#Rouge finds it amusing here

[neg4tivew4ves]

My brain immediately went to them when seeing this! Also an excuse to draw Rouge hehe

[wolvietxt]

𝓓RAWN TO 𝓨OU !

pairing : logan howlett x fem!reader  warnings : reader has a cat mutation, fluff, hurt comfort, past traumas, shy!reader wc : 1.8k

logan’s first mistake was being nice to you. 

you’d only been at the x-mansion for a couple of weeks, still getting used to the overwhelming energy of it all. after years of isolation and trauma, being thrown into a lively, bustling environment like this felt like stepping into a different world. you’d barely been able to keep up, senses overloaded with all the new faces, noises, and scents around you. everything was too much, too loud, and you felt like a stray cat caught in a storm.

it was one of those days when you were trying to find a quiet corner, somewhere to hide from the noise. the rec room was packed; laughter, conversations, the clatter of cutlery and plates filled the air, setting your nerves on edge. you sat in the corner, tail flicking anxiously, ears flattened against your head as you tried to drown out the chaos. you could feel your claws digging into your palms, a desperate attempt to ground yourself before you bolted. 

but then you caught a familiar scent - woodsy, rugged, with a hint of cigar smoke. it cut through the haze like a lifeline, something steady to latch onto. you turned your head and saw him: logan, walking through the crowd with a beer in his hand, that permanent scowl etched onto his face. 

you didn’t even think twice; you just got up and followed him. 

he didn’t notice you right away. he was too busy glaring at the world, lost in his own thoughts as he made his way through the mansion. it wasn’t until he reached the stairs that he paused, glancing over his shoulder and finding you trailing behind him like a shadow. 

“the hell’re you doin’?” he grumbled, eyes narrowing as he took in your anxious stance, the way your tail was flicking behind you, betraying your nerves. 

you froze under his scrutiny, unsure how to explain it. a soft mewl escaped you, one you hadn’t meant to make, and his scowl deepened. but he didn’t tell you to go away. instead, he just let out a resigned huff, turning back around with a muttered, “fine, just... don’t get in my damn way.”

you stuck to his side after that. 

logan found it annoying at first - he wasn’t exactly a people person, and having someone constantly following him around like a lost kitten was grating on his nerves. but no matter how many times he tried to shake you off, you’d always find your way back to him. it was like you had some kind of sixth sense for where he was in the mansion. if he was in the garage, you were there, perched on an old crate, watching him work on his bike with wide, curious eyes. if he was out back, smoking a cigar, you were sitting a few feet away, basking in the quiet comfort of his presence. 

he didn’t get it. 

“don’t you got somewhere else to be?” he’d grumble every now and then, but there was never any real heat behind it. 

you’d just shake your head, a small, shy smile on your lips. “i like being here... with you.” 

and maybe that was the turning point, the moment he stopped trying so hard to push you away. it wasn’t like you were causing trouble - you were quiet, easy to ignore when he wanted to be left alone, but always there when he needed an extra hand or just... someone to share the silence with. 

the others noticed, of course. 

“she’s like your little shadow, ain’t she?” rogue teased one day, leaning against the doorframe of the garage, her eyes twinkling with amusement. 

logan just shrugged, wiping the grease off his hands. “she’s harmless,” he muttered, like that was enough of an explanation. 

“she’s cute too.” rouge muttered under her breath, a smirk forming on her face. “hey, do you know why she’s even following you around in the first place?

“i got no fuckin’ clue. says she’s just drawn to me?”

the smile on her face grew tenfold, “oh logan...”

he shot her a confused look, her teasing eyes only twinkling more, a little snort that she seemed she couldn’t hold in forcing it’s way out.

things took a turn one night when you showed up outside his door, clutching a blanket to your chest, looking more skittish than usual. it was late, the mansion quiet except for the distant hum of the generator, and logan had been looking forward to some peace and quiet. 

but then there you were, eyes wide and pleading, ears drooping like a scolded cat. 

“what is it?” he asked, voice gruff, though there was a flicker of concern in his gaze. 

you shifted on your feet, not meeting his eyes. “can i... stay here tonight?” you whispered, so soft he almost missed it. “i... i don’t want to be alone.” 

logan stared at you for a moment, torn between his instinct to tell you to go back to your own room and the strange, unfamiliar urge to protect you. finally, he just let out a heavy sigh, stepping aside to let you in. 

“fine,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “just for tonight.” 

you nodded quickly, slipping past him and settling on the floor next to his bed, wrapping yourself in your blanket like a cocoon. he watched you for a moment, the way you curled in on yourself, small and vulnerable, before turning off the light and getting back into bed. 

but it wasn’t just for one night. 

you kept coming back, night after night, until your pillow and blanket became a permanent fixture in his room. logan didn’t say anything, just grunted in acknowledgment whenever you slipped in after dark, but he never turned you away. 

“you know you could just take the bed,” he said one night, half-asleep, his voice a low rumble in the darkness. 

you shook your head, though he could barely see it. “i’m fine here,” you whispered. “i don’t want to be a bother.” 

logan just huffed, turning over, but he didn’t press the issue. 

he didn’t realise how used to your presence he’d gotten until you weren’t there. 

you’d gone on a mission with some of the others, promising him you’d be careful, but he couldn’t shake the bad feeling gnawing at his gut. he tried to distract himself, burying himself in his usual routines, but everything felt... off without you trailing after him. 

when they brought you back, bruised and bloodied, something in him snapped. 

“what the hell happened?” he growled, stalking over to where hank was tending to your injuries, his fists clenched at his sides. 

“it was my fault, lo” you mumbled, not meeting his eyes. “i... i thought i could handle it.” 

logan just shook his head, his anger simmering beneath the surface. “you’re not fuckin’ ready for this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. 

you flinched, your ears flattening against your skull, and he immediately regretted his harsh tone. 

“dammit,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “i didn’t mean it like that. just... don’t scare me like that again, alright?” 

you looked up at him, eyes wide and vulnerable, brimming with unshed tears, and he felt something tighten in his chest. 

“i just... i feel safe with you,” you whispered through your watery expression, so soft he almost missed it. 

logan’s expression softened, the anger draining from his face. 

“yeah, well,” he muttered, looking away, “you are. safer, i mean.” 

one night, as you were curled up next to him, your tail wrapped around his leg, you murmured something that made his breath hitch.

“i’ve never felt like this before... safe, i mean,” you whispered, your voice so quiet it was almost lost in the darkness.

logan went still, his heart pounding in his chest, but he didn’t pull away.

“yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, unsure of where this was going.

you nodded against his chest, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on his skin. “with you... it’s different. i don't feel like i have to look over my shoulder all the time. i’m not scared when i’m with you.”

he was silent for a moment, trying to process the weight of your words. the confession hung between you, fragile and tentative.

“you mean that?” he finally asked, voice gruff, his hands tightening around you just a bit.

“yeah,” you breathed out, turning to look up at him, eyes wide and honest. “you... you make me feel like i’m not alone anymore.”

logan swallowed hard, the raw vulnerability in your voice cutting right through him. he wasn’t good with words, never had been, but he knew he didn’t want to mess this up.

“that’s all i need,” you whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, and logan felt something warm and unbreakable settle in his chest.

logan swallowed hard, the raw vulnerability in your voice cutting right through him. he wasn’t good with words, never had been, but he knew he didn’t want to mess this up.

“i don’t know what the hell i’m doin’,” he muttered, looking down at you, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “but i’ll stick around if that’s what you want. i’ll try... for you.”

you smiled softly, leaning into his touch, your heart pounding in your chest. you could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the way he was still holding back, afraid to take the next step. so, you did it for him. with a hesitant breath, you lifted your hand to his face, gently tracing the rough line of his jaw with your fingertips.

“logan…” you whispered, your voice barely audible. his eyes softened at the sound of his name, and for a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you charged with something unspoken. 

slowly, he dipped his head, bringing his face closer to yours. you could feel the warmth of his breath, the way it hitched slightly, as if he was still unsure. but then his lips brushed against yours, soft and tentative, as if he was afraid of breaking you. 

the kiss was gentle, almost shy, a stark contrast to the rough edges that usually defined him. his hands cupped your face so carefully, as if you were something precious and fragile, something he never wanted to lose. your eyes fluttered shut, a soft sigh escaping you as you leaned into him, feeling the warmth and tenderness he rarely showed to anyone else.

logan’s thumb brushed against your cheek, a silent question, asking if this was okay, if this was what you wanted. you answered by pressing closer, your lips moving against his in a slow, careful dance that spoke of trust, of finding solace in each other. 

when he finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction, his forehead resting against yours, eyes still closed. he stayed like that for a moment, just holding you, as if he was afraid that letting go would mean losing this fragile connection.

“you’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmured, voice rough with emotion, his thumb still tracing gentle circles on your skin.

“maybe,” you whispered back, smiling softly, your eyes shining as you looked up at him. “but i think i found something special too.” 

logan just held you tighter, his lips ghosting over yours once more, a silent promise that he wasn’t going anywhere. 

🌀 logan howlett : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @rooroen

@lemoanaid, @correnz, @coocoocachewgotscrewed, @ohmystvrk, @y08h

@lovely-liliacs, @california-boys-and-sun, @omen-keke

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.2.

viktorxfemale!reader mature (overall explicit)

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 5,9K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: This fic has some special hold on me, it made me sit down by the piano this week. Also, I've committed a playlist, you can check it out on Spotify. Super thanks as usual to @mithrava for consulting on regency historical accuracy and to @rennethen who beta reads!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You hate to admit it, but you do anticipate. The last time you had awaited something with such feeling was when your mother departed to tend to your ailing aunt—or rather, to command her staff when she could no longer do so—and you and your sisters had run barefoot through the house, singing The Unfortunate Rake at the top of your lungs, much to your father’s amusement.

Now, dressed and polished from head to toe by your ever-diligent Peggy—though not without a spirited debate regarding the appropriate amount of rouge upon your cheeks—you allow yourself to drift into thought, chin propped upon your hand as you gaze wistfully at the passing landscape through the carriage window.

"Why do you look as though you are being led to the gallows?" comes the voice of your sister—the middle one. You glance up to find her brows lifted almost to her hairline and your mother wearing a look of mild reproach. "Should you not be overjoyed?"

"I am quite overjoyed, Kitty, but I thank you for your concern," you reply flatly, rolling your eyes.

Kitty is, in every way, the daughter your mother wishes you to be. Her sole ambition in life is to marry well and raise a brood of children. You find it all terribly dull, though you suspect something within her will change when she encounters her first true disappointment.

Tess, the youngest, is far more like you. She has never betrayed your confidences to Mother. She sneaks you sweetmeats from the kitchen at bedtime, insists you look lovelier with your hair unpinned, and entrusts you with her dearest secrets, knowing they are safe in your keeping. It is for this very reason that she remained behind today, occupied with the practice of her calligraphy under her lady’s maid’s supervision.

"It would not pain you to smile, my dear," your mother remarks, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. A deception, you suspect.

Nevertheless, you indulge her. You summon your most winsome smile and compose yourself in your seat, all the while wondering—anticipating—what it is that Viktor wishes to say to you in private.

When the carriage draws to a halt, he is already there. Viktor stands waiting with his weight shifted to one side, the tip of his cane pressed lightly against the ground. The early afternoon light casts a warm glow over him, accentuating the deep brown of his coat—a fine, if somewhat modest piece, its cut more practical than fashionable. A dark waistcoat lies beneath, fitted neatly over his frame, with a cravat tied in a manner that suggests efficiency rather than vanity. His hair resists perfect order, a few loose strands falling across his forehead despite his apparent effort to tame them.

