Can I request for uhhhh hmm male chrysos heirs x tiresias!reader (same requestor lol sorry I just really liked that fic) who got consumed by the black tide? but they're not... dead or anything?? Kinda like Rumi kpdh but they're half human half corroded by the black tide. I think that makes sense idk ok thank you bye bye skitters away
Elegy of the Black Tide
Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Tiresias based Reader, Black Tide Corruption, Prophecy And Fate, Tragedy Angst With Hope, Slow Burn Intimacy, Philosophical Undertones, Open Ambiguous Endings, Enemies (?) To Understanding, Duty Bound Intimacy, Hope & Comfort.
Warnings: Body Horror Corruption, Existential Horror Themes, Death And Grief Mentions, Philosophical Tension, Ambiguity, Romantic Intimacy, War Imagery.
The Grove had emptied long ago, but Anaxa still lingered in its hollow lecture halls, his boots clicking against marble stained with candle ash. Dust lay heavy, though not enough to hide the claw marks gouged into the stone—remnants of experiments none dared speak of. He thought himself the last to wander here.
And yet you were there.
You sat cross-legged on the broken lectern, one hand clutching the edges as if to keep from dissolving. Your body was half-shadow, veins like dripping ink spilling down your arm. When you turned toward him, the hollows where your sight once lived glimmered faintly, as if some unseen fire smoldered deep within, wavering like a candle drowning in its own wax.
“Professor,” you said, though the word was soft mockery. “I thought you would find me eventually.”
He bristled. “Don’t.” His voice snapped sharp, impatient. “Don’t call me that.”
A slow smile curved your lips. “Anaxa, then?”
The sound was honey poured over rusted blades, and he hated how it made his stomach clench. “You know I despise that name.”
“That is why I say it.” You tilted your head, the Black Tide eating away at the edges of your jawline, showing glimpses of bone and light. “Your truth lies in opposition. Always fighting the given. Even your own name.”
He wanted to sneer. Wanted to lecture you about mockery, about how your corruption should have stolen wit and voice alike. Instead, he found himself stepping closer. The tide shimmered around you, pulsing with whispers like forgotten hymns. He could hear them faintly—words from broken simulations, failed futures.
It was irresistible.
“You…” His hand hovered above your corrupted skin. “You are a living contradiction. Not husk, not human. How?”
You laughed, hollow and resonant. “I am proof of what you always sought. That divinity and decay are not opposites. That truth lies in the fracture, not in the whole.”
Something in him broke open at your words. He had spent years dissecting Titan remains, burning friendships into experiments, bleeding himself on the altar of forbidden truth. And here you were—proof incarnate. Living heresy, as radiant as you were ruined.
“You don’t fear dissolution?” he asked, nearly whispering.
“Fear?” Your smile twisted, grief-laden. “I’ve already lived as man and woman, seer and outcast, mortal and shade. The gods blinded me once. The Tide corrodes me now. What is left to fear, but silence?”
He finally touched you. His bare hand against your corroded cheek. Heat flared, searing like fire—and yet he didn’t pull away. Instead, he laughed, ragged and almost delirious.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Terrifying, but beautiful.”
For once, you didn’t laugh at him. You only faced him, the weight of your attention endless, as if sensing straight through flesh into the marrow of his soul. “And you,” you murmured, “will either save yourself in me, or damn yourself beside me.”
The Tide pulsed. His eyepatch burned against his skull, and he thought for a moment he could see with both eyes again.
Then the whispers swallowed the air, and the Grove was gone.
The sea foamed black-red where you stood. Each wave lapped against your legs, and each retreat pulled fragments of your body with it—skin like wet ash, bones veined with shadow. Yet you remained upright, unmoving, a prophet rooted where tide met stone.
“Why here?” Mydeimos’s voice cut through the surf, gravelled and strong. The prince-warrior of Kremnos approached with heavy steps, crimson tattoos glowing faintly in the moonlight. His golden eyes fixed on you, not with fear, but grim recognition.
You smiled faintly. “It was the sea that birthed you, was it not? Cast into its depths, reborn a thousand times. I thought it fitting we meet upon its shore.”
