#( aesthetic. / succumbing to the darkness. )

[runepou]

has society really gone full circle that now people are defending booktok books now?

[shrimpscrawling]

Being a trinket girlie so fun and games until you have to clean (I have three more shelves and various cabinets left to do)

[peachysunrize]

Insolent wench ⥃ Prince Regent!Aemond

Summary: when he finds the master of whispers’ daughter in the council room in the dead of the night playing with the marble ball he gave to Aegon earlier, the dragon in him is ready to burn or succumb to her.

Pairing: prince regent!Aemond Targaryen x Larys Strong’s daughter reader

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Dark content -> manipulation & blackmail! Dark!reader even a bit of dubcon, virginity loss, virgin!reader, degrading, rough sex, spanking, pussy slapping, breeding, fingering, porn with little plot, ehem using the ball as a toy, Larys’ daughter has zero description, English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 3.07k+

A/n: thank you @namelesslosers for giving me this dynamic idea & thank you @sylasthegrim for beta reading this for me🥹 Happy rough fucking with Aemond everyone🤭 Reblogs & comments are most appreciated!💕 also I was too lazy to make an aesthetic moodboard for my fic lol

He lurks in the corridors of the Keep that lead to the Small Council room. It has become his little secret, a routine he has always longed to have, and now, after months of yearning, he finally has it.

The halls are silent, and the sound of every step he takes echoes within the walls. Aemond walks with Blackfyre attached to his hip, the heavy weight of the Valyrian steel makes him smirk. Truly, he has never felt an emotion so deeply rooted inside him that makes the hair on his nape rouse, but now being the regent and the protector of the realm does it for him.

He stops for a moment when he finds the door to the council’s room ajar, the flickering of the candlelight visible from outside. He has never encountered anyone at such an hour, everyone has to be abed, except for the guards who are the ones that aren’t found anywhere near this room.

He takes a cautious step towards the door, hearing the sound of a low humming coming from inside. He reaches for Aegon’s dagger, fingers wrapping around the hilt as he pushes the door open slowly, his good eye skimming the room only to find someone’s back to him, leaning over the table and playing with his marble ball.

“A fine night, is it not, my Prince Regent?” you ask him, your back still to him as you fidget with the ball on the table, walking towards the King’s chair with a sway in your hips.

“What is your business here, Lady Strong?” he asks, letting go of the dagger before he locks his hands behind his back, walking towards his previous seat at the end of the marble desk.

He watches you closely, his good eye following your every move as you sit down on his chair at the head of the table, rolling the ball between your fingers as you look up from the ball to him slowly.

“I am disheartened by your words to my father,” you say, leaning back on the chair while your thumb rubs over the smooth surface of the marble ball in your hand, “he has served the King and your grace faithfully.”

Aemond doesn’t move from his spot, staring solely at your fingers as they rub and caress what belongs to him. He listens carefully, though he is not sure what good it might come out of conversing with a lady like you at such an hour.

“Your father sought power when he already had more than he deserved,” he replies, taking prolonged steps towards you, stopping at Tyland Lannister’s empty chair, “my council is no place for cunning rats like him.”

You chuckle, leaning your head on the back of the chair with a smirk tugging on the corner of your mouth, and it irritates Aemond to no end to see you finding such immense joy in tormenting him—even though you have not really started yet.

You were always such a strange lady to him; so much like your father in the sense that you stopped at nothing to obtain what you wanted".He has heard tales of your rebellious nature in the court, always listening and bothering the royals with your remarks, but they have failed to tell him about your blinding beauty.

“I thought you were ruling in your brother’s stead while he recovers, my prince,” you say, pushing the ball until it starts rolling towards where Aemond stands, “allegedly, this is his council, not yours.”

“Yet your father assumed he’d be my Hand, not my brother’s,” he moves the ball on the table as he walks towards Orwyle’s seat, his gaze never leaving yours, “it does make me wonder how hungry both he and you are for the attention of the royals, my lady.”

“Oh, you have mistaken my motives, your grace,” you stand up, stepping on the opposite side of him, matching his pace as he rounds the table with confidence until he’s standing behind the King’s chair, “I am not here to seek power or the attention of the royals, no. I am here to tell you that sometimes you need to think before you utter some words; ugly rats like my father as you said, tend to thrive on them, best is to learn how to say those words without causing a problem.”

“Mind your tongue, little girl,” Aemond spits out the words, closing his fingers around the ball tightly before he strides towards you purposefully with a tinge of fury in his steps.

“Not little, my prince,” you match his tone, standing where you are until he is right in front of you, the purple of his eye now fully gone as darkness seeps through his iris, “certainly older than you. I reckon you like older women, given your rendezvous to the brothel and all.”

His hand comes up to grip your jaw, squishing your cheeks harshly as he looms over you, his face inches away from yours as his nostrils flare in anger.

“Watch yourself, insolent wench. You are in no position to drag my name in the dirt. Your father tried, and look where he is now—called a Toad by me, dismissed as my Hand and ready to fetch Otto Hightower like a dog,” he says through gritted teeth, his nails digging into your face as he leans closer, his hot breath hitting your lips.

“Your name is already filthy by your own hands. You and Larys Strong have more in common than you think; both kinslayers—“ he cuts you off by spinning you away from him, pushing you down on the table roughly by his large palm on your back.

“Filthy whores like you should be executed in the muddy streets of Flea Bottom and their heads parading around the city on a spike,” he presses himself against your back, his crotch rubbing against your skirt, “Lucky for you, I know how to treat girls like you.”

“I assumed His Grace took no pleasure in taking whores,” you laugh with a jab in your tone at him, “I would love to see how you treat them though. Your brother is the one with tales of his masterful bedding, not you.”

“Tormenting me at the hour of the wolf has severe consequences which I will deliver to you accordingly, Strong,” he groans against your ear, reaching for his dagger to tear through the fabric of your dress, the remaining layers falling on the floor with ease. “Punishment or not, you will learn you shall never wake the dragon for you will burn and the only thing that will remain is your ashes.”

Your small clothes join your ruined dress on the floor, leaving you bare and dripping to the Prince Regent’s eye, devouring the sight of your flesh like a man starved.

The moan that slips from your lips when you feel something cold against your heated cunt is shameless, just like the sound a whore in the Street of Silk would make. 

Aemond starts rubbing your buzzing pearl with the marble ball between his fingers, his breathless laugh against the shell of your ear only makes the feeling of the coldness against your most vulnerable part much stronger.

“You were playing with my property, now I shall use it to make you a property of mine as well,” he whispers, his teeth sinking in the flesh of your neck as he moves the ball faster, your juices flowing down on the cold stone in his hand.

You realize you have awakened the beast within him as he quickens his movements, one hand pinning you to the table and the other rubbing the bundle of nerves furiously, tightening the knot in your core. You fist your hands, nails digging into your palm as your breathing turns into panting.

“It is in your blood it seems, to enjoy having the attention of someone who can easily snap your neck in half,” he mumbles more to himself than you, pleased with how shaky you have become, “you see, insolent wenches like you should be put in their place. How fortunate you are to be under my care.”

As soon as you feel your breaking point, he takes away the ball from your cunt, making you whine and arch your back in protest. He chuckles darkly, bringing the ball to your lips before he orders you to suck and clean the ball off your juices.

“My Prince—“

“Go on, you tart, show your prince how much of a power-hungry slut you are, maybe I will reconsider naming your father as my Hand.”

You comply, licking your nectar off the cold marble, humming at the taste. Aemond knows these games, at least he knew them with the little education he had in the brothels, but you? You are a different kind of lady, a master in disguise. It irritates and arouses him to no end.

Aemond lets go of the stone, bringing his palm down on your arsecheek roughly, making you yelp in surprise. He repeats his action, slapping your backside one more on the same spot he did a few seconds ago. 

You whine in pain and unbelievable pleasure as the sting of his hand spreads through your flesh, a deep primal desire rushing to your aching pussy. He looks down to find you wetter than before, and the sight makes him almost lose his self-restraint, almost.

You wrap your hand around the ball tightly, crying out when you feel the impact of another spank not on your bottom but on your cunt. The pain mixes with an undeniably overwhelming pleasure that has you biting your lip, not wishing to give him the satisfaction. He senses it anyway and hears the muffled scream as he lands another slap on your swollen folds with a sinister smile. 

“I wonder if your father knows of your whereabouts, his daughter ready to be turned into his future king’s whore,” he brings two of his fingers to his mouth, covering them with his spit before he reaches down to play with your pussy, no patience left in him as he thrusts his fingers inside you, groaning at the feel of your warmth.

You do not have the chance to tell him about your maidenhead, and with how fast he is moving his fingers, you can no longer think of it as an issue — your plans are falling into the right path.

Your mind has turned into a mush with how luscious his fingers feel inside you, not a foreign feeling but his fingers are much longer and thicker than you and reach deeper inside you, having you moaning and clawing the table.

“It only takes a few fingers to have your mouth shut, Lady Strong. I wonder what you’d do when I have my cock deep in your cunt,” he leans down to lick at your cheek, his fingers moving faster as he presses his bulge to your thigh. This time, he doesn’t pull away and keeps his pace up, curving his digits to hit your sweet spot rapidly, bringing you closer to your high. 

“My prince, please—“

“That’s it, Strong, give it to me,” he groans out the words, resting his forehead on the side of your face. He hums as soon as you start shaking and tightening around his fingers, gushing your wetness on him.

He doesn’t kiss you, no, he just licks over your lips as you moan and part them in pure delight, seeing stars as your peak rocks your body forward. 

“Fuck it, I need to be buried inside you, seeing for myself how the real blood of Strongs feels like,” he says, biting your cheek as he pulls his fingers out, wiping them on the red handprint on your bottom before reaching for his doublet, unbuttoning it and pulling his linen undershirt out of his leather pants. His fingers unlace his trousers quickly, pushing them and his breeches down enough for his cock to spring free.

He aligns his leaking tip with your soaked entrance, filling you to the hilt with one swift snap of his slim hips. Aemond groans, your wet pulsating walls enveloping his length in a delicious way that not even Sylvie has made him feel.

His hands make a home on your hips as soon as he starts thrusting his cock at a fast bruising pace, not letting you adjust to how his girth stretches your walls more than you thought you’d expect. Your maidenhead is now gone, you can feel his tip licking at the head of your womb, nudging it with each snap of his hips to yours.

Aemond cannot take his eye off of the way his cock disappears inside you, coated with your essence and wetness as he fucks you with abandon, his brain foggy with a desire he has only felt while burning his brother and killing his nephew—you are special in his eye, you awaken the dragon within him, insolent wench as he so likes to call you.

Your hands grow clammy, and the ball falls from your grasp with Aemond’s rough hammering, rolling on the table until it falls on the floor, making a loud uncomfortable noise that matches your unladylike moans and gasps in pleasure.

“You can’t even hold a fucking ball in your hands, Strong. Is your father as weak as you? Will he succumb to me the way you have with just a cock inside your tight pretty cunt?”

It is you who has succumbed to me, you think to yourself as coherent as your thoughts can get without the feeling of him overwhelming your senses. You nod mindlessly, thinking of how he has fallen into your trap so easily.

He comes hard, his hip bones pushing your plush thighs to the rough edges of the council’s table, filling you to the brim with his royal seed. Aemond’s head is thrown back, groaning at your name as his cock twitches inside you, the final ropes of his warm cum painting your walls.

“What have you done?” you ask shakily, faking terror as you try to push him away from you, 

“what— how could you, my prince?”

“What?” he asks dumbfounded, pulling his now softened cock out of you, looking at you with his mind now sharper than before, “what are you saying, my lady?”

“Which lord will now take me as his bride? I am—may the Seven help me— I am tainted! I-I cannot find a husband, m-my maidenhead!”

“You…” Aemond’s voice falters, “you were… you were still a maiden?”

“I was! How crude you have to be to sully my name like a- like the whores you visit? I cannot believe you—“

“Wait!” he tries to reach for you, his lips parted in sheer surprise and terror as you push away from him, nearly dropping on his knees, “My Lady, we should have a word—“

“No!” You fix your dress as best as you could, shaking your head as you run away from him, opening the doors without even looking at him, leaving him shocked and confused with his soft dick out, looking like a deer caught by the hunters.

With so little sleep, Aemond walks through the same hallways he took last night, waltzing inside the small council with a pulsating heart. His eye finds Larys alone in the room, humming as he plays with the marble ball you — his daughter — were playing with last night.

“My Prince Regent,” Lord Larys stands up and bows, “what a lovely day, do you not think so?”

“Lovely morrow indeed,” Aemond says, sitting at the head of the table, glaring at Larys who rolls his marble ball from side to side, “state your mind or leave me.”

“My daughter, Your Grace,” Larys sighs, a ghost of a smirk finding its way onto his face, “she was… in a not-so-pleasant state for her status when she sought me out.”

“What of her?” Aemond tries to remain unbothered, but he knows there is a scheme going on that his intelligence could not pick up on last night.

“She said you forced yourself upon her,” Larys drops the ball on the floor as he locks his hand on the table, his eyes meeting Aemond’s, glaring at him with newfound confidence, “that no Lord will take her now, that you have tainted and impured my daughter!”

“I assure you, my good Lord, that is a lie. Your daughter was the one who made me do it—“ he tries to reason with him, but Larys has none of it.

“So you admit that you yielded to your desires and took my daughter’s innocence! How wild, how disgusting! To know I wished to be in your council—“

“‘Mind your tongue, Lord Larys. I do not care if you are to leave the Keep, but you will not talk to me as if I’m lesser than I was before!” Aemond’s voice booms through the room, slamming his fist on the table as he stands up.

“You are a lesser man, Prince Aemond. A man who gave into his desires and used his power over a helpless noble woman…”

“What is it you wish for me to do? I have not forced myself upon your daughter, she partook in the act willingly if not more enthusiastically than me.” Aemond’s breathing changes and his knuckles turn white as he tries to stop himself from doing something he would surely regret.

“She was crying in my arms last night—“

“Name it and it is yours!” Aemond yells at him, walking to grab Larys by his collar, “You want me to name you my Hand? I will. But in return, you shall keep your mouth shut.”

“You are in no position to tell me what to do, my prince,” Larys calms down a bit, knowing the plan he and you have made has been done perfectly, “you will make me your Hand, and you will marry my daughter in a fortnight.”

“Not acceptable! We will lose Baratheons’ support!” Aemond shoves Larys back on his seat before he starts pacing, “You are my Hand from now on, and I will arrange a good match for your daughter.”

“No, she will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, or I will taint your reputation the way you have done to my daughter.” 

Rest assured, Larys Strong’s only child married the former Prince Regent and now the King in a fortnight with a lavish feast thrown for her.

[endlessthxxghts]

Full

Frankie Morales x afab!Reader

Summary: You want Frankie to knock you up, and fuck, does he wants that, too. W/C: 1k. (I actually stuck to the word count this time… but at what insanely hot cost?😵‍💫) 18+ MDNI: Implied established relationship. Literally 0% plot and 100% PORN. Unprotected P in V sex. MAJOR BREEDING KINK. Cumming inside. Slight daddy kink (in the sense that you wanna make Frankie a daddy🫶🏼). One (1) pussy slap. Multiple orgasms. Overstimulation kink. Finger fucking. Pics for aesthetic purposes only.

