a sudden flash of light brings Chibi Dabi into your life. ✧ Content Warnings: Minor language?, themes of villainy ✧ WC: 1612 words // 9.4k chars

In the shadowy underbelly of society, where chaos thrived and villains ruled, you carved your own path as a solo villain. You had built a reputation—feared and respected by heroes and fellow villains alike. Thriving in the thrill of the chase, you relished the freedom that came with being an independent agent of chaos. No one dictated your actions; no alliances held you back. You worked alone, and you liked it that way.

Your name was whispered in hushed tones, often accompanied by tales of your cunning plans and daring heists. You had mastered the art of deception, slipping through the cracks unnoticed, leaving a trail of confusion and destruction in your wake. Yet, despite the adrenaline rush of your dangerous lifestyle, a nagging void lingered within you—a yearning for something more profound, a connection that eluded you in the chaotic world you navigated.

Every year, on your birthday, you awaited the moment that would signal the arrival of your soulmate’s chibi form—the tiny, whimsical representation of the person destined to be by your side. It was said that the chibi would appear to you when you turned eighteen, guiding you toward your true love. However, as the clock struck midnight on your eighteenth birthday and no chibi appeared, your heart sank.

Was it possible that you were destined to be alone? The thought gnawed at you, but you quickly pushed it aside, convincing yourself that you didn’t need anyone. You were a villain; you thrived in solitude. But deep down, the ache of loneliness lingered like a shadow, reminding you that something vital was missing from your life.

Months passed, and you resigned yourself to the belief that perhaps soulmates were just a myth. You threw yourself deeper into your villainous pursuits, planning heists and wreaking havoc on unsuspecting heroes. Yet, even in your most triumphant moments, a part of you longed for connection—a partner to share in the exhilaration of your exploits.

One fateful evening, after a particularly grueling mission, you returned to your dimly lit lair, exhausted yet exhilarated. You had successfully executed a plan that would send shockwaves through the hero community, but instead of feeling accomplished, you felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness. As you slumped against the wall, letting the adrenaline fade, a sudden flash of blue light illuminated the room, causing you to blink in surprise.

When the light faded, your heart raced as you stared at the tiny figure standing before you. He was a chibi version of Dabi—small, spiky-haired, and exuding an intense aura that was oddly familiar. He stood no taller than your hand, his fierce glare somehow managing to hold the same intensity as the original Dabi.

“Who the hell are you?” Chibi Dabi demanded, his voice laced with a cold edge that sent shivers down your spine.

You blinked, half-expecting to wake up from a strange dream. “I—I’m Y/N. Your soulmate, apparently?” Your voice came out more incredulous than you intended.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” he retorted, his icy demeanor unfazed. “I don’t need anyone.”

His response stung more than you expected, but you were determined not to show it. “Well, you’re here now, so what do we do?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions in your chest.

He shrugged, crossing his tiny arms over his chest defiantly. “Do whatever you want. I’m just here because I have to be.”

As the days turned into weeks, the bond between you and Chibi Dabi grew stronger, but not in the way you had hoped. He remained aloof, often retreating into his own world, indifferent to your presence. Despite your attempts to engage him, he would simply roll his eyes or give you snarky remarks that cut through the air like a cold wind.

One evening, after a particularly hard day, you returned home feeling defeated. The weight of your actions pressed heavily on your conscience, and you found it hard to shake off the guilt.

“Why do you look so miserable?” Chibi Dabi asked, his tone lacking any real concern.

“Just thinking about things,” you replied, trying to dismiss it.

“Thinking? That’s lame. Just burn something and move on.” He leaned back, his tiny form perched on the edge of your desk, looking like a fierce little king on a throne.

You laughed softly, but your heart felt heavy. “It’s not that easy. Sometimes it feels like we’re just doing bad things without any real purpose.”

Chibi Dabi’s gaze hardened, and for a moment, the intensity of his demeanor threatened to swallow you whole. “Then why do it? You’re the one choosing this life.”

His bluntness made you sigh, feeling the sting of truth in his words. “Because it’s all I know,” you confessed. “But I don’t want to be alone in this.”

“Too bad. That’s your problem,” he replied, crossing his tiny arms again but failing to hide the faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.

Despite the hurtful nature of his response, you felt a flicker of determination ignite within you. “I’m not going anywhere, Dabi. Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together.”

His eyes narrowed, but for a brief moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something softer beneath the cold exterior. Yet, he quickly masked it with indifference, turning away. “Whatever. Just don’t expect me to hold your hand.”

As the days passed, Chibi Dabi continued to be an enigma—cold, distant, yet somehow intriguing. You couldn’t help but be drawn to him, the fiery spirit that flickered beneath his tough exterior. With each passing day, you sought to break through the wall he had built around himself, determined to warm the icy heart of your chibi soulmate.

One evening, after an encounter with a rival villain left you rattled, you returned home, only to find Chibi Dabi sitting on the table, legs swinging in mid-air. He eyed you with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. “What happened? You look like you lost a fight.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I didn’t lose, but I didn’t win either. It was… complicated.”

Chibi Dabi leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. “Complicated? You mean weak.”

“Dabi!” you exclaimed, half-laughing, half-frustrated. “I’m not weak. I just—”

“Then stop whining about it,” he interrupted, a small flame flickering to life in his hand. “If you’re going to be a villain, act like one.”

“Easy for you to say,” you shot back, trying to keep your tone light despite the hurt lingering beneath. “You’re all fire and no fear.”

His expression softened slightly, though he quickly masked it with irritation. “Maybe you need a little fire, too.” He stood up, his tiny fists clenched at his sides, glaring defiantly at you. “You don’t need to wallow. You’re better than that.”

A warmth spread through your chest at his words, despite the typical coldness of his personality. “Thanks, Dabi. I appreciate it.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t dismiss your gratitude. Instead, he seemed to regard you with a flicker of admiration. “Just don’t let it get to your head.”

Days turned into weeks, and with every shared moment, your bond grew deeper. Dabi’s once-icy demeanor began to soften as he discovered the warmth of companionship, while you learned to embrace your vulnerabilities. Though you remained villains in a chaotic world, you found solace in each other’s presence.

One night, as the two of you sat together on the couch, the glow of the television illuminating the room, you decided to watch one of your favorite movies—a thrilling tale of heroes and villains in a world much like your own. You settled into your spot, and Dabi perched on your shoulder, his tiny form fitting perfectly against you.

“Why are we watching this trash?” he grumbled, crossing his tiny arms as the action began to unfold on screen.

You chuckled. “It’s just a movie, Dabi. Just enjoy it.”

“I’ll enjoy it when I see some real fire,” he shot back, but the way he leaned closer to you hinted at his interest.

As the story unfolded, you found yourself glancing down at Dabi. His fierce expression mirrored his adult self, but you noticed the way his little eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He was fully engaged, despite his earlier complaints.

During a particularly intense scene, you felt him tense up, gripping your shirt tightly. “What’s going to happen?” he muttered, clearly invested despite his attempts to act tough.

You laughed softly. “You actually care, don’t you?”

“Shut up!” he exclaimed, his face turning a shade of red that contrasted with his usual cool demeanor. “I just want to see how it ends, that’s all.”

As the movie progressed, you noticed that Chibi Dabi began to shift closer, using your shoulder as a makeshift pillow. His tiny form curled up against you, and you could feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cold exterior he often projected.

When the credits rolled, you found yourself smiling down at Dabi, who was now fast asleep, his tiny face relaxed and peaceful. You reached down to gently stroke his spiky hair, a sense of warmth enveloping you.

“Guess you really enjoyed that, huh?” you murmured, your heart swelling with affection for the tiny villain.

Dabi stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly. In that moment, you realized that the icy barrier around his heart was slowly melting, revealing a warmth that matched the flicker of fire within him.

You knew the road ahead would be challenging, but as you watched him sleep, a sense of peace washed over you. Things would be okay.