He scowled. “You mock me.”
“No,” you said, voice slow, patient, the tone of one who had seen too much to waste words. “I honor you.”
The Black Tide hissed at his boots, but dared not swallow him whole. Mydeimos stood unshaken, his cape whipping in the salt wind, the weight of his presence as solid as the cliffs behind him. He was everything you were not—unyielding, unmarred by erosion. Yet you saw in him the same fracture: a man built from countless deaths, walking with ghosts at his back.
“You carry their names,” you said, watching him. “The fallen. The forgotten. You keep them all alive.”
His jaw tightened. “They deserve remembrance.”
“And you,” you whispered, “deserve rest.”
The words made him freeze. For a heartbeat, the warrior’s mask cracked, and you saw the boy who had drowned a hundred times. His fists clenched. “Rest is not for me. My task is not done. The Tide must be fought.”
The waves surged higher, spraying both of you with cold salt. You reached out—your hand corroded, dripping black ichor—and touched his chest, over the bold red markings.
“You already fight it,” you said. “Every time you breathe. Every time you stand again.”
His eyes softened then, gold dimming into something almost human. He caught your wrist, holding you there, unafraid of the corruption seeping down your arm.
“You should not still exist,” he murmured.
“Neither should you,” you answered.
The wind howled, carrying the scent of pomegranates crushed underfoot, the bitter tang of endings. Mydeimos leaned closer, his forehead nearly against yours. His breath was warm, his presence grounding.
“If you fall to it completely,” he said lowly, “I will end you myself.”
You only smiled, teeth darkened by shadow. “And if you do… I will forgive you.”
The sea roared. Somewhere beyond, a lion’s shadow prowled the waves.
The battlefield burned, though no sun rose. Fire licked the edges of collapsed towers, but the sky above was an endless dark, a ceiling of Black Tide. In that twilight, you stood alone, your body unraveling into strands of corruption that swayed like banners in an unfelt wind.
And then Phainon found you.
He strode through the smoke, his white hair streaked with ash, his coat torn and sun-emblazoned armguard cracked. Yet his eyes still held their steady brilliance, as though even ruin itself bowed before their light.
“You’re still here,” he said, voice caught between relief and sorrow.
You turned. The corruption inside you pulsed, gnawing at memory. His name almost slipped away, but his presence anchored you. “I… am half-shadow now. Half-forgotten. Should I be here?”
“Yes.” His answer came without hesitation.
You tilted your head, curious. “Even if I burn you too?”
He stepped closer, the gold trim of his coat glinting faintly. “Then let us burn together.”
Your laughter was cracked, like shattered glass. “Ever the hero. Even when the world dissolves.”
“Not a hero,” he said firmly. “Just a man who refuses to stop.”
The words broke something in you. You staggered forward, the Black Tide trailing from your limbs like molten tar. He caught you, strong arms steadying your corroded frame. To him, you were not monstrous. Not husk. Simply someone who bore a weight too cruel alone.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” you whispered against his shoulder. “The cycle. The endless failure. Even your light cannot undo the equation.”
His embrace tightened. “Then I will break it, even if it breaks me first.”
The Tide shivered around you, as if afraid of his conviction. For a moment, you felt warmth where there should have been only corrosion. His hand cupped your face, thumb brushing over ruined skin as though it were still whole.
“Do you believe me?” he asked softly.
You searched his voice, his nearness—steady as horizon, unwavering as promise. “I want to.”
“Then hold on,” he said. “Even if dawn never comes, we will be each other’s fire.”
The battlefield groaned, towers collapsing in slow motion. The Tide surged higher, threatening to swallow both of you whole.
And still, Phainon kissed you—brief, fierce, like striking flint against stone.
Light bloomed for a heartbeat, brighter than the dark. Then it was gone.
I'm a bit shy to request and this is actually my first time ever requesting, but your writing is so good, so I really want to for the first time.
Might I ask for AE Sunday and his gn parter, please.
What happens is the reader and Sunday get into a fight because things on the astral express have been stressful recently. The fight is because the reader accidentally breaks a framed picture of him and Robin, and now the picture is all scratched.