A/N: This lil drabble is a part of my 1k follower celebration in response to this yummy request made by @javierpena-inatacvest😵‍💫 Please take a deep breath and get comfortable while you read this… ANYWAY, happy Valentine’s Day everyone!!! What better way to celebrate than with Frankie and his breeding kink?😋 Hope you guys enjoy, and please do let me know what you guys think!!!! I love love love your feedback (or- in other words) !!!🤭

MASTERLIST || NOTIF BLOG

“Fuck, Frankie…”

“Taking it so good, querida, fuck-”

“Please- shit- please, Frankie, don’t stop.”

“I’m not, baby,” he moans, eyes threatening to succumb to the back of his skull, “Not gonna fucking stop until you’re full of me, baby, yo prometo.” I promise. 

“Sh-shit, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, ohmygod-” your eyes clamp shut, your jaw hangs open, ass up in the air as your tears and drool soak the pillow beneath your face. 

Frankie speeds up, pummeling into you hard and fast, his large hands coasting the surface of your ass and your back, groaning at the way you twitch and writhe underneath him. His hands settle at your waist, gripping you tightly, accentuating the arch of you. He’s so fucking deep at this angle, you can feel him hitting your cervix with each thrust forward. It’s an addicting sensation right now—and it will be even later, when the dull ache overtakes you. “Give it to me,” he breathes, “cum all over my cock, querida, needa feel you.”

His hand snakes around to your front, the pad of his fingers meeting your clit, rubbing it in the perfect motion that sends you reeling. Fireworks—no, dynamite, explodes behind the dark of your eyelids, your head adopting that fuzzy feeling, your body following suit not long after. “So fucking good, you feel so fucking good, Frankie, oh my God- oh fuck-” you ramble partially incoherently. 

Your thighs are jello, unable to keep yourself up as Frankie continues fucking into you; his arm wraps around your middle, his other pawing at your breast. He pulls you up to be flush against his chest as he begs your alter for his own release. “I’m c- mierda- I’m close,” he whimpers right at your ear. 

Mustering up as much strength as you can, you twist your head to face him, your hand reaching up and rooting yourself at the back of his messy curls. You yank his head towards you, crashing his mouth against yours. It’s sloppy and wet, swallowing each other’s tongues whole as the thickness of your shared breaths melt into one. Breaking away with a bite to his kiss-swollen lower lip, you whisper into his mouth, “cum inside me, Frankie, please.”

“Baby-” he chokes, his hips speed up, arousing him beyond what he thought was possible. “Want you in me for days, Francisco,” you whimper, licking a stripe on his neck, collecting the salty liquid running down. His hand makes its way back to your throbbing bud. 

Your body goes lax in his hold, you secure your grip at the base of his neck, keeping your faces close to each other. He watches with heavy eyes as you struggle to keep your gaze on his, your brows furrowing slightly as your eyelids begin to flutter. “Need you-” you start, a throaty moan cutting you off. “Need you inside me- need you to fuck it so deep, baby,” you sob, “that it has no choice but to fucking take- fuck-”

Frankie’s heart stutters and his cock twitches. “Yeah?” he grits between his teeth. “Want me to fuck you full?” A particularly hard thrust sends you cross-eyed, your nails digging into his neck. “Want me to fucking get you pregnant right now, baby?” 

An appreciative little slap to your slippery clit jolts your eyes open, his lustful gaze with a hint of something more—like adoration, like pure devotion—stares you down. You pull him into you once more, a clash of spit and teeth and tongue—you can even taste a hint of your own arousal from when he ate you out before you were begging him to knock you up. “Please- fuck- yes, baby, yes- fucking- let me make you a daddy, baby, please- want you- need it- need you so fucking bad-”

Fuck. Frankie’s pace falters, his hips stammer as his orgasm consumes him—his cum painting your warm walls, filling you up to the brim. You moan at the sensation, your hips thrusting backwards into him, and before you realize it, you’re cumming again, both your bottom halves an utter mess of each other’s arousal. 

Frankie softly slips from your heat, and you both hiss at the loss. He releases his hold on you, guiding you onto your back, his hands settling on the insides of your thighs to keep you open for him. His eyes can’t leave the way your pussy looks right now—completely fucked out, shiny with your slick, and filled with his cum. You feel it start to leak out of your hole, and you whine, the feeling so sensitive but dizzying, knowing you’re overflowing with Frankie. 

Before you know it, his fingers are collecting the dripping spend, bringing it back to your entrance, and slowly, his fingers enter you, the initial push inward causing more of his cum to seep out of you, but he’s quick to catch the leakage, pushing it back inside of you, where it needs to be. 

With one hand holding one thigh down and the other inside of your sex, Frankie’s entranced, starting up a delicious pace fucking into you with his fingers. You’re a moaning mess of curses mixed with his name, overstimulation taking over your body, but you don’t want him to stop. 

He couldn’t even if he tried. He’s too caught up in the notion that after this, his sperm could latch, and in nine months from now, you’d be big and round and glowing carrying the product of your love. Fuck, he needs this to work. He’ll fill you up every fucking day if that’s what it takes. 

He’s pulled from his trance when a heady moan roars from your throat, “F-fuck, fuck, Frankie, I’m gonna fucking cum again! Oh my god, baby- fuck-” 

His eyes are on your face: pure ecstasy, he’s seeing, in the way your head throws back into your pillow, only the white of your eyes showing, as the veins pop out your neck as you scream out in pleasure. 

He slides his fingers out, slick with a mixture of both of your arousal, and brings it up to your mouth. He knows how much you love to taste. 

Immediately you open up, lapping up your combined flavors greedily, a content, blissful smile plastered lazily on your face. 

“Am I full, baby?” You mumble. 

“So full, querida,” he whispers, laying his body over yours, pulling you in for a sweet kiss. 

“Do you think…” you trail off softly, nervous. 

“I don’t know, mi amor,” he breathes, kissing your chest. “Guess we’ll just have to keep you full everyday until we can check, huh?” 

Your cheeks heat up, your exhausted pussy already fluttering in anticipation. “Y-yeah. I guess so.” 

End note: LOLOL GUYS I, UH.. I REALLY WENT HARD ON THIS ONE, I'M SORRY BUT ALSO I'M NOT SORRY ASDFGFDFH PLS LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU GUYS THINK <3 YOUR GUYS' WORDS MEAN THE WORLD TO ME, I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH Also how you doing, babe @javierpena-inatacvest?? You alive? Still with me?? I LOVE YOU AHAHAHAH

[quinzzelx]

Reflections

Azriel x Fem! Reader

Request: hello, i’ve been thinking about slight angst to fluffy filth with azriel x reader, i have this idea where reader gets az off in front of a mirror while he says nice things about himself, bc we all know his self esteem is abominable. [...]

Summary: You notice Azriel isn't feeling well and want to show him just how much he is loved.

Word Count: 6.1K

Warnings: Smut, 18! +, Fluffy smut, Soft Azriel, gentle sex, mirror sex.

A/N: This is soooo cute!! I really wanted to make this fluffy. Azriel deserves so much love and I loved writing this. Also, a friend of mine gave me a really mean idea for a very angsty second part, but that would be utter heartbreak omg...

☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆

Azriel moved through the day with a heavier shadow than usual, both literally and figuratively. His usual quiet demeanor had deepened into something more somber, his brooding silence punctuated only by the soft whispers of his shadows that clung close, mirroring his mood. It was one of those days when the weight of his duties hung heavily upon him, laden with guilt, self-doubt, and a gnawing anxiety that he might never truly be enough. His own insecurities clawed at him relentlessly, questioning his worth even as he worked tirelessly behind the scenes, unseen and often unappreciated.

You observed him with a careful eye, noting the subtle shift in his energy, the slight hesitation in his movements. Throughout the centuries of your friendship, which had seen countless shared secrets and moments of vulnerability, you had learned to read him like one of the many books lining the shelves of his dimly-lit office. You both danced around each other in a delicate ballet of unspoken words and intermittent closeness, occasionally succumbing to the gravitational pull of mutual desire that neither of you dared to fully acknowledge or define.

Recently, something had shifted. The air between you was charged, heavy with the things left unsaid, the feelings unexplored. Despite the deep bond you shared, Azriel had begun to pull away, cloaking himself in solitude and silence. His avoidance was a clear sign of his inner turmoil—a battle you knew all too well. He was adept at seeing the good in everyone else, lifting others with his quiet strength and perceptive insights, yet he was blind to the light within himself.

Determined to breach the distance he had imposed, you resolved to confront the barriers he had erected. Catching Azriel was never easy; he was as elusive as the shadows he commanded, adept at hiding his deepest fears and desires. But love, you had decided, was not a thing to be easily relinquished or left unspoken. It was a force as formidable as the magic Azriel wielded, and you were prepared to wield it with all the determination and tenderness it demanded.

You waited for him in his bedroom, adorned in one of your finest and sheerest black lace nightgowns, draped with a silk robe that whispered with every subtle movement. Positioned on the chaise in the corner of his spacious room, you gazed intently into the floor-length mirror adjacent to the door, reflecting not only your own anxious anticipation but also the room’s dark, elegant aesthetic.

As the minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the tension and expectancy built within you. The only sound was the quiet rustle of your gown and the distant, muffled noises of the House of Wind settling for the night.

Finally, the door creaked open, and Azriel stepped through. His arrival was signaled not by a flourish, but by a weary sigh, his silhouette framed momentarily in the doorway. His shoulders were slumped, bearing the invisible yet palpable weight of his duties and doubts.

As he entered, his familiar shadows danced around him, a dark entourage that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Interestingly, the shadows flickered towards you briefly, acknowledging your presence as if in greeting. Yet, they maintained their silence, not alerting Azriel to your presence. It was as if they, too, conspired in your plan, understanding perhaps the necessity of this confrontation.

Azriel, oblivious to your presence and caught up in his own thoughts, moved slowly into the room. He loosened the clasps of his cloak and began to shed the layers of his formal attire, each movement heavy with exhaustion. It was only as he turned to hang his cloak in the wardrobe that he caught your reflection in the mirror. His movements halted abruptly; his eyes locked onto yours in the reflected image. A complex mixture of surprise, confusion, and a flicker of something deeper played across his features. For a moment, he simply stared, as if processing the sight and its implications.

“Why are you here?” His voice, though soft, carried the weight of his weary confusion and lingering shadows of his earlier brooding.

The room felt charged, the air thick with the unsaid, as you stood gracefully, letting the silk robe fall slightly to reveal more of the delicate lace clinging to your form. “I’m here for you, Azriel,” you said, your voice a gentle yet firm declaration. “I’ve seen how you’ve been carrying your burdens, and you don’t have to bear them alone. Not anymore.”

Your words hung in the air, a soft yet undeniable challenge to the walls he had built around himself. His initial shock gave way to a resigned vulnerability, the barriers beginning to falter under the weight of your sincerity and the palpable concern in your eyes.

Azriel’s gaze lingered on you for a long, silent moment, the battle within him almost visible. Then, slowly, the shadows around him seemed to retreat slightly, as if giving him the space to breathe, to decide. It was your turn to wait, the outcome of your bold move hanging delicately in the balance.

Your movements were smooth and deliberate, each step carrying the quiet confidence of someone who knows their power. As Azriel's gaze lingered on you in the mirror, the sheer lace of your nightgown played a tantalizing dance over your skin, hinting at the promises concealed beneath. When you let the silk robe slip from your shoulders, pooling silently at your feet, his reaction was instantaneous—a low grunt of undisguised desire and perhaps, a hint of conflict.

"You've been avoiding me," you murmured, your voice as soft and enticing as the silk that had just glided off your body. "I missed you, Azriel." The words were simple, but they carried the weight of your genuine concern and longing.

His jaw tensed, a slight narrowing of his eyes betraying his inner turmoil. Muscles tight, he took in the sight of you—each curve accentuated by the delicate lace, the soft lighting casting shadows that played over your form. Doubt flickered behind his gaze, a constant companion in his thoughts. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice rough with a mix of confusion and rising heat.

Smirking slightly, you stepped closer, each movement calculated to show your appreciation of his formidable presence. His impressive wings, the strong lines of his body—every inch of him spoke of a crafted perfection that took your breath away. But beyond the physical, you saw the soul of the man who had stood by you through centuries, his loyalty unwavering, his strength a beacon. Tonight, you were determined to show Azriel just how much he was loved and adored. He deserved to feel valued, not just by those around him but by himself. If he needed a reminder, you were more than ready to provide it, to break down the barriers he had erected around his heart.

Reaching him, you placed a hand lightly on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "Let me remind you," you said, standing on tiptoes to whisper directly into his ear, your breath a warm caress. "Let me show you how much you mean to me, to all of us. You are not alone, Azriel. You never have been." The intensity of your words seemed to pierce through his defenses. For a moment, he was still, the only movement the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Then, slowly, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close against him, his embrace a silent acceptance of your offer. His forehead rested against yours, a silent acknowledgment of the connection you shared.

"Mhm," you hum softly, letting one of your hands wander down his back, feeling the tense muscles beneath his shirt as your fingers explore the broad expanse of his shoulders, tracing his tattoos. The warmth of his skin radiated through the fabric, speaking of the battles he fought both outside and within himself. "I want to make you feel good," you whispered, a promise laden with devotion and want.

Azriel's response was almost imperceptible, a slight relaxation under your touch as he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. His eyes remained closed, focusing intently on the sensation of your hand moving over him. The muscle in his jaw worked silently, a visible sign of the tension he carried. As your scent enveloped him—sweet notes of arousal mixed with the calming lavender of your soap—it threatened to undo the control he so rigidly held over himself. He suppressed a groan, the depth of his yearning surfacing despite his best efforts to maintain composure.

Your other hand gently traced the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there and willing it to ease. "Let go with me, Az," you coaxed, your voice low and soothing. "You don't have to be strong all the time. Not with me." Your words, heartfelt and sincere, aimed to penetrate the walls he built around his emotions, to reach the man who so rarely allowed himself the luxury of being cared for.

Slowly, Azriel opened his eyes, the usual guarded hazel depths now shimmering with a mix of emotions—conflict, desire, and a dawning realization that he could perhaps find solace in your arms. His hand reached up to cover yours, pressing it against his cheek, turning his face to plant a soft kiss in the palm of your hand. It was a small gesture, yet laden with significance, an acknowledgment of his trust and his willingness to lean on you, if only for the night.

You pull him into a kiss, one that starts soft and gentle but quickly escalates into something deeper, more meaningful. Your hand, not content with merely cupping his cheek, slides to the hem of his pants, palming his hardening length through the fabric. The moment he groans softly into the kiss, you seize the opportunity to deepen it, slipping your tongue into his mouth, fully asserting your presence.

The kiss turns heated in an instant. Azriel's hands wander to your waist, his touch sending shivers through your body as he feels your heated skin through the thin fabric of your nightgown. "Fuck," he grunts as the kiss breaks, his eyes roaming over you with newfound intensity. He takes in the sight of your nipples, visibly strained against the sheer lace. "You look..." he trails off, exhaling sharply, the raw desire evident in his gaze. "Absolutely breathtaking."

Encouraged by his reaction, you begin to undress him slowly, each movement deliberate and filled with intention. As you peel away his clothing, his heart hammers in his chest, the sensation distinctly different, more intimate than any encounter before. This wasn't just about physical need—it was about connection, about exposing not just bodies but also hidden depths of emotion.