[shisasan]

[ahqkas]

♯ HIRAETH ; james patrick march

PAIRING! james patrick march x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! hiraeth (n.) — a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was, the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past

WORD COUNT! 6.8k

WARNINGS / TAGS! angsttt, reader is described to have hair, mention of love making + lmk of more if found !

NOTES! found a collection of podcasts that reminded me a bit too much of james , this work is inspired by dangerously yours’ masquerade !! all the credits to the devider below belong to @/menschenopfer

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THE YEAR WAS 1927, AND LOS ANGELES WAS A CITY OF DREAMS, BEAMING WITH AMBITION, GLAMOUR, AND DARKNESS OF ITS OWN. The Hotel Cortez, with its imposing façade of carved stone and gleaming brass, towered over the busy streets below. It was a sanctuary for the elite, a place where luxury met mystery, and where secrets were buried deep within its intimidating walls.

The heavy doors of the hotel creaked open, and in stepped a woman whose presence commanded attention. She was the very meaning of old-world elegance, a figure that seemed to have stepped out of the newest magazine. Her [color] hair was styled in gentle waves that framed her face, and her eyes, sharp and enigmatic, glimmered with a secret knowledge. She wore a tailored traveling dress of navy blue, the fabric clinging to her form in a manner that was both modest and alluring. A black cloche hat sat atop her head, its wide brim casting a shadow over her striking features.

As you crossed the marble threshold, the polished floors beneath your heels echoed with each deliberate step. The hotel lobby was a grand room of the hotel, adorned with chandeliers that bathed the space in warm, golden light. The walls were lined with dark, rich wood paneling, and the air was filled with the faint scent of jasmine and the lingering aroma of fine cigars. Guests shuffled around in the lobby, their conversations a murmur of excitement, but their eyes discreetly turned to the striking woman who had just entered.

A hotel worker, dressed smartly in a bellboy uniform of crisp white and black, approached you with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to catering to the wealthy and powerful. He couldn't help but be taken aback by your appearance, the way you moved with an effortless grace that seemed to belong to someone your status.

"Good evening, madam," he said, his voice respectful but tinged with curiosity. His eyes darted briefly to your luggage — a single, exquisitely crafted leather bag, monogrammed with the initials that possibly belonged to you.

Without pausing, you handed him your smooth gloves, your tone cool and commanding. "Have my bag sent to Suite 81," you instructed, words clipped and precise.

The bellboy hesitated for only a moment before snapping to attention. "Yes, ma'am!" he replied, taking the bag with both hands as if it contained something made out of glass, something precious. He hurried off toward the elevator, casting a final, awed glance back at you.

You continued your way through the lobby and a low hum of conversation followed after you. Guests and staff alike seemed to recognize you, though none dared to approach you directly. Your reputation, it seemed, followed you as well.

"Good evening, Countess [Last name]!" came a cheerful greeting from one of the hotel's attendants, a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache who had seen many notable figures pass through the Cortez's doors, but none quite like you.

You turned your head slightly in his direction, your lips curling into a polite smile that did not quite reach your eyes. "Good evening," you replied, voice smooth and cultured, with a hint of an accent that spoke of faraway lands.

The attendant bowed slightly as you passed, and within moments, another voice, this time a younger woman in the concierge uniform, echoed through the lobby. "Welcome back, Countess [Last name]!" her voice was filled with genuine warmth and you didn't understand where did this come from.

The evening had settled over Los Angeles. The grand dining room of the hotel was appearing in art deco luxury, with its dark wood accents, gold-leafed walls, and crystal chandeliers casting a warm, inviting light over the tables set with fine china and silverware. The clinking of glasses and soft murmur of conversation filled the air and created something nostalgic to your heart.

You entered the dining room with the same air of composed grace that had marked your entrance into the hotel. Your eyes swept the room, taking in the diners who were engaged in their meals and conversations and you felt a pang of jealousy upon the sight. Their lives were so normal in comparison with yours.

As you approached the maître d's podium, the head waiter, a distinguished man with a neatly trimmed mustache and a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, stepped forward. He recognized you immediately, the elegant Countess, and inclined his head in a deep bow.

"A table for one, ma'am?" his voice was practiced with the ease of someone who had served wealthy guests for years, though there was a slight quiver in his voice — perhaps a trace of the unease that always seemed to accompany you.

You, with your face expression as unreadable as ever, allowed yourself a brief pause before responding. Your eyes flicked past him, scanning the room once more, searching for something — or rather, someone.

"Is . . . James Patrick March dining?" you asked, voice soft but with an undercurrent of something that hinted at more than just casual interest.

The maître d' hesitated only for a heartbeat before answering, his gaze following yours toward the far end of the room. "Oh, he's at the table by the window, ma'am," he replied and a hint of curiosity crossed his tone as he gestured subtly toward the large, arched windows that overlooked the city's nightscape.

There, seated at a table clothed in the soft glow of candlelight, was James Patrick March. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and a tie that was just slightly loosened, giving him an air of a casual someone. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an intensity in the way he glanced through the room, as if every detail, every movement was a piece in a grand, invisible game. A game that belonged to him. His dark hair was slicked back, and his piercing eyes, though cast downward at the moment, seemed to take in everything around him.

Your gaze lingered on him, breath catching slightly as the history the two of you shared played out in your mind — something you've never been able to erase from your memories. Your hand tightened around the strap of your formal handbag, the storm of rage already forming inside you.

"Thank you," you murmured to the maître d', who, sensing that his services were no longer required, bowed once more and stepped aside.

With a final, steadying breath, you made your way across the dining room, your steps measured and elegant, drawing the eyes of more than a few guests who wondered at the purpose of your approach. You moved with the grace of a woman who knew how to command a room's attention without asking for it, but there was also a tension to your movements, a barely concealed edge that hinted at the true intentions of your visit.

As you neared the table, March's dark eyes lifted from his glass of alcohol, catching yours in a gaze that was both intimate and unreadable. He leaned back slightly in his chair and a slow, amused smile played at the corners of his lips as he watched you approach, as if he had been expecting you all along.

"Countess [Last name]," he greeted you, his voice smooth and rich with a hint of that accent you both despised and adored. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

You met his gaze evenly, your own smile small and controlled, but there was a fire in your eyes that belied your calm exterior.

"Mr. March," the way his name rolled out of your mouth shouldn't sound so lovingly. Your voice was steady, though your heart raced beneath your play. "I believe we have unfinished business."

March remained seated, watching your every move with the sharp, predatory gaze of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. The slight smirk on his lips hinted at his appearing satisfaction. He knew you’d show up, let it be few weeks or decades.

"If some kind fate wishes to send a beautiful lady to dine with me, I can only be grateful," the man said, his voice smooth and low, rich with the charm of someone who was well aware of his power. "You will do me the honor, won't you, ma'am?"

For a brief moment, the tension between the two of you hung in the air, taut and electric, as you studied him. You were fully aware of the game you were playing, the dangerous dance of wit and will, and you had no intention of backing down. This game would be his loss.

Finally, your lips curved into a small, controlled smile, one that spoke of your own understanding of the power dynamics at play. "I should be delighted," you replied, voice carrying the slightest edge of irony as you accepted his invitation.

March's smile deepened, pleased with your response. He gestured to the empty chair opposite him, a silent invitation for you to join him. The man poured a glass for you, the wine a deep, blood-red, before filling his own. He lifted his glass to you in a toast and his eyes never left yours.

"To fate," he said, his voice carrying a note of amusement. "For bringing such a captivating companion to my table."

You lifted your glass, clinking it lightly against his. "To fate," you echoed, gaze steady as you sipped the wine, the taste of it rich and complex on your tongue. It's been a long time since the last moment you tasted the sweet blood.

For now, the dance would continue.

And as you looked into James Patrick March's eyes, you couldn't help but wonder who would lead, and who would follow.

"What would you like for dinner?" his voice always seemed smooth, and you never knew if it was because of the accent or for the fact that he knew exactly what he wanted. A hint of amusement danced in his dark irises.