There is something almost careless about his appearance, yet not in a way that suggests a lack of pride. Rather, it is as if he simply does not concern himself with the rigid expectations of refinement. His gloves are well-worn, the leather of his cane handle bears the mark of frequent use, and yet—despite all this—he cuts a striking figure. Perhaps it is the way he carries himself, or the sharp focus of his gaze as he watches your approach. Handsome, undeniably so, but with a presence that unsettles as much as it intrigues.

And you find yourself grateful for the abhorrent amount of blush Peggy has pressed into your cheeks—at least you can blame the warmth rising there on that. Even more so when he grants you a fleeting glance and smiles to himself before turning to your mother.

“My Lady, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he says, bowing his head with practiced grace.

She responds with a measured nod, her expression unreadable. “Mister Viktor.”

Next, he turns to Kitty, who is already smiling prettily, her hands clasped before her. “Miss Catherine,” he greets, offering a slight bow.

Kitty dips into a shallow curtsey, her tone light. “Mister Viktor, I trust you are well?”

“As well as one can be, Miss,” he replies smoothly before his gaze finally lands on you. It is fleeting—just a moment longer than propriety demands—yet enough to send a thrill through you.

“Miss,” he murmurs at last, bowing once more.

You respond with a curtsy, keeping your chin high despite the quickened beat of your pulse. Acutely aware of how desperately the two halves of you claw at each other within your chest you clench your jaw and force yourself to blink.

Your mother clears her throat. “Shall we proceed?”

Viktor is silent for a moment, his gaze flickers between you and the path ahead, considering something. Then, with measured care, he speaks. “Ladies, might I request a moment alone with my future wife? I should like the opportunity to better acquaint myself with her.”

Your mother’s expression does not shift at once. Instead, she regards him with a pensive air, weighing the request. Then, just as swiftly, her features settle into the familiar, practiced smile of social grace.

“I see no objection, sir.” She turns to you, levelling you with an unreadable look. “I trust you will conduct yourself with decorum.”

You incline your head. “Of course, Maman.”

Viktor nods in gratitude before turning his attention back to you. With an ease that seems entirely natural to him—but utterly foreign to you—he extends his arm. You hesitate only for a heartbeat before slipping your hand through, the warmth of his sleeve pressing against your palm.

At once, your mind replays the moment in the music room—the ghost of his touch at your forearms as he steadied you when you stumbled. The surprise of it. The quiet strength in his grasp. The way you had looked at one another for a long time before pulling away.

Now, as your fingers rest against his sleeve, you are keenly aware of the space between you, and the fact that—however slight—he has just closed it once more.

You march forward leisurely and even though you can’t see your mother and sister trotting behind you, you wait for a long moment before coming up with something to say. You wait for so long, in fact, that Viktor beats you to it.

“How have you been?” he asks softly, your name following the question with an intimacy that startles you.

Your fingers twitch against the fabric of your glove, and you glance at him sidelong. “Well enough,” you reply, though your voice is not as steady as you wish it to be.

“Any new rebellious music you have come across?”

“Ah, that,” you chuckle, though you scowl inwardly at how flustered the sound is. “Sadly, I have had no opportunity to evade my mother’s hound-like hearing abilities. So, only little dancing tunes for my sisters—nothing of true note.”

“A pity,” he muses. “I quite enjoyed the Sonata.” His tone is contemplative, but there is in intention hidden not that too well underneath it. “And yet,” he continues after a beat, “it is for that very reason I asked to meet you.”

You arch a brow, affecting nonchalance despite the way your heartbeat betrays you. “Oh? Are you also a great admirer of music deemed unsuitable for proper ladies?”

“Absolutely,” he answers, the humour in his tone fleeting. “But I do have another, more pressing motive—if you do not mind me speaking plainly.”

“By all means,” you say, tilting your head towards him. “Do tell, Viktor.”

He gestures with his cane, the subtle drawing your attention to the promenade before you. Couples walk in neat little pairs, each shadowed by their requisite chaperone, the ritual of courtship unfolding before you like a well-rehearsed performance.

“The endless hunt,” he murmurs. “Men trailing after their prey under the pretence of romance.”

You huff a small laugh. “Why do you presume it is only men who do the hunting? Perhaps you are the deer, and simply unaware of it.”

Viktor glances at you then, his lips curving in an intrigued smile. “An interesting proposition.” His gaze lingers, thoughtful, before flickering back ahead. “I am, however, quite aware that this—” he inclines his head towards the scene before you—“is not the future I would have chosen for myself.”

His fingers tighten briefly on the handle of his cane. “Which is why I come to you with an offer of compromise.”

Your brows lift. “A compromise?”

“A contract,” he corrects. “Between us, and no one else.”

Your stomach tightens, though with what, you are uncertain. “And what, pray, would this contract entail?”

“Freedom,” he answers simply. “As much as may be found within the gilded cage we are about to share—for better or for worse.”

You glance up at him, studying the sharp lines of his profile, but say nothing.

Viktor exhales through his nose, as if steeling himself. “I would not ask you to be anything other than what you are. You may conduct yourself as you wish—the clothes you wear, the music you play, the company you keep…” He pauses, and you feel, rather than see, his eyes on you. “So long as I am afforded the same courtesy.”

A curious sensation unfurls within you, slow and uncertain. A flutter—a fervour, almost—on one hand. Yet on the other, something sinks deep and remains suspended in an inertia for which you cannot place the cause.

Your fingers, still lightly curled around his arm, shift almost imperceptibly, your gloved fingertips brushing against the bare skin of his wrist where his cuff has shifted ever so slightly.

Viktor stills.

His step does not falter, nor does he pull away, but for the smallest fraction of a moment, you feel it—a sharp, fleeting pause, as though you have startled him.

You tilt your chin slightly, affecting an air of curiosity. “And why,” you murmur, voice quieter now, “would you offer such a thing to me?”

He hums, the sound low. “You play your part very well,” he admits. “Colour me impressed. But I see that you are not wholly content, and I do not wish to make you miserable.”

His eyes flick once more to the couples ahead, his expression unreadable. “This,” he says, his voice measured, “has never been my desire. And I suspect it has never been yours.”

“You did not jest about speaking plainly,” you remark, though there is a note of something in your voice—something faintly wistful coming from an unknown place you are not certain you wish to explore.

You suppose you ought to be offended—particularly by such a frank allowance for debauchery (and the expectation of reciprocation on his part). Yet what strikes you most is not the proposition itself, but rather his own unwillingness to partake in this experiment, despite claiming the title of a man of science.

He turns to you at once, his brow drawing together. “Forgive me. Have I offended? That was not my intent.”

You shake your head, exhaling softly before tilting your gaze up at him. Unable to give him the answer just yet. Unable to lock that part away. “Which one are you?” you ask, fixing your gaze on promenading couples.

Viktor only looks at you, his head tilts slightly in your direction and you can feel his breath ghosting around your temple.

“A deer,” you continue, “or a man?”

His lips curve, though his expression remains thoughtful. “A man, undoubtedly,” he says. “But my deer is not a woman to be conquered, nor wealth to be obtained. Progress only—science.”

You consider that for a moment before asking, “And which one do you think I am?”

Viktor studies you then, a searching sort of scrutiny in his gaze. “I think,” he begins, then pauses, as if weighing his words. “A man, as well. You simply do not yet know what it is you are hunting.”

You swallow and let your face display honesty for a flicker of a second. A tremendous feeling of being watched and seen by someone who barely knows you makes you both grow and shrink—one part of you laps at it, eager and hungry, the other, shy and defeated, steps back cradling her heart in her hands.

A pause, then—

“I accept your offer, Viktor.”

***

Days pass as you mull over the new terms of your arrangement, the weight of it settling upon you like an ill-fitted gown. The household is abuzz with the nonsensical pressures of wedding preparations—your mother and sisters significantly more enthused than you.

You find yourself torn between the promise of freedom and the threat of imprisonment, for what Viktor has proposed holds both in equal measure—a double-edged sword poised to cut you both.

Each of his conditions is something you never dared to dream of, having long resigned yourself to the certainty that you would never marry, certainly not for love. That naïve conviction held firm until your mother—ever pragmatic—brought you back to earth. In time, you had learned to accept your fate, to dream, however cautiously, of a husband who might tolerate your eccentricities, just as your father does. And perhaps, if fortune were kind, one who might even grow to love you, as your father so clearly loves your mother.

But with Viktor’s proposition, such hopes dwindle by the day. The reality that awaits you is one in which you must learn to be content with the love you can provide for yourself.

He comes and goes, paying you little visits, bringing flowers for your mother and, on occasion, Jayce for your father. And once, Jayce brings his mother, and the meeting nearly rends you in two—to witness what mothers can be. How gentle they can be, how kind. Even to a child not their own. Ximena Talis holds only love for Viktor in her heart; it seeps through her eyes, through the tenderness of her hands when she pats his back and smooths his cheek, telling him how proud she is.

A fraction of this kindness reaches you when she takes your hand and tells you what a good boy he is. How sensitive and clever. And it wounds you deeply to see how enraptured she is by the idea of Viktor finding someone who will love him as she and Jayce do—blissfully unaware of the pusillanimous little mercy he has devised to ensure the success of your sham.

Yet you do find excitement, somewhere within you. At the thought of the music you will play freely, at the great fire you will make to burn the tighter half of your short stays (you must keep some for when your mother visits), at the hairpins that will go conveniently missing on the way to your new house, and the books you will read lying in the grass. It is not all so miserable.

It comes and fades, just as Viktor drifts in and out of your thoughts, lingering in the late evening hours when your night-bound self cannot cease conjuring visions of what your life will be in mere days. After many nights spent ruminating, you resolve at last that such sentiments are not worth troubling your heart over. You must stand by your acceptance of Viktor’s offer.

So you endure the dress fittings, the flower selections, and the cake tastings that your mother drags you to, a sad smile fixed upon your face, telling yourself it will all be over soon. And indeed, when the day of your imprisonment— which is also the day of your release—arrives, you find the skin of your face intolerably tight with powder and a smile affixed there, despite the wetness lingering beneath your eyelids.

You regard yourself in the mirror, refusing to let nerves take hold of you. It is only last-minute jitters, you tell yourself, even as the ultimate version of your daylight self stares back—her hands clasped into fists, her hair arranged into the most meticulous bun you have ever seen, her breasts bound by the most vile short stay you have ever had the misfortune to wear. All of it wrapped in a blue dress, a fabric of your choosing—the only compromise your mother allowed in the preparations.

Your mother has left the room to inform your father that you will soon depart for the church, while your sisters flit about you, giggling and teasing about how you will step before the altar a child and leave a woman grown. The words tighten your chest, and you wave them off with a sharp breath.

"Please, it is hard enough to breathe without all of you crowding me."

"Are you going to bring shame upon Maman now? See, Tess? We should have placed our wager while there was still time," Kitty jests, but you find no laughter within you. Tess only frowns, visibly troubled, as a child might be when confronted with emotions beyond her understanding—or perhaps because she understands them all too well.

"I will fetch Maman," she says, watching the colour drain from your face despite the rouge upon your cheeks.

"No—" you snap, grasping her shoulder firmly. "I need Peggy. Tess, I beg of you."

Tess nods solemnly, throwing Kitty a warning look as severe as a seven-year-old can muster. Kitty huffs but follows her out, leaving you alone with your trembling hands and a heart that pounds so furiously it makes your chest feel even tighter. Before you can give in to the swooning sensation creeping up your spine, the door creaks open once more, and Peggy peeks inside, brow furrowed in concern.