So, Sunday just gets angry and he says hurtful thing to the reader about wishing they never met and blaming the reader for him and Robin being separated and ruining the dreamscape,
What Sunday doesn't know is, the reader always felt secretly guilty about it. Especially for the separation of Sunday and Robin, because the reader is separated from their family, so the reader hates seeing separated families.
The reader just leaves the room without saying anything. A few hours later, Sunday feels bad, and goes to the readers room to apologise. He sees the reader cry for the first time.
Please make it so that they make up. If you wouldn't mind not specifying the reason reader is separated from their family, I'd appreciate that.
Sorry if this seems bossy or too detailed. I'm not very good at writing stories but |like imagining them.
Thank you in advance. May I also just say, your writing is phenomenal and if you ever wanted to be a professional writer one day, you definitely have the talent.
The Weight of What Remains
Summary: Stress aboard the Astral Express boils over when you accidentally break Sunday’s cherished picture of Robin. His grief and frustration drive him to lash out, saying cruel things he doesn’t mean—things that cut into your quiet guilt over his past. Hurt, you withdraw, leaving Sunday to realize too late the weight of his words. That night, he comes to apologize… only to find you crying for the first time. In the stillness of that moment, truths are revealed, apologies offered, and the two of you rediscover what it means to stay by each other’s side.
Tags: Sunday x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Conflict, Post-Argument Reconciliation, Soft Intimacy, Found Family Themes, Philosophical Undertones.
Warnings: Emotional conflict/Argument (harsh words said in anger), Mentions of guilt & separation from family (not detailed, but thematic), Crying/Emotional vulnerability, Religious trauma & guilt allusions (light references), Comfort & reconciliation.
A/N: Thank you for the kind words—that really means a lot. Don't worry, I appreciate the details! Makes it easier for me to understand lol 🙏
The Astral Express hummed with its usual rhythm, a steady current that carried its passengers across the stars. Normally, the sound was comforting—a lullaby for wanderers who had long since lost a place to call home. But tonight, it felt suffocating.
You had been tidying the common room absentmindedly, trying to busy yourself after yet another long, tense day of travel. The fatigue in everyone was palpable; the missions had been draining, and the Express, for all its wonders, sometimes felt too small to hold so much weariness.
Your hand brushed against the small table where Sunday often kept his personal things—items that tethered him to his past. That was when it happened.
A sudden slip. The faintest misstep.
The picture frame toppled.
Time seemed to stretch cruelly as you watched it hit the floor. The glass cracked, leaving splintered trails across the once-perfect image. Robin’s face—so young, so bright—was marred by a jagged line running through her smile.
Your stomach sank.
“...What have you done?”
The words were soft at first, quiet as falling snow. But when you turned, Sunday was standing in the doorway, golden eyes fixed on the broken picture. His usual gentleness was nowhere to be found; instead, something sharp and wounded flickered there.
“I—I didn’t mean to. It just slipped—” you began, voice trembling.
But Sunday’s voice cut through, harsher than you had ever heard it.
“You think that excuses it? Do you have any idea what this means to me?”
You swallowed, guilt rising like bile. “I know, I’m sorry, I—”
“Sorry?” He stepped closer, his halo glinting in the dim light, wings trembling faintly. “You speak of sorry as if that will mend the fracture. But it won’t. Nothing will.”
You froze. Sunday rarely raised his voice, rarely let his emotions crack through the mask of composure he wore. To see him like this—pained, sharp, raw—felt like staring at a stranger.
“Every time I look at that picture, I remember what I lost. Robin. The Dreamscape. Everything I tried to protect. And now—now even that memory is ruined.”
The words struck like a blade, but before you could respond, he went further. His eyes glimmered with something colder than anger—something born of grief.
“Sometimes I wish I had never met you. Maybe then… maybe then Robin and I wouldn’t be separated. Maybe the Dreamscape wouldn’t have fallen. Maybe none of this would have happened.”
Your breath hitched. The words hung heavy in the air, shattering something fragile inside you.