Your lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "What does the owner of this hotel eat? Pheasant wings and peacock breasts?" you inquired, tone playful yet edged with a subtle challenge. "And — what do you usually eat?"

His grin widened. "Ah, the usual fare for me tends to be quite varied, though I do have a penchant for the extravagant," he admitted, leaning forward slightly as he spoke and you knew his words hinted at something else as well. "But I find myself quite curious about what a countess might prefer."

Your gaze never wavered as you answered, your voice carrying a hint of wry humor. "Almost anything," the simplicity of your answer was belied by the layers of meaning beneath it.

The man's eyes sparkled with interest as he absorbed your response. He seemed to consider those words carefully before responding, his voice warm and teasing. "Well then, how about roast beef?" he suggested, his tone both casual and deliberate, as though he were making an offer that was both grand and intimate.

Your smile deepened and a glimmer of approval appeared in your eyes. James Patrick March had always had a rich taste. Especially in alcohol and women. "Roast beef sounds delightful," you agreed. "I appreciate your choice, Mr. March. It seems fitting for the occasion."

March signaled to the waiter, who had been hovering discreetly nearby, and relayed the order with a casual wave of his hand, all while his eyes never left yours. The waiter nodded and swiftly disappeared, leaving the two of you alone once more, the soft murmur of the dining room the only sound accompanying you.

With a slow, elegant movement of his hand, March poured himself another glass of wine. "I must say, Countess [Last name], it's a rare pleasure to share a meal with someone who possesses such . . . discerning taste," he said, his voice laced with both sincerity and a hint of irony.

"And it's a rare pleasure to find myself in such intriguing company," you replied to him, tone both warm and enigmatic. "I trust the evening will prove to be as engaging as the company."

March chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on you with an almost predatory satisfaction. "I have no doubt it will be," he said, raising his glass in a toast once more.

The night sky was a deep shade of deep indigo, flickering with countless stars that twinkled like diamonds scattered across velvet. The air was warm, with just the faintest whisper of a breeze, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine through the open balcony doors. The Hotel Cortez stood silent and still, its grand exterior bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, casting long, gentle shadows across the marble floors.

You stood on the balcony, the city of Los Angeles sprawling out beneath you like a sea of lights. Your gown, a delicate shade of silver that shimmered in the moonlight, flowed around you like liquid silk. Your hair was loose, cascading over your shoulders in waves, and your young face, bathed in the soft light, was a picture of pure satisfaction.

Beside you stood James Patrick March, his tall figure intimidating yet relaxed as he leaned against the ornate railing. His gaze, however, was not on the city below, but on the woman at his side. There was a softness in his eyes, a rare gentleness that few had ever seen, let alone inspired. In this moment, all the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you.

As you stood in comfortable silence, a sudden streak of light blazed across the night sky — a shooting star, burning its brief path before vanishing into the darkness. March, ever so observant, turned his gaze upward, his lips curving into a smile.

"Look, [Name], a shooting star," he said, his voice filled with a boyish wonder that was rare for him. He turned his head slightly to meet your gaze, his eyes reflecting the faint starlight. "Did you wish?"

Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the star, you blinked and looked up just as it disappeared. Your expression softened, a faint smile touching your lips, but there was a wistfulness in your eyes as you shook your head slightly.

"Oh . . . I didn't have time," you admitted, voice tinged with a hint of regret, as though you had missed an opportunity that would not come again.

James' smile didn't falter, though there was a subtle shift in his expression — something deeper, more thoughtful. He stepped closer to you, his presence warm and reassuring. "And there is something you wish for," he said, more a statement than a question, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it falling from your own lips.

Your smile faded into something more serious, your eyes searching his as though you were trying to decide whether to speak the truth or guard your heart. But in the end, you could not lie to him — not in this moment, not when you felt so safe, so completely at peace by his side.

"Yes," you whispered to him, barely more than a breath.

March's gaze softened further. He reached out with his hand and gently enveloped your own in his, the skin of his palm warm and grounding. "What did you wish?" he asked, his voice low and intimate, as though the words were meant for your ears alone.

You hesitated, the answer so close to escaping, yet so difficult to say. Your heart ached with the weight of it, with the knowledge of the life you wished for but could never truly have. Looking down at your joined hands, your fingers lightly curled around his in response to his question, and then back up into his dark eyes, which were watching you with such intensity, such sincerity. They seemed a lot darker now, under the night sky.

"I was wishing that we were two other people," you finally confessed, your voice filled with a quiet longing that spoke of dreams unfulfilled. "Two people who need not say goodbye."

The words hung between you, heavy with meaning. You could not bear the thought of losing him, of this moment being just a fleeting memory in the string of your lives. The depth of your love for him was overwhelming, a love so pure and untainted by the shadows that would later consume you.

James stepped even closer, his hand gently moving to cup your cheek and his thumb brushed tenderly across your skin. "Perhaps it can be that way," he murmured. March bent his head, his lips hovering just above yours, as if the very act of kissing you might seal the promise he was making. "Perhaps we can be those people, if only for tonight."

Your breath caught in the back of your throat, heart pounding in your chest as you searched his eyes for the truth in his words. And this time, you allowed yourself to believe it — to believe that the two of you could escape the world that would inevitably tear you apart, that you could be just a man and a woman, free from the burdens of your lives.

You were the one to close the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft, tender, and filled with all the love and hope you held in your heart for him.

And for that night, under the watchful eyes of the stars, you were just two people who did not need to say goodbye.

The present moment was completely different to the warmth and tenderness of the past. The air in the room was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the walls and settled in every crack of the Hotel Cortez. The grand suite you occupied was dimly lit, the once-gilded decor now seemed dull. Outside, the night became alive, the city's lights a distant blur beyond the heavy curtains, but inside, the atmosphere crackled with the remnants of an argument that had yet to reach its peak.

You stood near the window, your back to the room, while you stared out into the darkness with attention that wasn't really there. Your once vibrant spirit now seemed dulled by the weight of time spent in this cursed place, your elegance marred by the sorrow etched into your features. The memories of what had once been — of the love you had felt for him — were a distant echo. His betrayal hardened your heart.

Behind you, James Patrick March paced around the room restlessly, his usually composed demeanor frayed at the edges. The man who had once been a picture of controlled arrogance now seemed almost desperate, his eyes locked onto your figure as though you were the only thing grounding him to this world. His tailored suit was as impeccable as ever, but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders, a strain in his voice that betrayed the depth of his emotions.

"[Name]," he began, and his voice was urgent, almost pleading as he tried to bridge the growing wall between the two of you. "I offer you the three things most dear to me: my heart . . . my hotel . . . and my dream."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of promises that no longer held the meaning they once did. He took a step toward you, his hand outstretched as if to pull you back to him, to recapture the love you had shared before everything had gone so terribly wrong. Before his mistakes happened.

But you remained unmoved, back still turned to him, posture stiff with resolve. The pain in your chest was such a familiar ache, one that had become a part of your very being, but you had long since learned to live with it. Now, it was a shield, protecting you from the man who had once held your heart so completely.

"You are too generous —" you began with your voice full of coldness, as if you were speaking to a stranger and not the man you had once loved with every fiber of your being.

"[Name], you must listen to me!" March's voice cracked with desperation as he allowed himself to interrupt you, his frustration spilling over. He stepped closer, his presence almost suffocating in its intensity. "Since that first hour we met, I've been completely yours. There's never been anyone else for me . . . There never will."

His confession, raw and unfiltered, was the truth — at least, the truth as he saw it. To him, you were everything, the only light in the endless darkness that had become his existence. He had built this world all for you, and now it was slipping away, crumbling before his eyes because he could not reach you, could not find a way to make you understand.

You finally turned to face him, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. The words he spoke were like daggers to your heart, reopening wounds that had never truly healed. You had once believed in his love, had once shared his dreams, but that time had passed. What had once been your shared world was now a shattered illusion, a dream that had turned into a nightmare.

"Please," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to maintain your composure, but you felt the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. "Please don't say any more. There are worlds between us, worlds that can't be bridged with words."