"Everything all right, Miss?"

"No. Peggy, no," you cry, barely managing to keep your voice from breaking. Your eyes burn, but you force them wide, desperate to keep the tears from spilling and ruining the painstaking work of rouge and powder. "Why do I feel so wretched? It is as though something inside me has died."

Peggy steps further in, hands hovering uncertainly at her sides. "Oh, Miss, whatever has happened?"

You shake your head, pressing your fingers to your temples as if you might will away the frantic mess of thoughts swarming inside it. "I am such a fool. I was so certain I could go through with this, and I know there is no undoing it, but—" A shuddering breath, a helpless glance at your reflection. "I was ready to simply be a wife, to accept my place, but then he came along, and I, like a simpleton, began to hope. I let myself want."

Peggy's face softens, though hesitation lingers in her posture. "Oh, my dear child… but you shall be a wife, and I daresay you shall be happy."

You let out a brittle laugh, one that holds no mirth. "I shall not. I shall not be loved, nor truly known. I shall live in a grand house beside a husband who has no wish to understand me. I shall grow old in loneliness, without affection, without companionship."

Peggy presses her lips together, as if choosing her words with great care. "And how, pray, can you be so certain?"

You inhale sharply, fingers curling into the folds of your skirts. "Because he told me so. He offered me terms, a bargain. I—foolishly proud—accepted." The confession tumbles from your lips in a rush, bitter and breathless. "A life in which I may do as I please, so long as he is granted the same. No expectations, no obligations. Not in our conduct, nor our company, nor even the way we dress. And you—" Your voice falters, the words lodging in your throat. "You will not even be there to comfort me."

For a moment, Peggy says nothing, only watching you with an unreadable expression. Then, gently, she reaches for your hands, pressing them between her own. When she speaks again, it is not with formality, but with quiet insistence. She speaks your name.

"He would be a fool not to see you for what you are. And trust me when I say this—" She squeezes your hands, warmth and certainty in her grasp. "To fall in love with you takes mere seconds."

"It has already been seconds since we met," you mutter helplessly, sniffing as your brows furrow.

"People make strange decisions when they are afraid," she says with a soft, knowing smile. "And in my experience, men are the easiest creatures to spook."

A tear escapes the prison of your lashes, and before Peggy can react, you startle her with an embrace. She hesitates for only a moment before wrapping her arms around you, and you cannot remember the last time you were held with such tenderness.

Then, with gentle hands, she tilts your chin up and says, "Come now, let us put you back to rights before your lady mother starts to sulk, hmm?"

Peggy sets to work with quiet efficiency, dabbing away stray tears with the gentlest touch, mindful not to smudge the careful artistry upon your face. She smooths her thumbs over your cheeks, fixing the powdered rouge, then reaches for a fresh handkerchief to blot any lingering dampness. With delicate hands, she adjusts the loosened strands of your hair, tucking them back into place with a precision that belies her station. The soft murmurs of reassurance she offers are meant to soothe, yet they do little to quell the tight knot in your chest. You watch her through the mirror, unblinking, as she works—fast, methodical—restoring you to the poised young lady your mother expects to see walk down the aisle. When she finally steps back, her eyes sweep over you with a quiet sort of pride, as if she has mended something far greater than a few ruined curls and a streak of moisture on your cheek.

The remainder of the time slips past in a haze, your body moving through each step as though it belongs to someone else. Your sisters return, chattering brightly, their excitement so stark against the hush in your own mind that it feels almost deafening. Your mother arrives moments later, beaming, and claps her hands together at the sight of you, exclaiming over your appearance without noticing the effort it took to make you look so flawless. You offer her a small, obedient smile, a perfect replica of the one you have worn for weeks now and allow yourself to be ushered out the door. The carriage ride is a blur of voices and silk rustling around you, the weight of expectation pressing against your skin like the stay laced too tightly around your ribs. By the time you arrive at the church, you are exactly as you ought to be—composed, lovely, and utterly unreadable.

The heavy church doors are pulled open before you, and a hush falls over the gathered assembly. The murmur of conversation, the rustle of clothing, even the faintest shifting of feet upon stone—everything stills as you step into the dim, vaulted space. The scent of aged wood and melting wax mingles with the perfume of fresh flowers lining the pews, a sickly-sweet contrast to the sharp awareness tightening your chest.

Light filters through the tall, stained-glass windows, dappling the aisle in shifting colours as you take your first step forward. Your father’s arm is steady beneath your fingertips, a firm anchor, but it does little to ease the weight pressing against your ribs. Your gaze lifts, drawn forward, past the unfamiliar sea of faces, past the faint blur of expectation, to the one person who matters in this moment.

Viktor stands at the altar, rigid as a statue, his hands clasped before him. He is dressed finely—your mother’s doing, no doubt—but the cut of his coat, the carefully pressed folds of his cravat, feel like a costume rather than something truly belonging to him. His face is unreadable at first, his expression schooled into an impassive mask, but then—then his eyes meet yours.

Something flickers there. A hesitation, barely perceptible. The faintest parting of his lips, as if he might speak if the weight of the room did not demand silence. His gaze drags over you, slow and searching, taking in the meticulous artistry of your appearance, the delicate lace framing your face, the blue silk wrapped about you like a second skin. You expect nothing from him, and yet—his fingers twitch at his side, as if resisting some impulse even he does not understand.

And then, just as quickly, it is gone. He schools his features once more, his posture remains stiff, and whatever moment had passed between you vanishes into the hush of the church.

The priest turns to Viktor first.

“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

A silence, brief yet all-encompassing, stretches across the nave. Viktor’s gaze remains steady, locked upon yours as he answers, his voice even, assured and the words strike you with reverence you did not suspect him to have.

“I will.”

A breath catches in your throat.

“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” The priest turns to you.

You part your lips, but for a moment, no sound emerges. It is not hesitation, not truly—it is the finality of it, the weight of a thousand expectations pressing down upon your ribcage. You feel Viktor’s gaze on you, unwavering and waiting.

Your fingers tighten at your sides, nails digging into your palm.

“I will.”

The words leave you quieter than intended, but they are spoken. A shift of movement behind you—a sigh, perhaps your mother’s—reaches your ears, but it is distant, inconsequential now.

The priest nods, satisfied, and gestures for your hand.

Viktor steps forward, extending his hand to you, palm open. Your fingers feel unsteady as you place them in his, the warmth of his skin seeping through your glove into the coldness of your skin. He holds your hand with gentle firmness, neither possessive nor hesitant—simply assured.

He speaks first, his voice steady, the words carried by the hush of the chapel.

“I, Viktor, take thee to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a fleeting motion, barely noticeable.

It is your turn. You inhale, the breath unsteady, and repeat the vow, your voice carrying a note of quiet conviction.

“I,” you start, then speak your name quietly, “take thee, Viktor, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

As the final words leave your lips, Viktor’s grip remains unwavering and warm. The rector nods and Jayce steps forward, placing a golden band into Viktor’s open palm, while his eyes remain fixed strictly on yours.

He slides it onto your finger slowly, its weight featherlight and yet impossibly heavy. There is finality in it, a truth that cannot be undone, and when you lift your gaze, Viktor is still watching you, his lids hooded. His mouth parts, and he speaks the finals words softly, almost intimately and for a moment you feel like it’s only you and him, holding hands in this vast, echoing space.

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship,” he recites between breaths, the honesty beneath it rips through your chest. You wonder if it’s at all possible for this man to be so rehearsed that he can proclaim his worship to you in such a tone, while feeling none of it. “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Before you can breathe, the priest proclaims, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

And so it is, final and done, when your heart hammers in your ears as you sign yet another contract—the Register—to bind you not only in the holy matrimony, but also in the legal one. The rest is a blur, as people outside the church whistle and clap upon your emergence and the carriage takes you all back to your house for the reception.

And you brace through it as your day self—bright, charming, and polite. Thanking your guests and being the picture-perfect bride, making your mother and father proud. You smile until your cheeks ache, laugh when it is expected, and accept well-wishes with a gracious nod.

Ximena Talis is among the many to take your hands in hers, her warmth enveloping you like the motherly embrace you once yearned for. “My dear, you are radiant,” she says, pressing your fingers gently. “Viktor is fortunate beyond measure. I have always known he would find someone exceptional.”

The words settle in your chest like lead. You murmur a soft “Thank you, my lady,” but the sentiment stings. Fortunate? Perhaps, but not in the way she imagines. You wish you could believe in the same happiness she does.

Across the room, Viktor lingers at the edge of the gathering, ever the observer. His gaze flickers towards you, assessing. He sees the perfect illusion—the grace, the charm—but does he notice the way your hands tighten in your lap when no one is watching? The way your laughter sounds hollow?

At last, he steps close enough that only you can hear him. “You do not seem out of place,” he remarks idly, reaching for a cup of tea.

You do not look at him as you reply. “Neither do you.”

He hums, tilting cup as if he were looking for an answer within it. “I expected you to be more resistant.”

“I have learnt when resistance is futile,” you answer smoothly, placing your empty cup on a passing tray. “And you?”

He glances at you, just once, before bringing his glass to his lips. “I have always known how to adapt.”

A small smile curls at the edge of your mouth, just enough to be seen by those watching, just enough to be mistaken for joy. “Then we are well-matched indeed.”

His lips quirk, as if in amusement. But he says nothing more. Instead, he lingers close enough so that the heat of his body transmits to yours, and unlike you, Viktor cannot blame his reddened cheeks on powder blush.

You try to read anything within his expression, but the only thing that gives him away is the almost imperceptible tightness of his jaw.

Before you decide what to make of it, you are pulled back to your bridal duties—an obligatory dance with your father comes first.

He observes you all the way through it, as if trying to decipher how unhappy you are. “Know, that I have never been more proud of you,” he says, holding your hands firmly.

“And why is that? I have achieved nothing today, Papa, I merely got married,” you jest, but your father sees right through you. He breaks the rhythm of the dance to pull you into an embrace and whispers into your ear, “It’s not that you got married. It’s how you’ve done it. Of that I am proud.”

You gasp quietly and let yourself be held. It helps you to get through the rest of the rituals—dancing with uncles and other relatives, until a brief reprieve comes in a shape of Jayce. He grins down at you with a lopsided ease. “Look at you,” he teases, his voice light despite the tension that flickers beneath. “The perfect bride, the perfect wedding. You’ve even got the perfect brother-in-law.”

You let out a quiet huff, only half amused. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Jayce?”

“Wouldn’t need to if you’d just admit I’m your favourite already.”

You move through the dance with ease, though his hand tightens slightly on yours as he lowers his voice. “You’re all right?”

A pause. You should lie, as you have been all morning, but Jayce is not so easily fooled. “I will be,” you answer, quiet but honest. It is the best you can offer.

He nods once, accepting that for what it is. “If he ever gives you trouble, you know where to find me.”

It is an unnecessary promise—Viktor is not cruel—but you do not dismiss it.

As the dance concludes, you step away, your role in the festivities almost complete. Before the hour grows too late, you press a ribbon into Kitty’s palm, her eyes lighting with delight as she fastens it to her wrist. Tess is more reserved when you pull her aside, brows knit in deep thought before you even place the pearl in her hand.

“You’ll be back soon, won’t you?” she asks. Her fingers curl around the gift, her frown pressing deeper.

You smooth back a stray lock of her hair, forcing a smile. “Of course.” Even you are not certain how much truth sits in those words.

At last, it is time to take your leave. The final goodbyes begin, your family gathering around, and just as you think the moment has passed without incident, your uncle—already too deep in his indulgences—lifts his glass with a booming voice.