Sunday didn’t know—couldn’t know—that those thoughts were ones you’d carried yourself. Quietly. Secretly. The guilt that festered in silence, gnawing at you in lonely moments: that perhaps you were partly to blame. That your presence had widened the cracks, that you had brought nothing but separation where once there was unity.
But you didn’t say any of that.
You didn’t say anything at all.
Instead, you turned, quietly, and left.
Hours passed.
Sunday sat alone in the dim common room, the fractured picture propped against the wall. The cracks in the glass caught the light of the passing stars, splintering Robin’s face into fragments he could hardly bear to look at.
He replayed his words in his mind, each one sounding harsher than the last. I wish I had never met you. The kind of thing you couldn’t take back, even if you tried.
His chest ached. He ran a gloved hand over his face, exhaling shakily. “What have I done…?”
He thought of Robin’s laugh, of her soft insistence that love was measured not in perfection but in presence. He thought of the Dreamscape, yes, but also of the Express, of you—your companionship, your patience, your quiet efforts to help him carry a weight he so often pretended didn’t exist.
And he thought of the way you had left without a word. Silent. Hurt.
The realization cut deeper than his pride: he hadn’t just lashed out in grief. He had wounded someone who had chosen to stay by his side when so many others had walked away.
He couldn’t sit with that. Not anymore.
When Sunday finally knocked at your door, the train was deep in night-mode, the corridors hushed except for the low hum of the engine.
There was no answer at first. Only silence.
“…It’s me,” he said softly, voice carrying the weight of remorse. “May I come in?”
Still nothing.
He lingered, debating whether to leave you to your solitude. But something in his chest urged him forward, and after a pause, he eased the door open.
The sight inside stilled him.
You were sitting on the edge of your bed, shoulders hunched, face buried in your hands. The faint sound of your breathing told him what your silence had hidden: you were crying.
It was the first time he had ever seen you cry.
Sunday’s breath caught. He closed the door quietly behind him, the sound almost reverent, as though he feared disturbing something sacred.
“…I didn’t know,” he whispered. His steps were careful as he approached, the scarf at his back trailing faintly in his wake. He lowered himself to sit across from you, golden eyes softened with regret.
You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.
“I should never have spoken as I did,” Sunday continued, his voice low and trembling with sincerity. “What I said was cruel. It was not truth, only pain speaking in my stead. And I—” He faltered, hands clenching in his lap. “I fear I’ve given you a wound far deeper than I intended.”
Silence stretched between you. Then, finally, you whispered, your voice raw:
“You don’t have to say that just because you feel guilty. Maybe you were right. Maybe I did ruin things. Maybe you and Robin would still—”
“Stop.” The word was firm, though not unkind. Sunday leaned forward, his eyes searching yours until you were forced to meet them. His wings quivered faintly, betraying his unease.
“Do not carry that weight,” he said, softer now. “The fault was mine. The choices were mine. If Robin and I are separated, if the Dreamscape lies in ruin—that burden belongs to me, not to you. Never to you.”
Your throat tightened. “But I can’t stand it. Seeing you hurt. Seeing families torn apart. It feels… it feels like I failed too.”
Sunday’s gaze softened further. For a moment, he said nothing, simply watching the tears glisten on your cheeks. Then, slowly, he reached out, his gloved hand hovering uncertainly before resting gently against yours.
“You have not failed me,” he murmured. “You have been the one constant in this wandering life. When everything else crumbled, you remained. That is no small thing. That is everything.”
Your breath shook, but his touch grounded you, steady and warm despite the coldness of his gloves.
“I was afraid,” he admitted after a pause. “Afraid of losing the fragments I have left. Afraid of seeing even memories slip through my fingers. That fear… it made me lash out. I thought I was protecting something sacred, but in truth, I was pushing away the one thing still real.” His voice wavered. “You.”
For the first time since the fight, you looked fully at him. His golden eyes were luminous, pained, but honest.
“…Do you really mean that?” you asked quietly.
“With all that I am,” he replied without hesitation.
The room felt still, the world beyond it forgotten. Slowly, you squeezed his hand, your own trembling but certain.
“Then don’t push me away again,” you whispered.
His lips curved into the faintest, fragile smile. “Never again.”