His shirt falls away, and you take a moment to trace the lines of his well-defined chest, your fingers exploring each scar and muscle, a silent testament to his battles and burdens. Each touch seems to speak words you both had held back, acknowledging his vulnerabilities and strengths without needing to articulate them verbally.

As you kneel to undo his belt, your proximity to him intensifies the atmosphere. The sound of the buckle clinking softly as you open his pants is almost deafening in the quiet room. You glance up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours, a mixture of apprehension and longing swirling within.

With his pants finally loosened, you help him step out of them, leaving him as exposed as you are, both physically and emotionally. Standing back up, you press your body against his, feeling the heat radiating from him, the rapid rise and fall of his chest synchronizing with yours.

"Let me take care of you tonight," you whisper against his lips, a promise hanging between you, as heavy and tangible as the air itself. "Let me love you, Azriel." You guide Azriel to stand before the large mirror, positioning him so that he can see both himself and your reflection. Standing just behind him, you drape your arms over his broad shoulders, allowing your hands to roam freely across the hard planes of his chest. The room's temperature seems to climb with each deliberate caress, the air charged with an electric current of anticipation and desire.

Catching his gaze in the mirror, you let a slow, confident smirk play across your lips. "I want you to watch," you murmur, locking eyes with him through the reflection. Your voice is low, a sultry command that sends a thrill through him.

Your hands move with practiced ease, tracing down his abdomen, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. "Look at how strong you are, my love," you whisper, your voice a mix of admiration and desire.

You hold Azriel's gaze in the mirror, your eyes locking with his as you let your hand slide into the waistband of his underwear, feeling the soft, silky skin of his hard cock beneath your fingertips. Your touch elicits a shiver from him, his eyes fluttering shut as he leans into your embrace, his wings twitching with anticipation.

"I want you to repeat what I say," you murmur, your voice a seductive whisper as you continue to stroke him, your movements slow and deliberate. You feel the tension in his body, the way he strains against your touch, and you revel in the power you have over him in this moment.

"Say it," you command softly, your tone firm yet loving. "Repeat after me."

His breath comes out in shallow pants as he nods, his eyes still closed, lost in the sensations you're evoking in him. "I-I'll repeat," he manages to whisper, his voice husky.

You smile, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of your lips as you guide him through the words, each one a testament to his worth and your desire for him. "I am worthy," you say, your voice steady and sure. "I am strong. I am loved."

Azriel's voice trembles slightly as he echoes your words, his own affirmation mingling with yours in the air between you. "I am worthy," he repeats, his voice growing stronger with each repetition. "I am strong. I am loved."

You feel a swell of pride and affection for him as he speaks, his words a declaration of self-worth and acceptance. But you're not done yet—you want him to know just how much he means to you, how deeply you desire him.

Leaning closer, you press a kiss to the shell of his ear, your lips brushing against his skin as you murmur words of adoration and desire. "You're so fucking sexy, Az," you breathe, your voice low and sultry. "Your body, your mind, your heart—I want all of you. I need all of you."

As you continue to stroke Azriel, you feel him twitch with each movement of your hand, a visceral response to your touch that drives you both further into the realm of lust. The air between you charges with electricity, every touch and whisper amplifying the tension that wraps around you like a tangible force.

"You are incredible," you breathe out, each word laden with desire as you maintain the rhythmic motion of your hand. "Feel every stroke, every touch. This is how much you affect me, how much you are wanted."

His back arches slightly as he presses into you, his breathing deepening. The heat from his body radiates, mingling with yours, creating an enveloping warmth that makes the air around you shimmer. "I love how you respond to me," you continue, your voice a seductive whisper that sends shivers down his spine. "Every shudder, every moan. You're so beautifully responsive."

Your words of praise and the relentless motion of your hand draw deep moans from him, each one escaping his lips like a confession. His hands find yours, his fingers intertwining with yours to increase the pressure, guiding you in the silent language of lovers intimately familiar with each other’s desires.

"Look at us," you command gently, nodding towards the mirror. His eyes open slowly, heavy with arousal, and meet yours in the reflection. The sight of yourselves, wrapped in such an intimate tableau, heightens the erotic charge of the moment. "See how perfect you look, giving in to pleasure. This is you—powerful yet so open and vulnerable with me."

You press your body closer against his, your chest flush against his back, letting him feel the full length of your body, the firmness of your breasts against him. "You are so strong, Azriel, but here with me, you don’t have to be. Just feel," you whisper, accentuating your words with a firmer stroke, pushing him closer to the edge.

You continue your tender assault, spreading kisses from his neck down his shoulder, each touch light and reverent. Azriel's breath comes in heavy pants, a sign of the deep pleasure coursing through him as your thumb grazes the throbbing, sensitive head of his cock, slick with arousal. The gentle yet deliberate movements of your hand contrast with the intensity of the moment, creating a stirring blend of tenderness and heat.

"You're doing so well," you murmur, peppering his skin with soft kisses that make him shiver under your touch. "Feel every sensation, let it wash over you. You deserve this pleasure," you continue, your words dripping with affirmation and encouragement.

As he tries to savor the moment, clinging to the waves of pleasure you elicit from him, you notice the overwhelmed look in his eyes—a mix of disbelief and ecstasy at the gentleness of the encounter. His usual demeanor of control and restraint is nowhere to be seen, replaced by raw, unguarded vulnerability in the reflection of the mirror.

"Keep going, Az," you whisper, your voice a sultry command that sends a shiver down his spine. "Tell yourself how good it feels, praise yourself like I praise you."

A flush of embarrassment mixed with arousal colors his cheeks, his gaze darkening further as he meets your eyes in the mirror. The intimacy of the moment, your hands skillfully wrapped around him, heightens the erotic charge between you. His voice, when it finally emerges, is husky and hesitant, but grows in confidence with each word. "It feels... incredible. I am... strong, and I am desired."

Hearing Azriel voice his own pleasure, a rare admission from him, something coils deep within your stomach, a mix of pride and further craving. His words, reflecting both the affirmations you've given and his own acceptance of them, deepen the connection, making this moment about more than physical pleasure—it's about emotional liberation and acceptance. "Look at how powerful you are, how much control you have over your own pleasure," you guide him, your voice both soothing and seductive.

Encouraged by your words, he begins to move his hips subtly, entering into a rhythm guided by the motions of your hand. His own words become more assured, his voice stronger. "I am powerful... I am worthy of this pleasure... I deserve this."

As he articulates his own worth, his climax builds, the tension in his body winding tighter. His breathing grows erratic, and you tighten your grip just slightly, increasing the pace, pushing him closer with a loving yet firm hand.

"Let go, Azriel," you coax as he teeters on the brink, your voice soft yet commanding. Azriel's grunt resonates with a newfound confidence, his instincts beginning to surface as he takes control. His hips snap forward decisively, rutting into your hand with a series of firm, deliberate thrusts. His gaze locks onto yours in the mirror—dark, intense, filled with a fiery desire that sends a thrill of anticipation coursing through you.

"What do you want, Azriel?" you ask, your voice a soft challenge, laced with curiosity and an undercurrent of your own need for him. The question seems to unleash something within him, a torrent of pent-up longing.

With a decisive movement, he gently removes your hand from his length, confusion flickering across your face. But before you can question his actions, he swiftly pulls you around to face him. The sudden shift in dynamics catches you off guard, and you find yourself staring up into his heated eyes, your back pressed against the cool surface of the mirror.

Azriel's hands find your waist, his grip firm but not constricting, as he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. "I want you," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. "I want to show you just how much I need you, how deep my desire runs."

He pauses, his eyes searching yours for a moment, gauging your reaction, before continuing with a more raw, almost primal tone. "I want to see you unravel beneath me, hear you moan my name as I take you, right here, right now."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation bubbling within you. The audacity of his words, the explicitness of his desires—it's intoxicating.

"I want to feel your body tremble as I fill you, to watch your face in the mirror as you come undone from my touch." His fingers trail up your side, light but purposeful, drawing a line of fire along your skin.

Before you can respond, he bends down, his lips finding yours in a kiss that seals his vow, a kiss so deep and consuming that it leaves you breathless. When he pulls back slightly, his gaze is unyielding, locked onto yours with an intensity that holds the world at bay.

"This is what I want," he declares, his voice a blend of raw need and absolute certainty. "Tell me you want it too."

Caught in the whirlwind of his passion, your own desires flare to life, matching his intensity. "Yes," you breathe out, the word a surrender to the storm, an acceptance of his claim over you. "Yes, I want it, Azriel."

Satisfied with your affirmation, he smiles, a predatory, triumphant curve of his lips that promises untold pleasures. The chill causes your nipples to harden immediately, a visible reaction that doesn't escape his intense gaze. His eyes, dark and predatory, drink in every inch of your revealed skin with undisguised hunger. His scarred hand ventures lower, tracing a bold path down your abdomen until it finds the heat between your legs. You gasp, a soft moan escaping your lips, as his fingers explore your wetness, a rough groan vibrating from his throat in response to your arousal.

"Azriel," you whimper, your voice laced with need and a faint protest, "this was supposed to be about you."

He looks up at you, a sly grin playing at the corners of his lips. "Believe me," he responds, his voice low and husky, pressing his fingers more insistently against you, "making you feel good is very much in my best interest." His words are punctuated by a deliberate stroke that sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body, making your knees buckle slightly.

He steadies you with a firm arm around your waist, his touch both possessive and protective. "Seeing you unravel, hearing you moan my name—it’s what I need right now," he continues, his tone both commanding and coaxing. Azriel gently turns you to face the mirror, pulling you back against his chest. The heat of his body envelops you, and you feel the firm pressure of his arousal against your lower back. Instinctively, one of your hands reaches back between your bodies, grasping him firmly, feeling his length and hardness, which elicits a soft groan from both of you.

 His fingers continue their expert ministrations, circling, teasing, pushing you toward the edge with skilled precision.

The room seems to close in around you, the mirror reflecting your intertwined forms, a visual echo of the intense connection that sizzles between you. Every touch, every whisper, intensifies the electric charge in the air, pulling you deeper into the vortex of desire.

As Azriel's hand works its magic, you find yourself leaning back into his chest, seeking support as your body begins to tremble under the onslaught of pleasure. His other hand travels up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple in a rhythm that mirrors the actions of his fingers below.

"This is about us," Azriel murmurs into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "About me showing you how much you mean to me, how much I want you." Azriel’s touch becomes even more deliberate as he strokes your clit, his fingers tracing the contours of your slick folds before teasing at your entrance. All the while, he whispers sweet affirmations into your ear.

In the mirror, Azriel watches every reaction that flickers across your face—each flutter of your eyelids, every bite of your lip, the way your brows furrow slightly in concentration and pleasure. This visual feedback drives him, his actions tuned to elicit more of those beautiful responses.

"You always make me feel incredible, Azriel," you breathe out, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "No one else can make me feel like this."

His eyes, dark with his want and need, reflect a mix of pride and deep affection. "You’re mine," he affirms, the possessive words not a demand but a declaration. His fingers resume their motion, now with a renewed vigor, as if spurred on by your admissions.

You watch together in the mirror as his fingers delve deeper, exploring you, his other hand caressing your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between expert fingers. The dual sensations, coupled with the intensely erotic sight of your intertwined bodies reflected back at you, drive your arousal higher. "I want you to see how much you enjoy this, how you respond to

me," Azriel murmurs, his lips grazing the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "I want you to watch yourself come undone because of what I do to you." As the heat of your arousal intensifies, you find yourself overwhelmed by the need for more—for him. Your whispered disclosure sends a visible shudder through Azriel, and you feel his response in the twitch of his length in your grasp. His gaze softens, filled with a tumult of emotions that had shadowed him earlier, now mingling with the undeniable love and warmth radiating from your intertwined bodies.

"Earlier," he drawls, his voice thick with emotion as he thrusts one finger deep inside you, causing a sharp intake of breath. "You said you want all of me..." His words trail off as he watches your reaction, then, deliberately, he slides a second finger alongside the first, stretching and filling you, pausing to let each sensation sink in. "Not just my body, but my heart."

His fingers move rhythmically, pumping into your core as his body presses flush against yours, his breath warm against the skin of your neck. His lips gently flutter over your skin, each touch a whisper of affection and promise. "Tell me," he commands softly, his request hanging in the air, laden with deeper implications.

Meeting his gaze in the mirror, you breathe out your confession, each word laced with the depth of your feelings. "I love you, Azriel." The words hang between you, powerful and sincere. As his movements inside you pause, you continue, compelled to reassure him of his worth. "You deserve to be loved. I don't know anyone else who deserves it more than you do."

In that moment, something shifts in Azriel’s eyes—a flicker of vulnerability, a glint that might be the beginning of belief, something warm and soft. His fingers resume their motion, but now with a tenderness that mirrors the emotion swelling in the room. Slowly, he withdraws his fingers, only to replace them with the head of his cock, positioning himself at your entrance. The anticipation makes your heart beat wildly, every nerve alight with the need for him.

"You deserve to be loved too," Azriel whispers back, his voice husky with emotion. "And I—I love you, more than I ever thought possible." With that confession, he pushes forward, entering you in one smooth, deliberate motion that makes you gasp both from the fullness and the profound significance of his words. As the intensity of your passion deepens, each thrust is imbued with a profound sense of connection, a merging of souls as much as bodies. Azriel's eyes, filled with a mixture of desire and adoration, remain locked on yours in the mirror, capturing every expression of pleasure that dances across your features.

You're bent forward slightly, your back arched, your body yielding to his as he continues to fill you with each delicious thrust. Wet sounds fill the air, mingling with heavy breathing and soft pleas as the rhythm of your lovemaking builds, each movement proof to the depth of your connection.

Unlike your previous encounters, which were fueled by hunger and passion, now it is suffused with something more profound—love. "My legs are about to give out," you whimper, feeling the strain of the pleasure coursing through your body.

Azriel responds by pulling you back against his chest, his hand firm yet gentle around your throat, guiding you to stand straight as he continues to grind his hips against yours. The sensation of his cock nestled deep inside you, combined with the warmth of his body pressed against yours, sends wave after wave of pleasure through you. With a soft smile and a lingering touch, he slowly withdraws from you, the air cool against your heated skin. Turning you to face him, his eyes brim with love—a look so intense, it feels as though it could completely engulf you. He seals his emotions with a kiss, tender and passionate, a perfect echo of the feelings swirling between you.

He guides you gently towards the bed, sinking back first onto the soft sheets. You climb over him, straddling his hips with graceful ease. Lowering yourself back down onto him, a mutual groan fills the space, the sensation overwhelming yet deeply right. The kiss never breaks, each movement of your lips in sync with the rolling motion of your hips.

His hands find your hips, gripping gently, guiding and meeting each movement with his own. Every thrust is a word unsaid, every connection a line in a poem of your intertwining lives. The way his body responds to yours, the way your heartbeats seem to synchronize with each thrust, it all culminates into an exquisite dance of love. As you continue to move rhythmically above him, Azriel's words flow like a soothing stream, each phrase dripping with affection and devotion, encouraging your every motion. "You're everything to me," he murmurs, his voice a gentle rumble that vibrates through your core. His hands are tender yet purposeful, one gliding to stroke your clit in slow, deliberate circles that send waves of pleasure crashing through you.