Your gaze bore into his, pleading for him to understand what you could not bring yourself to say out loud.

"You are dead. And I am me."

He was trapped in this hotel, in this half-life of his own making, while you remained bound to the world of the living, a world that he could never truly be a part of. The love you had once shared, as powerful and all-consuming as it had been, was now nothing more than a painful memory.

March stood frozen, the weight of your words crushing the last remnants of his hope. He had always been a man who believed that he could bend the world to his will, that nothing was beyond his reach if he desired it enough. But in this moment, he was confronted with the one thing he could not control, could not change — the inexorable march of time and the finality of death. Was he really though?

His expression was a mix of anguish and determination, the usual smoothness of his demeanor shattered by the knowledge he had carried for so long. This was a truth he had avoided speaking aloud, perhaps out of a twisted sense of mercy, or perhaps because he could not bear the thought of breaking you more than it was needed. But now, the time for silence had passed.

"You said one night that you wished we were two different people," March began to remember, his voice low and measured. His eyes never left your form. "I think you may have that wish, [Name]."

His words seemed to hang in the air. For a moment, you did not move, your mind struggling to grasp the meaning behind them. You felt your brows furrowing in confusion, the flicker of doubt that had long been buried now rising to the surface.

"But what do you mean?" you asked in a quiet voice, almost trembling. There was something in his tone, something in the way he looked at you, that sent a chill running down your spine. It was as if the ground beneath you was beginning to crumble, threatening to pull you into an abyss you had refused to acknowledge.

James stepped closer, his gaze softening as he saw the uncertainty and fear in your eyes upon hearing those words. The man who had always prided himself on his control, on his ability to manipulate and bend others to his will, now stood before you, stripped of all secrets. He could not protect you from this truth now, could not shield you from the reality that had been so carefully hidden away by him.

"[Name]," he started gently, as if to not scare you any more, "you are not who you think you are. You've been living in denial, clinging to the idea that you are still part of the world of the living."

You recoiled slightly, with your heart beginning to race as a cold dread settled against your rib cage. Your mind fought against his words, refusing to accept what they implied. You had always felt different, out of place, but you had attributed it to the strange nature of the hotel, to the dark energy that seemed to carve every corner of it. Not this. Never this.

"No . . ." you whispered, shaking your head as if that could wake you up from the nightmare that was taking shape before you. "No, that can't be true. I'm . . . I'm alive, James. I'm here."

The man's brows furrowed in sorrow and what seemed like guilt, his heart breaking for you when you struggled to hold onto the last shreds of your denial. He reached out, gently taking your hands in his, his touch warm but offering no comfort from the truth he was about to reveal.

"You are here, [Name]," he said softly, "but not in the way you believe. You died, my love . . . years ago. You've been here, in this hotel, ever since. Your spirit, your essence — trapped, just like mine. But unlike the others, you've refused to see it. You've built a world around yourself, a world where you still believe you can leave, still believe you can live."

The room seemed to spin around you, the walls closing in as the truth clawed its way into your consciousness. You tried to pull away from him, tried to reject the reality he was presenting, but his grip on your hands was firm, grounding you even as everything else fell apart.

"No . . . no, that's not possible," you insisted still, your voice rising in pitch as panic began to take hold. "I'm not dead, I can't be. I'm . . . I'm real, James. I'm standing here, talking to you."

"Yes, you are," March replied, his voice steady and calm, though his own pain was evident in his eyes. "But you're not alive. Not in the way you think. This hotel . . . it's a place where the dead linger, where they cannot move on. You've been here with me all this time, believing you were still part of the world outside, but the truth is . . . you're not."

Tears welled up in your eyes as the reality of his words began to sink in, your carefully constructed world shattering around you. You could feel the coldness creeping into your bones, the weight of your existence pressing down on you like a leaden shroud. It was as if you were seeing yourself for the first time — truly seeing — and what you saw terrified you.

"But . . . but how?" asking, your voice broke as you looked up at him, searching his face for answers, for anything that might make sense of this horror. "How could I not know? How could I . . . how could I forget?"

Your past lover's expression was filled with sorrow as he gently cupped your face, wiping away the salty tears that spilled down your cheeks. He had never wanted this for you, never wanted you to suffer as he had, to be trapped in this purgatory with nothing but memories and regrets to keep you company.

"You loved me," he stated simply. "You loved me so much that you couldn't bear to let go, even in death. Your love for me, your denial . . . it kept you here, in this place, unable to see the truth. But now . . . now you know."

You were his. Perhaps you had always been. And now, as the truth of your existence settled into your bones, he knew he could not let you go, even if it meant holding onto a ghost, a shadow of what the two of you once were.

Gently, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still cradling one of your cheeks. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your face paler than usual, but in that moment, you were still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. The love he had felt for you had not waned, even in death; if anything, it had only grown stronger, more desperate.

"You may as well take my heart, [Name]," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "It's already full of you. You walked into it the day we met."

A blink was all you managed to give. You had felt his love from the beginning, had known how deeply he cared for you.

"You're a fool, James Patrick March." There was no anger in your words, only a sorrowful resignation. You knew what he was trying to do, knew he was trying to hold onto something that had already slipped away. But there was no future for the two of you — not in this twisted world, not in this half-existence.

He smiled sadly, a flicker of the old charm that had once captivated you. "Oh, but isn't any man who falls in love?" He ran his thumb gently across the apple of your cheek, wiping away the last traces of your tears. "Do you know what you are to me? You're something to believe in again. You're the type of person that had ceased to exist for me — a fine and honest woman."

His words were like a knife twisting in your heart. The depth of his feelings, the sincerity in his voice, all served to remind you of what you had lost, of what could never be. You wanted to believe in his love, to find comfort in the fact that he still saw you as something pure and good. But the truth was that you weren't that woman anymore, and perhaps you never had been.

"Oh, my darling. You're such a child.”

James' face fell, the hope in his eyes dimming as he saw the resolve in your posture, heard the finality in your voice. He had feared this moment, the moment when you would push him away, when you would reject the only thing he had left to offer.

"Take your foolish little dream in your heart and go," you continued with your final decision and your voice broke on the last word as you fought against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm your every sense. You wanted him to leave, to take his love and his dreams and disappear, because you knew that if he stayed, you would both be dragged down into the darkness that surrounded you.

You didn't need to turn around to know he was still there. You could feel him, like a shadow that never left your side.

"What is it? What's wrong, my dear?" his voice was gentle, almost tender, but you could hear the underlying concern.

You wanted to lash out, to tell him to leave you for good, to demand that he let you be. But the words caught in the back of your throat, tangled with the truth of what you felt — what you had always felt for him, despite everything.

"You know nothing about me," you said, voice shaking with frustration, but also with a hint of despair. "You've known me only three weeks!"

March blinked, caught off guard by your statement. Three weeks. Had it really been so little time? To him, it felt like an eternity, and at the same time, like no time at all. Every moment with you had been etched into his mind, as if you had always been there, a part of him that never left.

"Three weeks?" he repeated after you. "[Name], I've known you all my life."

"All your life?!" the words were nothing but a distant echo, incredulous. How could he say that? How could he claim to have known you, when you yourself barely understood who you were anymore?

James took a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours. He could see the turmoil in your gaze, the confusion and doubt that swirled around you like a storm. But he had to make you understand — had to make you see what you meant to him, what you had always meant.

"It's true," he insisted, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "I've seen you in a thousand plays, read you in as many books. While I've heard beautiful music, I've thought, 'She'd like that.' I've looked at flowers and known that one day I'd give them to you."

To him, you had always been there, in his thoughts, in his dreams. Even before the two of you met, you had been a part of him, an ideal, a vision of something pure and beautiful in a world that had long since lost its luster.

Your breath caught in your throat as you listened, heart pounding in your chest. You had heard words like these before — sweet nothings whispered in the dark after you've made love, promises made and broken — but this was different. There was no lies in his voice, no empty flattery. He truly believed what he was saying, and that sincerity shook you to your core.