He shifted closer, and before you could overthink it, he wrapped you into a careful embrace. His wings folded slightly around you, a protective gesture instinctive and tender. The scarf at his back brushed against you like a quiet echo of warmth.
You sank into him, the sobs finally subsiding into a shaky exhale. For once, you let yourself be held, and for once, Sunday allowed himself to hold without reserve.
Neither of you spoke further. Words, after all, were only fragments. The truth was here, in the closeness, in the silent vow that whatever pain the past had carved into you both, you would not face it alone.
haiiii ☆! hoping this reaches u in good health!! the idea of hsr characters (dr ratio/sunday/blade) with a gyaru reader has been shaking in my mind like a snow globe φ(≧ω≦*)♪ i super wonder what the dynamic would be! would they think readers personality is too rowdy? would they enjoy her fashion sense? maybe they’d even consider letting reader do their makeup~! ♡ anywho, feel free to ignore, it’s not a prob! thanks sm for ur time & love ur work!! xx 💖
Hiiiii! 💖 Your idea is so cute, and I think the contrast between these characters and Gyaru!Reader would be pretty cute! 🤭✨
Ratio is definitely the type to raise a brow at first. He prides himself on intellect and refinement, so your bubbly, expressive nature might make him assume you’re a bit... frivolous. But oh, how quickly he learns otherwise. The way you effortlessly command attention, your confidence, and the way you own your aesthetic? It intrigues him. You’re someone who defies expectations, and he respects that.
Would he let you do his makeup? At first, he scoffs at the idea—but then he catches you pouting (an undeniable weapon), and after a very dramatic sigh, he relents. He sits still, eyes half-lidded as you carefully paint his features, occasionally throwing in quips like, “Do not make me regret this.” But the moment he sees himself in the mirror? His lips twitch. "Hmph. Not bad.” He won’t admit it, but he leaves a little smudge of shimmer on his face for the rest of the day.
He may act unbothered, but deep down? He loves your energy. Your ability to brighten any space makes him feel at ease, even if he won’t outright say it. And when people judge you unfairly? Oh, he will cut them down with the sharpest, most eloquent retort.
Sunday is a dreamer, and you? You’re a dazzling force of nature. Your high-energy presence is like a burst of sunlight against his melancholic disposition, and it both soothes and unsettles him. He’s used to quiet contemplation, to conversations laced with philosophy—but then you come along, laughing freely, twirling strands of your perfectly styled hair, and calling him “Sundy-kun” just to watch his wings flutter in flustered confusion.
He’d definitely be fascinated by your makeup and fashion sense. The way you adorn yourself so unapologetically is a form of self-expression he deeply admires. He might trace the patterns of your nail art with a thoughtful hum, murmuring, “Every detail tells a story, doesn’t it?” And when you offer to do his makeup, he closes his eyes and allows you to paint over his worries for a little while. The soft brush of your fingers against his skin? It’s grounding.
You challenge him in ways he never expects. You refuse to let him get lost in his own head, pulling him back to the present with playful pokes and affectionate teasing. And despite his initial reservations, he adores it. You remind him that life isn’t just about philosophy—it’s about living.
Oh, Blade. He is so tired. So broody. And then here you come, a whirlwind of glitter and energy, calling him “Bladie~” in a singsong voice and insisting he needs a wardrobe upgrade. He side-eyes you so hard.
At first, he thinks you’re way too much. Too loud, too flashy, too alive—but he doesn’t push you away. There’s something magnetic about you, the way you throw yourself so wholeheartedly into joy. It’s a stark contrast to his self-destructive tendencies, and maybe, just maybe, he finds himself lingering in your presence more than he intends to.
Would he let you do his makeup? It would take a lot of convincing (and maybe a wager he loses). He sits there, arms crossed, grumbling under his breath, “This is pointless.” But as you carefully blend soft red eyeshadow to match his scarlet gaze, his expression softens. Maybe, for once, it feels nice to be touched without pain.
You’re the kind of person who drags him out of his own storm. You don’t care that he’s got a dark past—you see him, and you refuse to let him wallow. And honestly? That terrifies him a little. But it also makes him want to stay by your side just a little longer.
