#[ waxen wings ]

[as-the-stars-foretold]

ask me about the mmvstr waxen wings au PLEASE

#mmvstr #having thoughts about brain blorbos #waxen wings

[andiloveyoutooangel]

on realizing i do, in fact, have a type

#[ rose gold angel ] #ichor and quill (art) #[ waxen wings ] #always so funny giving him any and all names that start with T <33 yeah tobias taylor theo trevor tae etc etc etc #he doesn't mind messing up his hair. he loves physical touch after being an intangible guardian angel for so long <33 #REALLY love the scratchy coloring style of the eyes close up i have GOT to do more of that sometime #*points at agent* guy who doesnt know what im talking about hgkjhg <333 #kisses him and gives him back his glasses and tells him how cute i think he is actually; i just wanted to end this comic deadpan hkjhd <3 #been working on this comic sooo slowly and finally got to finish it today since i(m almost) finished the semester!!! <33 #and now i post this at 3 am <3

[dndtreasury]

Brazier of Waxen Wings

#brazier of waxen wings #flight #flying #starlight studios #uncommon #cursed #magic items

[deceitfulmelvinator]

This little soccer ball can shrink your character to the size or a damn pea

I'd still win

#and henceforth #these waxen wings of mine melt as I go from soaring unto the sun to falling down to the ocean #once breathing and once flying #now drowning and now sinking #curse this hubris of mine #that daedalus and all heroes prior warned me of

[larapeteira]

Falling to a Devilish Exercise

Season 1 Episode 2 ‘Fifth Chair’

[I’ve had this episode (and the rest of season 1) kicking around as drafts pretty much since I did the pilot, and it’s really about time that I got on with them. We will call this episode the difficult second album.]

The orchestral version of ‘Lisztomania’ gets its first outing as opening titles for the series in this episode. The classical cover of a contemporary track with historical inspiration acts as a calling card for the series’ perspective on music: that what matters most is to make it, and vividly. More than this though its title speaks to the plot of this episode in a specific sense. Like the Ken Russell film its an example of how creative enthusiasm can lead to carnage.

‘Think less but see it grow’

As presented to us at the beginning of the series, Rodrigo’s global, cosmopolitan free-spirited, but ultimately self-centred vision of life shapes how he approaches the orchestra. In the ‘Pra não parar de Sambar’ sequence his appreciation of music is instinctive: he enjoys the busker’s playing, he pays her $100. Later, Hailey plays with the blood, so he finds a way to have her play with the NY Symphony. To his mind it’s all very simple and perfectly natural. At this point he’s coming to the orchestra as multiple musicians, not yet as its conductor. He’s driven by a love for each of their individual contributions.

Combining these factors, we get the main musical theme of this episode: Faustian pacts. Mahler’s 8 (Symphony of a Thousand) is ultimately swapped for Berlioz’s La Damnation de Faust. It’s almost immaterial whether or not Rodrigo intends to stage the works in full, both pieces are gargantuan. His underlying arrogance/overweening ambition and constant movement are the real problems. He makes his pact with his own enthusiasm and in this episode we see what follows when it outstrips his sense of practicality.

‘Follow, misguide, stand still/ Discuss, discourage’

I really enjoy how the Mahler conveys the ripple effects of Rodrigo’s decision to put it on the programme. The tension in the repetition of the piu mosso spreads into Lizzy and neighbour Stan’s annoyance at Hailey’s endless practising. On the one hand she suffers for Rodrigo’s pursuit of instinct, ending the episode out in the wilderness as the orchestra strikes up the Rákóczi March.  Her position as fifth chair is shaky and all too dispensable. Centring the story on her shows that the charm of his whimsy can only go so far.

On the other hand she is suffering the consequences of her own enthusiastic pact. There are advantages to getting to play with the orchestra, whether for her career or simply sharing the joy of their comradeship, and Hailey’s not blind to their enticements. Still its failure is a salutary reminder to be strategic about opportunities and to be wary of being too starry-eyed about people.

It tolls for three

Narratively and musically, Rodrigo and Hailey’s connection is apparent from the start, but there’s also Thomas to contend with. He appears to have detached himself from the situation, lost in his own wilderness, and this is reflected in the music. He’s still focussing on Rodrigo’s comments from the pilot about his conducting of the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto in D. Yet at the heart of the episode - its musical hinge -  La Campanella signals a warning for all three characters.  Ultimately the music in this episode serves to establish the similarities in all their temperaments and aspirations, the variations playing out in their respective career and life stages.

#mozart in the jungle #now that's what i call mozart #mitj seaon 1 #mitj opening titles #not a musicologist #roger neill #faust #gustav mahler #hector berlioz #johann wolfgang von goethe #christopher marlowe #Till swoll’n with cunning of a self-conceit/ His waxen wings did mount above his reach/ and melting heavens conspired his overthrow #Tout cœur frémit à leur chant de victoire/ Le mien seul reste froid insensible à la gloire

[daigina]

I had to walk away from the computer because SOMEONE is taking out 10 THOUSAND FUCKING POUNDS IN LOANS for a hotel SHES BEVER GOING TO SEE FINISHED and she’ll FALL INTO RUIN because her AMBITIONS are far too HIGH

#Anne lister is a DUMB BITCH gang help me survive this #I love her so much she’s literally my entire husband BUT SHES SO STUPID #ICARUS ASS BITCH!!!! #YOUR WAXEN WINGS WILL MELT ALL ABOUT YOU FOOL!!!

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 10[*]

Pairing: Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sister!Reader

A/N: Well, buckle up I guess

Warnings: Plot™️, I know clocks are canon but it still feels weird to do this, starting heavy 💪

Word Count: 6,012

-Part 9- -Part 11-

He sighs.

It’s not like she can help the way she is. Not like she can help the fact that whenever she tries to make things better it simply creates more work for him to do. By receding into her room, he has to pay more attention to when she appears, becoming extra vigilant in the moments she steps outside.

He shouldn’t be so harsh. Sometimes fatigue clouds his judgement, enough so it becomes apparent to even himself sleep is a necessary luxury. Still, they’re harmless behaviours really. Small habits that with the right guidance will enable her to flourish again.

A broken bone that needs to be left to set, to be good as new.

6:57 p.m.

Azriel massages his temples, the beginning aches of a headache making themselves apparent. Eases in a breath, counts, and releases. It seems a night of rest is unavoidable, but there’s so much to be done. He could perhaps rearrange breakfast…but that would collide nastily with training. Maybe moving lunch to three instead? But then that would impact the start time of going though the towering stack of reports, which would in turn result in him working later anyway.

Thick brows narrow as he prowls silently down the hallway of the River House, deciding to leave for some peace and quiet. It’s not an idea he’s keen on, but if he dips out of practice with Cassian atop the House of Wind tomorrow…that would work. Frustration simmers in his knuckles, tightening the trapezius. He doesn’t like the idea of skipping over valuable training time with the priestesses. They’re forcing themselves out of their comfort zone. The least he can do is respect their resolve by attending.

He’s so caught up in thoughts of schedule and routine he only realises she’s in the River House, on the same floor, when she’s a single corridor away. Another thing he needs to keep an eye on. Swiftly reorganises his thoughts, rotating and recalling the information his shadows have provided over the recent days and hours. The scraps of speculations Mor had offered from a single outing. If he remembers correctly, she will have just gotten back from her trip with Mor now. So why is she here? She should be back up at the House by now, retreating to her room away from everyone else.

Still, he rounds the corner in time to see her click a door closed—her sister’s. His curiosity piques, shadows already recollecting the news they’ve catalogued for the female with soft, cocoa eyes. Gloves still adorn her hands, but it does nothing to conceal their tremor.

Attention narrows in on her, darkness skittering back into the corners of the hallway, hiding between his wings as he approaches. Her lips are chapped and tight, features strained as her gloved hand rests for a moment atop the handle. Appearing in her own world—eyes glazed and vacant. Her jaw is wound tighter than usual, tight enough he can hear the grinding of enamel, like bone and porcelain powdered against rock. Brows draw together at the notice of her waxen complexion, skin gleaming faintly with peaky dew.

Blank eyes flick up to meet his own, and he steps forward. Her hand stiffens on the handle, posture turning rigid. Scent taking on a tang he’s far too familiar with from nights spent with his blade. He comes to a stop, keeping his distance from her taut form.

Azriel’s first thoughts are she must be pushing too hard with her magic. Honestly, he hadn’t anticipated her to be so resolved in mastering her power independently. Neither had he anticipated her making a lick of progress. At least not through measures that a sensible mentor would allow.

He should never have yielded to her look of despair. She’d be safer if he had simply insisted on doing things correctly. A foolish mistake on his part, and now she might be going down the wrong path. “Are you okay?” He asks, splitting his weight equally between each foot, resting in his place. Watches the roll of her throat, shifting in place, away from Elain’s door. Had there been an argument?

She nods her head, trying to straighten her spine as she sometimes does when pulling herself together. The effect is nullified by the was she hangs her head, never quite succeeding in meeting his eye for extended periods. He shouldn’t have ignored it for so long. Leaving something like that unchecked… Well, he should have known better.

“I’m—” She clears her throat, and tries again. “Good. I’m fine.” Nods to herself, eyeing the floorboards with bland eyes. He waits quietly, allowing the silence to coax her into unravelling. She shifts again, stepping away from Elain’s door, her gaze flitting about the corridor. Flicks to the stairs behind him, leading down to the exit—likely wanting to return to her haven up in the House by now.

Eyes regain a little focus, pupils contracting as a nervous smile quirks her mouth, nodding to the door as she makes for the stairs. “We were just speaking,” she elaborates, moving away hastily. “Catching up.”

Azriel watches, noting the briskness of her steps. It’s unusual for her to be so keen to leave his presence. What had happened?