The intensity of his touch makes you gasp, your head tilting back as stars burst behind your closed eyelids. Feeling the shift, Azriel gently guides you back down, his body rising to meet yours. His lips find the delicate skin of your breasts, and his teeth graze lightly, careful not to hurt but enough to send a shiver down your spine. He marks you lovingly, each kiss and nibble a witness to his deep feelings, branding you as his in the most intimate of ways.

The room is filled with the sound of your combined sighs and the soft rustle of the sheets as you move together. Azriel's other hand anchors you, his fingers digging gently into your hips, guiding your movements to meet his upward thrusts. The dual stimulation of his fingers on your clit and his deep, steady strokes inside you draws you ever closer to the edge.

His eyes never leave your face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every shift of emotion as you ride the waves together. He sits up slightly, his arms wrapping around you to pull you closer, chest to chest, heart to heart. His breath is warm on your neck, his murmurs filled with words of love and future promises.

"Let go with me," he whispers, his voice husky with desire. "Let me feel you come undone."

Encouraged by his words and overwhelmed by the mounting pleasure, you surrender fully to the sensations. The world narrows down to the here and now, to the feel of Azriel beneath you, inside you, all around you. As you climax, your body tightens around him, a wave of euphoria washing over you in an intense, all-encompassing rush, crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Azriel follows shortly after, his own release spurred by the tightening grip of your body and the overwhelming sense of love.

In the aftermath, you collapse against him, both of you panting, sweat mingling, hearts beating in a synchronized rhythm of deep contentment. Azriel's arms hold you close, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"We are made for each other," he breathes out, a smile in his voice, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders. As you lie intertwined with Azriel, the tender strokes of his fingers drawing soft patterns on your back, a sense of tranquility envelops you, wrapping you in a cocoon of warmth and affection. The air is filled with a serene stillness, broken only by the steady rhythm of your breaths mingling in the quiet of the room.

You feel a surge of emotion welling up within you, a profound sense of gratitude for this man who holds you in his arms. With a soft smile playing on your lips, you nestle closer to him, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It's as if the world fades away, leaving only the two of you in this bubble of love and warmth.

"Azriel," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, "you deserve the world and more." Your words are imbued with sincerity, each syllable carrying the weight of your affection. "You've always been the one to give so much, to sacrifice without hesitation. And yet, you never ask for anything in return."

Tears well up in your eyes as you continue, overwhelmed by the depth of your feelings. "You're the most beautiful soul I've ever known, inside and out. And I... I love you more than words can express."

A soft gasp escapes your lips as you struggle to articulate the depth of your emotions, the magnitude of your love for him. "Sometimes," you admit, your voice barely a whisper, "it feels like the weight of the world is crushing down on me, suffocating me. But then... then you walk into the room, and suddenly, everything becomes clear. I can breathe again." Your confession hangs in the air, the silence punctuated only by the gentle rise and fall of your breaths.  

As tears well up in Azriel's eyes, his gaze meets yours with a depth of emotion that takes your breath away. His brows furrow with the intensity of his feelings, and he pulls you closer to him, wrapping you in a tight embrace. With trembling hands, he gently lifts your chin, capturing your lips in a soul-crushing kiss.

In that moment, he pours every ounce of love and tenderness into the kiss, conveying with each touch the depth of his emotions. As you part, his chest heaves with emotion, and he gazes into your eyes with a vulnerability that renders you speechless.

"My love," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, "those words... they mean more to me than you could ever know." He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, his touch feather-light against your skin. "I never thought myself deserving of such affection," he confesses, his voice raw with honesty. "But you..”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze never wavering from yours. "With you by my side, I can finally sleep peacefully," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "For centuries, I wandered in darkness, haunted by my past. But with you, I've found solace, a sense of peace that I never thought possible."

You reach out, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs gently wiping away the tears that still linger in his honey-colored eyes. "Az," you whisper, your voice filled with tenderness, "you deserve all the love in the world. You are worthy of every ounce of affection I have to give."

With a soft smile, you press a kiss to his lips, a silent promise of your unwavering devotion. "Together," you murmur against his lips, "we'll navigate through the darkness, hand in hand, until we find the light." In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of each other's embrace, you know that you've found your home in each other's arms. And as you hold each other close, you're filled with a sense of peace and contentment that you know will carry you through whatever trials lie ahead.

[starmocha]

So the preview of the new theme song uses imagery of the guys' myths, including Sylus'. Rafayel, Xavier, and Zayne, I think we are all fairly familiar with, but since Sylus is not released yet, there are a lot of speculations about what kind of tragic past he and MC shared. Let's try to break it down. Or make it more confusing. 🫠

Interestingly, before the "tragedy" we see their wrists are bounded together by a red thread.....perhaps....the Red Thread of Fate? As the saying goes, rough paraphrasing on my part: Two lovers, regardless of time, place, and circumstances, are destined to be together, connected by a single red thread. The red thread may twist and tangle, but it may never break.

However, as we can see in the video, Sylus and MC's thread does break, and unlike in the traditional belief, their thread is wrapped around their wrists and not fingers. As the thread breaks, we also see Sylus behind bars. Imprisonment? A crime?

Speaking of wrists, another thing I've noticed with Sylus' trailers is that it involves handcuffs a lot, which seems more significant now in light of this preview.

Especially since we see him also breaking them so easily.

I kind of made a passing joke in the tags of a previous post that Sylus' upcoming chapters carry shades of the Greek myth with Hades and Persephone, but perhaps I may not be too far off?

Just take a look at this wide view of the scene of Sylus and MC separated:

The N109 Zone is shown during the night with a bright red moon, giving a feeling reminiscent of the Underworld ruled by Hades. Note how it looks like Sylus is behind bars, a prison, if you will. In Greek mythology, Hades was tasked with ruling the Underworld, not by his choice, but the wills of others (so in a sense: trapped). Could this mean that perhaps Sylus has no desire to be the leader of Onychinus? Could he be bounded there against his will?

Meanwhile, MC is shown on the side of light. If we compare her to Persephone, she is on the surface world with other people. But from the preview, it looks like she is abducted and taken to the N109 Zone, much like Persephone was abducted and taken to the Underworld to be Hades' bride.

(Brief unserious interlude, because I want to spread my Hades/Persephone agenda:

Sylus is the Hades to MC's Persephone

The dark to her light

He is feared by everyone except her.

He'll let her get away with everything (covering him in silly band-aids, poking him in the side) because he adores her.

If anything happens to her, the world will feel his wrath.

He embodies the feeling of "if anything happens to her, I will kill everyone in this room and then myself."

In short, scary leader is big softie for his wifey and I am willing to die on this hill

OK. End interlude.)

Also, um... 😭

Bringing up the theory that Sylus is trapped? The Beast is trapped in the castle because of the curse by an enchantress. I seriously couldn't get this comparison out of my mind when I saw the dancing scene in the trailer, so it feels appropriate to bring it up here.

Perhaps like the Beast initially, Sylus does display a very dominating and aggressive temperament, but then in his 5* memory, Captivating Flavor, he seems more approachable, so perhaps we will soften him over time?

Now...since Infold had the audacity to drop that trailer while I was writing this, here is another example of them going with the trapped/caged/bounded theory (there is also an image of a bear trap earlier, but I'm at my 10-pic limit, so the cage seems more obvious (and aesthetically pleasing lol)

So could Sylus be trapped in the same way as the Foreseer is trapped within the Tower? But unlike the Foreseer, Sylus is always trying to break free from his chains. Circling back to his myth, could it be that his tie with MC was broken...by him? Perhaps out of a sense of protection? For her sake?

In Beauty and the Beast, the Beast was willing to let Belle go, to be killed by Gaston, to succumb to the curse, all for the sake of Belle's happiness and freedom.

In the myth of Hades and Persephone, Persephone was allowed to leave the Underworld to return to her mother for half a year, but since she ate a few pomegranate seeds, food from the Underworld, she was also bounded to return to the Underworld for the other half to be with her husband. Each year, the cycle returns. Come spring, Hades must let his beloved wife leave him for half a year, and there's nothing he can do to change it.

Bonus Greek myth tidbit: the crow plays a significant part in a myth involving the sun god Apollo, where it acts as a messenger for him. The crow, once white, was burned and turned black, as retribution for telling the truth (revealing an affair) that led to Apollo killing his lover.

So, let's recap real quick the symbolism we have seen. 🤔

Handcuffs: bounded

Bars: imprisonment

Bear trap (couldn't include the pic, but it's there, trust me): caught, trapped

Birdcage: trapped, caged

The crow: a messenger; punished for revealing the truth (so, punishment)

So, gathering my random little thoughts...

Theory 1: Sylus and MC must have been destined lovers in a past life, but due to whatever conflict, Sylus decided to break his bond with her for her protection and accept any punishment that comes with it, which could mean to be ruler of a place he has no desire for, an imprisonment of sort.

Theory 2: Destined lovers, but perhaps a third party interfered out of jealousy or spite. Could Sylus have been caught and framed of a crime and been literally imprisoned, thus forcing him and MC to separate?

Something to this effect, I think, from working with the crumbs I've gathered. It's also almost midnight as of the time of writing this, so my brain is feeling loopy now (also no thanks to that Sylus trailer that popped up while I was writing this 💀)

Anyhoo, make of all of this as you will. My Hades/Persephone agenda will persist.

[vampiricgf]

g. satoru ; in the house of hunger

vampire satoru x f!reader | this fic was completed as part of the @ficsforgaza wip sponsorship ty for donating to Palestinian gfm's and helping people in need in Gaza! to learn more or get involved please check out their blog & read through their pinned post

warnings: dark content/dddne, violence, blood, gore, ooc satoru, yandere, psychological torment, obsession, mention of bathing and dressing an unconscious reader, masturbation, he's an unhinged little creep, heavily inspired by classic vampire lit n victorian aesthetics but unspecified time period/place

wc: 2k+

really living up to the username with this one :3 also leaving room for a pt 2 maybe idk nyeways ty for reading!

Human life was so fleeting. To most of his kind humans were no better than livestock, and often treated as such. To Satoru it was a waste, humans were brimming with something so delectable, something every vampire fundamentally lacked: potential.

Vampires are rendered frozen at the moment of death, fundamentally deprived of all that was and all that could have been. It's a never ending state of boredom, of stagnation. Of forgetting.

He doesn't ever recall his own turning, not anymore. He's been alive for so long, in a manner of speaking, that the steady march of continuation outside his walls is of no consequence to him. It is an eternal source of frustration though, being nothing more than the mosquito encased in amber.

And perhaps that's what led him to you in the beginning.

Creatures like him are naturally drawn to battlefields, the veritable feast table laid by mans most brutal hands. The rich scent of churned earth, blood twinged iron, and the acrid aftertaste of human sweat and fear. Nothing more delicious on all the earth, the sweetest bouquet for the senses.

The first appearance he'd made had been in the aftermath of one such feast, a showcase of cruelty. The sounds of distant, drunken revelry nearly drowned out the hoarse cries of those succumbing to their wounds. It had been a quaint village previously, full of simple people living simple lives. One he enjoyed observing on occasion. But like most villages it was vulnerable to bands of raiders, would be pirates, or those who just wanted to take advantage and indulge in bloodshed.

As fine leather boots squished in the burgundy tinted mud his nose wrinkled. A waste.

Smog from still smoldering fires hung in the air, would have burned the back of his throat had he been a breathing man. Amongst the burnt skeletal remains of wooden structures and scarred earth there was a figure, prone in the mud.

A girl.

You.

For all his painful forgetting he could never forget the way you looked then. Not pitiful, no, despite your obvious injuries you gazed at the sky almost stubbornly. Even as he took that first deep inhale and traced the unique scent of you like a thread, knelt down at the top of your head, bending to look down at you you hadn't winced away or screamed. If anything you looked furious, full of anger and malice.

Had you the strength he was sure you would have snapped your jaws at him like a beast.

It was delightful.

All too often when a human is faced with such a moment of mortality their first instinct is to give up, accept fate. Only when one can push past it and refuse, that's when a human is most admirable to him. Most alluring. Brimming with potential.

"You still have your spite, huh?" He glanced between you and a pair of the obviously responsible raiders who'd wandered close in their drunkenness, far enough from the others in the distance. "Good, you'll need it."

"Fuck off."

It was so shocking it made him burst out into laughter. Even though it was clear speech was painful for you, the two words wheezing out of your throat and past what must have been a pool of blood hanging thickly in your esophagus, you had forced them out anyway.

Despite the fog of blood loss it was obvious you knew him for what he was. It was impressive though not surprising, superstition and legend were as common as baked bread in villages. A mother or grandmother likely told you some version of the story: an eerily beautiful stranger comes to a vulnerable person just on the precipice of death, offering salvation. Eagerly they accept, without realizing they've shackled themselves to a demon, sacrificed their immortal soul and earned damnation for the trouble.

"Aren't you in pain?" He already knew the answer.

In between rasping breaths he awaited your answer, the sky opened up above you and small droplets of water splattered against your skin, making the blood swirl in marble like designs as it seleuced into the ground. The scent of you was beyond tantalizing.

"Not anymore." You offered, and it concerned him how glassy your eyes were.

"I can help you, you know. Save you. All you have to do is ask."

Stubborn silence descended and quickly his frustration grew. Were you dense? Did you not realize what was being offered to you? Not just a reprieve from this pain, but from all pain. Forevermore. And instantaneous revenge. Oh how he would enjoy watching a thing like you rip and tear into those who only moments ago had laid waste to your entire life. That sort of human hatred was also unique and captivating to witness.

What sort of losses had you accumulated? A father? A mother? Siblings? He could feel his pointed canines catch against his bottom lip as a smiled down at you. Contrary to human belief, a horse can be led to water and made to drink if it's been deprived of enough.

"What about your loved ones? Your home? Will you lay in the mud like a slaughtered deer? Will you shame them like this?"

Again you had no answer and again his anger only rose in response.

To hell with it, obviously he'd grossly misjudged you but that didn't mean he would let you languish here. If they discovered you were still alive it was all too obvious what would come for you and it would be far less kind than himself.

So as your eyes rolled he heaved you into his arms. It had been a long while since he'd held anything, anyone. Even longer since a living creature was carried from a battlefield in his arms and up the long, winding path towards a very distant and long forgotten manor. He can't say for certain what came over him, but he has always had the poor habit of playing with his food.

~

In the weeks that followed his irritation only mounted. You staunchly refused anything to do with him, his very presence, only accepting the trays of food left at your door when he wasn't around to witness it and returning them in the same fashion. He could hear you at night, weeping like a child for everything you lost. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, left him lashing out night after night.

Those numbskull bandits had also picked what was once a fertile hunting ground clean, forcing him to venture further than he would've liked to for a meal but there was nothing to be done about it. Your home remained a charred ruin. It's people nothing but fodder for bloat flies and carrion birds before the bones started moldering in the ground. Just the way of things for fragile creatures.

Sometimes he'd pluck a finger bone or a piece of vertebrae to bring back for you, making sure sinew was still attached, to leave outside the room you'd resolutely locked yourself in. Cruel maybe but really can you blame him when you've been so dead set on behaving as frustratingly as possible? On biting the hand attempting to feed you?