“Well then! Since they will not dance together, they must at least seal the night with a kiss!”

Laughter ripples through the guests, some echoing their agreement, others clapping their hands in delight. A glance at your mother tells you she will not intervene—this is not so improper a request that it can be denied. Your father only sighs, while Jayce grins at Viktor, clearly entertained.

There is no way out of this. You glance at Viktor, only to find him already watching you.

He does not speak, but his gaze is searching, flicking over your expression with unreadable intent. A flicker of hesitation—barely a breath—before he shifts closer.

The moment stretches unbearably thin.

Then, Viktor leans in.

The kiss is light, brief, barely more than the press of his lips against yours. It is proper in every sense, exactly what is expected. And yet—something in it snags deep within you. The warmth of him, the feather-light brush, the way his breath lingers against your skin a second too long.

Then, so soft only you can hear, Viktor murmurs against your lips—

"It’s all right."

You do not know why the words unsettle you so.

By the time you pull apart, the guests are clapping, laughing, toasting the moment as if it were nothing at all. You school your expression back into place, accept the briefest of bows from Viktor before he steps aside, and let yourself be guided forward, toward the carriage that will take you away.

[endless-ineffabilities]

But Daddy, I Love Him (chapter one)

Daemon Targaryen x f!reader

synopsis : the reader is a daughter of the Lord of House Arwen - ever so dutiful and mild-mannered. Slated to be the lady wife of some highborn Lord, someone who is noble and decent. Not the volatile Rogue Prince. Not Daemon Targaryen.

in this chapter : The Rogue Prince and the reader meet. Their fates entwine. A fool is made out of a Lady.

themes/warnings : Daemon being Daemon is a warning in itself, Daemon has a superiority complex, highborn!reader, House Arwen is my own creation (name inspired by lotr!)

series list : chapter one - chapter two - chapter three

word count : 2k ▪︎ masterlist

a/n : the title and the series concept inspired by the TS song ofc <3

Dutiful daughter, all my plans were laid. Tendrils tucked into a woven braid...

Your chambers. The Godswood. The library.

Every day is the same. The mornings start with your ladies in waiting helping you prepare for the day. Running your bath, carefully pressing your frocks, lacing you up in your bodice. Making sure each lock of hair is in place, the right amount of rouge dabbed against the apples of your cheeks.

You were once a perfect little girl, now a perfect little lady.

Soon a perfect little lady wife.

This is your story, already woven, already told time and time again. The same story for all ladies of your standing.

All you have to do is to be good. And so you are.

Thank the gods for the stories you read, enabling you jump into different lives. Adventures and romances you know you will never have, not truly. But you are happy to play the fool with every page turned.

The library has become your safe haven, your home within your home. Nestled high in the sprawling castle of House Arwen. Nothing can disturb you here. No one.

Or so you thought.

The very first words you hear Daemon Targaryen say to you come across as rather rude. You will find in time that he does not mean to be rude. Not all the time, that is. This is just how he is.

"I have always found that story rather dull. Amusing how you seem to be so engrossed in it, my lady."

"Excuse me, but I will you have you know - " you raise your head, taking in the visitor. Or intruder.

"Prince Daemon," you rise from your seat, offering a well-practiced curtsy. An instinctive move of obeisance for a lady like you.

He barely acknowledges your gesture, his face flat and impassive. "That book. I was forced to read it in my youth. Our Maester all but shoved it down my throat."

You immediately do not take to his approach. That book is one of the most famous tales from Old Valyria. He should know, being of Valyrian blood and all.

"I believe there is much to like about this book, my Prince."

"Such as?"

"Well, it depicts a warrior knight of Old - "

"Some warrior knight," Daemon scoffs, not even letting you finish your statement. "He gave up his powers for the love of a wench he knew for just a fortnight. He had every chance at glory but he squandered all of it away. For what?"

"For... for love?" comes your response, though you know he did not really want one.

For someone who claims to dislike this story so much, he sure knows it well.

He mindlessly taps his fingers on a nearby shelf, eyes lazily reading the titles. Drifting through the room with the unmistakeable disdain of someone who is used to having so much, the world practically by his feet, but is disinterested with it all.

You think that you could fall dead right then and Daemon wouldn't care. Wouldn't even bat an eyelash. He rolls his eyes at your mention of love, and it does not help your impression of him.

"There are only two things worthy of love in my eyes, my lady, and that is power and blood."

"Blood? Well, my prince, family is one of the most important - "

"Blood is not the same for me as it is for you. My blood carries a legacy of fire and magic, being of Old Valyria. You would not possibly understand how I hold my blood in high regard."

Oh may the gods strike him down now.

Your hands clench into fists, pressing against your skirts, but you don't have it in you to notice the unladylike gesture. All you can think of is letting him have a piece of your mind. "A family can have a flock of sheep or a horde of dragons, my prince, and it makes no difference to me. Your family is your family, your blood is your blood. But whether you choose to love them does not solely depend on blood."

It is as if he sees for you for the first time then, the moment you show that you have your own voice, and that you will not simply cater to his whims.

He turns eager to press you further, make you break, make you cave in. "What of you, my lady? What is it that you find worthy of love? Family, I presume, from your poorly formed argument? What about a lord husband?"

"I do love my family," you nod. "And when I do wed, I am sure I will love my lord husband just as dearly."

He walks closer, but does not stop in front of you as is the polite thing to do in conversation. He circles you, and you feel exposed by the way he openly takes you in. "Oh, but how will you know? You do not have a choice, do you? How can that be love?"

You do not answer right away, for the prince has just voiced one of your biggest fears. What if you do not find love in your lord husband? What sort of life would that entail? One which you have been preparing for since you entered womanhood, one you always thought you would be willing to accept. It is your duty, after all.

So you say just that. "It is my duty, and if I am able to fulfil my duty, then I am certain that will bring me happiness."

Daemon scoffs, his lips forming a self-righteous sneer. "In the story, do you then think that the warrior knight would have been better off fulfilling his duty and abandoning his love?"

"It is not the same."

"It is exactly the same."

"No," you emphasize, "because he had a choice. I do not."

He had stopped right in front of you, a bit too close for comfort, almost as if he needs to lean in to scrutinize you fully. "Love is the death of duty, my lady. Take my word for it, you would be far better off playing your role. If you truly wish to honour your family, you would not fall in love at all."

He's so close that you can feel his breath fanning your face. If you didn't know any better, you would believe that simply being so near Daemon Targaryen is the reason why your body feels like it is on fire. He gives off heat like a furnace, like a dragon.

Maybe he is a dragon. Is that not what they all say about Targaryens?

You open your mouth to take a breath, lest your throat also burns from the dry warmth, your stomach curling adding to your nerves. It prompts you to ask, "What about you, my prince? Has duty stolen every chance you have at love?"

His eyes draw downward to your lips, and his faint blonde lashes catch the light. The Rogue Prince does look otherwordly. Everything you have heard about him has been inadequate.

His violet eyes meet yours once more. "I would not bother with such frivolity. As I said, my lady, power and blood are all there is."

"Perhaps so. Perhaps true love only exists in the stories that I read."

"You are learning," he nods, and offers what might be his first genuine smile to you.

"Nevertheless," you step away from him, and carry your book back to the shelf. "I do not fault the warrior knight for choosing love over glory. I would choose as he had done, if that were a possibility."

His response is glib, but not meant to offend. "Then you are a fool, my lady."

"I wish I were a fool, my prince," you smile, lowering your gaze. "Aren't all fools happy?"

"You wish nothing more than to be mere mummer who has found happiness in love."

"If only," you say. It's surprising how easy you're finding it to engage in conversation with him. It feels like you have known him for many moons and not only for this moment.

The Rogue Prince, of all people. Which begs the question, what is he doing in the library of House Arwen?

"Pardon me, my prince, but why have you graced us with your presence this morning?"

He turns serious, almost bored, that he has to acknowledge the reason for his visit. "My brother, the King, has sent me to relay an official decree to your Lord father. He is to accept the position of Master of Coin for the small council."

"He... he is?" you swallow. This would mean that you have to go with him and live in the Red Keep. This also signals that your betrothal to Tyland Lannister is afoot. Your father had recently paid a visit to Casterly Rock to arrange for your marriage to Tyland or Jason Lannister. If it is to be with Jason, you would be sent to Casterly Rock. If Tyland, your father would take the offer to be part of the small council. You are to accompany him and begin courtship with the Master of Ships.

At least it will be Tyland and not Jason.

"Yes, I am supposed to meet your Maester here in the library to deliver the royal decree," Daemon replies, the task so insignificant to him, unaware that he has just delivered news that determines the course of your life.

Not that it makes any difference. Your father has always wanted to join houses with either the Lannisters or the Baratheons. Forge a true Westerosi alliance. It seems that he will finally get his wish.

Your thinking gets the better of you, and you stand unmoving, the weight of duty suddenly feeling too much to bear.

Daemon's face scrunches in what can misconstrued be concern. But surely he isn't. He must only be uncomfortable at your sudden silence and blank expression.

"Is something the matter? Are you not pleased that your father is graced with an opportunity such as this?"

"Of course. I am sure that he would be delighted."

"You do not seem to be."

No, you aren't. While you have met Tyland Lannister before, there was never any attraction there. From your side and his. Yours would be a marriage of convenience, for the benefit of both Houses.

How I wish I was the warrior knight.

"It matters not how I feel, my prince."

There is movement by the doors, and the old Maester rushes in all out of breath.

"My prince!" He calls out immediately. "My deepest apologies that I have kept you waiting."

Daemon pays him no mind. His attention is solely on you. Conscious that the Maester observes the exchange, you clear your throat. "I shall take my leave, my prince. The Maester will see to you now."

You tilt your head and curtsy in farewell. As you pass by Daemon, your hand brushes against his, the pads of his knuckes rough against your own. The first and likely the only time your skin will come into contact with his, you strangely think with regret. Still, it catches you off guard and you feel a sensation like needles pricking all the way up your arm.

"My lady," he greets, and under his breath, making sure the Maester cannot hear, he adds, "my lady fool."

Another smile is shared between the two of you.

Love is the death of duty, he had said. Sooner rather than late, you will find out just how it rings true.

Supper with your Lord father is but another constant. You have always been grateful for it, especially since the passing of your late mother.

He is the only family you have around, with your elder sister already married off to some Lord in the Riverlands. She has already done what was expected of her, securing an alliance for House Arwen and bearing children for her Lord Husband.

The mantle has been passed on to you. It was never something to ponder over, as it is not something in your control.

Do your duty. Play your role. Pray that you never fall in love at all, Daemon said.

But might I fall in love with Tyland? Should that not be what I aim for?

"I heard that you encountered Prince Daemon this morning," your father says. "I trust that you acted accordingly as befits his station."

"Of course, father."

"Though it matters little to me how that rogue prince fares." The derision in his tone cannot be contained. Your father has never held Prince Daemon in any regard, viewing him as a waste of his titles.

"The Prince was gracious enough to exchange pleasantries with me."

Pleasantries. Never mind how he mocked your story, your family, and by extension, you.

"Careful, daughter. Prince Daemon is never loathe to chase after the nearest skirt that catches his fancy. I feel for his newly betrothed, the Lady Laena Velaryon. Far too good for him, that one."

"Daemon is betrothed?" you ask, unable to hide your surprise. Last you heard, his wife Rhea Royce passed in a tragic hunting accident. You also heard the whispers that she perished by her husband's hand.

After finally meeting him, you would not count it as an impossibility. But some part of you does not want to believe that he could be capable of something so vile.