“Wait,” he says, turning as she makes to move past him, peering at the floor, marking her steps. She pauses, gloved hand resting on the carved and polished banister. He steps forward, morbidly intrigued by the glaze in her eyes, as if made of glass. “You aren’t well,” he states. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” you repeat blandly, “just tired.”

Something bad then, if she’s not willing to even discuss whatever exchange happened with Elain.

Shadows loiter at the threshold, waiting to hear for any sounds that might offer hints, like the soft breath of cries, or the gentle splash of muffled tears. Nothing.

She turns again, descending the stairs, sweeping down the case quietly as she makes a bee-line for the door, vanishing out into the dark, leaving him perplexed and curious. A dangerous combination for the Spymaster.

She’d looked shaken up, so he should make sure things are okay.

It’s been a long while since he last had a one-on-one conversation with the soft-eyed female.

Azriel turns in the hallway, moving back the way she’d come.

8:36 a.m.

“We should talk.”

His words pull you from the world of bliss that had been graciously clouding your mind. Peer down at him from where you’re straddling his lap, pale sheets crumpled, clothes strewn about from being swiftly discarded. “About what?”

Thick, dark brows narrow over piercing golden eyes, full lips twisting down in the corners. Your own features shift to match his, “now, Bas?”

He sighs, large, warm hands splaying across the bruised skin of your hips. “I know, I know, I suck at timing. No need to tell me.” Almost immediately the edges of your lips lift up, a smile tugging at your mouth, vanquishing the momentary surge of annoyance. Fingers lightly press into the softness of his chest, spine losing its rigidity, relaxing your weight back onto him. Feeling slightly dizzy as pleasure sinks into your bones.

“Fine,” you mutter, playfully, “what is it?”

Bas shifts beneath you, thumbs soothing your skin, your back arching as you attempt to still the swirl of your hips. “Two things, actually,” he clarifies reaching higher, a reassuring pressure over your ribcage, rubbing to your waist. Peek down at him, raising a brow, “I wondered why you weren’t giving me a hard time tonight,” —shake your head, smiling slightly— “I should have known.”

He offers a tight smile and your own slips away. “Now you’re worrying me,” you murmur quietly, fingers curling. “What is it?” Golden eyes meet your own, concern shining in their depths, “you’ve been off recently. And I’m worried. So, it’s fine to be emotionally intimate too… Yeah?”

You blink, lips parting in surprise. “I’ve been…off?” Brow furrows in confusion, “what do you mean by that? Am I doing something wrong?” It’s an earnest question, yet it resonates a little deeper than you had expected. Thankfully he doesn’t pick up on the inner conflict. “It’s not that,” he reassures, hands stroking slowly, lightly. “But you’ve worn the same dress the last three times I’ve seen you.”

Internally, you cringe, making to pull away. “Do I smell?” You ask, wincing, bringing your arms to your chest. A slight smile tugs at his lips then, “no.” Relax a little, hands twining as he brings them back to his torso. “But…you taking care of yourself up there?” Sigh, shoulders losing their tension, lips resting into a quirked position.

“I’m fine, Bas. I like it up there, where it’s quiet, and—”

“No.” He interjects gently, hand slipping from yours, pushing a strand of hair from your cheek. Lightly cups your jaw, thumb skimming across the skin. “I mean up there.”

Spine stiffens, fingers freezing. Breath pauses. “Everything’s fine,” you murmur, watching him. He gives a look that urges you to stop lying, squeezing your hands. “Talk to me,” he says in response. “Something’s up. I can tell.”

“Bas—”

“Don’t even try,” he murmurs, golden eyes shimmering as he peers up at you. “I know what that feels like,” he whispers, hand raising to skim your breast, thumb brushing atop your heart. “I know change is difficult.”

“Bas, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eyes lock, staring at one another.

His hand falls away.

Muscle loosens.

Licks his lips, gaze flitting elsewhere. “I was lonely too, when the attack happened.” Spine softens, brows tightening. Wait silently for him to continue. Licks his lips again, returning to watch you. “Ma… It was hard on both of us, losing pa. Y’know one day he was there, then the next it’s just us.” His throat rolls, eyes glazing as he looks into the middle distance. “We had our own ways of dealing with it—the loss. Mother knows I can’t talk about healthy coping mechanisms, I practically fucked anything that would let me. Probably drank more than I should have, too.”

The attack.

You and your sisters hadn’t yet come here, still mortally human and wonderfully unaware. Well, you and Elain, anyway. Even now, there were still signs of the aftermath. Traces of grief that had yet to be healed.

He shakes his head slowly, limbs turning stiff. “It got… I know what it’s like.” Golden eyes latch to your own. “So talk to me. Don’t keep that—…stuff, to yourself.” Shake your head, breaking the connection, pulling away. “There’s nothing to talk about. Stop prying.” Shake off the heaviness, easing a breath. “What else did you want to talk about?”

His expression is indiscernible, brows dipped, lips tugged down, eyes swirling with molten gold. Shifts beneath you, your hands pressing to his chest to steady yourself as he raises into a sitting position. Moving to be eye-to-eye, hands spanning your waist, gently keeping you still. Fingers brush the concealed muscle of his shoulders, linking at his back, hips winding in gentle encouragement.

A rough-skinned palm settles on the nape of your neck, sliding and gripping your hair lightly. Thumb oscillates over your waist. Calling up loneliness from the pit of your chest. Lips brush your mouth, the slightest caress of hot skin that feels like heated silk and tastes like spices and thyme. He looks like he’s about to try again, but decides against it, instead pulling you forward.

Only you’re taken to the crook of his shoulder, palm cupping the back of your head. His free arm snakes up your back, cradling you to his chest. Keeping you close by. At first you’re stiff, unsure how to react, muscle locks as his skin presses hot to your own, smooth and soft. Warm hands soothe along your spine, gently skimming across the expanse, tracing the knuckles of bone. Fingers draw light patterns atop, oscillating and sketching with reassuring steadiness.

He makes no move to kiss you, just holding you still, the thick locs of his hair scratching softly against the nape of your neck. His arm spans across the back of your waist, hand flattening against your side, thumbing over the skin, soothing you to melt.

Your bones begin to feel heavy in your body, sinking low as you hesitantly raise your arms to lock over his sturdy shoulders, tentatively shuffling to rest your cheek against him. Inhale slowly, deeply, taking in his scent—like rosemary and myrrh. He settles across your skin, and you sink deeper, emotion thawing as you melt into his arms, so tender and soft. Healing and welcoming.

Wet drops splash atop his shoulders, dripping onto dark skin as arms pull a little tighter, squeezing as lips tremble. Spine shudders, soft breaths stuttering as tears trickle down your cheeks, wetting strands of hair as fingers grip closer. Full lips graze your temple, and you feel those small cracks that had emerged during your argument with Feyre begin to spiderweb out, restraint fracturing just a little more.

Lower lip wobbles, and you curl around him tighter, body shuddering with quiet sobs as he holds you. Dry hands wrap into fists, nails biting the flesh of your arms as you fall into him, wanting to be washed away.

To peacefully melt to a place far from memory.

Slowly fade into absence.

2:43 p.m.

The iron-cast ring weighs on your palm, the glittering blue jewel of its swollen abdomen gazing up at you like silver moonlight dripping to dark, gleaming midnight. Polished and sharp like armour and blade.

“Do you like it?” Mor asks from your side, peering over your shoulder. You’d heard her footsteps that time, but shake your head absently, putting the ring back where it belongs. “It’s a lovely piece of jewellery,” you hedge, not wanting to talk badly when the shopkeepers are around. Spiders are still a little too close to home—insects at all, really.

She hums quietly, attention skimming to a piece beside it: a silver band fashioned to the stalk of a flower, the petals looking like stretched out droplets of warm citrine. Mor examines it for a moment, then holds it out for you to look at, which you do. “What about this one?” Fingers mindlessly come up to fumble with the glass pendant at your neck, steadily becoming a habit. “It’s very pretty,” you answer, hoping it suffices. Mor hums again, seemingly getting the hint, returning it to sit on the counter.

“You liked the dress, didn’t you?” She asks, quietly. Brows dip together as you turn in her direction, cascading golden hair loosely tied back. “I mean you wanted it. Not just because I was pushing you to get something.” A beat of quiet passes, and you examine her expression: the edges of plush and pillowy lips lengthened by slight worry lines, brow marginally dipped in the centre. Minute shifts in features that would have gone undetected by human eyes.

Throat rolls as you look away, but nod. “I did like it,” you mumble, fumbling your words, “do like it. Thank you.”

“Have you worn it yet?” She asks. Dread ices your skin, eyes flitting to honey warm irises. “I— No…” you manage honestly. Look away, scanning the jewels, that blue spider again catching your attention. “It’s a special dress,” you murmur, “I was waiting for a special occasion.”

More quiet beats between you, background chatter buzzing through your mind. But then she nods, accepting your answer. “It looks nice on you,” she replies, picking up a necklace this time—a thin chain of gold that shimmers beneath the daylight streaming in from the windows. Dip your head in silent thanks.

Peer out into the streets, watching fae pass by, enjoying their lives. Spots of colour splashing along as they go about their day. Eyes mark a small shop across the road, stools holding little trinkets like cups and pottery spilling out onto the cobbles, ceramics gleaming beneath the lowering sun. Plants sway in the crisp breeze outside, the nippy winds of early autumn already setting in.

Ease in a steady breath—there’s less than a week left until you’re due to complete your side of the agreement, and only small bits and pieces of progress to show. Not enough to avoid bringing it up to the rest of them.

Glance at Mor from the corner of your eye, watching through your peripherals as she holds up a necklace to herself, peering into a mirror. How would she react if you told her right now? She’d probably smile and tell you that’s great. Maybe ask you to show her or give a demonstration. The breath releases, knowing that question will crop up eventually. Seeking results when you have none to provide.