Even if he hadn't laid eyes on you in days, even if you kept yourself locked away until you withered and died, you would be the only thing exempt from his curse of forgetting. How your hair looked soaked in blood and mud. How your eyes had shined but not with tears. How your lips had peeled back to reveal bloody, blunted teeth in a gruesome snarl.

It was perfection.

Almost as perfect as when he'd bathed your unconscious form of its grime, laid you so gently in the steaming water, lovingly tended your wounds and dressing you in the finest slip that was still tucked away in the wardrobe. He'd wanted to take you right then, not waste any time with the game of ask and response but there was no fighting his stubborn need for it to be your choice. You have to say yes to him. All he allowed himself was a longing lick up the side of your neck, stifled moans at just the way your skin tasted.

Tonight was different though as the recollection drifted through his mind. In the absolute stillness he could almost swear the taste of you lingered on his tongue, wafted through the air just like it had weeks ago. With a will of its own one hand began stroking himself through his pants, groaning at the combination of sensations.

He was sure if he could feel temperature shifts it would've been quite balmy all of a sudden inside the bedchamber as he undid the suffocating confines of his clothes, thick cock springing free and throbbing at the thought of how good your warm, human hands would feel grasping around him.

Would you be shy? Gazing up from half lidded eyes as if to ask for guidance? Or would that defiance shine through again, taking him in hand and smearing precum over his flushed pink tip with your thumb and oozing self assurance? His own fingers were sticky with pre-release as he gave shallow thrusts into his fist.

He's sure his name would sound like the sweetest note coming from your lips before you would take him into your mouth, cheeks hollowing and the corners of your lips tightening as you strain around his girth. Your tongue would be heavenly against the underside of his cock. Would you let him bury his hands in your hair, hold you still while he fucked your mouth in a brutal pace? Would you cry and gag around him?

His own ragged groans bounce off the icy stone walls, his unoccupied hand twisting against the bedsheets as his eyes squeezed shut even tighter and he could feel his abdominal muscles flexing with the need for release, his jaw nearly vibrating with the urge to clamp down on your jugular and take selfish gulps of you.

What makes him unravel entirely is wondering how it would feel to sink inside you, feel your slick warm walls part to accept him like a most welcome visitor. He'd lavish that pretty human pussy, rub sticky little hearts against your clit just to hear you squeal and make your hips buck. Keep you sat on his throbbing cock while he lapped at your neck, sucking on the skin to encourage the puncture wounds not to close so soon.

As his own hips stuttered and his head flung back against the pillows he couldn't help the one thought that circled around and around in his mind, like an ouroboros swallowing itself: he would certainly die if he never felt your touch. Would absolutely die without getting to taste you, feel you, claim you.

It was feverish, feeling it descending on him like some phantom tormentor as cum stained the surface of his loose undershirt and he could feel himself softening in his own now loose grasp. With a whimper his teeth caught his bottom lip between them, eyes staring unblinking at the canopy above the bed.

It doesn't matter how or when but you're going to choose him. You have to choose him.

[10yrratiolover]

Very brief Ratio e3 analysis

Firstly, the graduation cap. It's a common tradition to wear the tassel on the right side (as shown) before the official ceremony and change it to the left to symbolize the graduation itself. Since Ratio is shown wearing it on the right, it can be assumed that the shot was taken before he graduated.

I did some research on what tassel colors could signify, and I read that dark red/maroon tassels are sometimes awarded to students who have earned class honors. In Ratio's second character story, it is stated that he was the first person in two Amber Eras to receive First Class Honors at the University of Veritas Prime. That is likely something someone working on the Veritas Prime schoolboard would like to bring attention to for the school's reputation, leading to the different tassel color. (Though it could also just be a choice of aesthetic.)

The name of this eidolon is also "Know Thyself", this does sound partly familiar to his enemy spotted line: "You learn to know yourself before your enemy." Both of which I believe are inspired by a Philosophical quote by Socrates: “To know thyself is the beginning of wisdom.” and a quote from Sun Tzu's The Art of War: “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."

Now, the full Sun Tzu quote is as follows: “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.” While Sun Tzu is talking about a literal war and battle, I believe this quote could also be applied to non-literal battles.

Specifically, I'm referring to his metaphorical battle to be noticed by Nous. He may know himself, but he can not fully understand his 'enemy', so he will continue to suffer a defeat in every victory.

[dotster001]

Yandere Chevalier headcanon please 🥺

Summary:Chevalier x gn! Reader

CW: yandere,physical harm to reader, murder, psychological harm to reader, Stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, blood, isolation, food and water deprivation, probably more but consider yourself warned

A/N: idk how dark you expected it to be, but this is the brutal beast we're talking about so.... also! I have an in progress series where I look at the Yan journey of ikepri characters after their routes, so if eventually there is a fic that is very similar to this, think of it as a rough draft

When he falls, he falls hard. Not that you'll ever know. To you, he'll always look unfeeling and cruel. Most days you can't help but wonder if he hates you. But it's so far from the truth. For the first time, he's filled with love and warmth. And it's so overwhelming that he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He tries to let you live free for a while. After all, he would fight to the death if someone held him under lock and key. For a while he's successful. Until one day, in his distraction over you, an assassination attempt gets a little too close to you. You aren't hurt. But you find yourself drenched in blood as Chev runs the assailant through. Your haunted face is revealed as the body in front of him crumples. And he realizes that he can't leave you on your own. Not if he's going to be a part of your life.

He thinks he is fine with your hatred. After all, he loves you, and that's what matters. He can't expect you to love him back, not when you're chained to the headboard of his bed. He's used to people fearing and hating him. And yet he's beginning to feel a new feeling. A new, nasty, aching feeling in his chest. When he holds you and all you do is whimper, the ache worsens.

And people begin to notice. Chev, king, and master of his countenance, is cranky. Only Clavis and Sariel know the truth, and while Clavis is initially amused, eventually, even he needs his boss to get back to normal. So, it's not very gentlemanly, but he places a book, that's been secretly popular in the town, on Chevalier's desk unceremoniously. A dark romance, where the love interest succumbs to Stockholm syndrome and falls for their captor. It wasn't an openly popular book, but someone had to be purchasing all those books.

Chevalier had scoffed at his brother's gift, initially thinking it was a joke. But upon further inspection, he realized it was a piece offering. A genuine gift. A piece of advice. If anyone could psychologically break a darling into submission, it would be him.

And he does. It's not perfect submission, he still wants you to be you, but it's enough that you grow dependent on him. Just as before, you can't be sure if he loves you or hates you. And that's the crux of his control over you. If you're good, he'll heave a heavy sigh and give you affection. If you're bad, it will be like you don't even exist in his world. You are dirt. Dust. A bug beneath his feet. Only good darlings get love. Just like every other fool in his life, you're a pawn in his game. You just happen to be a fool that makes him feel butterflies in his stomach.

He doesn't like to hurt you physically. But he will if he has to. Nothing too damaging, part of your appeal is your aesthetic, after all. But if you do something stupid like think you can escape (and all you have to do is think it. He always knows) he might slap you, or hit you with a riding crop. If you make it a step outside of the room, he won't hurt you. But someone you love will be killed right in front of you. And you will be tasked with cleaning it up. If you somehow make it farther than step outside the room (aka, he lets you as a trust test) prepare to be isolated in a cold damp dungeon cell for as long as it takes for you to pass out from lack of food or water. Then he'll nurse you back to health so that all your mind sees is how kind and doting he is.

You can't win against the brutal beast. Geniuses have tried and failed. And one day, when you no longer have the foolish urge to fight him, when the prey finally recognizes it has lost, he might tell you he loves you.

[scr-ppup]

Lurkerian — Reworked

[PT/Lurkerian — Reworked/end PT]

[ID/A dark red line with gold lining and a repeating star and half moon pattern./end ID]

Reworking and expanding on my Lurkerian gender umbrella I made a year or so ago as a system (decided to make it into an official umbrella, don't mind that.). Wasn't really that happy with it and I wanted to remake it. So, here, enjoy?

Lurkerian is an gender umbrella that consists of apocalyptic world and ferity themes related to being a lurking creature in short; however, it's also related to...

The primal fear one gets within the darkness, not knowing or seeing what's out there.

Lurking and hunting, being a predator, to adrenaline and danger.

Being a creature of some kind, maybe something not entirely human, to nonhuman concepts.

the concepts of night, darkness, and the twilight.

Solar & lunar eclipse symbolism; new beginnings and opportunities of renewal. Solar eclipses specifically also being treated as a sign of a doomsday and at the same time as the day of renewal and new beginning for humanity and general life on earth.

The animalistic concepts, ferality in both humans and creatures, and general ferity and animality.

And the concept of doing anything for survival, to adaptive behavior and forgotten morale and ethics because they don't apply to the world around you anymore.

To injustice and anarchism, chaos within the world as everything unfolds.

to rundown cities and dystopian societies, to apocalyptic settings and worlds where the world is rundown for different reasons, including but not limited to a plague or different types of wars.

The utter madness and paranoia one may succumb to after/during extreme stress situations.

To lure prey and possible hostiles around, being a runner or lurer.

To foraging and living off the land. To simple survival. To being resourceful.

The horror and gorey themes, grotesque aesthetics and macabre themes, the slaughter of innocence and hunting of survival whether that is creatures or humans (thus could have cannibalistic themes).

To cryptology and the aesthetics of cryptidcore, apocalypses, salvagepunk, biopunk, the concept of hopepunk, visuals of grime arts, and possibly to mythpunk.

Might have a connection to some whump media themes but does not specifically need to.

This is more or less made with alterhumans in mind, but can be used in any way the user wishes.

This is an neogender umbrella, it is not specifically related to any other gender umbrellas however it may overlap with themes and such, and it could be classified under the Dystrofare umbrella but a bit to the left in some way. However, this gender umbrella is somewhat horrorgender-adjacent, and may have in common things with the Feruvel umbrella.

You can find the Lurkerian flag & symbol from this link here!(link)

masterlist list of terms underneath & relevant to this umbrella(link to be added)

Terminology

Luren-/ Lurke-: prefixes

-lur- / Keri: infix

-lerin / -erian / -lurken; suffixes

LURIN; Lurkerian-in-nature

Lure(hood); (gender) neutral/non-gendered term

Lurix(hood); woman/girl

Lutor(hood); man/boy

Trans-lure(lurinite); transneutral

Trans luter(luterine); transman/-masculine

Trans lutrix(/lutrixine); transwoman/feminine

Lurenic; Lurkerian gender alignment term, (used in the same vein as xenic, kenic etc.)

@radiomogai

[axon1111]

probably NOT what people want to hear but there’s an added layer of complication being brown that makes this ed so much more prickly

my mom bought me skin whitening soaps my whole life, kept wanting me to look like and dress like my white counterparts in school (more feminine), straighten my hair, shave my armpits, adopt american/european aesthetics to assimilate better. asia is still so rampant with antiblackness & colorism and the most famous celebrities from my home country are always pale and thin, small noses and small faces, hairless aside from their heads. but people i love in my life, my family, most are dark in skin tone and we have wide noses and hyperpigmentation, built sturdier and hairier.

nothing exists in a vacuum and white standards of beauty (whiteness as perfect form, economically, socially) have loomed over me my whole life and i wonder if anorexia is just another way of me succumbing to it

[synergysilhouette]

Reimagining a Disney movie about a wishing star

I already made a remake of "Wish," but I did so trying to keep a lot of the story intact. However, in this post, I decided I wanted to take the bare bones of "Wish" (ie wishing on a Star and certain characters) and make my own story! This is my first time doing this, so lemme know what you think. (Note: I did make my own alteration by trying to fix what we got with "Wish" as well.)

Aesthetic

Overall I like the idea of the film being 2D or 3D instead of hybrid. To appease the nostalgic masses, I'll say my film is 2D, though I'm unsure on what period to take from; I loved the Roccoco-inspired animation of "Cinderella" as well as the gothic, High Middle Ages aesthetic of "Sleeping Beauty" (which was an inspiration for the film; sadly, it imitated poor box office success, too). Though in terms of 21st century animation, I'm not sure if there's anything more amazing than the Firebird Suite sequence from "Fantasia 2000."

Plot

"Every year in a magical kingdom, there is a phenomenon that occurs: the Skyfall, a benevolent occurrence where it appears that all the stars fall from the sky. When it happens, it's said that those who manage to catch the falling star will have their heart's desire granted. Long ago, a young man captured a star, and he asked for the power to grant other's wishes. While his wish was granted, his future--and the kingdom's future--descended into darkness, as the stars fell and never returned to the night sky, leaving it a dark void. Decades later, a young maiden makes a wish that defies all possibility, creating a light that leads to dark shadows that seek to extinguish all hope."

Characters

Protagonist--In my rewrite, I'd have our leading lady as a woman of Middle Eastern, Sub-Saharan African, or Romani heritage. I haven't settled on which, though for names I'd go with either Aaliyah or Nimue. She'd be a more mature and less adorkable lead, but still fun to be around, similar to Belle, Pocahontas, and Tiana. Given her role as the sorcerer's apprentice, I'd love a callback to Mickey's red, blue, and silver look. I'm thinking a red dress in a style similar to Aurora's peasant dress, as well as a headband like Jasmine's, only a sapphire blue with silver stars. She's trained as a sorcerer's apprentice since she was a child, with her family's support motivating her to embrace the mystical world in order to grow emotionally and psychologically. She grew up in a broken kingdom filled with corruption, selfishness, and greed. One of the few people who understand right from wrong (according to American society, anyway; I know such terms are subjective), she thinks of stories her grandfather told her about the stars, and how she wanted to see them--but even more than that, she wanted to wish on one to restore her kingdom to it's former glory. While working as a sorcerer's apprentice, she gains magic and tries to help others, but her innate talent attracts people who would seek to take advantage of her, wanting to use her in lieu of their shooting stars. When she summons a star into existence, she attempts to hide him in order to keep him from being destroyed.

The Sorcerer--Known as Orchus, he was originally a kind young man who existed in earlier days of the kingdom. A gifted magician, he managed to catch a star, and seeing how this was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, he wished to be able to catch more stars. His wish was selfless at first, but when he began giving wishes to others, they began to task him with doing it themselves, not bothering to work to capture them themselves, and coming up with the most mundane wishes. After a time, the townsfolk turn greedy, and one person wishes for the stars to fall every night. For a decade or so, stars rain down, to the point where even the royal family succumbs to it's charm, making wishes for grand(er) things. This earns the envy of the common people, who wish to be grander than the king and his family. This creates a war of wishes, which only Orchus manages to quell. By the end of it, all the stars in the sky have been eradicated from the sky, leaving only the moon and the sun, and the kingdom is in pieces. Orchus has become a powerful sorcerer who controls the kingdom, using the royals as the face of it, rebuilding the kingdom as a illustrious-looking location, but seeping with criminal activity and corruption. He believes this is the natural order of things: if people have wishes, they don't ask, but take what they want, and he fixes anything that gets too out of hand. He takes the protagonist under his wings in order to make a successor who can control the kingdom when he's gone, knowing that a rebellion with break out if there's no one to keep the relative "peace." When the protagonist accidentally summons a star, Orchus seeks to destroy it, believing that the world is better off without them--perhaps one day, no one will wish for anything. As you can see, Xehanort from "Kingdom Hearts" was my inspiration.