But it also terrified you. Because you knew that if you allowed yourself to believe him, to accept the love he offered, there would be no turning back. You would be lost to him, bound by the same chains that held you both to this place.

"James. . ." you began with your trembling voice as you struggled to find the right words. You wanted to tell him that it wasn't real, that what he felt was just another illusion, another trick of his twisted mind. But even as you thought it, you knew it wasn't true. His love for you was truly real — so real that it had brought you back, kept you from moving on.

But was it enough? Could it ever be enough?

You felt a cold sweat on your skin as you grappled with the turmoil building inside you. The love you felt for James was undeniable, a force that had bound you together in life and in death. But with that love came a profound sense of duty, a discipline that you had clung to as a way to maintain some semblance of control over your fractured existence. Now, that discipline was being tested in a way you had never imagined.

The man himself could see the conflict in your eyes, the way your emotions warred with your duty. He had always admired your strength, the fierce determination with which you had approached everything in your life. But now, he wondered if that strength would ultimately be the thing that tore the two of you apart.

"If I betray you, I betray myself," whispering, your voice trembled with the weight of your confession. You had always prided yourself on your unwavering commitment to your principles, to the discipline that had guided you through even the darkest of times. But now, standing before the man you loved, you realized just how fragile that commitment had become, all because of him.

"If I betray myself," you continued, "I betray my discipline. My discipline is very dear to me."

The words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. You had built your life around that discipline, around the principles that had defined you. It had been your anchor, your guiding light in a world that had often seemed dark and chaotic.

"Dearer than I?" James' voice was soft, almost pleading. He could see the struggle in your eyes, the way you fought against your love for him with the discipline that had been the foundation of your existence. He knew that he was asking you to choose between two parts of yourself, and the thought of losing you because of it was almost too much to bear.

You looked up at him, heart breaking in million pieces at the vulnerability in his voice. You had never wanted to hurt him, never wanted to put him in a position where he had to question your love. But the truth was, you were questioning it yourself. Not the love itself — no, that was as real as anything you had ever known — but whether you could truly allow yourself to give in to it, to let go of the discipline that had defined you for so long.

"No," you whispered into the dark while the soft breeze blew past you. "No, not dearer than you. But I must leave."

James Patrick March stood there, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you like a death sentence. You were leaving him — this time, forever. The love you had shared, the bond that had once seemed unbreakable, was now shattered, and there was nothing he could do to stop you from disappearing into the void where he could never follow.

For a moment, he said nothing, his heart a cage of grief, anger, and desperation. He had always prided himself on his composure, his ability to remain calm and in control, even in the face of the most dire situations. But now, with the woman he loved standing before him, ready to walk out of his life forever, all that control began to crumble.

"You gave me your heart, you know?" James finally spoke, his voice low and strained, as if each word was being torn from the depths of his soul. "And now you'd like me to hand it back to you, whole again. But I won't."

You flinched at the bitterness in his tone, but you held your ground, soft eyes betraying the sadness that mirrored his own. You had made your decision, but it was clear that it was one that pained you just as much as it pained him.

"You will live a long time yet, [Name]," the man continued, his voice growing stronger, more resolute, as if he were steeling himself against the inevitable. "An eternity without me."

He paused for a moment, hoping to find any sign that you might change your mind, that you might see the madness in what you were about to do. But there was nothing — just the same quiet determination that had always been a part of you, the same unyielding strength that he had fallen in love with.

"You will look into the faces of passersby, hoping for something that will, for an instant, bring me back to you. But it won't. You will find moonlit nights strangely empty," he went on, his voice now a haunting whisper. "Because when you call my name through them, there will be no answer."

Your breath hitched, and you looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. James felt a sharp pang in his chest, a sense of helplessness that he had never known before. He was losing you for real, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Always your heart will be aching for me," he said, his voice trembling with the intensity of his emotions. "And your mind will give you the doubtful consolation that you did a brave thing."

He took a step closer, reaching out to gently lift your chin so that your eyes met once more. The pain in your gaze was almost too much for him to bear, but he held it, wanting you to see the truth in his own eyes. He wanted you to feel his own pain.

"But know this, my dear," the whispered affection left his lips so naturally when it came to you and that was why it all hurt too much. He'd never change. "You may think you're doing the right thing, the brave thing, by leaving. But there will come a time when you will question it — when the loneliness becomes too much, when the nights grow too long, and the silence becomes unbearable. And in those moments, you will remember me. You will remember what we had, and you will wish, with all your heart, that you had chosen differently."

He let his hand fall away, stepping back as the finality of your decision settled over him like a blanket. There was nothing more to say — nothing that could change what was about to happen.

"You will never be free of me. No matter how far you run, or how long you hide. I will always be a part of you, just as you are a part of me."

You swallowed hard, tears now spilling freely down your cheeks again as you took one last look at the man you had loved with all your heart. The man you were about to leave behind.

"Goodbye, James," you whispered, voice breaking. "Goodbye."

And with that, you turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows, leaving James alone in the suffocating silence of the room you had once shared.

As the door closed behind you, the reality of your absence crashed over him like a brutal wave, and for the first time in his life, James Patrick March felt truly, utterly lost.

[rylandfalkov]

Ryland's Succulent Tart After Dark Performance April 12th, 2025

The stage is bathed in soft shades of blue light, revealing that the area is now completely covered in about six inches of rolling white and grey fog, reminiscent of the sky right before a storm blows in. Small pinpoints of white light twinkle in mid-air, giving the scene an otherworldly feel, as if the onlookers are now witness to something that goes normally unseen.

From within the fog appears a pair of glimmery, translucent feathered wings, catching and refracting light like stained glass, and the man they belong to, genuflecting with his back to the audience. Bare skin and dark hair appears to be kissed in a layer of silver glitter, and with every small shift of his form, the tiny flecks catch the light and sparkle like diamonds.

Ryland rises to his feet with a few beats of his wings, fog swirling about his legs before being forced away with a gust of air produced by the brief flutter. Once settled, the fog begins to creep inwards and he turns to regard something beyond the audience with a white glowing gaze, now revealing the entire sculpted form of this ethereal being.

A body of a dancer carved by discipline and desire, donning only a transparent thong meant to hold things in place rather than mask from sight. Nothing here is hidden. The silver glitter shimmers like stardust, clinging to every inch of his bare flesh. Light traces the elegant curve of his neck down to his chiseled and smooth chest, soft to the eye but firm to the touch. The veins in those muscular arms peek from beneath the shine, like currents beneath ice.

Downward, his abdomen is a map of light and shadow. Muscles etched in control, coated in soft glints that shift like moonlight across water. You can see the strength, but the glitter turns it into something mythic, as if he weren’t flesh at all, but craving, incarnate. Hips gleam like temptation; narrow, sensual, wrapped in luster that catches every subtle shift, every tease of motion. The deep V of his pelvis shines like a hidden path - dangerous, beautiful, begging to be followed. Thighs, powerful and poised, thick with brawn yet moving like water, and dancer-perfect calves tapering into arches so pointed and so delicate.

A body that moves like music and feels like a sin. Living artwork, to not just be admired but to be worshipped. A shimmering storm of grace and lust made of sweat and starlight.

A genial smile is offered to no one in particular as he seems unaware of those peering into his world, and with a subtle strum of his fingers, a silver pole running floor to ceiling, appears beside him. The atmosphere is almost sacred, yet pulsing with anticipation.

He rests one hand against the device, leaning back into a deep cambré, spine arching backwards as his free hand elegantly lifts above his head. Upon righting himself, he rises onto the balls of his feet, right leg lifting into a développé, thigh raising to the side with knee bent, until he straightens out the leg, pointing his toe towards the heavens in a full split. Every movement is carefully measured, flowing from one position to the next without restriction.

Ryland lowers his leg, toe touching the ground behind him as both hands reach up to grip the pole above his head, using the strength in his arms and core to lift himself off the ground. With legs in a wide V and arms nearly straight, he holds his body parallel to the pole as it slowly rotates him around.