“Are you coming to dinner tonight?” She asks breaking you out of your wondering. Blink, pulling yourself back down, having forgotten about the extra supper they’d decided to fit in. Shake your head, turning your attention back to the jewellery stand, then flitting out to the shop. “I’m feeling pretty tired,” you reply quietly, “so I don’t think so.”

“Sure?” She says absently, already having moved onto the next stand. “The food’s really great—pork that practically comes part on your tongue. And the jam that goes with it is absolutely mouth-watering,” she dreams, smiling faintly as her fingers scrunch with anticipation. Your nose wrinkles for a split-second before you shut off the reaction, offering a bland smile, “how lovely.”

“You must try it at some point,” she gushes, turning to you now, accessories forgotten. “It’s one of my favourite places in Velaris. All the dishes they serve are,” —her hand flexes, as if trying to grasp onto something, eyes briefly shutting in bliss— “amazing.”

You smile again. “I’m sure.”

Warm-honey eyes narrow on you, examining the set of your expression. “You liked the soup,” she says, “what else do you like?” Throat rolls and you shift on your feet, fumbling. “Mash?” Mor nods slowly, remaining silent; in doing so forcing you to speak, too awkward to allow it to continue. “With thyme… Beans are nice, too?” She continues her bout of silence, quietly watching you. “The rice and…sauce. That’s been nice. Very nice.”

Her brows squish together, tension coiling in your stomach and shoulders. Lick your lips. “The—…” You pause, not knowing the name of the food. “The doughy balls? With…mushroom? in the middle? With—”

Eyes pop open. “You don’t eat meat.”

“I eat meat,” you say, hurriedly, but she’s in her own world.

“That’s why Az—” Her hand smacks up onto her forehead and you internally cringe—was the coddling that noticeable? To everyone but you?

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She asks, a mix of shock and exasperation lining her tone as she stares at you. Throat rolls and you turn away from her, picking up the silver band with the citrine-coloured flower. “I can eat meat just fine,” you mutter quietly, “it’s not as though there was anything else.”

“There was the soup,” she argues, still facing you, “you could have asked me to pass it to you—I even had some for myself.”

“No, I mean—” —eyes lock, her brows risen in confusion, not accusation. You sigh, shaking your head. “Sorry. Forget I said anything…” Her neatly groomed brows dip, head tilting ever so slightly. “No, what were you going to say?” She asks, voice quietening. Glance at her sidelong, fiddling with the ring in your hand, sliding it on and off your gloved little finger—far too large for it to possibly get stuck on. Lick your lips, spinning the band as you fidget. “I just mean, it’s basically all we ate back then,” you mumble, peering at your feet with forced interest. “Just brings back some bad memories, is all. Nothing I can’t deal with.”

She sighs softly, and guilt tightens your stomach, putting the now-warm ring down, listening to it clink on the glass. “You don’t like meat,” she states. It’s not a question.

“I can eat it,” you counter quietly, not wanting to be a bother. You’ve seen how much the others enjoy it. “But you wouldn’t choose it,” she returns, keeping her body open as she faces you. Shift on your feet, “I… No.”

Mor nods, hair glinting like freshly spun straw beneath a summer day. “Then we can eat somewhere else. Or order different dishes,” she reasons smoothly, “I’ll just mention it to the others since none of us even knew. Well, I suppose Az—”

“Please don’t,” you interrupt, cringing internally. “It’s fine. Meat’s good for you and I shouldn’t be so picky anyway. It’s annoying.”

“To who?” She asks, making you glance at her. “Who does it annoy?” She repeats, seemingly earnestly. “It’s silly to switch restaurants just because of…because of something so small. I can eat when I get back, anyway. It’s fine.”

She looks appalled.

“Mor, please don’t say anything,” you repeat quietly, meeting her eyes, a pained look unknowingly on your features. “I’m fine with how things are. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Her brow narrows, eyes flicking around the shop, taking in the other customers. “None of us would mind,” she says quietly. “You wouldn’t be causing a problem. We’ll just order more dishes without meat. We don’t have to change places if nobody wants to.”

But you shake your head adamantly. “I can eat when I get home. Please don’t change what you order just because—”

“Why don’t you deserve to eat food you like?” She asks sharply, voice remaining quiet but harsh. Blink at the tone, stiffening briefly before tension uncoils from your muscles. “It’s not like that,” you reply, turning from the display, slowly stepping toward the door. Mor follows beside you, appearing to have lost interest in the surrounding trinkets.

“No?” She asks, glancing at you through her peripherals. “What’s it like, then?”

You pause in the street, feet halting their movement as the question registers. She halts at your side, slowing to a stop, attention turned to you. “Mor, I don’t know how I could possibly put into words…” A heavy sigh escapes from you, shoulders sloping, exhaustion lining your eyes. “Never mind. Forget it.” Spine straightens, continuing heavily across the street to the shop with the little carvings and pieces of glazed pottery.

She follows quietly as you wander toward the stalls, inspecting the bits and bobs on display. Watches you quietly, taking in the ankle-length dress, clunky boots, thick cardigan and scarf. The vomit-yellow gloves. She should at least find another pair with a lighter colour for you. “You know,” she begins softly, a hint of a smile in her tone, “for someone so reserved, I didn’t expect you to be so stubborn.”

Fingers freeze for a moment, reaching out toward a small carving of a woman holding some drooping daisies. Breath catches, before you manage to resume motion, picking up the small figurine. “Sorry,” you mumble, “I don’t mean to be.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” she murmurs. “You’re strong willed. It’ll serve you well.”

But you shake your head in denial. “Feyre’s strong willed. So is Nesta.”

“Do you think Elain is?” Mor asks, holding up a glazed mug she clearly has no interest in. Your brow dips, peering at her, not having anticipated the change of direction. “Why are you asking?”

“She’s been quiet, no?”

Turn your attention back to the woman in your hand, flipping her over to peer at the lines of her dress—swaying in a breeze. I wonder why… You think sardonically. Instead a hum lulls from your mouth, non-committal and vague. Mor nods her head, again picking up those minute hints you’re unaware you’re even capable of dropping.

“That’s a nice carving,” she says brightly, redirecting the conversation without a hitch, smooth fluidity long ago mastered. “Your father was a carpenter, wasn’t he?” She asks softly. “Would you like it?”

Gloved fingers rub the concealed skin of your other hand, knuckles itching for reprieve. Under ordinary circumstances, you would have declined the offer— it looks well carved. Not that you have an eye for such things. This time, however, you can make an exception. “That would be nice,” you answer quietly, “thank you.”

Swallow down the apology that had been slowly making it’s way up from your stomach.

She smiles then, and you look away.

She’s far too bright.

6:49 p.m.

You excuse yourself as soon as you step inside, heading up the stairs and along the hallway before returning to the House of Wind. Walk quietly along the floorboards, hoping to avoid any unnecessary confrontations. Reach the door you’re looking for, landing a series of knocks to the hardwood. “Elain?” You call, listening for a reply. She answers, letting you to come in, voice soft but terse.

The door swings open on oiled hinges, and you step inside, hearing it snick shut at your back. Eyes instantly locate your sister, sat in a large armchair facing the lit fireplace. Curtains are drawn, blocking out what little light remained in the sky, room set aglow with the golden-orange of flame. Cocoa melts to something soft and spicy as she peers into it, and you wonder if she’s perhaps missing Lucien.

“Hey,” you mumble quietly, noting how she seems kind of distant. You can’t help but be reminded of those initial months, the transitional stages of your lives where the world was turned upside down. How she’d shut down almost entirely, rarely speaking. Rarer still to get anything coherent, like she was trapped in a dream state. “I just…I wanted to see you,” you murmur, moving toward her.

Haunted eyes flick up to meet you, blank as they take you in with ghostly smoothness. She blinks and it’s gone, gesturing to a seat opposite from her, closer to the fire but angled for prime conversation. A smile lifts the edges of her mouth, etched with strain, chest stretching as you take in her fatigue.

Sigh heavily, settling into the plush armchair, remaining straight-backed as you put the paper bag at your feet, careful with the little carving. Wait for a beat to pass before looking to her, cocoa already reattached to the fire. “Elain,” you call quietly, gaining her attention. In the light of the flame the circles beneath her eyes are more pronounced, shadow flickering across the heavy crescents. Worry takes root in your gut—it seems to be taking more of a tole on her than you’d thought.

“You went out with Mor today didn’t you?” Elain asks, voice soft and faint, as if coming out of a daze. A shy smile curves your lips, nodding. “How was it?” She asks distantly, gently curled hair hanging in rich ringlets, tight and silky as they spill down the lilac night gown she likes. Throat rolls, turning your attention to the fire. Will this ever be an easy subject between the two of you? Between any of you?

Eyes flit down to the bag, pulling it up into your lap for comfort. “It was good,” you manage softly, nodding. “It was…nice. To be outside. Around someone, for a little.” Elain nods, a bland smile on her face, though you don’t doubt its sincerity. “I—…Mor’s nice,” you add, fumbling your words as you try to direct the flow of the conversation toward what you’re trying to get at. But you’ve never been good at reading the room, and it’s showing.

“You should…I mean, it would be nice for you to come along sometime…” you suggest, trailing off as fingers wring together in your lap, playing with the paper handle of the bag. “We could…I don’t know…” Shift in the chair as you try to think of something. “I’m sure there are some shops for gardening, or somewhere to sample pastries? You’re trying out pastries at the moment, aren’t you?” Eyes flit to your sister, the smile gone from her lips, lids heavy as she soaks in the heat of the fire. Letting it drink her in.

She’s quiet, and it’s obvious something’s off. Or is she just tired? She’d told you she’d been sleeping badly recently, has it not yet gotten better? Run your attention over her supple form, smooth skin over tight knuckles, the lilac of the fabric complimenting her drained complexion, dark circles beneath her eyes making the rich coca of her irises deeper, swirling with thought. They flick to you suddenly, shadow being cast across her delicate features as she turns, as if about to speak.