"Yes, Prince Daemon has been betrothed once more. No doubt the most fruitful union for their Houses," your father confirms. With all this talk of betrothals, you already know what is coming, but your stomach sinks all the same when he adds, "as will be the union of House Arwen and House Lannister, dear daughter. You should consider yourself highly fortunate. I have toiled considerably to bring about your betrothal to Tyland Lannister."

"Of course, father." The words are empty, worn through, forever echoing in your ears.

Of course. I will do my duty. What is love after all, but a passing fancy, mere fiction entombed in between pages?

The red scales of the infamous Blood Wyrm glisten under the bright sunlight.

Caraxes lets off an ear-splitting screech as Daemon guides him across the skies.

"Daor tolmiot sir." The Valyrian smoothly comes from Daemon like a song. Not far now.

Not far from the seat of House Arwen in the Westerlands. His destination, for some unknown reason.

Just the seventh day after he was sent to deliver the decree, he finds himself returning once more. It is the day that your Lord father, yourself, and the rest of your envoy are set to ride for King's Landing.

And Daemon has decided to extend an offer to you, the Lady Arwen, one that might infinitely expedite your travels.

There were a myriad of justifications floating around in his head. He found out that you are betrothed to Tyland Lannister and his actions on this day would no doubt ruffle the preening lion's mane.

Anything to needlessly anger a Lannister, Daemon would enjoy.

He would revel in the pleasure of bespoiling such a prim and strait-laced Lady such as yourself. It would be like sport to him.

It must also not be forgotten that this would rouse the ire of your Lord father, who has never held any love for Daemon and vice versa.

All these reasons make complete sense to Daemon. All but one which he does not allow himself to entertain.

That he wishes to see you.

Who are you, if not just another proper wench with your honour and your faith for the Seven Gods up your arse? Daemon has much more discerning tastes, from dragonrider to tavern whore, but never one with your disposition.

You are nothing to Daemon. No one.

But that does not mean he will refrain from indulging in the pleasure of causing chaos.

The clouds part as Caraxes dips lower, revealing the outline of your meagre castle.

"Sepār ilagon konīr." Daemon refers to the inner courtyard where a line of carriages await, precious possessions being lugged onto them by footsoldiers.

Caraxes dives down with precision, his wings casting a shadow over the courtyard as he suddenly descends, leaving everyone startled.

Daemon's boots heavily crunch against the gravel as he jumps down, and he scans the wary crowd for his prize.

Soldiers rising to attention, bowing their heads to their prince. Ladies-in-waiting openly ogling him as he draws nearer. The Maester and his apprentices approaching him with rushed greetings springing from their mouths.

And then, there you are.

Standing just behind the small crowd, whispering hurriedly to your companion. You shush when you spy Daemon heading right for you.

"My prince." You perform the usual curtsy. Daemon thinks the movement does not suit you. He much preferred it when you were getting riled up at his remarks back at your library.

"My lady," he greets. "Lovely weather we are having, is it not?"

You appear confused, your eyes narrowing and nose scrunching for but a brief moment, and Daemon relishes in prompting such an unguarded expression. But it reverts back into your polished smile.

"Yes, it... it is, my prince. Forgive me, but I was not aware that we were expecting you."

No. Of course not. "Let me rephrase that. It is lovely weather for dragonriding, and I am inclined to think that you would enjoy the journey to the Red Keep."

"I am afraid I do not follow."

Daemon gets right to the point and his next words ring true, leaving no room for doubt as to his intentions. "My lady, I would like for you to ride with me."

Your posture becomes slack, and you gape at him like he has grown a second head.

"That would be inappropriate, my prince."

"No," he sneers. "It would be inappropriate if I take you for myself right there on the dragonsaddle, my lady, but I merely wish to offer a ride."

Your companion blushes profusely at his words. Apparently the image affects her so much all she can do is stare at her feet.

You, on the other hand, are unyielding. Your eyes blazing right through his own violet. A nagging voice in Daemon's mind insists that this is what he came for. Nothing else.

You finally say, "It is unbecoming of me to even entertain that notion, Prince Daemon. My Lord father and my betrothed would surely not approve."

Daemon takes a step closer, and the two of you stand nearly toe to toe. "But do you not wish it? Do you not wish to fly on dragonback? Much like the heroes in your stories I would wager."

"Those are just stories. It would be foolish of me."

Daemon laughs dryly, "My lady, is that not what you are? A lady fool who dreams of adventure and love?"

You frown when he has you cornered, your thoughts whirring in that foolish head of yours. Daemon feels the need to run his thumb over your pursed lips.

Perhaps I am the foolish one.

The Maester interrupts, breaking the impasse, nervously looking between the two of you.

"My prince," he says, "if you came to speak to the Lord Arwen, he is still in his chambers. He should be on his way down shortly."

You glance at the Maester then back to Daemon, awaiting his response, but he has none to offer.

You tilt your head disapprovingly at his outright discourtesy until he extends his hand to you. "My lady," he says with sincerity, "you shall be made a good lady wife soon enough, but today I invite you to be foolish with your prince."

It is the Maester who speaks, "My prince, the Lady Arwen must not - "

But you rudely interrupt, a newfound fire blazing in your eyes. "Is it as exhilarating as the stories say?"

"Enough to please a fool," Daemon replies.

With a smile, you fit your hand right into his, consequences be damned.

I may not write for him as often, but Daemon just might be my favourite to characterize and the most fun to weave stories with 🖤

This is a fixed miniseries, with a more or less fixed story, so it will only a three-parter.

[acourtofmoonlightandstars]

Find me - Chapter 1

Pairing: Azriel x fem!reader

Summary: At a ball you meet the one person you thought you would never see again, you left him once. Will you leave him again?

Word count: Currently no idea

Warnings: Some sugestiveness, angst and minor details of Azriels work as a spymaster.

Note: So this is loosely based on a dream I once had, it was heartbreaking so I thought I might as well use writing as therapy

Chapter 2

The ballroom was huge and the light flickering from the crystal chandeliers that hung above your head made all jewels, sequin and glitter reflect the light. It was a beautiful sight.

You walked through the crowd of people, looking for no one in particular. You had no idea how or when you’d gotten here, you weren’t even quite sure who had invited you. Usually you stayed within the borders of your own court. But it seemed that you’d made an exception for once.

Everyone seemed somewhat familiar. You smiled at the friends who laughed around the tables filled with food as they filled each other goblets with fairy wine, at the couples who snuck away to find somewhere a little more secluded to steal a minute or two and at those who filled the room with laughter that echoed through the room.

As a waiter walked past you, you grabbed a flute of champagne from his tray. You sipped at the bubbly drink as you scanned the room once more, hoping to see at least one person you recognized. And then you spotted him.

He was beautiful in his black suit, it was such a stark contrast from his usual leathers and blue siphons. His wings were tucked close to him, almost as if he was afraid to take up space. His hair was combed back, revealing his forehead and the slight wrinkle he had between his brows. Your breath hitched, and you suddenly wished you were able to turn invisible at will.

You wanted nothing more than to walk up to him and ruffle his hair, once again revealing his somewhat loose curls that you’d once loved to run your fingers through in the late hours of the night. You wanted nothing more than to once again kiss his lips, to taste him.

But you had left him, that much you knew. But you just couldn’t remember why.

His shadows pooled around his feet, and indicated the constant stream of information that was always available to the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. You felt something cold around your ankle, and as you hiked up your skirt you saw the little rouge shadow that had slipped past its master. It almost looked like a puppy happy to be reunited with its owner as it twirled around you.

You giggled, which only seemed to amuse it even more.

In the hope that you could turn it away before he noticed its absence, you looked towards where he had been mere seconds before, and your eyes met his right away. The eyes you had once loved to stare into for hours at the time, the hazel pools of a man you once knew, seemed sad all of the sudden.

It was an emotion that seemed so out of character for him, and you felt your heart breaking a little at the sight of it, especially knowing that you were most likely the cause of the sadness and the purple shadows that hung underneath his eyes.

Azriel furrowed his brows at the rouge shadow as he no undoubtedly tried calling it back to him. But it seemed like it refused to listen to his quiet command. He walked towards you with a confidence that would make lesser males crumble in his presence.

You felt the blush creeping up your neck before it settled in your cheeks.

“Excuse me” he almost whispered, as he went out of his way to not meet your eyes. He bent down and physically yanked the shadow from you. You could’ve sworn it looked almost sad to leave you behind.

He stood up, and quickly turned away from you, almost fleeing. You don’t know what came over you but you grabbed his wrist and saw him stiffen as your skin came into contact with his.

“Y/N… Please, dont” it was an almost silent plea, one who broke your heart, but there was no way you were letting him walk away from you.

You pulled him towards you, forcing him to face you. He had a pained expression on his face and his eyes were closed. Despite of that you still send a small smile his way. Your other hand found his other wrist and you slowly pulled his arms around your waist.

He reacted instantly and despite not even noticing, he pulled you closer to him. “I’m so sorry” You whispered as you raised your hand to his cold cheek. He leaned into your touch as he finally looked at you, a single tear escaping his eyes. Your thumb quickly whisked it away before anyone had a chance to notice it.

The shadows swirled around the two of you desperate to give you some privacy, and even his wings seemed to be shielding the two of you from wandering eyes.

“I don’t know why I left you, I won't ever leave you again, please just give me another chance” you whispered, your voice threatened to crack, as his eyes searched your face for any sign of a deception, any sign of what you were saying, was nothing more than a lie.

“Don’t say things you might regret…”

You shook your head and sent a small smile his way, it was filled with regret and sadness. “It’s always been you and I’m here now and I promise it won't ever happen again”

But were you able to promise him that? You still couldn’t remember why or how you had left him behind, it was like a distant memory that was locked away, one you couldn’t access.

He pulled you from the ground and you couldn’t help the giggle when he nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck. Desperate for your scent, desperate to feel your heartbeat against his own. “You better mean it” he whispered against your exposed skin.

You pulled at his hair, ruining it even though he had most likely done his best to bend his curls to his will for the event tonight. But you didn’t care, you always liked him better with his bed head anyways.

He kissed his way from that sweet spot where your neck met your shoulder, he nibbled at your ear and kissed you from there, down your cheekbones until his lips hovered over your own. And in a blink of an eye he stole your shallow breaths from your mouth with his own. He ate every whimper and small moan, as if they all belonged to him and him alone, as if it would be the crime of the century if any other male heard it.

“You do know you’re in a public place right? Everyone can see you” the voice was teasing, but in no way cruel. Without letting you down Azriel turned towards the other winged male that now stood in front of the two of you.

Azriel laughed, and his brother realized he hadn’t heard that sound in months.

“I apologize Cass” and he felt you stiffen in his arms, and sent you a reassuring smile, before once again returning you to the ground. He was here, the Lord of Bloodshed, Cassian. But of course he was, they would all most likely be here.

“It’s all good. But Nesta is gonna hate that she skipped this ball tonight, she would’ve loved to see you take a female in front of all these fancy fae”

This time it was your time to laugh, and you flet how your muscles relaxed at his way of addressing the elephant in the room. Azriel couldn’t help but to pull you closer to his side, lips kissing the top of your head.

“So you must be the one who broke my brother's heart” Cassian said as he crossed his arms, to anyone beside you and Azriel, he would look angry, almost disappointed in the way he stood before you. But all you could see was the happiness he held for his brother.

Cassian sent you a small smile. “Don’t worry, I don’t judge, my own mate was indecisive as well”

You couldn’t help but almost wince at his words. It wasn’t that you were indecisive, or at least you didn’t think that was it…

“It’s okay. It all worked out in the end” Azriel said.