Pressing one foot against the device, the other gracefully raises and he curls the back of his knee around the pole. Torso lifting, he braces his weight against the lower foot and curls an arm around the device while straightening the top leg into an arabesque. Free hand delicately reaches towards the sky, wings responding to each motion, flexing and shimmering with his breath. Lighting and shadow play off their translucency, casting fragmented halos across the stage floor and audience alike.

Ryland bends his knee around the bar and braces both hands above his head, torso lifting and legs flaring upwards into an inverted center split. His choreography on the pole defies conventional categorization. Each spin, climb, and inversion is woven with seduction, seamlessly fusing classical ballet technique with the raw athleticism of pole dancing.

Legs twist around the pole above him, an ankle hooking as the other extends downwards into another split. The continuous motion doesn’t cease as both legs lower to reposition himself, grabbing the heel of one foot to extend towards the cloud-covered stage while the other points upwards, all held in place by the crook of his elbow. The pole becomes less a prop and more a second partner: Unyielding, demanding, and reverent. His choreography seems unnatural and unattainable by a mortal form, creating moments of impossible stillness mid-spin, as if time itself has paused to witness.

An elegant flare of his legs allows his feet once more to meet the ground, sending a ripple through the fog. With precise, fluid movements, Ryland begins a floor-based ballet sequence: Developpés, arabesques, and controlled pirouettes, all demonstrating the grace and discipline of classical training. He moves through the space with a deliberate weightlessness while powerful limbs trace invisible sigils in the air through nimble transitions. Moments of stillness break into sudden bursts of motion: A deep arching cambré sweeps weightless wings outwards as the back of his head nearly skims his calf, immediately followed by a prep and leap into a soaring grand jeté that lands silent as snowfall.

Then, that luminous gaze shifts forwards. He sees them, the audience, and a flicker of realization crosses his face: They have been watching and witnessing. For the first time, Ryland cautiously moves toward them and extends a hand to a woman, trembling with curiosity and yearning. His cupped hand hovers against their cheek, but nothing happens. His hand doesn’t meet warmth nor resistance. Instead, his fingers pass through them as if through vapor.

He looks down at his own body in aching understanding: He has no mortal form. Desire made visible, but not tangible. The wings on his back are not just symbolic, but the only thing tethering him to the world at all. He attempts again with more greed, this time to a man, but the result is the same. The separation is not space, but of essence. He is of another realm.

Yet he doesn’t retreat in anger or in fear, instead he becomes a part of the crowd itself. With a quiet shift in intention, Ryland begins to move within the audience, gliding -through- them, leaving only a shiver of gooseflesh on their bodies in his wake. Those glimmery wings create stirrings in the air as the lighting shifts to chase his silhouette. He dances not within their world, but parallel to it. A triple pirouette into a double tour l’en air, a triple piqué turn, arms reaching for that which he knows he cannot touch. He weaves among them like an intimate memory, never quite there, but unmistakably felt.

Rather than perform for spectacle, Ryland reveals himself, and not just his technique, but his ache to be known. To be touched. To be felt.

Reluctantly he returns to the stage and to the pole, a metaphorical pillar between earth and sky. He blends brute power and erotic elegance with twisted grip climbs, eagle splits, and one-armed body spirals. Each hold is a breath drawn in, and each release is a moan held back. His skin gleams beneath the mellow lights, his contoured muscles enticing both worship and invitation. He does not seduce outright, he offers and then dares the audience to want. Every movement drips with tension, like the moment before lips meet, but his expression carries the rawness of longing

Still, he remains untouchable.

He lands in stillness, gaze longingly searching the audience not as a spirit glimpsing into the mortal world, but as a man making a choice. His wings are constant, never still. They respond to every pulse, every breath, casting glimmers across his skin and the stage. They are not a costume nor a symbol of devotion, right now they are his curse.

He moves to the front of the stage and falls to his knees as his hands reach back. With an agonizing growl, he violently tears them from himself, clumps of feathers carelessly tossed asunder. The wings unravel into dust, negligently blowing away within the clearing fog. He offers no cry, only breathless silence and then stands, newly human. Mortal. …Alone. The glow in his gaze dims and flesh flushes with life.

A moment meant to bloom, but instead it wilts.

Ryland has done the one thing that would grant him connection, but in doing so he has lost something irretrievable. Eyes fill with realization and he collapses to the floor, body heaving from regret. The absence of his wings is deafening. He is grounded now, of flesh and weight, but the light does not hold him nor revere him the way it once did.

The final image is of Ryland curled where he landed, arms wrapped around the hollow space where his wings once lived. There is no bow, only silence and the feeling that something holy has been undone.

@succulent-tart

[belit0]

Ashes of the Firstborn

You can also read it in AO3!

Otsutsuki Indra was born first, born strongest, and born to lead. But when his birthright is stolen, he turns from the light and carves a path of destruction that stains the land in blood. Legends whisper of the Firstborn’s crimson gaze and the merciless wars he waged against gods and men alike. Yet in the depths of his darkness, one soul still dares to search for the boy he once was. Ivy’s relentless hope becomes the spark that defies fate itself—an echo of love and defiance that will forge a legacy. From shadow and ruin, a new clan will rise. The Uchiha.

This is the beginning of a novel I’ve been thinking about writing for a long time. We know so little about the foundations of the Uchiha clan—how Indra built what we later come to see—and it feels fitting to create the lore, story that justifies every step taken toward the clan’s birth. We’ll explore this through a blend of love, anguish, and the madness inherent to the Uchiha, with smut, tension, and much more along the way. Feedback is welcome!

Endless thanks to @sen-iiiiii for being my beta reader in this long and crazy project!!

Chapter 1

The woods were quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of fists striking bark.

Indra moved with deliberate precision, each blow finding the same place on the tree trunk, again and again. His hands were scraped raw, but he barely noticed. At eight years old, he had already learned to ignore discomfort. His breath was steady. Focus absolute.

The forest watched in silence.

Until it didn’t.

Twigs snapped somewhere behind him, small ones, as though someone too light to know better was trying—and failing—to be stealthy. He did not turn. Instead, his hand drew back and struck the tree once more, sharp enough to send a tremor through the wood.

A pause.

Then footsteps, deliberate now. Crunching leaves beneath soft soles.

-I knew it.

The voice was high, curious. A girl’s voice. Indra exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet, but he said nothing.

-You are here every afternoon,- she continued, as if filling the quiet was a duty only she could fulfill. -I told my brother I saw you once, but he didn’t believe me. He said “that boy from the other village doesn’t play with anyone!” But here you are.-

He struck the tree again. Less out of training now, more to remind himself she wasn’t worth noticing.

The girl kept going.

-Do you live far? I think we might be neighbors. Sort of. My village is behind the hills… over there somewhere.- She waved a hand vaguely, though he still hadn’t looked at her. -My name’s Ivy. What’s yours?-

Silence.

She waited. A heartbeat. Two.

-You do have a name, right?- she prodded, stepping around the side of the tree. She was small—shorter than him by a head, with a long braid that dragged through the leaves as she walked. Her honey-colored eyes shone with something too close to mischief.

He finally turned his head, just enough that she could see him. His dark eyes flickered over her in an assessing glance. A flicker, nothing more.

-Leave.- The word was soft but sharp, the kind of edge that was meant to warn.

Ivy tilted her head. For a moment, it seemed like she might listen. But then her mouth curved into a smile—wide, bright, a little crooked.

-And if I don’t?

He stared at her. She stared back.

Most would have left by now. Most would have understood.

But this girl—this strange, noisy girl—laughed. It wasn’t loud, but it was sudden, like she couldn’t help it.

-You’re not as scary as you think.

Indra’s jaw tensed. His fingers curled once, then released. He didn’t answer. He turned back toward the tree and drew his hand up for another strike.

-See you tomorrow,- Ivy said, cheerful as though they’d agreed on something. She was already stepping away, humming softly to herself.

And though he didn’t turn to watch her leave, he listened.

//

Weeks passed.

By then, it had become a strange kind of ritual.