You look down into your lap abruptly, staring at the little carving. “I miss dad,” you blurt out quietly, the words being hauled up your throat, spat out into the air.

Elain stiffens in your peripherals, and your lips press together tight. Heart heavies, shoulders no longer being held taut as you begin to drown into the cushion. “I know…” you begin quietly, thoughts eddying away once you try to grasp for them. Just stare at the maiden holding the drooping daisies. “I was thinking about him,” you say quietly, managing to keep your voice somewhat even. “Earlier, when I was out with Mor,” you clarify, reaching into the bag.

Push the paper apart, reaching for the female figurine. Fingers brush the smooth wood of the carved figure, the pads able to sense the very grain with heightened nerve endings. She’s hewn from a darker material, deep brown and riddled with smooth and polished knots, creating a labyrinthine twist of swirling lines and wrinkles. It was probably once a beautiful piece of trunk, carried from a forest to a carpenters shop, whittled away until the figure emerged.

“I want to speak with you.”

You look up, hand stilling, fingers grasping the carving. Maybe…you’ve learned in the past it’s better to let someone else lead the conversation. Yours don’t seem to go anywhere unless the other is interested in a continuation.

“Okay,” you murmur, releasing the statue, pulling free as you return the bag to your feet, set aside so you can deliver her your full attention. “What is it?”

Elain blinks slowly, and hairs rise on the back of your neck.

“Elain?” You encourage, no more than a whisper.

For a long moment she won’t speak, just watching intently, as if she can see through you and is examining the sub-atomic structure of your soul, down to the bits and bobs between. Stiffen as cocoa bores into you, looking far older than should be possible as the flame flickers dully in muted brown. Throat rolls, trying to maintain the connection, letting her know you’re there. She’s been around for you; it’s the least you can do.

The contact breaks, her lids closing briefly, gaze returning to quietly observe the fire. Taking in its motion—how the heat wells, practically rolling from the hearth to the rugged floorboards. “There’s been something…” Elegant brows dip almost imperceptibly, the edges of her delicate mouth quivering, lips parted on a syllable. Close again, as if the words won’t suffice for what she’s trying to say. The fire almost seems to match her, growing more intense as she stares into it, shadows darkening as they writhe across the walls, like the wings of a great creature.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” she murmurs absently.

Worry sparks across your chest but you say nothing, allowing her to articulate her thoughts at the pace she wishes.

Cocoa returns to you, the colour of conkers—you can picture them sitting cozily among the branches of a dense forest, perfectly in place. “I need you to be calm,” she says firmly. “Can you do that for me?” Brow narrows in confusion, attention fading form your body as it’s directed to your older sister, posture lithe but firm. Sitting with the preternatural stillness of the fae, and something more… Something beyond what even…

You nod—as if your voice might break whatever she’s fallen into. Might cause a change in mind, your chance to comfort her lost. She stares for a moment longer, quiet and observing. An unwelcome itch builds beneath your knuckles, but you push it away, attention solely on your older sister. Her pupils seem to be the wrong size, as if you’re something far off in the distance that she’s struggling to focus on. Her posture relaxes, silently settling into the depth of her armchair, as if it might hold her together.

“Sleep has been difficult as of late,” she murmurs, eyes locked to yours and you find yourself unable to look away. She keeps herself still; poised; refined. Even in the undress of her lilac night robe, she’s collected, but there’s something off tonight. You nod in understanding—sleeping can be difficult. Especially after the war.

“Have you been taking care of yourself?” The question pulls from your lips before it’s fully formed in your mind. A faint smile sharpens her mouth—hairs prickling at the nape of your neck. Cocoa blinks, and the sharpness has faded, settling into the familiar gentle curve that makes Elain herself. “I’m perfectly fine,” she replies quietly, though her voice is strained. Eyes again run over you, weighing. Again you keep still, enduring the assessment.

Tongue peeks out to wet her lips, shadows flickering across her face as she shifts in her seat. “I’ve been trying some different tonics,” she admits quietly. “Chamomile, root ginger, valerian…they work fine, and I end up falling asleep swiftly.”

A dull wave of relief washes through your system, like a cool balm to desiccated skin. “I’m glad, ‘Lain,” you say softly, happy she’s found a remedy. But Elain shakes her head solemnly, shadows growing darker, weighing beneath her eyes. “It’s not…I’m not struggling with sleep,” she whispers, as if the walls are sitting in on the conversation. Eyes flit about, and your brows narrow. She’s being shifty. “Maybe we should have this conversation in your room,” she murmurs to herself, fingers massaging her temples.

“Elain…” you interject quietly, worry lacing your tone, “are you okay?” Eyes flick to you, heavy with gravity. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” You press gently. Could she have been sold another kind of herb? “You don’t seem fine…” She waves her hand dismissively, as if physically able to bat the thought away. She exhales heavily, staring again into the fire. Deep into the flames, like she can see to the other side.

“Chamomile, valerian, send me to sleep fine. It’s just not—” She cuts off, searching for the word. “They don’t send me deep enough,” she murmurs, a slight tremor in her voice. “What do you mean?” You ask, shifting toward her in your seat. Eyes snap to you with the movement, brows curving in a look of…

Fear.

You pull back, comprehending. Lean forward, on the verge of standing to cross the room to be at her side again. Like you were for those initial months. “Elain, what’s wrong?” You repeat, anxious to assuage her anxiety however you can.

“They’re back,” she whispers hoarsely. Fingers tremble in her lap, lightly gripping the lilac of her skirts to calm herself. “It’s the same thing again and again,” she manages, staring at you from across the hearth. “I see you at the edge of a forest with the wolves, traveling with the fox, ending with the…” She shakes her head. Steadying her breathing. Calming her nerves.

“There’s a flash of light—light like starfall, except it itches. Itches and burns. And then he’s down, and bleeding, and—”

“Elain, slow down,” you interrupt, standing from your seat as you hurry to her side, fingers linking with her own to soothe the trembles. Crouch before her, clasping her hands in you own gloved ones. “I don’t understand,” you say, staring up at her. “What are you talking about?”

Cocoa drains, dark and haunted.

“They’re back,” she whispers. “The visions.”

General taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

Az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch

cbmthy taglist: @impossibelle @naturakaashi @sakurafrost3-blog @ficienjoyedrbspot @azriels-shadowsinger @marina468 @misstea12 @going-through-shit @fussel9913 @minakay @i-am-infinite @wannabewolf @thegirlintheshadows101 @kennedy-brooke @esposadomd @horneybeach1 @jeannineee @harrystylesfan2686 @tothestarsandwhateverend @abysshaven @starlight-hope @stupidwingboy @nastynesta @luvmoo @furiousbooklover @kuraikei @kemillyfreitas @chasing-autumns-chill @marvelpotter @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde @fall-myriad @historygeekqueen @erin-m-harmon

#azriel x reader #azriel angst #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #Azriel acotar #a court of silver flames

[thesiltverses]

The Silt Verses RPG has just launched from the acclaimed designers of Brindlewood Bay and The Between!

Investigate stray angels, strange haunts, and murderous cults in a world of gods and sacrifice as a disciple of the Saint Electric, Trawler-man, Watcher in the Wings, Cairn Maiden, Pox Martyr, or the Waxen Scrivener.

Delve into backwoods towns, floating markets where sacred relics are bought and sold, bustling clinics where medical 'miracles' come at a hideous cost - and even a towering skyscraper of conjoined steel, glass, and flesh.

You can purchase a copy over on DriveThruRPG, or at the Silt Verses or The Gauntlet Patreon, netting you the rulebook, 8 Assignments, 6 Faith Sheets, 8 Journey Sheets, and more.

This game really is a labour of love from a small team of innovative indie RPG creators, and already a genuine work of art (so we'd be incredibly grateful for your help in playing, giving feedback, and spreading the word far and wide) - we think it's an absolutely fantastic achievement, and we know The Gauntlet are only going to keep building and improving on the game from here.

You can find out more by joining The Gauntlet Discord.

#ttrpg #audiodrama #silt verses #tsv #indie rpg #rpg

[ex0skeletal-undead]

Waxen Wings II by nickbleb

#art #illustration #painting #dark art #mythology #fantasy #macabre #wings

[sentientsky]

here, have a little angelfish ficlet (ft. lots of queer yearning. also. “be gay, do crime” vibes)

It's all the same; a slow, monotonous dragging of time through liminal space. There had never been room enough for shifting tides or changing winds—no room to stretch one's wings. Because Heaven, by its very nature, is antiseptic. Pure autoclave, all pressure and steam and the absence of touch. That's part of the deal. You want to keep the wings? The halo? Well, then, you have to learn to live under the fluorescent glare of a silent god.

It's all the same, save for the slippery red heat of Michael's heart hurling itself staccato against her breastbone. In truth, it’s a heart that doesn’t really need to beat—that doesn’t need to exist at all, save for her inclination to feel the heavy weight of it writhing in her chest. In a way she doesn’t quite yet understand, she wants proof. She wants to feel her pulse, feel it move in a way that leaves a mark, bruises flesh. 

She sits with her hands folded, one pressed over top of the other. From afar, it might even look as though she’s praying (it might look as though she’s holy, still held firm in the Mother's grasp). She breathes in. Slow, tentative—as though the air might carry unspoken words out and away from her. There’s a certain chilling numbness that creeps up on you when you’ve lived this way for so long; a buzzing static that burns from the base of your skull, all the way down to the backs of your knees, your calves—the place where your feet hit the ground running (always running, always dying to get out even as you lean into the punches). It’s the feeling of living in the hollowed-out limbs of a corpse, of walking around with waxen, rotting flesh and a smile that stretches slightly too far to be genuine. 