The star prince--Let's name him Orion, and he's not a literal prince; it's just a nickname. Originally I had him planned as being innocent and sweet, similar to Hercules, but I do like the idea of him being a bit feisty, essentially a male version of Jasmine. I'm not sure what his race would be, but I would want a fantasy outfit like Prince Ryoma's supreme samurai look from "Fire Emblem Heroes," as well as perhaps taking fashion aspect from Prince Florian and a physical appearance similar to Li Shang and Aladdin. His voice is ethereal and while kind, he isn't afraid to assert his power if need be. Originally I imagined a youthful, slimmer build, but perhaps a more mature, muscular build similar to Shang and Captain Phoebus would be more appropriate. I'd imagine he dresses in very colorful, moving clothes, perhaps with nature motifs, depending on the situation. A scorpion motif (given his name) would be a nice mainstay to his looks. (I swear, I keep imagining an Inuyasha inspiration for some reason.) He's nonbinary since he's a shapeshifter, but most of the time takes a masculine form and goes by he/him pronouns (but I'd think he'd answer to other ones as well). He attempts to help others, but his powers quickly attract the attention of Orchus, who believes his presence will only cause trouble. As he continues to (sometimes unintentionally) grant the wishes of others, the environment begins to grow malevolent, with the weather and waves antagonizing the kingdom. It soon becomes apparent that the frequent wish granting affects the balance of nature, creating more corruption within the city and destruction that even Orchus cannot repair. As such, Orchus demonizes him as a malevolent being who is keeping stars from the people. It's noted throughout the film that there are other, albeit less powerful ways, of people making wishes besides shooting stars, ie a wishing well.

Protagonist's family and friends--I'm kinda iffy on how many people there are in the film so they can all get proper attention and development. I'd like to say both of the protagonist's parents are alive: her mother is like a mix of Gothel and Lady Tremaine, but with good intentions (she's vain, greedy, and a social climber, but deep down she does care about her family, even if she's frequently selfish), and her father is emotionally detached and critical of many of her decisions, being particularly hard on her due to her prestigious position as a sorcerer's apprentice. She has two brothers (I was gonna do sisters too, but no Disney princess has brothers): a younger one who is quite intelligent and crafty, already pessimistic of life and believes you have to lie, cheat, and steal to get anywhere in life, and an older brother who is super naive, easily taken advantage of and must be protected. The family pressures her to let Orion grant their wishes, but they keep wanting more, despite the protagonist's warnings about arousing suspicion. (As you may have noticed, I didn't give them names since I never settled on our protagonist's name/race.)

As for her friends, I'd like to think she has an excitable female friend (similar to Lottie from TPATF) as well as a weary, cautious friend (similar to Nakoma from "Pocahontas"). While her excitable friend is similar to the protagonist's older brother and wants to help those in need, her cautious friend is more concerned with keeping the peace and staying out of trouble. I wanted them to be on two ends of the spectrum in order to show our protagonist two perspectives when facing trouble: trying to get by and trying to help. I don't want there to be a distinct "right/wrong" message with them.

The King and Queen--They would've made kind rulers, but they grew up during the Corruption of the Sky, so they're not the rulers they should be; the king is passive and easily controlled and manipulated, while the queen is insecure and temperamental. They barely get along with each other, but one thing that did seem to quell them was the desire for a child. While they genuinely want children, their corruption makes them paranoid about the future of the throne, and thus a child is as much a need as it is a want.

Music

The Anderson-Lopez team or Lin-Manuel Miranda should've done the music for "Wish" and I guess I'll die on that hill. IDK how they would've approached it, but that's just my dream. However, since pop artist Julia Michaels wrote the music, I tried to take inspiration from radio and alternative music and manifest a unique sound for the album. And I'll probably edit this since I don't fully have the plot written out yet, and I suck at song titles.

Stars--Somewhat of a long song, I imagine a gentle beginning, followed by a glorious middle section, before a haunting end. It serves as the prologue for why the sky has no stars. For musical inspiration, I'd say and Utada Hikaru's "Sanctuary" would be the inspiration.

In the Air--In this song, the protagonist sings about her potential to be the next royal magician, and how she considers the idea of becoming a royal advisor. Her family sings this with her to boost her confidence, and Orchus chimes in to hype her up before dousing her confidence. I'd probably take "Colors of the Wind" as an inspiration here.

Your Eyes--A long song between our protagonist and Orion, in which Orion tells her that she should strive to understand other people's perspectives and beliefs, even if she doesn't agree with them, since it'll make her someone the kingdom will look up to. I imagine it as a soft song at first, I imagine it goes full power ballad by the end, kinda like a cross between "You're You" (a deleted song from "Frozen") and "Let it Go."

Royal Favorite--In order to get the protagonist more on his side, Orchus attempts to manipulate her by encouraging her to tell him about the star (which she hasn't, but he has his suspicions). He does so by having the king and queen convince her that everything is fine in the kingdom, and that she should focus on using her magic to give them a child (which would keep her distracted). I imagine this as a guilt/gaslight song that masquerades itself a bubbly and cozy; Gwen Stefani's "This is What the Truth Feels Like" album (specifically "You're My Favorite" and "Loveable") as my inspiration.

Nightfall--I'm thinking it starts off slow and quiet, creeping and making the hair on the back of your neck stand up as Orchus sings calmly as he uses begins to kill those who oppose him, having managed to kill Orion. Honestly I keep thinking "Pray You Catch Me" with this for some reason.

Nobody--Our protagonist is imprisoned and forced to watch as her parents are abused by the townsfolk for standing against Orchus, with their newfound wealth and power being cast aside. She reflects on how she wanted to make a difference, and all that she's done is hurt everyone she's cared about, and Orchus reminds her that she needs to get in line. However, her friends manage to free her, and they tell her that it's good that she's nobody, since everyone says "Nobody will defeat Orchus."

Constellation--After defeating Orchus, his power explodes across the sky, creating a new generation of stars, albeit now they don't fall. Our protagonist reflects on how she misses Orion, but it's for the best, as she worries that he'd be taken advantage of again. During the journey, she reflects on how some wishes should never be granted, and how she believes that some of the people of the kingdom will eventually achieve their own wishes through their own efforts, not it'd take a while before anyone WANTS a wish granted, seeing all the trauma the kingdom's been through.

Lemme know that you think! This was fun! I may edit this a bit more with time. Don't get me wrong, I like my alternate takes, but maybe I'll do more original stories with the bare bones of Disney films. I'm already coming up with a "Frozen" concept!

[anhedcnias]

*     ◟    :    〔   pat chayanit   ,      cisgender woman   +   she/her  〕     anchali malee shinawatra ,      some say you’re a  thirty year old  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  strategic  and  assertive,  one can’t help but think of  anhedonia by chelsea wolfe  when you walk by.    are you still a    president of domestic operations for news corporation limited at the avenue of the americas / associate for the burning gods,     even with your reputation as the dissonant laughter?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and  nonchalant confidence overpowering fragrant perfumes, blending refinement with a touch of rebellion, the modern elegance of being a successful woman & doomed by a family legacy.    although we can’t help but think of shiv roy ( succession ), camille l'espanye ( fall of the house of usher ), helly r ( severance )    whenever we see you down these rainy streets. 

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

ALL THREADS

ALL STARTERS

ALL MEME DAY PROMPTS

CHARACTER STUDY

AESTHETICS & VISAGE

   𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

general aesthetics. old money & sleek minimalism meets modern aristocracy “I love you. I fucking love you, but I cannot stomach you.” the scent of. black orchids blending seamlessly with decadent dark chocolate and subtle spices at its heart. dissonant laughter. laughing in a manner that is incongruent with the tone or context of the situation creating an unsettling or eerie atmosphere, often serving to highlight tension, discomfort, or a sense of foreboding. parallells. shiv roy ( succession ), camille l'espanye ( fall of the house of usher ), helly r ( severance ) here is a pinterest here is a playlist

 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒

full name.  anchali shinawatra

current age.  thirty

date of birth.  september 19th

place of birth.  new york

nationality.  american

ethnicity. thai

hair color. jet black

eye color. mocha brown

height.  5’ 7"

occupation. president of domestic operations for news corporation limited , her father’s company

known languages. english, thai, japanese, korean & mandarin

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 & 𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒

hobbies. art collecting, political engagement, reading and other intellectual pursuits, travel, fashion and style, wineries , equestrian pursuits, sailing / yachting

habits. conflict escapism, affluent lifestyle indulgences, media consumption, spontaneous decision making, adhering to work out routines, socializing for business, occasional substance use, boundary-pushing, note taking, tech savvy.

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

THROUGH THE EYES OF LOGAN MERDOCK, THE FIRST CEO OF NEWS CORPORATION LIMITED

the demise of your father exacted a profound emotional toll upon you. the venerable man who had nurtured you bid farewell to the mortal realm, succumbing to the inexorable march of old age. as he lay in repose within his casket, the profound weariness etched beneath his eyes served as a poignant testament to the passage of time. a multitude of mourners, some faces eluding your recall, converged upon his funeral, marking an indelible chapter in your memory that would undergo a transformative evolution as you traversed the threshold into adulthood. following the demise of your father, you assumed the mantle of responsibility, steering the helm of news corporation, a modest newspaper bequeathed to you by your progenitor. however, the mere stewardship of this familial periodical seemed insufficient to perpetuate the legacy of a man whose influence resonated beyond the confines of familial ties. over the ensuing decade, your ambition manifested in the expansion of your news media dominion, casting its net over the vast expanse of australia, new zealand, and the united kingdom. upon your relocation to the bustling metropolis of new york city, your ambitions soared to unprecedented heights. strategic acquisitions ensued, as you wielded your financial prowess to secure influential publications such as the sun and the times, brazenly extending your reach beyond geographical constraints. unfazed by conventional boundaries, you exhibited a keen acumen for embracing emergent electronic publishing technologies, seamlessly transitioning your media conglomerate into the realms of websites and broadcasts. by the turn of the millennium, the behemoth that was your news corporation limited had burgeoned into a formidable entity, presiding over a staggering 800 companies spanning more than 50 nations. your financial ledger bore witness to a net worth surpassing the staggering threshold of $5 billion. at the zenith of your career, you stood as the quintessential embodiment of the american archetype—an icon in the realm of news media. your legacy would be etched in the annals of history as the visionary who erected a media empire rivaling the juggernauts of fox news and cnn, despite occasional lapses in foresight, particularly concerning matters of trust.

THROUGH THE EYES OF MONGKUT “BOSS” SHINWATRA, THE SECOND CEO OF NEWS CORPORATION LIMITED & YOUR FATHER

your subservience to THE BURNING GODS was unequivocally established from the very inception of your existence in this unforgiving realm. emerging into the world bereft of privilege and burdened by a foreign surname, the ascent up the corporate hierarchy became a herculean endeavor without the crutch of external support. concealed within the veneer of a business tycoon was a man clandestinely indulging in the consumption of a tuna fish sandwich, surreptitiously stowed away in his briefcase, devoured during clandestine journeys through the subways leading to the heart of manhattan. a significant portion of your life was shrouded in obscurity—business attire sourced predominantly from secondhand emporiums, shoes a size too snug. yet, every possession within your purview bore the indelible mark of hard-earned merit, a testament to the ceaseless struggle to substantiate your worth. logan merdock, in his unwavering trust, never entertained suspicions of duplicity from your quarter. in his discerning gaze, you epitomized loyalty, an unwavering devotee steadfast in your commitment. the notion of betrayal at your hands or the contemplation of you orchestrating the surreptitious severance of his vital arteries during the nocturnal hours remained inconceivable. following his abrupt “disappearance,” the mantle of CEO was unceremoniously draped upon your shoulders. a transfer of authority that, unbeknownst to many, was an extension of benevolence from those who facilitated your ascension up the corporate ladder—THE BURNING GODS. the accolades, privileges, and responsibilities that now vested in you were the fruits of others’ machinations. the metamorphosis from a mere foot soldier to an esteemed associate seemed an inconceivable leap, yet as you surveyed the cityscape from the vantage point of your towering skyscraper, an ironic smile played upon your countenance. a grin directed at those who had, perhaps erroneously, underestimated your latent potential. little did you grasp, ensconced within the echelons of power, that you were naught but an intermediary, a marionette manipulated by the unseen puppeteers who had bestowed this dominion upon you.

THROUGH THE EYES OF JESSICA PASAPHAN SHINWATRA, THE FIRST BRIDE OF BOSS SHINWATRA & YOUR MOTHER

the gestation period, characterized by its intricate complications, transcended the conventional bounds of difficulty. rather than the anticipated manifestation of a nascent branch of vitality, the sensation akin to harboring a parasitic entity pervaded your consciousness. this life, seemingly estranged from your very essence, surreptitiously pressed against your internal organs, usurping your vitality in a silent but inexorable theft. the cellular genesis within you, intended to be a testament to the continuation of life, emanated an unsettling strangeness. this cellular being did not resonate as an organic extension of your own self, and the realization of impending motherhood remained an incongruity, a role for which you were never inherently predisposed. the matrimonial facade, devoid of authentic love, had evolved into a dispassionate charade—a performative duty staged ostensibly for the scrutiny of the world at large. upon the revelation that your offspring would be bereft of the capacity to perpetuate the familial lineage through the paternal name, a profound sense of futility besieged your maternal aspirations. the meticulous investment in fostering her growth now appeared to be a futile exertion of energy. a latent wish yearned for her premature demise—a prospect that seemed to hold the promise of sparing her from the purportedly wretched travails of existence. amidst the throes of childbirth, a visceral agony eclipsed your cognizance, rendering you oblivious to the fact that the newborn’s entrance into the world had been marked by an eerie silence. in that delicate moment, your surreptitious yearning for a life unfulfilled almost attained fruition. however, the void you felt was not one of fulfillment but rather an overwhelming emptiness as her diminutive voice finally pierced the room. a discordant symphony, the heralding of her existence, ushered forth a profound sense of emptiness within you—a harbinger of the resentment that would cast its lingering shadow over the entirety of your maternal journey.

THROUGH THE EYES OF ANCHALI SHINWATRA, THE PODA OF NEWS CORPORATION LIMITED

the mantle of your father’s favor rests heavily upon you, an ostensibly coveted position that proves, in essence, to be a grievous affliction. the once-palpable animosity emanating from your mother has metamorphosed into a palpable pride exuded by your father. wherever your footsteps echo, a recurring refrain reverberates—a chorus that deems you a mirror reflection of your progenitor, from the resolute handshake to the terse temperament. this ceaseless comparison, rather than flattering, induces a visceral nausea that churns within the pit of your stomach. the lore and fables whisper of your father as a mere pawn entangled in a grand theatrical production, yet such conjectures are left unspoken within the familial confines. the chessboard of politics becomes your stage, and you, an adept player, immerse yourself in the art of discernment, assimilation, and unwavering obedience. it is this silent and strategic dance that has propelled you to the zenith of your current standing. the protective embrace of THE BURNING GODS, while replete with its advantages, occasionally exacts a toll, for the act of covering for those above you is not without its psychic cost, akin to an inexorable vampiric draw that threatens to desiccate your very essence. enduring the maelstrom of appeasing the masses, a grave task, transmogrifies your existence into a semblance of living hell. yet, as the president of domestic operations, you are privy to the inner sanctum where decisions are conceived and executed. news corporation limited burgeons under your stewardship, and you stand poised on the precipice of expansion, ready to take over once your father passes ( which will likely be soon ). fearful of vulnerability, you eschew any candid admission of this trepidation, opting instead to immerse yourself inexorably in the crucible of work, utilizing it as a salve for the soul, a distraction from the gaping void of emotional exposure.