Indra would go to the woods. Ivy would follow. Sometimes she arrived before him, sitting on the fallen log as if it had been hers all along. Other days, she trailed after him with quiet steps and loud words, announcing her arrival by the sheer volume of her thoughts spoken aloud.

He never told her to leave again. Not because he wanted her there. At least, that’s what he told himself.

That day, the sun hung low behind heavy clouds, the air thick with the promise of rain. Indra’s hands, already bruised and torn, curled into fists. He exhaled slowly through his nose and moved—fluid, precise, his body remembering lessons drilled into bone.

Ivy sat cross-legged nearby, playing with strands of her braid, knotting and unknotting them while she spoke.

-You should rest sometimes, you know. My brother does the same thing—train until he can't lift his arms. He never listens, either.

Her voice drifted over him like the wind, familiar enough now that he no longer heard it as a disruption. Just a presence. Quiet noise that somehow made the silence less hollow.

Indra slammed his palm into the tree. The wood cracked faintly under his touch, bark splintering.

-But you’re different from him,- she went on, plucking a leaf and spinning it between her fingers. -He is all noise and bluster. You… you’re like a storm that doesn’t make a sound. Until it does.-

He ignored her, as usual.

She sighed dramatically and lay back in the grass, staring up at the slate-colored sky. -One day you’ll tell me your name,- she said. -And when you do, I’ll pretend I haven’t already decided to call you something else.-

His strikes grew faster, harder. Chakra gathered at his palm, swirling violently beneath his skin. He pushed it further, reckless now, because something about her voice made it harder to stay quiet inside himself.

The blow landed wrong. His wrist twisted sharply, and there was the sound of flesh giving way, the sharp tear of skin. He didn’t flinch, but blood welled up quickly, dark and thick along his forearm.

She was on her feet before he could step away.

-Stop.

The word wasn’t soft. It wasn’t a plea. It was a command.

For the first time, he hesitated.

Ivy crossed the space between them in three quick steps. Her braid dragged through the grass behind her as she stood in front of him, small and stubborn. Without asking permission, without fear, she took his injured arm in her hands.

Her touch was warm.

She didn’t hesitate. Fingers light, she let them glide just above his skin, where the torn flesh glimmered dark with blood. Chakra bloomed from her palms—a soft, pale glow, like the last light before dusk—and sank into his wound. He felt the sting fade almost immediately, the skin stitching itself closed under her gentle command.

She said nothing as she worked. No foolish comments. No questions. Only a quiet, steady focus, as if this were something she’d done a thousand times before.

When it was done, she didn’t let go.

-You should be more careful,- Ivy said, lifting her gaze to his.

He stared at her—dark, fathomless eyes, sharp as cut obsidian. No one touched him without permission. No one defied the prodigy without consequence. And yet here she stood—small, steady, utterly unafraid.

For a long moment, silence hung between them.

Then his fingers closed slowly over hers. Not in rejection. In acknowledgment. Her hands were smaller than his, but strong in ways that had nothing to do with power.

-My name,- he said at last, his voice low, rough with something he didn’t fully understand, -is Indra.-

Her brows lifted, surprise flickering across her face—but only for a breath.

-Ivy,- she replied, though she had said it a million times before.

-I know.

A faint smile tugged at her mouth. Not mocking. Not sweet, either. Something in between. -Took you long enough,- she said. Indra said nothing. He let go of her hand.

But something had shifted. And they both knew it.

//

Late afternoon pressed long shadows between the trees, turning the clearing into a pool of dusk. Ivy sat cross-legged at a fallen tree, her fingers absently weaving small braids into her hair. She spoke sometimes. Little things. A thought about the clouds overhead, or how the wind smelled different when rain was coming. But mostly, she watched.

Indra was farther in, his movements sharp and deliberate, slicing through the air with an elegance she had never seen in any of the other boys training back in her village. There was no hesitation in him. No wasted motion. Just an endless, relentless precision. It was beautiful in its way. Terrible, too.

Ivy wasn’t sure if he forgot she was there, or simply didn’t care anymore.

She was twisting another braid when he stopped.

Just like that, his body stilled—abrupt, like he’d snapped into place—and his head turned slightly toward her. His hair, long and loose, caught the light for a moment before settling against his back. He didn’t say anything. He never did first.

But his eyes found hers across the clearing.

It wasn't the kind of look other boys gave-quick, passing, meaningless. His gaze was steady. Measured. As if he wasn't just seeing her but looking into her, like it meant something.

Her fingers paused, still tangled in her own hair. She felt something pull tight in her chest, soft and strange.

-What?- she asked, more breath than sound.

He didn’t answer. Not right away. His gaze drifted lower, to her hands, where the braid hung unfinished between her fingers. For a second, she thought he was going to turn back to his training. He always did.

But instead, he walked toward her. Calm, unhurried, his steps silent over the moss.

Ivy felt very aware. She held still, watching him come closer, until the space between them was narrow enough that she could feel the cold shadow of his presence. He didn’t sit. He just stood there, looking at her like he was trying to decide if she was real.

His hand lifted. Barely. Like the movement itself was an afterthought. And then, without a word, he took the braid from her fingers. His touch was light, practiced, as if he'd done it before - though she knew he hadn't.

But for some reason, the air felt different between them as he twisted the strands into place - quick, precise, like it was muscle memory.

When he was done, he let the strand fall against her shoulder. His fingers brushed her skin for half a breath longer than they needed to.

-No loose ends, little shadow.- Indra said simply.

And then he was gone. Turning back to the clearing, to the weight of his own practice. Like it meant nothing.

But Ivy sat there, braid heavy against her collarbone, and thought: "little shadow! A nickname!"

And she smiled, just a little.

//

The air was still, warm with the weight of late afternoon, and the woods stood quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of breath—sharp and controlled. Indra moved like shadow-made flesh, his strikes cutting through the silence with each precise flick of his wrist. Ivy sat at her usual place, legs tucked beneath her, braiding blades of grass with absent-minded concentration.

She had been coming here for weeks now, invited by no one, sent away by no scowl. She spoke as if filling the spaces he refused to acknowledge, and lately, she'd stopped expecting answers.

Today was no different.

-You train too much, you know.- Ivy muttered, fingers busy as she glanced up at him. -What if you grow up so serious you forget how to smile?-

Indra didn’t falter. His footwork was silent, and measured, but his eyes flickered—dark, watchful. She’d learned to look for that. It meant he was listening.

She smiled to herself, tucking the grass braid behind her ear. -I think I liked your frown better when it wasn’t all the time.-

The leaves rustled behind them. Ivy straightened. Indra stilled completely, breath held like a blade against the throat.

Asura's voice broke through the hush, bright and careless. -Indra! Father said you—

He stopped when he saw her. A little girl, sitting cross-legged on the ground as if she belonged there. As if this place, this brother of his, wasn't carved from something colder than stone.

Asura blinked at her. Then grinned. -Who are you?- He stepped closer, peering at Ivy with undisguised curiosity.

Ivy tilted her head, meeting him with a boldness only children could manage. -I’m Ivy. Who are you?-

-He’s my little brother.- Indra’s voice cut through the space between them, low and flat. It made Ivy blink once. Asura didn’t notice. He was already crouching near Ivy, examining her braid like it was the most fascinating thing he'd seen all day.

-Your hair is longer than hers,- Asura pointed out, glancing over his shoulder at Indra. -But you don’t braid it?-

Indra didn’t answer. His jaw clenched instead.

Ivy laughed softly, pulling the grass from behind her ear. -He’s too busy being serious. He wouldn’t know how.-

Asura chuckled. -I could teach him.-

Something sharp twisted behind Indra’s ribs. His hands flexed at his sides, and he turned away without a word, returning to his stances. His back felt hot under their gaze.

Asura’s questions didn’t stop. -Do you always watch him train? Isn’t it boring?-

-No.- Ivy’s answer was simple. Certain. -I like watching him.-

Asura hummed thoughtfully, kicking his feet in the dirt. -I think it’s strange,- he said, but there was no malice in it. Just a child's honesty.