And yet, now, for once, her body is no longer whirring—no longer silently humming with agitation or the drive to propel herself forward and up, ever up. For once, she’s still, save for the thrashing in her throat. She breathes out. She rolls words around in her mouth: flashpoint, epiphany—whispers them like a prayer spoken to no one—lightning strike, catalyst. A thread pulled so taut, it cuts to marrow. Breathe in, breathe out. Keep the pace, hold the line. Adjust to the status quo. But the status quo has never looked so unappealing. Because, she realizes, if someone had asked her to paint the slope of a silver-blue throat, or the upturned palm of a scaled hand, she could do it with her eyes closed. She could do it in complete darkness, at the edge of existence. Of this she was nearly certain.

--- It had taken place in the corridors that stretch from one end of infinity to the next; a slicing wound driven between the ribs of the universe. And it had been innocuous, really—a passing glance, at first. And then an icy nod, the turn of a jaw towards the stale light. The brush of shoulders, and the ache that bloomed in her at the touch. Time wore on, kingdoms rose and fell. The sea drew towards the shore, Michael’s eyes drew towards a too-sharp mouth. In their own fragment of purgatory made heaven made something completely new, she and Dagon exchanged rasped whispers—hushed murmurings of a revolution.

The inferno in her gut grew, consumed, devoured. Years clawed past. It's important to note that angels, as imagined in most popular religious scripture, are exceptionally good at self-restraint. And for the most part, this is true. But those who wrote the holy texts never considered the canted slope of the devil’s mouth; they never imagined that the devil could be gentle, could press her palm to yours like a promise and speak new religion into being. And so, after what could have been eons or mere decades, they fell together, breath intermingling in the space that had become more sanctuary than abyss. Flashpoint, epiphany. It had been inevitable, really. Lightning strike, catalyst. They were two neutron stars collapsing in on themselves. Gravity, heat, the press of a sigh into her open mouth. The hunger that settled in the bottom of her gut. --- So when Gabriel walks into her office, head held high and grinning, Michael swallows it all down. She chokes it back, feels all the love she has for her demon lodge in her throat and stay there.

Of course, she could open her mouth now to speak and have it all tumble out onto the floor. She could Fall—had Fallen already, in a sense, the world pitching around her with the weight of all she wanted but could not have. The muscles of her back ached, wings flickering somewhere in the aether, thrashing like an augury. Like an omen. Let it ache, she thought. Let it wound me, infect me, take me down. If this is my destruction, so be it. Beneath the desk, the blade in her hand glittered like a piranha’s open mouth. Maybe Heaven needed a little shaking up, after all.

#i'm too tired to edit this properly so this is just me chucking a lil ficlet at your feet and collapsing into bed! good fuckin night #go sapphics go! i used she/her pronouns for both of them but i plan to mix it up more in the future #good omens #good omens season 2 #good omens 2 #go2 #good omens fanfiction #angelfish #michael x dagon #dagon x michael #ineffable administration #good omens fic #angelfish ficlet #angelfish fanfic #gomens #gomens 2 #good omens ficlet #my writing #long post

[as-the-stars-foretold]

tell me about the mmvstr waxen wings au please <333

OK SO as spoopy likes to call it, it's the Mica Fucking Dies AU

basically mica goes out on an intel collecting mission but he gets found out and executed in front of prometheus, who then proceeds to massacre the mafia mercs

but then, she obviously has to get the body back to HQ and tell Mica's little sister that her brother died and explain that to their agents: not fun! cue morality crisis, Cody yelling at her, and them FINALLY making the switch from Neutralists to Nemesis

au is called that because of the copious amounts of icarus/daedalus imagery el oh el

#good shit but very emotional and drove me insane to write it #ask #bird-likes-to-fandom #THANK YOU BTW #bird #mmvstr #waxen wings

[andiloveyoutooangel]

"I know that face." Her voice is low, raspy from sleep, but still playful. He floats above her, caught in the act. Morning sunlight slits through the cracks in the blinds he's trying to close. Whatever doesn't fall on his skin lands like patchwork on the blanket she's curled up in, her tired eyes meeting his. "What are you worrying about now, hmn?"

"Ah, désolé, did I look worried just then?" Despite his self-assured tone, his expression betrays his sheepishness, as he ducks down to press a kiss to her forehead, "I only wanted to close the blinds so the sun wouldn't wake you before your alarm. I guess, uh, I woke you before your alarm, instead...?"

She's been so tired lately, is what he doesn't say, so busy and drained of energy. He wants her to be able to rest fully, as much as she needed, in the way where he'd threaten a solar eclipse if the sun dared disturb her on her first day off in so long.

"Taylor, you're so dear to me. Thank you." She says, simply, sincerely. Her smile is warmer than sunrays, "It's okay, you don't have to. Sun's good for me, in the winter."

"Ah. Okay, okay." So he leaves the blinds, slightly ajar. No solar eclipse then, if his love prefers the light. The dark of the room is warmly hued, tinged with mellowed gold. He hovers awkwardly, wings slowly flapping to keep him uncertainly afloat.

Wordlessly, she raises a wing and an arm towards him, an invitation, a request. Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself beside her. With much less care, she unceremoniously tosses the blanket over him so they're sharing, and he grins, ducking his chin beneath the covers.

He lets a wing drape over her, covering his charge, his human, his partner. In turn, she intertwines a hand with him and closes her eyes. Safe, content, trusting.

"I love you." She says, squeezing his hand gently.

"I love you." He returns, and they doze until the alarm wakes them properly.

#written in the stars (stories) #[ rose gold angel ] #[ waxen wings ] #wrote this waking up after all of my finals were done and i realized i had nothing more to do but go back to sleep :'> #(there was a different scene after The Falling; but i want to draw that one so we went with gently domestic scenes hgkjh) #i knew college was tiring but realizing 'it's over. the semester is over. you did it. you don't have to go back' was such a tangible relief #anyway!! agent :) ''i'd do anything for you. if i could miracle every problem out of your life i would. you deserve everything to be easy.' #balanced with his love of humanity. ''i can't remove every hardship. the world isnt heaven; imperfect and chaotic; and humans overcome. #i cannot rob my charge of humanity.'' but that doesnt mean he can't be pouty about it when the world is being mean to me hkjgh #hes so sweet. my darling guardian angel. guy heard ''this is your human. take care of them.'' and took it to the max for real hgkjh. #OH. ALSO SYMBOLISM. BECAUSE HE'S SUN CODED. EHEHEH. ''surely my charge doesnt want to be disturbed by the sun.'' #''no my dear i like the sun. it brings me comfort.'' urgugh. love. #using he and she for agent and me can be so funny. like. ''you thought we were a cishet couple YOU FOOL!!! WE USE SO MANY PRONOUNS!!'' #we are cishet passing and i think that's amusing. my and all my ocs are all so genderfucked. #anyway thats all hgkjf art time

[delicrieux]

hello darling! soo i’m one of the Aemond gals, could you maybe write something with him? maybe the reader is from our world and just out of blue she finds herself in Westeros! Aemond is so dumbfounded - here she is, this weird girl, talking about some nonsense things, well educated in history and philosophy (another nurts obvi) with sparkling dragon-like coloured irises, so lost but welcoming everything that surrounds her, even all of him. welll as you can see - I’m so deep in it! if you decide to write something about this, thank you so much!! take care! 🌟🌟

TRAVELER | endless drabble series (winter edition)    

summary: differences can actually be appealing pairing: aemond targaryen x f!reader a/n: i changed it up a bit, i hope you don’t mind!! i didn’t rly know how to incorporate our world reader into westeros, so i just made her origins unknown but heavily implied to be from sothoryos, which, to be fair, is kinda from a different world too! used 4. mulled wine from this list <3

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open for the winter prompts list 1 & 2 !

It had been a regular flight - easy winds, no storms but an odd fad of snow - when he had noticed a strange figure asleep in the frost covered plains up North. From so high up, Aemond could not yet tell if it was a bear or a human - the first would be easier to explain, but his curiosity was quipped and so Vhagar cast her wings and dipped down and what he saw proved to be quite extraordinary.

There, a woman in a dress, asleep in a ring of dewy grass. The only thing valuable seemed to be her jewels - big, heavy silver rings and long, clunky pendants made from black oily stones. Like a lily submerged underwater, he figured she had died from the cold. But as he landed, and the ground shook, so did the body, and the woman slowly, achingly opened her eyes to see the mouth of a dragon.

That waxen face now breathes with life in a local tavern. Drunken sonnets spill into the air like ale on wooden tables, and she nurses her second cup of mulled wine. The cup’s clay, chipped - she had cut her lip when she first took a sip, though it seemed that she did not notice. Aemond, sitting across from her, measures her up and down once more - so far, she had given no indication of knowing where she is, or who he is, nor did she portray any surprise faced with a dragon.

Covered in furs and deer hide, she’s finally warm enough to speak, “My thanks, stranger.” She says, and he’s fascinated by her accent, a fluid song broken by the harsh rasp of the chill. She smiles, and her jewelry glimmers in the dancing fires of the hearth.

“It’s surprising you didn’t die,” He comments, holding his own cup, “the North is not usually so kind to travelers.”

“I am lucky,” She admits, almost shyly, “though I don’t recall how is it that I got here, nor where I came from.”

“Perhaps you’re from beyond the Wall?” He suggest smugly, but she only shakes her head with a small smile.

“In the Lands of Always Winter, I do wonder what world lies there. Where it ends, and where it begins - at the same point of measure, perhaps? It’s easy to get lost in the snow, turned around all over; perhaps there are dragons there as well that breathe frost, not unlike those in the Shivering Sea?” She tilts her head at his confusion, “You’ve read the histories, no?”

“I’ve had the leisure.” He says curtly.

“Then you must know a great deal of Valyria.” She says, “Have you ever been?”

“There’s nothing left of it.”

She blinks, “...Truly? Nothing? No graves or gold or cadavers to tell tales older than time? No ancient ruins and histories lost to us, only to be rediscovered?”

“You seem to know all but of the fact that old Valyria is covered in greyscale. Or did you forget to read that page in the tomes you poured over before falling ill in the North?”