𝐓𝐋𝐃𝐑; 

The story unfolds through the perspectives of key characters in News Corporation Limited:

Logan Merdock (First CEO): after the demise of his father, logan takes charge, expanding the media empire globally with strategic acquisitions and technological transitions, leaving a lasting legacy. Mongkut "Boss" Shinwatra (Current CEO & Anchali’s Father): originating from obscurity, mongkut rises to become ceo through loyalty, orchestrated by the unseen power of the burning gods, revealing his transformation and the complexities of power. Jessica Pasaphan Shinwatra (Anchali's Mother): jessica’s maternal journey is marked by the challenges of childbirth, a dispassionate marriage, and a complex relationship with her daughter, anchali. Anchali Shinawatra (PODA): anchali, the current poda, grapples with the weight of her father’s legacy, a challenging familial dynamic, and her role within the powerful but enigmatic sphere of THE BURNING GODS. she seeks solace in work, anticipating the imminent takeover of news corporation limited.

[silverskull]

Chenford + UC school + Noah

&Chenford + noah is just a friend

&Chenford + Tim gets jealous of Noah

&Chenford + Chris finds out Lucy is with Tim 💕

This fic is for the most wonderful anon/anons on Tumblr who persistently pepper my ask box with fic suggestions. Whether you are one person or many, you make me so happy. To think that there's someone out there who is actively enticing me to write is the strangest sort of good feeling, and I love you, nonnie.

I actually wasn't very enthusiastic about the whole Noah and Chris and Tim thing, but when I started to combine the suggestions with one another, it came out as something I wasn't expecting. I hope you don't feel cheated, and more importantly, I hope you enjoy. 💖 (5000 word fic in full below, but a kudos or comment on AO3 is always much appreciated, as are rebloggios!)

“Wuh-oh.”

Lucy spun quickly on her heel, the handcuffs on her duty belt clanking in protest as she turned and smashed directly into the solid wall of Sergeant Grey’s chest. 

Grey sighed, pushing her back gently and dusting himself off with a wearily raised eyebrow.

“Forget something, Officer Chen?”

“Uh, no, Sir,” Lucy stammered, looking for the quickest route around the Watch Commander, “I, uh, just need to, uh… check if-”

The station’s automatic doors breezed open behind her, wafting the smell of exhaust into the air of the lobby around them.

“Lucy?”

Too late.

***

“Tim is just…” Lucy twirled her shot glass on the slick surface of the bar table, absently glad she’d worn short sleeves, because she’d already left her elbow in the puddle of spilled liquor at least three times since they’d sat down. The flame of a small centrepiece candle wavered and blurred before her as her thoughts drifted and her eyes unfocused.

“Just… ‘a friend’?” Noah finished for her, grinning and bumping her with his elbow as he downed his own shot. He winced at the burn, then waggled his eyebrows at her.

Lucy rolled her eyes and threw back her tequila. “I don’t even think you could call us that any more.” She’d succumbed to gloominess, only agreeing to go out with the UC gang because being alone in her hotel room would mean no-one was keeping track of her drinking. They’d had a long day of lectures and written tests, and when she finally got to check her phone, there wasn’t even a meme from Aaron. It was as if she’d been completely forgotten by everyone she cared about.

“Psshh.” Noah blew a messy raspberry, slapping the puddle of liquor and sending a small tsunami of droplets across both of their laps. “It took you nearly two weeks to tell me you had a different boyfriend. I thought for sure you and Bradford were married.”

“Wh- Noah!” Lucy slapped his shoulder, half amused, half embarrassed. He leaned away from her, smirking, but only long enough to pull them two new bottles of beer from the shared ice bucket. “Chris Sanford. Tim Bradford. It’s not that hard.”

“Don’t they have any other varieties of surname down in Mid-Wilshire? How am I supposed to tell them apart?”

“You’d know them if you saw them,” she murmured, uncapping her beer and taking a deep swig.

“Oh really?” Noah asked, intrigued. His eyes glimmered with quick humour and he sat up straighter. “I can picture it now: Chris Sandyford, ace attorney. Tall, blonde, preppy. Probably played lacrosse in high-school.” 

Despite herself, Lucy burst into a fit of laughter. Noah continued, painting the air with his fingers.

“Timothée Bradburn. Dark, skinny, moody. Hair a little too long for a cop, but suits his ‘aesthetic’. Loves to read, but only paperbacks. Trademarks the word ‘asshole’.”

Lucy had bent double, gasping for breath, balancing herself with one now-soaked arm on the wet table.

“I don’t care if he was your TO,” Noah continued, “I’m rooting for Bradburn. Team Tim, all the way.” He raised his bottle in salute to Tim, commencing a ripple of cheers from the rest of their group.

“Oh my god.” It took her a solid minute of wheezing and coughing to recover, and Noah smiled innocently at her the whole time, calmly sipping from his beer and clapping her enthusiastically on the back.

“You are never invited to Mid-Wilshire. Just so you know.” She poked him in the shoulder when she could breathe again, to emphasise her point.

“Oh yeah?” He smirked, bending low to the table and hiding his face behind his beer bottle and a small stack of coasters. “Well, I’ll just have to be discreet. You’ll never see me coming.”

She swiped a splash of the spill at him and he dodged, toppling his bottle into the coasters. He lurched forward to save it at the same moment as Lucy, and between them the candle went spinning around the table, tipping onto Lucy’s lap and splashing wax all over her jeans.

“Ow! Ow ow ow! Hot!”

She leapt off her stool, desperately trying to knock the melted wax away, but it had soaked through the material and was already stinging painfully against her skin.

At a loss, Noah looked helplessly at their friends, all shouting and pointing at once, unintelligible and useless. Reflexively, he grabbed his beer bottle and sloshed it at Lucy.

Foam. 

Bubbles and foam.

Bubbles and foam and a merciful - if slightly sour - coolness spread across her legs.

There was silence for a moment.

Lucy ran her hands across her soaked jeans, shaking off the residue and shoving her hair out of her eyes.

Someone snorted. Another coughed. Then a giggle. Soon the entire table was convulsing in laughter, passing napkins and coasters across to Lucy, helping her dab off her jeans and her stool and her arms. Noah grimaced apologetically, cleaning the table in front of her and handing the quenched candle to an exasperated waitress.

“If it helps, this has given me a great idea…” he said, arranging their stools back beside the table and gesturing for two more beers from the bucket.

“I don’t think I want to know any more of your ideas tonight,” Lucy said, sitting gingerly on the slightly sticky seat and eyeing him suspiciously.

“No no, you’ll like this one, I swear!” He uncapped their drinks, clinking the bottles together carefully. “I’ve finally thought of your UC nickname… ‘Hotpants’.”

Lucy choked, spraying beer back onto the table and saturating the sleeve of Noah’s sweater.

The gang erupted in laughter again, pelting Noah with napkins and coasters.

Lucy was glad she’d gone out with them.

Who needed memes from Aaron anyway?

***

“Detective Foster. Good to see you again.” Grey reached beyond Lucy to shake hands with Noah. “Lopez has a desk ready for your report.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Noah grinned cheekily at Lucy as Grey took a step back. “How you doin’, Hotpants?” He pulled her into a quick hug, pecking her on the cheek before she had time to react.

Lucy swallowed a slightly hysterical giggle, shoving him back with a tight grip on his arms.

“Good, all good. I didn’t expect to see you here today,” she answered, frowning. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course!” He slipped his arm around her back, leaning in close to whisper conspiratorially, “Lopez wanted someone actually good at UC to draft the Army of Freedom report for the DA.”

She jabbed him lightly with her elbow, knowing full well that her amusement was showing on her face. Grey shook his head at her, rolling his eyes and folding his arms.

She’d almost forgotten her urgent need to get out of there.

The doors swished open again.

“Lucy?”

Shit.

***

“Tim is just…” Lucy rolled her sushi over once more in the bowl of soy sauce. It was far too saturated to eat now, but she’d lost her train of thought, and with it, apparently, her appetite.

“Just… jealous?” Chris finished with a snort, tossing back another California roll.

“What? No!” Lucy tamped down on the wave of protective indignation that surged within her, sighing and dropping her chopsticks onto her plate. Wine it was, then. She settled back into the couch. “No. He’s just… just…”

“A walking billboard for ‘defund the police’?”

“Chris!” She dropped her wine glass onto the table so fast, it nearly sloshed over the edges.

“No, no, babe. You know I don’t mean you when I say that.” Chris patted her on the arm, still fully focused on the platter of sushi in front of him. “But the movement has a point. And moody hardasses like Bradford are exactly the kind of cop people are scared of running into. I’ll never understand why you’re so patient with him.”

Lucy scoffed, the burn of wine and soy sauce tasting bitter in her throat.

“Our job isn’t to be everybody’s friend.”

“Hold on, hold on…” Chris chewed and swallowed another roll, raising his hand for her to wait. “You want me to give teenage thieves a second or third chance; but Bradford can just roll up on someone, slap on some cuffs, throw them in the system, and that’s all part and parcel of the job? Lucy! Come on!”

“You don’t see the same city we do.” She reached for her wine again, closing her eyes. This type of conversation was never worth the energy. “We see people on their worst days. For some of them, they’ve embraced it and decided to make it everybody else’s worst day too. For others, it’s just a hole they’ve fallen into. Throw them a ladder and they’ll find their own way out.” She sipped her wine thoughtfully. “We’re responsible for making that judgement. Every day takes a toll on you. Tim is just…”

Her mouth wouldn’t form the words.

Upset? Lonely? Broken-hearted?

How would someone feel after being broken up with by 2022’s answer to Pamela Anderson?

“Tired,” she finished, lamely, taking a larger gulp of wine than she’d intended.

“Sure, but can you imagine having him over for dinner?” Chris had moved onto the sashimi, delicately considering both the tuna and the salmon. “You, me, and Tired Tim?” He decided on the salmon, dropping even more wasabi into his soy sauce. “I mean, our first date was awkward enough, what with him and Ashley. What would we do with him here?”

“Well I thought we were going out for Mediterranean,” Lucy began, her tongue nearly wrinkling in horror at the amount of wasabi now coating Chris’ salmon, “But, hey - what do you mean ‘awkward’?”

She waited while Chris chewed thoughtfully, her mind’s eye providing her with a technicolour highlight reel of enoki pancakes, cyborg bodies and Tim’s cynical smile; salty sea air and tiny grains of sand peppering through the recollection of his fingertips brushing her arm, his cologne wafting across the breeze, his eyes deep and dark beside her in the subtle light of the beach torches.

“Well, they were obviously entirely mismatched,” Chris said, throwing her a look of forbearance. “Ashley is sweet and kind and outgoing - I mean, she’s not that different from you.”

It was Lucy’s turn to snort, feeling her forehead crease sceptically. 

“No, no - let me finish!” Chris laughed, finally looking away from his food and reaching for her hand. “She’s all those nice bits of you, sure. But she’s not tough. And she’s obviously got no tolerance for asshole behaviour. He spent that whole night talking to you. Turned to you. Looking at you.”

Suddenly, the images in her head were taking on a different tone.

The warm orange glow of the flickering flames on their skin. 

The soft velvet brush of Tim’s dinner jacket against her arm. 

His knees bumping hers below the table time and again, and again.

She shook her head vigorously, trying to dispel the sudden rush of heat along her neck, the goosebumps tingling over her arms.

“He must be exhausted trying to keep up his ‘nice guy’ image for her. Maybe one of these days she’ll realise he’s just not-”

“Tim-” Lucy closed her eyes, changing her mind and reaching out a stalling hand towards her boyfriend. “Chris, let’s just drop the Tim stuff for now. Please?”

Chris smiled agreeably, chuckling and topping up her wine glass.

Cheap wine, good sushi and the companionship of a charming man.

What more could she want?

***

“Mr Sanford. Detective Harper is all set up for you in the conference room.” Grey turned slightly, gesturing to the corridor behind him.

Noah laughed, the sound at odds with the seriousness of Chris Sanford’s face.

“They make Sergeants work as greeters in Mid-Wilshire too? Sheesh, this place is tough!”

The only thing saving Noah from a severe Sergeant-Grey-Disapproving-Frown was his cheeky grin, and Lucy averted her eyes as he murmured a goodbye in her ear, squeezing her arm and wisely removing himself from the situation, promising to meet up with her later for lunch.

Grey, usually so composed and unruffled, seemed to Lucy to have a glint of mischief in his eyes as he looked between her, the departing detective and the arriving attorney.

“You’re up to date on the entire Elijah escapade, I take it?” Grey asked Chris, his arms still folded and his posture relaxed and at ease. There was no way he wasn’t enjoying her obvious agitation at the sudden influx of attentive men.

“Of course,” Chris replied, loosely shaking his briefcase. “Can’t wait to put him away for a couple of centuries, at the very least.”

Grey smirked, nodding approvingly. “You and me both.”

He didn’t leave, but Grey moved away, looking out through the glass doors as if waiting for someone. Lucy half wished he’d stayed beside her.

An awkward silence descended in his absence.

“So…” Chris was addressing her, scuffing one foot anxiously on the floor, his eyes darting between hers and anywhere else in the lobby. “It’s been a while.”

She coughed out a laugh. Given their jobs, it was unlikely they’d never run into one another again. If he’d just stayed for five more minutes at her apartment that night, this would have been dealt with already. 

Well. She might as well get it over with.

“Yeah.” She knew she was picking at her own nails, and she made a conscious effort to stop, grabbing her duty belt tightly instead. “Um, how are you?”

Chris paused, staring at her incredulously.

She bit her lip, feeling the mild sting of guilt roll up along her shoulders.

“I’m… I’m shit, Lucy.” He glared at her, his mouth falling open on his last words. “I feel like shit. I thought we were tight. I thought things were good, thought we were ready for the next step. And then you dump me? Ask me for my ‘playbook’? What the hell sort of bitchy, high school, mean girl move was that?”

Lucy was feeling at least three different shades of guilty - the mildest one being that of dumping a guy she wasn’t fully invested in. Another was certainly more of the high school variety - her? Lucy Chen? A bitch?! Never! Everybody adored her!

The third was one she’d grown accustomed to: the guilt of being in a relationship with one person, whilst clearly head-over-heels for another. This was a feeling so familiar to Lucy, she’d only noticed its absence once she and Tim had finally made their status openly official. Every time she grabbed his arm in the station now felt natural and right; every time she held his hand in front of their friends felt like she’d landed safely where she belonged; every time she cuddled in to him, kissed the edge of his jaw while they watched old movies on the couch with Tamara and Kojo, she felt like she was home. Home and safe and loved. Exactly where she was supposed to be.

Not that it was any surprise, but Chris obviously didn’t share the same internal ideation as Lucy.

“And now - what? You’re hooking up with the first out-of-town, greasy-ass detective that shows an interest in you? I thought you had higher standards than that.”

Suddenly, Lucy found she didn’t care how ‘high-school’ Chris found her moves to be.