The night went on and his hand never left your hip, he pulled you as close to him as he could whenever he felt a male came too close to you. You adored his possessiveness. Now you just needed to feel like you’d earned it.

The two of you spent almost every day together after the ball. It didn’t take him long to introduce you to the rest of his family. The inner circle of the Night Court.

Your father had told you the stories of both their power and their beauty, but despite all the stories, they were kind, welcoming and warm. You felt right at home.

At no point did you regret making contact with him the night of the ball. In fact you could feel yourself falling in love with Azriel, a little more every day.

He adored you, and he spared no expenses in showing you exactly how much you meant to him. Everytime he came home from a mission, he would bring you flowers from the given court. He would either make you homemade meals, or take you out to eat at the most beautiful restaurants in the city.

He would take you on flights over Valaris, on walks near the Sidra or just down to the nearest cafe or bakery to pick up something sweet or warm whenever you felt a little down. Apart from that he spoiled you rotten with gifts, to such a degree you almost had more diamonds than Amren.

You were however your happiest whenever you woke up to him by your side, and nothing beat the beauty that was his eyes as they reflected the morning sun. They were like liquid gold. He was beautiful, and sometimes you couldn’t help but wonder if this was all a dream.

As time went on he opened more and more up to you. He told you about his life, both the good and the bad. About his childhood, who he had become after Rhys and Cassian had found him. He told you about his role in the court as both shadowsinger and spymaster, and how he had days where he loathed who he was and what he had done, and others where he celebrated the screams he carved from the lungs of his prisoners.

And despite his fears you didn’t flee or coward when he reached out for you. You had instead held him, and whispered sweet nothing in his ear, confirming that you loved him despite all he had gone through, and that you loved him because of who he was. He had cried in your arms at your words.

You saw him, all of him and you loved both the good and the bad.

At no point had you ever expected to be with a man of his profession, but here you were. The people of Valaris were quick to catch on. They always greeted the two of you, they helped you with picking his gifts and selecting his favorite sweets at the bakery he loved to visit each sunday morning.

The fact that you got to be his in Valaris of all places, was more than enough. Being out and public to all fae, to all courts, would only paint a target on your back. One that he feared would take you from him too soon, whereas you feared that you would be used against him. You had no interest in ever letting it come to that.

After All you wanted nothing more than to protect him, to keep him safe, and he felt the same. He had given you one of his shadows, the rouge that had left his side that night of the ball. After all it seemed like it liked you more than him anyways, but this way he would know if you were ever in any kind of danger.

Nesta had told him it was a little much, especially since the two of you were basically joined at the hip, it was rare that you saw one of you without the other. You were one soul separated into two people. It was clear for all to see.

The inner circle had quickly started making bets on just when the bond would snap for the two of you. And despite the fact that you always rolled your eyes when they began speculating, you couldn’t help but hope that they were right.

Your brother had his mate, and so did Azriels brothers. It would only be right if the two of you had one too right? And if so why wouldn’t the Cauldron grant you eachother? With every fiber of your being you hoped that he was yours and that you were his.

One morning you stood in the courtyard at the house of wind as the sun was slowly rising from its usual hiding place beneath the horizon. Azriel was circling you, wearing nothing but his boots and leather pants.

The look of his tattoos and his muscles were now covered with sweat that was glistening in the morning sun, was enough for you to skip practice and go back to bed with him. You wanted nothing more than to be entangled in him and his scent.

The sun that shone through the fine membrane of his wings made him look like a god of death and war. What a sight to see. He sent you a dazzling smirk as he saw the pure lust and adoration in your eyes. He most likely smelled it on you as well.

You smirked back and sent him a little wave. But it wasn't enough for him to lose focus on his task at hand. It rarely was.

“You look so beautiful angel,” he said. Despite what you might’ve thought he couldn’t help but adore you in the morning light either. He was mere seconds away from abandoning his workout only to throw you over your shoulder and have his way with you. Where that would be, he didn’t care. You chuckled. It was his favorite sound in the entire world, and he hoped that he would always be the one to make you laugh.

And then you felt it. It was as if the world shifted on its axis, it was like it had been so many months ago. It was the same feeling you had the first time you had left him. And as the memories came rushing back to you, you paled.

As your smile dropped and your eyes became distant, almost as if a fog now hid them from the world. “Y/N…?” You heard his fear and desperation as he said your name.

“Promise me you’ll find me, promise me” It was all you could say, you struggled with getting the words out as you felt yourself drifting from this reality. You saw him spring towards you, his wings giving him momentum.

And then everything went dark.

When you woke up the darkness was still surrounding you. You laid there with your eyes closed for a few minutes as you tried to recall his features, his name, where you had been. But there was nothing, nothing except an ache in that place that usually held your heart.

All you remembered was the feeling of running your hands through his hair, how his lips sent electricity down your spine as he kissed that sweet spot right beneath your ear, whenever he snuck up behind you. You remember his rough hands, and a feeling of something cold that you couldn’t quite place. Everything else was a blur.

As you opened your eyes you looked towards the small clock that stood on your bedside table. 06:45. You had to get up soon, but the mere thought of leaving your bed made your head spin. It felt like you had lost something precious, it felt like you had lost your heart, and in its stead there was now only a black hole filled with nothing but emptiness and pain.

You had no idea how to start your day, it felt like you should stay right here, stay at home and mourn the loss of him.

Maybe he remembers, maybe he will be able to find me. You thought as you tried soothing the emptiness in your chest by rubbing the palm of your hand over where it ached.

But how could he? He was after all only a figment of your imagination, he was after all only a character in your dream. But he felt real, and you could nothing but hope that someone, someday would ever love you as unconditionally as he had.

At the other end of Prythian, Azriel Shadowsinger, Spymaster of the Night Court, had woken with such pain in his chest that he for a second had been convinced he had been stabbed in his sleep. And as his dream, no his memories of you, flooded his senses he knew what he needed to do.

You had to be real, he needed you to be real. So he sent out his shadows in search of the one person who now held his heart, the one person he would never stop looking for, you, his mate.

I promise you angle, I will find you

note: aaaaah this is my first ever acotar fic! don't be afraid to leave feedback, I would very much appreciate it! I feel like a part two would be absolutely amazing, but maybe I'll just do it as a stand alone since it's kind of heartbreaking. But we'll see!

[nevertheless-moving]

End of The Rope: MDZS AU #8

mdzs au where the junior quartet accidentally activate a rouge cultivator's array and send themselves back in time — post-sunshot, pre-Yiling Patriarch era.

Naturally they seek out Wei Wuxian, the only person they know who might be able to undo the absurdly complex thing.

plot device sidebar: there's a massive yao carcass in the middle of the array — clearly the power source is death based. The four start taking sketches (Mostly Jingyi). Jin Ling swats at a fly, killing it. Eventual cultivation math reveals that the design was ridiculously overpowered. The inventor probably sent himself to the Neolithic era. Hopefully that's — hopefully that's what he was going for because, yeah, this was not designed for round trips. More plot from that later.

Wei Wuxian, currently drinking and pretending that he's avoiding helping with Lotus Pier's reconstruction out of arrogance instead of inability is deeply amused to receive a visit from four miscellaneous cultivators — who he should probably recognize, right? they're the same age as him, wouldn't they have fought in the campaign? I mean his memory is bad but, no his memory is probably bad enough to completely forget these guys. Whatever.

Alright so two Lans, a Jin, and some other sect (Nice guan — sect heir, maybe?) cultivators are here for his help with something important and private that only he can do (weird, but not completely unimaginable. Something too dark for upstanding cultivator's hands?). They really should go to Jiang Cheng for requests, but, eh. He'll hear them out.

They did , in fact, first seek audience with the Yunmeng Jiang Sect Leader for just that reason. They were greeted by the sect leader's sister and, well. No one had the heart to make fun of Jin Ling for stammering briefly, then turning and running away. They figured they could probably find Wei Wuxian somewhere that sells wine. It didn't take very long.

Here's the thing, Wei Wuxian thinks, staring at the four once they are assured of the room's privacy.

These guys, for all their earnest, off-hand flattery, for as much as they addressed him respectfully, could not be less impressed with him.

One second into the conversation and the Jin is ruthlessly mocking him for his corpse bride attendants with a classic Jin sneer. "What, you don't have any living friends to hang out with?" But he's really not scared, honestly, it's not just posturing, which could mean he's stupid but — also he doesn't seem super mean spirited?? Maybe's he's reading friendliness because the tone is so much like Jiang Cheng when he's joking. Kind of disturbing how similar it is. He kindof wants to ruffle his hair.

The Green one is either joining in an admittedly hilarious bit or defending Wei Wuxian? "I think it's nice! Giving the poor souls a chance to — oh, wait — is it supposed to be intimidating? Oh wow, that's kindof sad, isn't it?"

Lan One, also joining in, absolutely no trace of fear (since when were fucking Lans so at ease around demonic cultivation): "Please disregard my companions. I think it could be very intimidating, to the right sort of visitors, Senior Wei." Senior? Am I even older than you?

Lan Two, a little nervy, but also sitting down and pouring himself a drink?!?: "Kindof over the top though right? I mean, this is exactly the sort of thing you're going to be embarrassed by in —"

"Jingyi! You can't just—"

"What! I'm right! This is totally the sort of 'oh look how evil and scary I am' showmanship that he's going to look back on in 20 years and —"

If the complete and utter disregard of his reputation wasn't enough, they brought him a bribe! Spicy, edible, bribes! And wine! Lans bringing him WINE!

It's crazy, it's definitely crazy — but considering all that — he's almost prepared to believe that might actually be who they say they are, once they start explaining.

Wei Wuxian of course doesn't let them explain much — he knows just enough of time travel theoreticals to know that it either explodes horribly or doesn't actually fix your past mistakes. Until he looks over their notes and figures out what kindof time magic it is they should keep any major changes to themselves — seriously Jin you can destroy your soul with this shit. He'll erase his memory if he has to but — fuck.

He wants. He wants the future where no one's scared of him anymore, not really, not to where they can't sit and share a table with him like a normal person. Where he teaches guest lectures to little Lans and Lan Zhan apparently trusts him enough to help take care of his son as a kid (BABY LAN ZHAN SON! LAN ZHAN HOW ARE YOU SO GOOD ! WHAT A PERFECT YOUNG MASTER YOU RAISED!!") And Shije's son makes fun of him with Jiang Cheng's voice and... he wants.

Which double means they can't explain the terrible things they obviously want to tell him because damn he did not expect to live, what, 20, 30 more years?? Wow! Lan Zhan's not even married yet, and his son is probably 20, so, yeah. Lan Zhan would probably have a super long, elegant courtship — no, no don't tell me. His wife has to be perfect, for you to be such an upstanding young growth — I SAID DON'T ANSWER MY QUESTIONS DO YOU WANT TO TURN LOTUS PIER INTO A CRATER?!?!

Identity Confirmation Aside: Headcanon that Wei Wuxian can in some fashion or another do the genetic stesting thing that fierce corpse's apparently do (ala Nie Mingue's corpse in the Guanyin Temple), which is one way he 'programmed' his armies to attack certain clans and leave alone others. Mildly satisfied that drinking the Jin/Jiang blood was enough to scare them — and ugh, she seriously ended up marrying a Jin?? — okay, okay I won't insult your father! Yeesh. Identity Confirmation Aside Aside: The juniors were less freaked about him drinking blood (they've seen him do that before), and more freaked about their young (oh god is he younger than Zizhen) FLAMBOYANTLY CUTSLEEVE uncle licking Jin Ling's wrist and making WAY too intense eye contact. He was going for demonically intimidating but considering they've all seen him 'cleaning' Lan Wanjii's hands for him after getting street food it came off kindof... yeah. Jingyi gleefully plans on using this against them both at some point in the future. Jin Ling adds another bulletpoint to the Wei Wuxian specific trauma list.