She laughs, “Are you afraid?” She lowers her head, watches him under her lashes, “A Prince, afraid of sickness. I figured Targaryens cannot be burned, thus cannot be ill. Or are those all fairy tales as well?”

He raises a brow, “So you do know who I am.”

“Hard not to when the bard sings praises of Prince Aemond One-Eye as soon as you walk in with me in tow,” Her gazes fixates on the leather patch, “what happened to it?”

“My cousin cut it out.” He retorts.

She hums, “Blood for blood. Have you taken your vengeance yet?”

“I’m a patient man.”

“Patience is a kind virtue unless used otherwise.” She empties her cup, “More, please,” She pushes it to him, “I still can’t feel my fingers.”

He looks at her rings as he holds up a hand for the waitress, “Those seem expensive. You surprise me, traveler. I wonder how they have not been stolen.”

Something shifts in her expression, and a chill creeps up from behind. The waitress pours wine and the traveler smiles, but it’s a strange smile, one he should not trust. She feels dangerous, suddenly, and he is all the more intrigued.

“Would you like to keep one?” It’s an innocent question, but it holds something dark underneath all of that loveliness.

“I have no fancy for jewelry,” He refuses easily, though his heart beats just a tad faster. If he did not know any better, he’d think it’s from nerves, “as a prince I have many and find it quite ugly. My brother would like one, though.”

She retracts her hands and her smile falls, “He didn’t save me from the snow, so he has no use for it.”

It did not quite seem as if she needed saving, but the severity in her voice urges his pride. Perhaps he’ll be a hero yet.

“Have you got a name?” He inquires, and he’s all past common decency, never had any to begin with. He wishes to know.

She thinks, “Everyone has a name, no? Surely, I do think everyone does. Even toys, the objects of our affection, and our sword, and ships, and pets, do. I heard some ladies name their favorite perfumes. It builds attachment, you never forget something or someone with a name. I must have a name, I think, only for the life of me I do not remember it. Which begs to question whether I ever had one at all.”

After a pause, she sighs, “I suppose I’m fortunate. I can pick one for myself. Become new, here, in the North. But I don’t think it important. I have no one to share it with, and no one here would like to recall me.”

“I’d like to know your name,” He says, “but only because I wish to know who I saved.”

She grins, “...Then you are free to name me yourself, prince.”

hope u liked it! xx

#aemond imagine #hotd #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #imagine #imagines #reader #xreader #got #game of thrones #request

[rainylunesstorm]

MY HUBRIS KNOWS NO BOUNDS

WITH MY WAXEN WINGS I REACH UP TOWARDS THE SKY, TOWARDS OLYMPUS ITSELF. I DONT NOTICE THE WIND IN MY HAIR IS FROM ME FALLING. THE IRON CUFFS AROUND MY HANDS ARE HEAVY. ONLY AFTER I PLUNGE INTO THE DEEP BLUE, I REALIZE THE CHAINS ARE ATTACHED TO THE OCEAN FLOOR

#context: i ordered food and i could customize it and etc so like #i made it spicy bc i love spicy foods #and then now im eating it and i SHIT YOU NOT #i can only eat the tiniest bite ever and then right after that #i NEED to drink like half my glass of milk #MY SPICE TOLERANCE ISNT EVEN BAD. ITS GOOD. #WHY WOULD I DO THIS TO MYSELF #HEAD IN COUNTLESS HANDS #rei rambles

[for-science-ao3]

For Science- Chapter 1

Ao3 link; https://archiveofourown.org/works/41680413/chapters/104553549

Discord Server Link: https://discord.gg/KB6vWVAp

To summarize tags for those reading on tumblr; This is x reader fanfiction. This work of fiction is partially canon compliant, but is planned to be 'canon-adjacent'. This genre is Isekai, but mainly for explanatory purposes and forced omnipotence of the mc.

Portal mods included in story: Portal stories: Mel, Portal: Revolution

Word Count: 4.4k

----

Chapter One

Science is objective. Anything could be an experiment, and to Aperture Science, Ethics are a suggestion made by Morons.

–

You knew something was wrong the moment you opened your eyes. It felt like waking from a dream, although you were certain you had just closed your eyes for a moment while talking to a co-worker one moment you were in a bleak little office party with disinterested co-workers, talking to the one you could stand, and the next, you were in a little bleak creme colored room with one pair of doors opened on the other side of it. The hinges to the doors squeaked back and forth as they rattled opened and closed. Dazed, you stare around yourself, look down at your hands for confirmation. Not a dream. At least..you’re doubtful it were. Time would only tell, but most dreams have something off about them.

A panel to one of the walls collapsed before your feet as you stood up, revealing wiring and metal that didn’t seem normal. A room was built of panels held up by wood or metal framing, but this wasn’ a frame. You were no architect but even you knew this wasn’t normal for a panel.

The door behind you squeaks again, catching your attention, and against your rational judgment, you left the soft colored room out into the bleak.

Stark gray pillars as far as the eye could see, stretching into the sky and far into the ground below. The only walk-space you had was a narrow catwalk made of decaying bars that shuddered and creaked as you stood on them. Unnerving,you decided. You'd try to find an area not made of catwalks sooner than later.

You Give yourself another once-over while you walk. Same shirt, same pants. Same shoes, too. Nothing about your attire had changed. That'd be a first for a dream. 

The catwalks stretched on for what seemed to be forever. As far as you could see, they connected and spiraled and led to different areas of a bleak open space. Somewhere broken with rusted metal hanging just over your head, other areas shuddered and clattered as you jogged across them. It felt like you were running behind something. The area itself reminded you of the backstage. Was there something on the other side of the panels? A show, maybe? 

You entertain yourself with the thought, just for fun. Something to brush your mind away from bubbling worries of kidnapping or escapes. 

What if, behind that very panel, were some actors playing a terribly done rendition of Macbeth? Funny enough, in your opinion.

The catwalks lead you through doors that whirr as they unlock, a little orange light turns green. Occasionally, they take too long to open, as though rusted. Like the rest of this place, you find yourself lamenting in annoyance. You wanted to get out of here quickly. Through one set of doors was a catwalk leading beside a time. One little blinking red light catches your attention. While the thing is familiar, you can’t make sense of it.

Though you try to walk by, a little voice stops you. 

“I’m different.”

“Hm.” you have places to be, and you really can’t spend time with..whatever this is. “Nice ch–”

“Icarus flew to the sun on waxen wings, desperate for its warm embrace.Though gentle to the earth, the sun was not gentle to man. Icarus burnt,falling to the cold sea.”

“..Nice chat.” you mutter, thoroughly disturbed by the little thing as you passed by another set of doors. It’s just mythology. And not even accurate mythology.

There’s something familiar about all of this, though you couldn't put it in words. Something like deja vu, which seemed outrageously silly to you. Until you heard a voice, muffled behind a set of doors.

“I should probably bring you up to speed on something,right about now.”

Familiar. You decide. Like someone you’d heard before. You swear you recognize it, but you can't puzzle it out. You passed through the squeaky set of doors, glancing briefly down at the floor of tattered checkerboard,unaligned and broken, concrete raised precariously out of the ground that you had to step around to avoid 

Familiar, you frown as you walk through the hallway and see it. Him, more like. A robot, followed closely by a brunette woman in a jumper with something in her hands. Their backs were turned to you while they walked, and while he talked. 

You know where you are, and you felt silly for not realizing it sooner. A game you played as a kid, and what the hell were you doing here?

Though the robot wasn’t just a core, he did have arms and legs and a body as anyone would expect of an android..but the core for a head. Weird, you decided.

“In order to Escape, we have to pass through Her chamber…and she will most definitely kill us. If she's awake”

Your foot slips against a checkered tile, and it slides a few inches ahead of you, clattering around with the sound of fragile glass. It gives both the android and the woman pause. The woman looks over her shoulder, and her gaze narrows as she spots you. The android, on the other hand, starts walking over without another thought “Oh, Hello! Are you staff? You must be staff, since there isn’t anyone–” he pauses,optic blinking wide”er–ignore that, nothing’s wrong with the folks in suspension! Heh..-uhm..” he taps his hands together as you stare between him and the woman standing rigid behind him.

He follows your gaze and after a moment, he waves dismissively “her? She’s a bit brain damaged, you know how they are when they come out of it! Can’t speak at all..” he squints “I think.”

“Right.” You mutter. The moment you speak, the core’s head turns back around and he exclaims 

“Ah-! You speak. Great, really great. I was getting a little tired of being the only voice in the room. uhm..So- I’m trying to get this one out of here. She seems eager enough, and er..that’s..that’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

“Ah..No, not at all.” why you were going along with what the moron set for you, pretending to be a member of aperture, you weren’t sure. To avoid suspicion? Chell, however, seemed perfectly suspicious of you, not moving from where she stood on the far side of the room. “She’s offline, as it were,so…testing can’t really er..happen.”

“Right.” the core nods, turning back around on his heels as he keeps walking after chell, talking loudly “So, to recap. Facility? Brink of destruction,totally unstable. Unfixable, even. Getting the lady-and myself-out of here through her..her chambers.” He grunts and shies away from the door once it starts opening from Chell’s proximity to it. “Actually– hold on, wait, we don’t have to. We should just– leave it be, yeah we should leave her be and–” the door reaches the top, and in a heap of dirt, dust and botanic life was a humanoid figure with an oblong head, optic partially hanging out of the ‘head’ “Whew– she’s off.” Wheatley mutters, hanging to the side of the doorway for a moment as Chell trudged ahead of him without stopping. You followed after the human and robot, and Wheatley whistled. 

“There she is..” he steps delicately over her body while you walk around her “Nasty piece of work she was–right?” he looks at you with a wide optic.

“Right.”