Ivy smiled again, but her eyes stayed on Indra. He hadn’t looked at them once since his brother arrived. Still, his movements had changed. Sharper. Harsher.

When Asura finally ran off, leaving promises to bring something next time—apples, maybe—there was a silence that settled between them again.

Ivy tucked her knees under her chin. -You didn’t tell him to leave.-

Indra exhaled slowly, his shoulders rigid. -He doesn’t listen.-

-You didn’t tell me to leave either.

He turned then, just enough for her to catch the edge of his gaze. Dark. Unreadable. It lingered on her, longer than it ever had before.

-No.- His voice was a weight. -I didn’t.-

Ivy smiled to herself, quietly victorious.

[bardic-tales]

Whispers of Chaos - An Original and Final Fantasy: Dissidia Crossover Fic

Summary: Four harbingers of destruction, Sephiroth, Bianca, Ultimecia, and Kefka, clash with monstrous entities in the twilight battlefield of World B.

Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!OC) / Sephiroth

Other Characters: Kefka Palazzo, Ultimecia

Possible Trigger Warnings: Battle violence, body horror, destruction, gore, implied psychological manipulation, madness, references to cataclysmic events, threats of harm

A/N: This was a quick warmup I did at the beginning of the month.

The battlefield stretched into the horizon: a jagged and broken landscape beneath an ever-twilight sky. Slivers of light bled through ominous clouds, casting shadows across the desolate land of World B, while a cold wind blew between ruined monuments, carrying upon it the scent of ash and iron. Here in a world where gods waged their petty wars by proxy, four figures stood as manifestations of ruin and ambition.

Kefka’s laughter shattered the silence first, high and manic, grating on nerves already frayed by the endless conflict. He twirled in place, crimson, white and gold jester's outfit flaring, eyes alight with a deranged glee.

“Oh, this is delicious!” he cackled. “All this chaos, all this beautiful destruction! Makes my heart go pitter-patter!”

Ultimecia’s crimson eyes narrowed in disdain. Her words slithered with refined contempt.

“Your prattle is insufferable, jester,” she drawled, flexing clawed fingers adorned with glistening rings. “Even the sands of time weep for reprieve from your voice.”

Perched above the ground, Bianca regarded them both with a gaze that could carve flesh from bone. Her indigo eyes glinted like cut glass. Her feline pupils narrowed in irritation. She levitated a mere two feet off the ground with her wings folded elegantly against her back. The dark and indigo feathers glistened with an oil-slick sheen. Bianca’s half-up, half-down waves of midnight hair shifted as she tilted her head.

Her attention, however, never strayed far from Sephiroth, who stood with the Masamune pointed behind them. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, as if seeking meaning amid the chaos. Flowing like liquid mercury, his silver hair, ethereal and unbound, contrasting sharply against his black coat.

“Kefka,” Bianca said, “if you insist on chattering, at least make it useful. The planesgorgers will not wait for your tantrums.”

Kefka scowled, but a flicker of something darker passed through his eyes. He snapped his fingers, sending a burst of multicolored sparks fizzing in the air. “Oh, lighten up, princess,” he sneered. “You might pop a vein with all that scowling.”

Bianca’s eyes glinted, and her lips curving into a smile that did not reach them. With a flick of her wrist, an arc of ice surged forward, snapping shut around Kefka’s feet. He squawked indignantly, flailing like a marionette with its strings tangled.

Sephiroth’s gaze flickered to her. An almost imperceptible quirk played at the corner of his mouth. “Behave,” he said mildly.

Bianca’s smile grew, fangs glinting in the half-light. “As you wish,” she murmured, but the glint in her eyes promised nothing of the sort.

Ultimecia chuckled lowly, eyes glimmering with intrigue. “How quaint,” she mused. “A dark queen and her fallen angel. Perhaps not all creatures of chaos are mindless brutes.”

The comment slid off Bianca’s shoulders like rain off a poncho. Her focus was on Sephiroth. The red thread of fate wound delicately around their wrists, pulsing faintly with each breath. Its heart-shaped patterns glowed softly, a constant reminder of the bond that defied gods and fate alike.

Sephiroth’s gaze remained forward, but the subtle shift of his shoulders was answer enough. A dark promise lingered in the air between them, woven with the scent of ozone and blood.

2.

Ultimecia’s eyes glimmered with a predatory light. “Tell me, Sephiroth,” she purred. “Do you seek to rule this world as well? Or is destruction your only muse?”

Sephiroth’s eyes narrowed, glacial and unfeeling. “To rule is trivial,” he replied. “This world is but a fragment, a stepping stone to something greater.”

Kefka snickered, kicking at the ice that still bound his feet. “Oooh, spooky! Big bad Sephiroth with his big bad sword! And here I thought I was the only one with grand ambitions!”

Bianca’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Careful, jester,” she cooed, tone lilting yet sharp. “Your tongue may outpace your luck.”

Kefka stuck his tongue out with a cackle. “Oh, please! If you wanted to kill me, you’d have to get in line!”

Ultimecia’s lip curled. “Silence, fool. You are grating.”

Kefka grinned, unrepentant. “And you’re boring! Where’s the fun in all this doom and gloom? Let’s spice things up!”

The planesgorgers surged in a writhing mass from the fissures. Their maws were a nightmare of teeth and void. Shadows stretched long and jagged, as their hunger manifested into World B.

Sephiroth moved first. Masamune a silver arc that cleaved reality itself. Bianca was at his side. Noctemaris sang with corruption. Its crimson glow and sparkling stardust resembled a sickly halo. Her movements were fluid and quick: a dance of death and darkness as her wings unfurled with lethal grace.

Ice and shadow interwove, tearing through the twisted creatures with an almost disdainful ease.

Kefka flitted about, raining down fires and giggling maniacally, while Ultimecia’s magic twisted the battlefield, compressing time and unraveling enemies with graceful cruelty before Kefka took advantage of it.

Amid the chaos, Bianca’s eyes remained fixed on Sephiroth, their synchronization effortless and unspoken. They moved in tandem, a dark symphony of strength and quickness.

Sephiroth’s voice cut through the din, cold and commanding. “To the heart of it. We waste time with these vermin.”

Bianca smirked, the thrill of battle lighting her eyes. “Lead the way, my love,” she murmured, voice darkly affectionate.

Kefka pretended to retch. “Ugh, spare me the sweet talk! I’ll take chaos over cutesy any day!”

Bianca responded with a flick of ice, narrowly missing his ear. Kefka shrieked and zipped away, hurling curses and spells with reckless abandon. Ultimecia, observing with detached amusement, allowed herself a slight chuckle.

As the last planesgorger fell, Sephiroth paused, Masamune gleaming with ichor. He regarded the distant horizon, where Shinryu’s shadow loomed, wings vast enough to blot out the sky.

“It awakens,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Bianca flew forward, gaze sharp and unrelenting. “Then we finish this,” she breathed, eyes glinting with unholy, corrupted light.

3.

They moved as one, dark avatars of ruin. Bianca’s power twisted reality, warping the space around them, while Ultimecia’s magic fragmented time itself. Sephiroth’s sword sang once more, a requiem that cleaved through scales and sinew. Even Kefka’s madness seemed to sharpen into something lethal and cunning.

Shinryu roared. The world trembled beneath its weight. But for all its power, the golden dragon faltered beneath the onslaught. The final blow came as Sephiroth and Bianca moved in tandem. The Masamune and Noctemaris carving a cross of darkness and starlight through the beast’s heart.

Its death was cataclysmic, as it tore reality asunder. As the echoes faded, Sephiroth’s gaze met Bianca’s. For a moment, amid the ruin and silence, nothing else existed.

The red thread glowed bright. Its pulse mirrored their hearts. “Shall we go, my queen?” Sephiroth asked, voice low and dark.

Bianca’s smile was slow and lethal, wings casting shadows long and deep. “Always,” she replied.

And together, they walked into the dark, hand in hand, leaving ruin and gods alike in their wake.

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