Jin Ling Meta From this AU

My MDZS AU Masterlist

[kingconia]

DIASOMNIA WITH A S/O, WHO SLEEPS ALL THE TIME

Malleus Draconia

— He found it amusing at first, but after some time he started to miss you more and more;

— Sulking constantly! He is glad that you are getting your sleep, but, ugh, he is lonely enough and without you it feels even worse;

— You suggested him to sleep together, but he is not that interested in this activity, though, sometimes, Malleus falls asleep curled next to you, when he is especially tired;

— Often he just sits at the place you sleep, guarding down your sleep. If you fall asleep everywhere, much like Leona, then he will make sure no one will bother you;

— Kissing you to wake you up, and finds it quite amusing;

— You have nothing against that, and maybe—just maybe—pretend to be a heavy sleeper just to get a kiss.

Lilia Van Rouge

— He is worried as fuck, lmao;

— It was funny at first, and both of you joked a lot on this matter, but as he understands that it happens everyday, he starts to worry;

— Is that healthy? Should he find you a doctor? Are you okay?

— Tries to wake you up all the time, and to drag you on some activities;

— But once you fell asleep on his musical band repetition, Lilia starts to understand that it might be useless;

— He rarely accepts your suggestion to have a nap with you, but he finds it cute;

— Once again, if you fall asleep in unexpected places, he will take care of you, and bring you back to the dorm;

— Tucks your bed and kisses on the forehead before leaving you in peace.

Sebek Zigvolt

— He doesn't notice at first how often you sleep, and just thinks that it is him, who fails to find you awake;

— But when he figures out that you sleep all the time, he is annoyed and sad;

— Sebek is busy all the time, running here and there, mostly around Malleus, and when he returns to spend time with you, you are asleep!;

— At first he just sighs, and leaves you;

— But after you made him to take a nap a few times with you, Sebek will make a habit of staying with you, and accept it as some king of together activity;

— He just takes you on his arms, while you sleep, and as you nestle in his embrace, he smiles widely. He finds it relaxing, actually.

Silver

— Poor boy is always in one step from falling asleep, and you tempt him even more;

— Tries to resist the urge to take naps with you, but fails rather quickly. Almost as if he hardly tried;

— Silver always disliked his strange drowsiness, so when you came in his life, he felt rather relieved. That was nice to know that he wasn't alone in this;

— Always reserved and quiet, Silver is opening up to you more in the sleep;

— He mutters a lot, and he always curls around you like a little coala, being the cutest small spoon you had ever seen;

— Strangely enough, no matter where both of you fell asleep, you always wake up with a blanket thrown on you, and Lilia watching you and Silver with a smile;

— Seems like Silver has a cute fairy guardian!

[marvelgurl789fanfics]

Remy Lebeau (Gambit) x Child OC

(Remy Lebeau (Gambit) x Rogue)

~Safe~

Warning: angst, mentions of child abuse, injuries

(Not the best at grammar or punctuation)

Summary: The X-Men get information on a new mutant holding facility being built. Remy finds the building has a prisoner already a very small one at that.

Masterlist:

~~~~~

The X-Men were on the Blackbird on the way to some mutant sentinel holding facility being build in some desert, Gambit stopped paying attention to Scott’s speech on this place after getting the gist of it. Go in destroy the place, don’t get killed easy. Gambit had found a much more interesting way to spend the flight than listening to Scott go on, Rogue’s legs looked mighty fine crossed like that as she listened to the mission brief, ‘What Remy would give to touch those fine legs, what a way to go out’ Remy thought to himself with the knowledge of her skin being a death sentence within seconds.

Feeling eyes on him Gambit lifted his gazes from Rogue’s legs to her eyes glaring at him. “Will you pay attention” she scolded him, “Sorry, Cher. Gambit got lost in thought” he smiled at her. Rogue rolled her eyes with a small smile forming on her lips “I know what kind of thoughts you’re having right now Cajun” she scolded in a teasing manner, earning a grin from Remy. “If you two are done we’re about to land” Wolverine groan, amusement in his eyes despite his tone of voice.

They landed a bit of a walk from the location with there being no cover in the sand left little choice. “Once inside me and Jean will head to the security room. Storm keep your eyes on the sky and watch for possible reinforcements. Wolverine, Morph take to the east wing and search for any prisoners in the holding cells. Gambit, Rogue go west and search the labs and destroy any files they have of mutants.” Scott said as they approached the base. The X-Men rushed the base and knocking out what few guards there and split into their groups.

Breaking into the base’s lab Rouge and Gambit took out the guards, most of the scientists chose to flee than fight back. The lab was soon empty besides the knocked out guards on the floor. Rogue went to the computer and began destroying files, while Gambit started with the paper files charging them and destroying the paper with small explosions. “Cells are all clear” Wolverine came from their communications link, “Well except the guards, who are not liking their new home” Morph snickered. “Good, Storm how are things looking?” Jean asked. “The sky remains clear” Storm informed. “We’re done here too, Gambit, Rogue how are things going there?” Scott asked. “All good sugar, we just finished with the files” Rogue answered walking over to Gambit who just finished with the paper files. “Then let’s get out of here, regroup at the Blackbird” Scott ordered.

“Shall we Swamp Rat?” Rogue teased heading for the exit, Gambit was going to say something sassy back but heard a whimpering and stopped in his tracks. “What is it?” Rogue stopped as well noticing Gambit’s smile drop from his pretty face. “Don’t know Cher, but Gambit heard a noise” Gambit said moving to where he heard the sound. After a few steps around the lab equipment there was what looked like a dog create with a little girl who looked no older than three shaking in fear curled up cowering in the back of the cage. Gambit felt like the world froze thinking of what kind of monster would do this to a child, a sharp gasp from Rogue shook him from his shock.

Gambit dropped to his knee’s immediately breaking the weak lock opening the cage door. The small girls eye widened with fear once the door opened. “It’s ok mon Cheri, Gambit won’t hurt you none” Gambit said as gently as he could taking in the girl appearance for the first time. The small child had light green scale starting at her cheeks down to the sides of her neck mixing with her pale skin, her scales seemed to go down the tops on her arms and hands. Messy dark blonde hair with scales at her hairline, pure golden eye with slit irises reminding him of a cat’s eyes. The girl was wearing torn and dirtied clothes. She looked at him with a mix of fear and curiosity, slowly starting to uncurl herself. The child kept her eye focused on Gambit’s every move ready to retreat if he made any sudden movements. “Gambit just want to help you” he said very slowly reaching his hand out for the girl to take it.

After a moments of hesitation from the child, she took his hand and he gently led her from the cage. Once the girl was out of the cage and in the light of the room Rogue and Gambit noticed the bruises coving the girls body and her favoring her left leg. “Oh sugar!” Rogue said with heartbreak clear in her voice but choosing to keep still not wanting to frighten the already terrified child. “Gambit get you outta here” Gambit said slowing getting to his feet and picking up the child holding her to his chest. The girl flinched at first of being lifted off the ground but quickly relaxed tucked to his chest. “Let’s get to the ship, she as cold as ice” gambit said heading for the exit wrapping the side of his coat around the girls small body, Rogue quickly followed after him.

Once they reached the Blackbird it seemed the rest of the team was waiting for them. “What took you slow pokes so, oh who this” Morph teased then noticing the child in Gambit’s arms, getting the whole team looking at the small child. “Gambit found her locked in a cage right before we left” Rogue explained. Jean walked over to Gambit and the child gently putting her hand on the girls back, making the child flinch and bury her face into Gambit’s chest shaking trying to cling to him for dear life. “It’s ok mon Cheri, no one gonna hurt ya now” Gambit soothed.

The whole flight back the girl refused to let go of Gambit. Quiet discussions between the team about the mission and the child went unnoticed by Gambit, trying to soothe the scared child who found comfort in him for reasons he would never understand. Five minutes from the school the girl was fast asleep still cuddled up to him, “The child seems to like you” Storm commented. Gambit looked up from the sleeping girl on his lap “Who doesn’t like Gambit” he joked trying to deny the comment. ‘Of course she likes me for now Remy found her’ he thought to himself. “I usually don’t like sharing but I can make an acceptation for this little girl” Rogue teased coming behind Gambit’s chair racking her gloved hand through his hair. “Don’t know Cher, she might not want to share Gambit with you” Gambit teased back enjoying his hair being played with.

The Blackbird landed in the hanger, the team filling out “Take our little guest to get check out by Beast, we’ll talk to the professor” Scott said to Gambit. The girl still had a death grip on Remy’s jacket even in deep sleep and nobody had the heart to separate the girl from her object of comfort even in this case the object being Remy himself. “If she’ll let go of Gambit long enough to let Beast” Gambit joked walking to the med bay with the sleeping child in his arms. A few steps from the med bay the girl jolted awake panic clear on face. “Mon Cheri, Gambit right here, you’re safe” stopping in his tracks for a moment to clam the child, the girl relaxed into his chest once again while he walked to the med bay.

“Gambit nice to see you in one piece, who this little one.” Beast greeted as the med bay door shut behind them. “Gambit found her while on our mission, she’s pretty beat up” Gambit said unconsciously rubbing the girls back in comforting circles, “I see, let me take a look” Beast nodded in understanding and gestured to the medical cot. Gambit gently sat the girl on the cot but her death grip on his coat remained “it’s ok Gambit promise not to go no where” Gambit gently convinced the child to let go and as promised stood to the side but still in view of her. “Hello I’m Dr.McCoy, what might your name be?” Beast greeted the child kindly being careful not to spook the child who kept looking at Gambit for reassurance.

“F-63” came a small shy voice after a moment of silence. “Is that what those people called you before Gambit found you” Gambit spoke up earning a slow nod from the girl. “I see, do you know how old you are?” Beast asked her, the girl just held up three fingers. “Ok, little one I’m just gonna take a look at your injuries. Is that ok?” Beast asking the girl, and after the girl received a nod of approval from Gambit she gave Beast a nod of her own. Beast looked over the girl carefully explaining to the child exactly what he was doing to not startle her. “Noticed her favoring her left leg” Gambit said getting Beast attention. Beast took a look at the girls right leg then gave the girl a smile “That wasn’t so bad” Beast said earning a nod again from the girl then coaxing the girl to lay back on the cot and relax.

“How she looking?” Gambit asked quietly for the girl not the hear, “where to start, on closer inspection the bruises appear to be from needles being them injections or IVs it’s hard to tell. Her leg is not broken but is severely sprained, and then the girl seems to be very undernourished and dehydrated.” Beast informed keeping his voice down as well. Hearing this felt like a kick to Gambit’s gut, “usually I would set up an IV to help with the dehydration, but giving the situation I think it would do more harm than good” Beast continued. A knock on the med bay door got their attention, the door slipping open as the professor and Rogue entering the latter holding a tray. “Hello Gambit, Beast can I talk to you for a moment of the girls well being” Xavier said going back in the hall with Beast now following in toe.

Gambit walk back the child who kept looking at him with pleading eyes “Everything gonna be just fine mon Cheri” her promised gently brushing some of her messy hair from her face. “Hello again sugar I thought you might be hungry” Rogue said setting the tray within the girls reach. The girl looked at the tray containing a pb&j sandwich cut into four small pieces of and a glass of milk, looking at Gambit and getting a nod from him, the girl started to slowly eat the sandwich. “If you’re still hungry after this there’s plenty more” Rogue smiled at the girl. “Did you learn her name?” Rogue asked turning her attention to Remy. “F-63, but that’s no name” Gambit said a bit bitterly but kept his voice down for just for Rogue to hear. Rogue hummed in thought turning to the girl “sugar do you like the name F-63.” She asked the girl who was now chugging the milk, the girl paused her drinking and shook her head no at Rogue’s question.

Remy let out a light chuckle at the child who now had milk dripping from her face, “did you get any in your mouth.” He grabbed a tissue from the side table and gently whipped the girl mouth earning a giggle from the girl. Rogue’s heart swelled that their interaction “What about Fiona?” Rogue asked the girl who stopped giggling. “Fiona does have a nice ring to it no?” Gambit said. The girl pointed to herself “Fiona?” She asked looking to the two adults watching her. “If you want that name” Rogue smiled to the child earning a nod and a slightly more confident Fiona from the girl. “A very beautiful name Mon Cheri” Gambit said to Fiona with a smile.

The Professor and Beast entered the med bay once again, Xavier now making his way to the child and Gambit and Rogue stepping aside. “Hello F-63, I’m Charles Xavier” he greeted the girl with a smile, “Fiona” Fiona responded immediately earning a raised eyebrow from Beast and Xavier. “Rogue and Gambit may have helped her with a new name” Gambit said rubbing the back of this neck. “Well Fiona is a much lovelier name” Xavier said with amusement turning to Fiona once again. “Do you know where your parents might be.” Xavier asked gently probing the girls mind. The girl gave a confused look tilting her head to the side pointing to Gambit “Papa?” Fiona said making Gambit slightly choke on air, and Rogue trying to keep from laughing. “The other did say she took quite the liking to you” Xavier chuckled as well.

“All of her memories are of the lab, my guess would be her parents gave her up when she was born cause of her appearance. For now she’ll be staying here at the school, and Gambit I hate to put you in this position but it seems she find comfort in you. Can I trust her to your care for now?” Xavier said to the group telepathically. “Gambit will play the caretaker for Mon Cheri” Gambit agreed aloud, with a nod and a smile to Fiona Xavier left. “For the time being I think it would be best for her to stay in the med bay, so I can keep an eye on her injuries. I’ll find more suitable clothes for her” Beast said leaving the med bay as well.

Fiona started to blink tiredly struggling to stay awake, Remy moved the now empty tray to the side and covered the girl up more with the blanket on the cot. As the girl’s eyes closed Gambit felt arms wrapping around him from behind “I think this will be a good thing, I think you make a good daddy” Rogue teased whispering in his ear, making a blush cover his face and spread to his ears.