Wheatley jogs to keep up with Chell, and you followed suit “A proper maniac she was, really. Word of mouth? She killed everyone in the facility once. Railway operations department was not happy about that.” he shakes his head. “Know who took her down, in the end? A human. Like you too. All flesh and bones took her down.Not much known about him. Just..took her out and went and uh..no one’s seen him since.” you almost find the prattling amusing. If you weren’t trying to figure out a whole different matter of how to get out of here. “And uh…not much has happened since. Just..a lot of quiet and then us escaping now so er..yeah don’t touch anything.”

While Chell walks ahead of the two of you, Wheatley just keeps on talking, which you don’t particularly mind filling the silence. “This place has seen better days,certainly. I’m er– glad that she’s gone, of course. But it was a lot cleaner when she was awake. There’s this one fellow I know? Obnoxious with the cleaning ‘this is messy’, ‘this chamber is filled with bones’, ‘this track is broken and i can’t fix it,what if someone comes’, just prattling, really.” he huffs “not the best of guys, either. My standards are..not everyone’s, of course. Probably fine. Probably a fine guy but uhm..he wanted to turn her back on. Tried to, too, I think. Dunno how that went down but seeing as she’s still off…safe to say he failed, i’d think.” you’re not even sure who the hell he’s talking about, but it is filling the silence, so you don’t interrupt him,for his own sake. “Ah, we’re coming upon a drop. Rusted bars n’ all. Might want to watch your head. And your feet. And maybe..” he glances over at you, squinted and scrutinizing. “You..don’t have fall boots.”

“Nope.”

“Well, that is definitely an issue, considering the drop. I mean, you humans are plenty fragile without the danger of drops or injuries or blood or–well actually, no, a drop like that might be fine, if you can stand a broken bone or two. Though, we don't actually have any way to reset the bone, so as long as you’re fine with a permanently odd leg, then it should be perfectly fine.” he eyes the drop over Chell’s shoulder, and starts up again “uh–lady, think you’ve got the boots to sp–” Chell jumps off of the railing without a second thought, hitting the floor rough and stable. She briefly turns, looking back up at the railing, before she takes a step back to rest against a wall. She’s waiting, now.

Wheatley glances down at the drop again, and squints “Actually, now thinking about it, a human’s head would split like a melon from a height like this. So, a good bit of advice doesn't land on it. Or your arms, either. They'll break like the legs. So uh..don’t go head-first. Or arms first. And especially not elbows first. I don’t have elbows, but if i did, i wouldn't want to fall on those. Or–actually, judging it..it is probably too high to jump without long fall boots. so…Metal man, Human..person.” he squints “More likely to survive a good old fall, yeah? Not made of plastic and all that.”

“You’d probably be fine.”

“Well...i did fall off my management rail and was perfectly fine, so..” Wheatley hums as he stares down at the drop. Unceremoniously, you were thrown over the android’s shoulder, which hurt far more than it should’ve, and dropped back onto your feet after the jump. “Et Voila!” Wheatley hums with a little flourish of his arms ``perfectly intact, the both of us.” Chell bumps her shoulder off the wall as she turns around the corner..to another set of catwalks. Wheatley yelps not long after, staring directly below himself “Ah- I do not recommend looking down, awful long fall…Ah-! Just done it again, terrible..This place just goes down. Miles and miles really. All sealed off years ago, of course.” The robot mutters, metal hand gripping the bars to the catwalk far too tightly as he shambled after Chell.

A silent woman on a mission, she was. Understandably so. A desire for freedom from the hell that aperture was at its core. A Tumor of unethical practices and a lack of humanity or morality.

Chell pauses upon coming across the main breaker room, and wheatley walks around her, squinting at the wall of buttons “Alright,” he chirps “So, there should be a switch labeled ‘ESCAPE POD’, don’t touch anything else. Not interested in anything else. Don't Touch anything else. Don't even Look at anything else, just--well, obviously you've got to look at everything else to find ESCAPE POD, but as soon as you've looked at something and it doesn't say ESCAPE POD, look at something else, look at the next thing. Alright? But don't touch anything else or look at any--well, look at other things, but don't... you understand." Wheatley rambles on as his head turns this way and that, searching up the wall of levers and switches with a narrowed pupil, humming to himself “No..no.. movement controls, interesting– no. nothing else. Lights…mmmnh no nothing else.” In a fluid movement, the android spins halfway to face you and Chell. 

“Tell you what, Might be easier if I'm plugged into the system. And..the lights. Might need the lights. So just plug me on in and I'll turn on the lights.” You were going to ask how exactly to go about that, before Chell pulls a long cable from the main breaker, plugging the cable into the back of Wheatley’s head as he turns back around to the system. The lights flash on at once, and both you and the woman cover your eyes briefly as Wheatley gestures “Let there be light!”

“That’s uh…god. I was quoting god..” Wheatley trails off slowly, and when met with an awkward silence by both you and the mute woman, he grunts “Tough crowd.”

There was an issue you hadn’t considered. Glados. She was going to turn on, throw Wheatley to rubble and throw Chell into testing, but just what would she do with an outlier? And Anomaly, more like? A wrench in the plan, even. You’re not entirely certain you wanted to find out.

But aperture rarely left time for pondering, as the platform started to turn slowly, and Chell wobbled on her feet, grasping behind her for anything to hold onto. “Oh, it’s turning!” Wheatley chimes nervously as he laughs “Ominous..but fine, as long as it doesn’t start moving up. Now..escape pod..escape pod.” he trails off quietly to himself. The platform whirrs loudly as it starts moving up, and the robot grunts “Ah it is–it’s moving up.” he hunches over the control panel as he talks “Okay! No, don’t worry. Don’t worry at all, it can fix this, I can fix it–fixing it…now” Wheatley’s pupil shrinks to a pinprick as he looks above himself. “No..makes it go faster..uh-oh..”

“Can you still fix it?”

“Listen– don’t panic, stop panicking” Chell watches the robot with a stony expression as the main breaking clicks into place at the ground level. “I Can, I Can still fix this, I can still stop it.” Wheatley glances down at the main breaker as the intercom whirrs to life

“Powerup initiated.” Daunting, that’s what that is. A message in dead air of what’s to come. A very large part of yourself hopes that Glados finds you an interesting anomaly and keeps you alive.

“Ohh that is not good” Wheatley mutters “ah- oh.there’s password. That is..fine. I‘ll just hack it. Not a problem.” You’d say you and chell beg to differ.

As Wheatley tries to hack the password combination by combination, Chell’s expression steels at the sight of the android’s figure being lifted up from the ground by pipes and wires connected through the back of her neck. Her legs were in a state of disrepair, one torn with red and blue wiring spilling out of it, and blue and yellow sparks flew as water dripped out of cracked casing. Her head slowly rises and falls backwards while sparks flew from her head, optic pulling itself back in and establishing a connection.

“Can you help at all?” Wheatley mutters “I think…I did B already. Someone needs to write this down. Grab a pen or–”

“Powerup Complete.”

“Okay, okay alright. This is fine.  Just be nice– totally nice, act natural, we’ve done nothing wrong.” Glados’ head falls forward as her optic constricts and contracts, before ultimately focusing on Chell, who stares right back at her. Without a lick of fear, that one. “Hello!” Wheatley chirps.

“Oh.” Glados’ steps forward and broken legs. It nearly looks like levitating,pulling along by the tubing out of her head “It’s you.”

Wheatley’s head spins to look between you and Chell. A silent woman, but her glare gives her away “You know her?” he questions.

“It’s been a long time.” Glados chides smoothly, not paying any mind to you nor the core, focused on Chell “How have you been?” Chell’s eyebrow twitches. You conclude that this ‘long time no see’ tone of phrase isn’t all that pleasing to the woman “I’ve been really busy being dead.” Glados breathes without the need to “You know, after you murdered me.”

“You did what?”

Two claws descend from above Glados’ chassis, lifting chell up from the hand, though if she were in pain, she betrays nothing to Glados. It’s commendable..if not worrying. Wheatley on the other hand, is lifted from the head, screaming “No no no—No no no-Agh!” Sparks flew as the wire connecting him by the head to the main breaker was ripped out and clattered by your feet. 

“Okay, look. We both said things that you’re going to regret.” glados’ head doesn’t even turn to regard the core before the claw drops and grabs, crushing Wheatley's outer casing,and his optic blinks out as the claw tosses the body into a heap across from her. Something about even that reads to you now as restraint, exerting Control, even. Crushing the core as to not crush her enemy. “But I think we can put our differences aside. For science. You monster.”

As the claw slowly drags Chell over the incinerator, Glados’ voice takes on a lighter tone,body being dragged along by wires “I will say though, that since you went to all the trouble of waking me up, you must really really love to test. I love it too. There’s just one small thing we have to take care of, first.” You watch as the claw drops the woman into the incinerator. Only once it closes and the claw rises up and away, does Glados turn slowly around to regard you. The anomaly.

Glados’s optic stares down at you, a blinding yellow light amidst the decay, and you shrink back a step, towards the heap of scrap that Wheatley currently was, laying in a broken pile. The robot’s angular body shifts forwards as she walks towards you, wires dragging slowly behind her broken legs. Commanding, that’s what you think of her in person. She commands a respect about her, and she was downright scary, even smaller than you’d seen her in the game. 

“You are not permitted to be here.” She states. Not a question. An objective, undeniable fact. “You are not a test subject.” Glados has no panels to her optic, like the core. It’s far harder to read her ‘expressions’ beyond tone of voice. The monotony of it doesn’t help you one bit. Mad? Intrigued? Civil? You couldn’t be sure.

“Yeah.” you trail off, not denying the fact.

Wires spill out behind her legs as she walks straight towards you, looming over your head.”What are you doing here?”

You don’t have an answer for her. What would you say, something as childish as ‘i dunno’? Absolutely not. So you lie. “..Studying.”

The robot’s head tilts backward as she scrutinizes you. Or at least, you certainly feel as though she was. ‘Go.”

“What?”

