6 Works by Crystalisia
Listing Works
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Summary
John couldn’t help the swirling in his gut. Branch had just sat them all down, discussing the absolute horrors he went through. For the love of Pop, watching Grandma get eaten? Hearing it? Decades of self-isolation and societal ostracization were the only constant in his life until recently. Whilst John could relate, he shouldn’t be able to relate. Branch was only two when they left. Two.
—I give John a canonical daughter and a shit ton of trauma. Summary quote will make sense when you read further— winks loudly at you.
Series
- Part 1 of Silver Bells are Ringing
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Summary
El notices. Despite what Mike may think (if he even thinks at all), she notices.
She notices the letters signed with From and not Love. She notices how he never holds her close unless he almost loses her. She notices the way he only says he loves her when he’s afraid of her. She wonders if Mike even knows he’s doing it. If he recognizes the fear that permeates his interactions with her. Does he kiss her so roughly to wash away her monstrosity? Does he rarely come up for air cause he can pretend she’s some normal girl if he doesn’t have to see her face? Most of all, El wonders if Mike knows about her letters to Dustin. How she writes to his best friend, spilling her heart out with promises to keep it secret. Would he be mad, or relieved he’s not intertwined with a monster anymore?
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The “El cheats on Mike’s sorry ass” Henderhop fic I wrote cause I’m pissed at the finale.
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Summary
The Fount of Knowledge was a star.
A blistering, bright, star; building lights, blue turning white, dwarf star. He was a minute droplet in the sea of the sky, in the cold enveloping embrace of everything. The Fount is a star able to see all the knowledge in the universe, his twinkling light shining everywhere and nowhere all at once.
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The Fount’s Descent into Shadows.
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Summary
It has been six thousand years since his descent. Six thousand years since he first fell, from the tendrils of corruption took him whole, finally breaking him down after centuries of degradation and decay. The fall itself, preceded by an entire life of pressure, of manipulation, of exhaustion. His entire life, his creation, his purpose had been the cause of his decay, the breakdown of a life not meant to be. The world he was created for just wasn’t ready for him, wasn’t ready to hear what he had to say. He knew that. He could see it in their eyes, as they rejected harsh truths, honesty, in favor of anything that softens the blow and sweetens the sour. He never had a chance to fulfill his duties. His life: The Tower.
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VENT FIC. This is okay to read!! -
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Summary
From his nipples, dark blue and sore, are beads of pristine white milk. The white of the milk— his milk— is a stark contrast to the blue of his skin. He watches, hypnotized, as the secretions drip down his breast onto his chest, the cool air turning it into a freezing sensation. He shivers as the now-cooling milk hits his stomach, and squeezes to make more pool on his dough. Who would’ve thought, Shadow Milk, the very essence of deceit and poise himself, would have his resolve crumble at the sight of his breasts producing milk. He should be concerned, he thinks, but that’s in the far recesses of his brilliant mind. All he’s focused on right now is expelling the milk and releasing the tension in his upper half. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice Pure Vanilla Cookie’s presence until he was kneeling in front of him.
”Shadow Milk Cookie? Can you hear me?” A voice gently asks, shocking him out of his stupor.
—AKA I put the Milk into Shadow Milk Cookie.
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A relief, beckon deep blue fettered in the magnet sun. by Crystalisia
Fandoms: Cookie Run (Video Game)
23 Mar 2025
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Summary
Waking up was always a hit or miss for Shadow Milk.
It could result in the overwhelming chaos of his existence, or the flatline dullness of a gentle, lonely morning. Well, that’s how it’s ended up for thousands of years for him. However, things change, and he is willing to adapt. Change may be an unwelcome chaos for some, but Shadow Milk? Oh he thrived in chaos, taking to it like an arsonist to a can of gasoline and a match. He felt somewhat proud of himself for his adaptability, especially after being trapped and chained like a domesticated cake hound for thousands of years.
This morning, he finds, is a gentle one. There is no screaming, no spire, no schemes, or henchmen to plan them. Instead, there is near-silence— except for the wind ruffling the tree leaves and the birds chirping.
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Fluffy morning with PureShadow. I’m gay as hell and yearning for touch. Enjoy!