“Excuse me?!” The disbelief in her voice raised the end of the question to a higher pitch than she’d have liked.

“Oh come on.” Chris waved his hand towards the corridor where Noah had disappeared just moments ago. “As if I couldn’t see that guy fawning all over you. What? Just because he wears a hoodie with a leather jacket, it makes him catnip?”

Lucy was caught somewhere between confusion and hilarity.

“Are you seriously gatekeeping who I talk to right now?”

“Well maybe if I had paid better attention when we were together this wouldn’t be happening!”

“Ugh, Chris…”

“No. Lucy, seriously.” Chris stepped closer to her. “What is this? What’s happening right now?”

“Chris-” She took a step back, raising her hands to keep the distance between them. “It’s not whatever you think it is.”

“Then what?” The pleading look on his face was genuine; puppy-dog eyes, beseeching eyebrows and all. “What? You needed danger? A serial killer tried to murder me! You need a do-gooder hero? I’m all ears! Tell me who to save, when to let them off the hook - I’ll listen. You want to put the bad guys away for life? That’s literally my job!”

“Chris, come on. Stop being ridiculous.” He was unnerving her now, too close and too needy, and nothing like the genuinely nice man she used to date. Her mouth took control of the situation before she had a chance to process the thought. “I never felt the way about you that you wanted me to. I wasn’t in love with you.”

The silence fell heavily between them, Chris’ face drooping in disappointment. Lucy was suddenly very aware that her boss was still standing well within earshot, Grey shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other as the doors slid smoothly open in front of him for a third time. 

“Lucy?”

There was no fucking way this day was happening to her.

***

“Tim is just…what?”

Sleep was still clinging to the edge of his words, a yawn overtaking the end of the question as he rolled away from her and stretched his arms over his head.

“Tim is just about to wake up, obviously,” she answered, shuffling onto her side and sliding her hand across his chest as he uncurled from the foetal position. 

There were many revelations that came with having Tim Bradford in one’s bed, but one of the most surprising to her was how small he made himself in sleep; feet tucked up under her legs, head snuggled into her shoulder, one or both hands wrapped tightly around her chest or arms. He didn’t seem to notice, and she had no intention of bringing it up, but it still made her heart flutter fiercely when she woke before him and found him knit tightly and securely into her side.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked, still yawning widely, his hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together on his stomach.

“Only the best boy in the whole world.”

From his bed on the floor beside her, Kojo snuffed out a low ‘woof’, clearly recognising the words that applied to him, and him only.

Tim snorted, nuzzling his nose into her forehead.

It was one of their rare weekends off together, and with no alarms or deadlines, they’d (eventually) fallen into deep sleep, waking only once the sun rose high and bright above the buildings opposite, flooding their bedroom with warm, golden light.

As much as she loved their vibrant city, Lucy couldn’t think of any more perfect way to start the day.

“Are you happy?”

At first she thought he’d fallen asleep again, murmuring nonsense into her temple. She pulled back to look up at him properly only to see his eyes, still languid, but very much awake and focused on her.

She blinked and shook her head, almost laughing.

“Why are you asking me that?”

It had the sound of a Tim Test, but not the feeling, and she wanted to decipher him a bit more before she inadvertently agreed to a weekend of jogging, or something equally as unappetising.

With his answer, he took her by surprise again.

“Because I’m happy.”

She and Tim had been thrust together in Mid-Wilshire, and she’d never been fully sure of Grey’s reasoning. Pairing Tim with Jackson would, on paper, have made far more sense, and probably would have been exactly what Percy West would have wanted. Grey wasn’t a rule breaker; never went out of his way to upset anyone’s applecart; so he must have had his reasons.

Whatever they were, it had either worked out - or backfired - spectacularly, and they remained the only Rookie/TO pairing that had ever completed their entire probation together since she’d arrived at Mid-Wilshire. Grey (probably) hadn’t expected their partnership to develop in quite the way that it had, but beyond a raised eyebrow or a knowing smirk, he never commented.

As far as she was concerned, she’d never seen Tim as a ‘project’. He’d started as a necessary pain-in-the-ass, developing, slowly, into someone she could rely on, could learn from; someone she could repay with the same opportunities he provided for her. Eventually, he became part of the furniture of her day; safe and comfortable and inviting, in his own way. Jackson and Nolan had never quite understood her, but she hadn’t needed to explain herself to them. Tim was just Tim. 

She never admitted to anyone that she’d been half-terrified going out into the world without him on her first proper day as P2. She’d bumped his number up on her speed-dial list, ensuring the phone’s voice-command would recognise her words and call him if she had to yell. It had all worked out fine, and, in retrospect, she was glad she’d had that extra time with Jackson. But it hadn’t stopped her secretly missing Tim’s gruff commands, the snarky roll of his eyes, or the days he’d quietly buy her lunch and walk away and leave her if she insulted him with payment.

In all that time he’d been rude, or tolerant; biting, or thoughtful; angry and miserable, or accepting and good-humoured. It had taken him time to show her all the facets of his personality, and she was still one of the rare few who ever got to see that much.

But to see him happy?

To see him happy, and to know he was happy?

To have him admit that he was happy?

Voluntarily?

This man was still full of surprises.

She surged up into him, kissing him hard and firm and fierce. She’d let go of his hand and her fingers combed through his hair, trying to pull his head as close to her as she could, stroking through the short hairs and along the warm skin of his neck.

He didn’t seem to mind her sudden attack, looping his arms tightly around her waist and drawing her in to him, one leg wrapping around the back of her knees, his fingers slipping cool and certain under her t-shirt and along her ribs.

She’d have been happy to keep going, but his stomach rumbled and he eventually pulled back, eyes closed and lips smiling, his nose and forehead pressed softly against her own.

“I’m very happy.” The words were nearly more a feeling, flowing from her mouth into his across the short space between them. “Very.”

He opened his eyes then, his pupils blurring before her, until he moved back and, still smiling, dropped a kiss onto her nose.

“Good.”

Kojo grumbled again, assuming he was still being spoken to, and Tim snorted, rolling away from her and throwing back the covers. Lucy groaned.

“Where are you going?” She couldn’t help that it sounded petulant, and she buried herself further under the blankets to add weight to her protest.

Tim’s voice was muffled as he pulled yesterday’s white t-shirt over his head.

“I’m hungry.”

“Ugh.” Lucy kicked her legs indignantly under the covers. “Kojo? Do you want to come up into this warm, cosy, comfortable bed with me instead?”

She heard the dog hop upright, his nails ticking along the floor as he scrambled out of his bed and around the room to the foot of hers.

“Kojo. Sit.” Tim’s voice was no-nonsense, and Kojo immediately complied, his tail thumping happily against the bedpost as he obligingly switched allegiances. “Only good boys who stay off the furniture get bacon and eggs.”

“You are literally - No. Fun.” Lucy complained, shuffling herself up against the headboard.

Tim threw her look as he opened the door, eyebrows raised, sly and suggestive. “I’m going to feed the dog. And the teenager.”

“The teenager is already fed!” Tamara’s voice sailed through the open door, tinged with long-suffering tolerance. Kojo abandoned Lucy’s bed, happily scampering out through the door to Tamara, closely followed by Tim.

Lucy pounded her fists into the comforter, watching the three of them gather outside around the kitchen island.

“Is everybody just gonna leave me this morning?”

“YES!” Tim and Tamara yelled together, Kojo adding a sharp bark to the cacophony.

Lucy grinned, throwing back the covers and clambering out of the bed.

There was nothing else she needed.

There was nowhere and no-one she’d rather be with.

She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

***

“Sergeant Bradford, I’ve been waiting over thirty minutes for you.” Grey admonished, pointedly checking his watch.

Tim threw his hands up, gesturing behind him to the departing armoured SWAT van. 

“Do you know how hard it is to manoeuvre a tank through rush-hour traffic?” He checked his own watch, making a face when he saw the time. “The last guy would never have made it to you this fast.”

“There was no ‘last guy’,” Grey replied, his eyes darting almost imperceptibly to Lucy. “Lieutenant Pine seems to have invented this post just for you.”

Tim cocked his head, refusing to take the bait, his eyes narrowing as he realised that Lucy had company. “You okay?”

“Bradford!”

Lucy didn’t have time to reply, interrupted by Noah’s enthusiastic greeting as he saluted Tim, followed closely by Lopez, her eyes sharp and curious. Tim nodded politely at Noah, taking a step closer to Lucy.

“Foster. What brings you down from Victorville?”

“That would be me,” Angela said, crossing her arms and looking at Lucy. “Noah can’t remember the licence plate of your truck.”

“I don’t have a truck,” Lucy answered, shaking her head, utterly disconcerted by the change of conversation.

“That’s what I told him.”

Noah rolled his eyes at Angela, holding out his palms to Lucy.

“The truck you came in to the club the other night.”

The pieces clicked into place, but Tim spoke before she could say anything.

“That was my truck.”

“Ah,” Noah grinned mischievously at her. “I should have realised that.”

“Wait, wait…” Chris’ voice startled Lucy, having almost forgotten that he was still standing beside her. He was blinking furiously, shaking his head in confusion. “What is going on here?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Nyla arrived on the scene, her words laced with irritation. “I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes in the conference room for you, attorney.” She fixed Chris with a glare that would have withered mould, coming to a stop beside Angela and unconsciously mirroring the same disgruntled stance.

“That’s my cue to leave,” Noah made a wry face at Lucy, tapping her elbow once. “Hey, Bradford! You joining us for lunch?”

Tim raised his eyebrows, which Noah seemed to take for answer, tossing another grin over his shoulder as Angela shunted him back down the corridor before her. 

“I thought we were taking Tamara for lunch at that college welcome afternoon thing?” Tim sidled up to Lucy, slipping his hand into the crook of her elbow. She frowned at him, shaking her head.

“That’s next week, you know that!”

“Oh,” he said, shrugging lightly. “Must have got my days confused.”

“Bradford! My office. Ten minutes!” Grey shot them an exasperated look, throwing his hands in the air and stalking off through the lobby.

“You, with me. Now!” Nyla was just as frustrated, shoving Chris on the shoulder and giving Tim a knowing glare. Chris stumbled once, his eyes flicking between Lucy, Tim, and Tim’s hand, now moving from Lucy’s elbow to the small of her back, turning her gently away from the others and towards himself. She heard Nyla repeat her order, and the shuffle of shoes on vinyl as she herded her charge off to the conference room.

“You ass.” Lucy pulled her hands out of Tim’s grip, slapping him gently in the chest. “You did that on purpose.”

His smile turned into a grin, and he bent down to her, dropping a quick kiss on the side of her lips.

“Did what?” His face radiated innocence, but the bright twinkle in his eye gave him away.

She glared at him, but there was no heat in it.

“Okay fine,” he admitted. “It’s been a long morning, I couldn’t help it.”

She squared her shoulders primly. “Thank you for your honesty.”

He chuckled once, stepping closer to her and wrapping his fingers into her hands. His face became serious.

“Since I’m being honest, I might as well tell you… I also lied to you.”

She felt her heart drop, the blood draining rapidly from her face.

“You…” She paused to swallow, tightening her grip on his fingers. “Okay. About what?”

Tim smiled sheepishly, tilting his head to one side.

“I am jealous. A little. Of Foster.”

Her heart thumped once, painfully, and she felt relief flood through her with a rush, coming out in a breathless laugh.

“Tim…”

“He got to spend all that time with you in Sacramento, and I didn’t. All that time without seeing you, without talking to you? Do you realise that’s the longest I’ve ever gone without hearing your voice since the day I first met you?” The question was gruff, but she knew him well enough to read the emotion behind it.

“I thought you’d have enjoyed the peace and quiet,” she quipped, giving him an out.

Tim shook his head, his eyes focused on her. He wasn’t taking it.

“It’s my own fault that I missed out.” There was an unfamiliar, wistful smile on his face, and she tugged on his hands, pulling him down to her level.

“There’s nothing to be jealous of. You and I - we were inevitable. We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

And without thinking, workplace be damned, she kissed him.

“Bradford!”

Grey’s voice ricocheted around the glass walls of the lobby, and Tim pulled back from her with a grin.

“See you at lunchtime?”

She nodded happily, her forehead still pressed against his.

“BRADFORD!”

“Wuh-oh.”

[sweet-roulette]

Kanehara Kotoko

(USED TO BE @/kanehara-veill)

Full Name: Kanehara Kotoko (兼原 コトコ)

Age: 17

Birthday: January 1 Affiliation: Ex-ADA, Current member of the Port Mafia. Family: @kanehara-chillkill (Older brother, except he’s dead) @kanehara-chillveil2(Duo account) Ability: “Sweet Roulette” (Inspired by Red Velvet’s ‘Russian Roulette’) Kotoko’s power turns every encounter into a high-stakes game of life, love, and danger. Once her ability is triggered, she mentally locks her opponent in a surreal game of Russian Roulette, symbolized by a spinning chamber of bullets in their mind. The game is unpredictable, and every action they take (such as attacking her or resisting her influence) metaphorically pulls the trigger, heightening the stakes. As the “game” progresses, Kotoko’s influence over their mind and emotions deepens, creating a dance between life and death. The more they try to resist, the more likely they are to “lose”—whether that means breaking down emotionally, losing their sense of self, or even temporarily falling under her control. The lyrics “Until the very last moment / It comes closer and closer, crazy / The risky aim, Russian roulette” reflect this escalating sense of danger. Chance and Risk: Kotoko doesn’t choose when the final shot will metaphorically go off, making it a true gamble. The closer the target gets to their emotional breaking point, the stronger her hold on their mind becomes, but there’s also a small chance that their resistance will backfire on Kotoko, causing her to suffer mental backlash. Effects: • The target is overwhelmed by conflicting feelings of attraction, fear, and confusion—drawing them deeper into the game. • The imagery of “shadows getting lost” manifests as a creeping darkness around the target’s vision, blurring their ability to think clearly. • If they “lose” the game, Kotoko can temporarily control their body or mind for a short duration, as if they were under the spell of an inescapable fate. Visuals & Aesthetic: • The ability is marked by flickering shadows and illusions around the target, mirroring the “veil of a dark night” from the lyrics. • As the target succumbs to the power, they feel increasingly “lost,” unable to distinguish reality from the emotional game Kotoko is playing.

EXTRA:

Health Condition: She USED to have COPD caused by the house she and her siblings lived having a lot of cigar smoke and other things, but she’s been cured.

Relationship with Chuuya: He’s kinda like a mentor/teacher slash older brother figure to Kotoko. He taught Riki when he was alive, and now that Riki’s dead and Kotoko’s taken his place, Chuuya is teaching her.

BACKSTORY

First Meeting — Kotoko and Shinyu

Facts part 1

Facts part 2

English Lessons — Kotoko and Shinyu

CHARACTER ANALYSIS!

Beneath the Surface — Dazai, Kotoko and Shinyu

Now — Kotoko and Shinyu

[theyareweird]

House 1.4 —Aesthetic

Game Description

House is a survival horror game created by Bark Bark Games. In the pixelated game, a girl named Tabby isn’t having the best day as her family recently moved to a dangerous house with horrors lurking around every corner. She must use the objects and creatures around the house to save her family from the various gruesome fates before her father comes home. Otherwise, Tabby will succumb to the darkness and become one with the House.