“Study.” She states, turning slowly on her heel. “When the incinerator is operational, your study ends.” You don’t like the sound of that. It’s not malice, but it’s undeniable that in the robot’s view, you were an intruder of some sort. “Take the core with you.’ It’s not a request for you to do so, she was telling you to leave and take the core with you through a different door she had opened. 

“Why?” You don’t know exactly what compels you to ask. To question Her, while she’s telling you your time is limited. You don’t have the seconds to waste, and yet you were.

“A test.” she doesn’t turn around, nor turn her head to stare at you. Instead, she regards her facility in such a state of disrepair. “Humans are made of Will, in theory. She proves it.” You’d think that might be the nicest thing she’s said of Chell. “Either she is an anomaly, or you will prove it as well.” So it’s a test for you to get answers about her.

You don’t have it in you to stay any longer in the room with a homicidal rogue AI who is still currently upset from the encounter with her murderer, instead quickly hooking your arms around the broken core’s body and dragging him along with you back through the door, which slams shut as soon as you were through it.

Wheatley Whirrs back to life not long after, on the catwalks. You had dropped him not moments ago, the strain being too much to bear on your arms. He sits up, searching and bewildered as you laid your hands on your knees, breathing hard. Solid metal, you’re frankly surprised you got this far. A single turn away from the door you were allowed through.

“Oh…this is not good.” Wheatley mumbles as his cracked optic looks this way and that, constricting and contracting. A constriction too small for the iris, and sparks would fly “Agh-”

“Thank god.” You mutter “Heavy metal.”

“What?”

“You. Are heavy.” You point with one hand as you straighten back up, turning your head around to stare down the seemingly endless line the catwalks made.

“Well, yes, I’m-I’m made of solid metal and titanium bearings, of course i would be heavy. Not exactly meant to be carried. Or to do the carrying– really, but i did, if you’ll remember–”

“We’ve got to go.” You decide, squinting. In the first place, you needed to find some way for Wheatley to fix himself up. His optic hanging that loosely out of the ‘socket’ couldn’t be good, neither were the tears and large cracks in the casing. Wires hanging out of the top of his head.

“You what?”

“We’re running on borrowed time.” you don't wait for him to get onto his feet, although you reasonably should’ve. Now that you’re not carrying a hunk of dead-weight metal with no-functional springs, you’re running on adrenaline. Not healthy, doesn’t feel good at all. You wonder how chell was going to fair was the slightly drug-induced testing tracks. 

You don’t actually like remembering the game, in this case. It’s bothering you immensely already, what’s to come.

Wheatley scrambles after you on wobbly legs as he stares around himself wildly “Look, I’m all for an escape plan. Clearly. Planned to escape her. Think it was a pretty good plan, if i do say for myself–which i am, really. It was a good one, if that main breaker had agreed with me. You know, all the bots down in the wiring department really should condemn a machine like that. Definitely wasn’t supposed to raise. I don’t think so, anyways. Broken as a heap–”

“But?”

“aha..Uhm. But this is ‘by the seat of our pants’, as it were, right?” Wheatley questions, shambling after you “i mean you certainly don’t know where we’re going, Scientists aren’t allowed behind the catwalks–and that's not to say that you wouldn’t be able to direct us, i’m sure you’d be great at it, but i have some idea of where we are and let me tell you, it is far too close to her.”

“I know. It isn’t a good plan.”

“So you agree, good, good.” You glance over your shoulder, just a touch offended. Wheatley’s iris contracts and sparks fly as he nervously backtracks “Like i said, like i said, i’m sure you’d be great at it if you knew where we were.”

“You’re welcome for carrying you.” you chided as you headed through a set of doors. Ultimately, he was right. You haven’t a clue where the hell you were right now. In the game, you would’ve been testing, there was no need to really know where the catwalks lead

“Right–yes, thank you. Greatly appreciated. Wouldn’t much care for being left to uh..die.”

“Who gave you and Her the concept of death?” you question while you walk. Filling the silence now. The chatterbox surely could fill it.

“Well- you would know, wouldn’t you? I don’t. They don’t exactly apply a ‘made by’ sticker.”

“Right. I haven’t been here in awhile. Excuse any lapses.” 

“Totally excused!” Wheatley chirps “Actually, now that I think of it, this is a great plan. Get away from her, and then we can come up with something else.” and he claps his hands together with a metal thud “Oh! Great idea. We go get Her, the brain damaged one? Seems perfectly capable, that one.” he pauses, and you’re certain he’s staring at the back of your head, expecting some sort of back-talk “Obviously not to say that you and I aren’t perfectly capable, but apparently she killed Her before?” he stumbles right into his own plan a little “Oh! Hold on, really, that’s good. We get her to shut Her off, and then the three of us escape! The musketeers, our little trio’ll be, right?”

“Maybe shutting her off isn’t the best of ideas–”

“Think about it! I mean really think about it. Chances are, you die twice, you’re not coming back a third time, right? Just need to make sure the death sticks this time, like J– actually..shouldn’t say that.” the core grunts as you both pass through another set of open doors.

“Maybe.” You haphazardly agree. You really don’t like knowing what’s to come. “First things first, though, have to get you fixed up.”

“Right. Definitely, priorities in order. Put myself in working order, retrieve her, defeat Her, escape! One issue though, No spare parts. Another issue, no spare optics on hand. Third issue–”

The sound of other voices stunt you both in your tracks. The sound of yelling, arguing and monotony bothers you a great deal. What? They weren’t supposed to be anywhere near here.

“Fact, Adventure core is a Crass excuse for Indiana Jones.”

“What!? Have you got an oil leak in your main chambers? Indy is a crass excuse for Me.”

“I think…Indiana Jones should’ve gone to Space!”

Despite your apprehension, Wheatley goes jogging ahead of you with a tone of delight “Others! Isn’t that great?”

“Hold on–”

Now you’re shambling to keep up with a broken robot. 

#portal 2 #portal #chell #glados #wheatley #wheatley x reader #Glados x reader #Chell x reader #X reader #gender neutral reader #portal 2 fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #fact core #space core #wheatley portal #adventure core #android wheatley

[buwheal]

(ignore this if the other anon sends their story I suppose)  I am new, not the same storyteller, but I can still give you the end you look for.

CONT.

And the stars said to the boy as his body in the dream became charred under their gaze yet, "We see all things the world upturns, and know how nothing ever returns. Your grief and despair have swayed us. We have seen you turn your head towards our domain since before you even knew what we were. We have watched you grieve and watched you yearn, for things that never were, and thus can never return. And so, we will offer you one boon, little one who mourns."

And to the stars the boy said, "I cannot bear being trapped on the ground. Please, can't you make me like you? I wish to be untethered from the cold mud and colder oceans in which I feel drowned. Let me shine and sing, hung up in the heavens with the stars and moons that dance like angels. That will be my wish, to be freed from this indifferent and sodden mound that pulls me down. If you could make me bright and gleaming like you, I could find what I grieve and what I mourn."

The sky accepted his wish to be cut away from his home and strung up, woven into the sky, but not without a warning.

"You should know: that to be a star is to be a fire that eternally burns. There are so many things that a star can never be, places that can never be visited and thus never returned to. Nor are the void of our skies Heaven, nor are they Hell. Such places exist, but both are empty. Our home however is so, so full and so, so loud. What you grieve and what you yearn are not things that your wish will earn. Though determined as you are, we will help you search and help you learn how to find a way to return to a home never built. And when you burn, we will be there, beside you in the sky."

The boy heard the stars, but did not listen to their words because the sight of his dreams blinded him. Blithely he pleaded to the heavens for instruction on becoming divine.

The stars answered in turn, "Travel to the tallest mountains where the air is thin and the rocky peaks are so sharp they could pierce the hearts of giants. Then, look for the darkest cave upon the mountain and crawl into its narrowest passage. Once you are there, gouge a small groove into the wall until from the stone gushes sticky ink that shines so brightly it hurts to look. For one year you must drink nothing but the sanguine ichor that bleeds from the carving. Through this you will be transformed, and become like us."

The boy asked the stars why the mountains bleed light.

"Long ago, a god abandoned its body and hurled the hollow vessel upon the mountains so that it may become mortal. The gilt and rotting tallow that melted from the carcass made the mountains last eternal, and now within the stone burns the same molten power that we in the sky radiate," the stars sung to him.

When he awoke, the boy obeyed the stars' orders and it twisted him, but not into a star, nor into a moon. His parents grieved his absence, and yearned for his return which would never come. The mountain blood scalded his tongue and throat and sat cold and heavy in his stomach. If from the pain he allowed rivulets to spill down his face, it melted and burnt his skin, searing lines down from the corners of his mouth to the bottom of his jaw. Still he persisted, unable to put to rest that which never was, and will never return. By year's end he felt heavy and strange, the ichor in his system like leaden weights upon his limbs and his voice, stretching and breaking his body into bizarre proportions. He did not care. He believed it would earn him everything that he grieved and everything he mourned. 

Waxen wings made of the soft and pure gold of the abandoned god's rendered tallow sit upon his back.

The stars gladly welcomed him into the sky, but upon finally meeting his heaven face to face, their light and their heat set his golden tallow wings ablaze like candles.

As his wings melted, the stars were saddened, but offered him another boon, in hopes he could be saved from such a nasty fall. The boy wished for another chance to sit in their sky. The stars thought quick, and wove ropes and cables from the tails of green comets. The boy was gifted the cables, and he gladly tied them into harnesses on his own body. The stars hung his cables from his world's moon as a pale reflection of their own light and every day they sung their songs to him as he swayed in step with the tides of the oceans he tried so hard to escape. He saw his parents, who grieved upon the muddy ground he ran from, but had no body of their child to bury. He saw all the presents and treats they left to rot at the headstone of an empty grave. He watched his parents tell the people who asked: We grieve. We yearn. For our child who could only bear to be turned towards the sky and now will never return.

- 🥩🕊

answered