They all find something comforting in your presence. You remind them that life isn’t just about knowledge, philosophy, or vengeance—sometimes, it’s about having fun and embracing yourself fully.
Also, I definitely think at least one of them secretly keeps a tiny rhinestone on their person as a reminder of you. Just saying.
Thank you for this super cute idea!! I had so much fun with it ♡(｡- ω -)
sunday, aventurine, etc (separately) with an elysia {hi3} personality reader?
i love ur fics btw remember to take care of urself 🤍
Chasing Stars and Sweet Nothings
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Elysia like personality!Reader, Romantic Fluff, Playful Romance, Lighthearted Moments, Mystery, Attraction, Comfort and Warmth, Thoughtful Conversation, Soft Sunday, Flirtation, Teasing, Emotional Healing, Philosophical Undertones.
A/N: I'm not sure if I wrote this correctly but I had to read the wiki for the personality, so I hope I got it right 😪 also thank you, anon! I appreciate it and take care of yourself too!! 🤭🫶💖🤧
Aventurine had always prided himself on his ability to read people, but you? You were a mystery wrapped in rose-colored laughter and mischief, and he couldn’t help but be drawn to it.
One evening, as the city lights painted your silhouettes with a glow, Aventurine watched you twirl in the warm night air, a contented smile on your face. “You know, every time I look at you, I can’t help but wonder what you’re hiding.” he murmured, amused but curious.
You laughed, your voice like chimes in the quiet. “Now, why would I hide anything from you, Mr. Big Shot Investor?” you teased, leaning into his shoulder with a playful grin. “Unless, of course, you’re willing to wager a bit more of your time to find out?”
He smirked, placing his hand on your waist, leading you into a gentle sway. “With you, everything’s a gamble,” he said, “but for once, I don’t mind risking it all.” You laughed softly, eyes sparkling with a hidden depth, drawing him in like the cards he played so expertly.
As you leaned closer, whispering sweet nothings and absurd promises, Aventurine found himself unable to focus on anything but you. You were a mystery he would never fully unravel, yet it was in your lighthearted laughter and gentle teasing that he found something he’d never bet on—a sense of peace.
“Stay with me tonight?” he asked, a rare softness crossing his face. You gazed up at him, smiling as if you already knew the answer long before he’d asked. "Only if you promise we’ll make it interesting.” you replied, leaving a trail of laughter as you pulled him into the unknown.
Sunday was used to people who followed his vision, who sought comfort in his promises of a painless dream, but you… you were a delightful anomaly, never quite fitting into any category he’d known.
“You look so serious, Sunday,” you cooed, nudging him playfully. “Why all the gloomy thoughts when you’re with me?” Your smile was radiant, as if the world’s sorrow never even grazed your spirit, and he found himself taken aback.
“Not everyone views the world with such… resilience,” he replied, his tone softer than usual. “Most seek peace, an escape from suffering.”
You chuckled, twirling a strand of his hair as if you’d known him forever. “Ah, but what is life without a little excitement? You don’t think your ‘Sweetdream Paradise’ would get boring after a while?” You raised an eyebrow, your tone teasing, yet sincere.
Sunday’s gaze softened, his golden eyes reflecting an unspoken conflict. “Perhaps. But there’s a kindness in sparing people from pain, is there not?”
You tilted your head, pressing a gentle hand to his cheek. “Kindness, yes, but people need a spark too. Just think, Sunday—if we never knew pain, how could we ever appreciate happiness?” You flashed a cheeky smile and continued, “Even you, my noble dreamer, wouldn’t want to miss out on a bit of thrill, right?”
He chuckled, an uncommon sound for him, but one that felt entirely natural in your presence. “Perhaps there’s merit in your way of thinking,” he admitted, his hand resting atop yours. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “But tonight, I’d like to learn from your world, where joy mingles with challenge. Show me how you see it.”
You beamed up at him, slipping your arm through his. “It’s a date, then! Let’s make this world unforgettable together.” With you, even Sunday’s unwavering dream began to flicker with shades of something new, something alive.