~~~~~

I plan to make a part 2

Part 2

[daisynik7]

Lipstick Lover

Pairing: Kishibe x f!reader

Word Count: ~1.5k

cw: porn without plot, smut - PIV sex (cowgirl), lipstick play, nipple play, blowjob, cunnilingus, spanking, pet names (slut, good girl, sweetheart, princess), multiple orgasms

Summary: You test out a new shade of lipstick while on vacation with Kishibe. Author’s Note: This is for @heavenlyevil's Summer of Pleasure event, check it out! Thank you for hosting this! Inspired by Lipstick Lover by Janelle Monáe, absolutely love this song. Likes, comments, and/or reblogs are always appreciated, hope you like this one! MDNI banner by @/cafekitsune.

It’s the first day of your vacation with Kishibe at an all-inclusive beach resort in Hawaii. The two of you flew in late last night, with only enough time to check-in to the hotel and settle into your room. Today, you’re prepared to lounge on the beach, soak up the island sun, and drink Mai Tais until the both of you are happily blitzed. However, your boyfriend always finds a way to throw a wrench in your plans, which isn’t always a bad thing. 

Kishibe waits for you on the couch, aloha shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chiseled abs. Seeing him in anything but his standard Public Safety uniform is jarring, but part of you is thrilled to witness this side of him. You come out of the room in your bikini, sarong wrapped around your waist. He smirks at the sight of you, spreading his thighs wider in his seat. “Look at you.”

You smile, twirling for him. “Like what you see?”

“Absolutely.” He stands up, walking towards you for a kiss. His hand trails down to your bare waist, caressing you. “You sure you don’t want to stay in the room today?”

You giggle. “We didn’t come all the way here just to stay in, did we? Oh! Let me put on my new lipstick before we head out.” Returning to the bedroom, you retrieve your makeup bag, searching for the one you bought specifically for this vacation. He follows you inside, standing behind you, hands in his pockets, watching you carefully apply the rouge. When you’re done, you stick a finger in your mouth, sliding it out quickly to collect the excess.

He hums curiously behind you, clearly amused by what you just did. You turn to him, giggling. “What?”

He steps to you, thumb grazing your chin. “I think you’ve still got some left. Here.” He slips his thumb past your lips, sliding it across your tongue. You suck on him, eyes glued to his, until he slowly pulls out, a string of spit dragging with it. He swallows hard, tracing the outline of your mouth with his wet finger, smudging it at the corner. “Oops. Looks like I messed it up. You better fix it.” His voice is low and gruff, filled with lust. 

Your stomach flutters, familiar with the hungry look in his eyes. Withing breaking your gaze, you reach behind you for it, rolling it up to paint it aimlessly on your lips. “Is this better?”

“Not sure. Try it out on me,” he says, pointing to his neck.

You tilt your head, pressing a kiss right below his jawline, leaving a stain on his skin. He inspects it in the mirror, tutting. “Still not enough. More.”

Obeying, you reapply, making sure you have enough on to cover the rest of his neck, maybe even his cheeks. Your body tingles with excitement, knowing exactly where this is leading to. You scatter kisses across his chest, marking him with different opacities of red. He bows his head so you can kiss his cheeks, particularly on the scar that runs along the left side of his face. Lastly, you land on his lips, kissing him sloppily, the pigment smeared on his mouth and yours. 

He leads you toward the bed, sitting at the edge, shrugging his shirt completely off. His fingers brush the marks you left for him, eventually trailing down to the waistband of his swim trunks, sliding them down until they’re pooled around his ankles, kicking them off. His cock springs against his abdomen, glistening at the tip as he leans back on his hands, thighs in a wide stance. “Put that gorgeous mouth on me, princess. Want it pretty just like your lips.”

Kneeling in front of him, you wrap your fingers around his shaft, puckering at the tip, licking off his precum. He groans, cock twitching as you sink down on him, surrounding him in your wet heat. “Fuck. You always suck it so good,” he praises, his hand gently resting on your bobbing head. You hum against him, too full of his engorged dick to speak. You’ve since stripped your sarong off, fingers rubbing at your clit from outside your bikini while you fist his cock into your mouth. He stares at you, barely blinking, not wanting to miss a second of this deliciously obscene show you’re putting on for him. 

“Take it off and touch yourself,” he demands.

Nodding, you slip out of your bottoms, dipping your finger in your arousal to flick it against your bud. At the same time, you swallow him whole, guzzling his dick as far down your throat as you can. He’s got both his hands on you now, gripping your head firmly while he thrusts slowly inside you. With your free hand, you cradle his balls, squeezing them delicately with your fingers. He swears, bucking his hips suddenly. “Fuck, I’m going to come if you keep doing that.”

This only makes you torment him more, gliding to the tip to swirl your tongue around it, fisting his shaft quickly until he comes, pulsing his hot seed inside you. You swallow his load, spit trickling from the corners of your lips. There’s makeup smeared all over his cock, evidence of your dirty deed. “Look how pretty it is, covered in my kisses,” you purr, still fingering yourself, admiring your work.

“Want to mark you too.”

You raise a brow at him as you stand in front of him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He hoists you onto his lap. “Put it on me.” 

You uncap the lipstick, giggling as you apply it on him, velvety with the maroon sheen. “My turn,” he growls, sucking on your neck.

You grind on him while he decorates kisses on your body, tinted imprints on your collarbones, your cheeks, your forehead. He removes your top to latch his mouth to your breasts, suckling at your nipples until their swollen and peaked. His hands grip your hips, rocking you back and forth on his lap, his cock beneath you, still smudged with crimson. 

“So fucking sexy,” he says, laying down on the bed. “Let me taste you.”

You crawl to him, turned towards the headboard, straddling his face carefully. He laughs, delivering a loud smack to your ass. “You always act shy at first. Come on. Smother me with this pussy. I know you want to.” Grasping your hips, he pulls you down to him, pressed to your cunt, dragging his tongue on your clit. He devours you messily, wet squelches getting nastier with each passing second as you ride him, clutching his hair. 

“Fuck my face, sweetheart. Just like that, fuck,” he muffles, slobbering on your dripping pussy. Red is blotched all over his lips now, chin shiny with saliva and slick. He reaches one hand towards his cock, which is hard again, surrounding it in his fist to stroke it. “Love eating out this perfect cunt. Gets me so fucking hard.”

He sucks on your clit until it’s plump in his mouth while you whine from the sensation, limbs spasming from the pleasure. You feel him grin against you, cooing, “Is my good girl going to come?”

“Yes,” you answer in a hurried response. You ride him faster, clit tingling as you gush on his tongue. He moans, licking every drop of your orgasm to swallow down his throat. “Think you can take my cock?” 

Catching your breath, you nod, lifting off him to position yourself on top, rubbing your swollen pussy along his shaft. You brain is hazy, but still, you crave more of him, especially that perfect cock inside you. “Fuck me, Kishibe. I want it, I want it.”

“Yeah?” He watches as you guide his dick inside you, sliding in smoothly. “You want me, huh? My perfect, little cock slut. Then take it. Take this cock.” 

You bounce on his lap, his cock deep inside you, stimulating your sweet spot repeatedly with each thrust of his hips. His fingers dig into your flesh, holding you tightly at the waist, guiding your body with his. You’re high on ecstasy, intoxicated by the pleasure. He slaps your ass several times, hard enough to leave a burn that ignites your skin. You lean forward, collapsing on him, too spent to continue riding him. He takes over, planting his feet to the sheets, pounding you relentlessly until you’re unraveling for him once more, coating him in your arousal. 

“That’s it, get it fucking creamy for me,” he whispers, nibbling at your earlobe. “You want my cum now?”

Too fucked-out, you nod dumbly, tongue lolling out of your mouth. He chuckles, swiping his thumb across your lips. “I can’t hear you, sweetheart.”

“Yes. Please. Fill me up,” you beg, twitching around him.

“So needy. Always begging me to stuff you,” he teases, fucking you rough, bed creaking beneath you. “Fuck, I’m coming, princess. I’m coming.”

He shoots inside you, arms wrapped around you in an intimate embrace, kissing you. You’re both a mess, rose stains spattered on your body, especially blurred over your mouths. Sweat dewy on your skin, white sheets twisted below you and smudged with residual makeup. When he pulls out of you, his cum trickles out of your slit slowly, leaking down your thighs. You roll over next to him, exhausted and beyond satisfied.

He turns to face you, caressing your cheek. “So…have any other shades you want to test out?”

[sharpedgedfool]

i fucking love your monster au design for shadow could we have some lore abt him? (if you want to :])

Apologies for the essay I'm about to drop for your ask jddfgsdkgf, but here's a sketch as a peace offering and I'll drop all the lore I have for you under the read more! Glad people are interested in it cause I'm currently obsessed with it lmao

OK so basically Eggman in this universe is still the mad doctor type, he’s just obsessed with the occult instead of robotics. He’s a mortal human but hunts monsters for experiments and he’s obsessed with gaining supernatural powers to rule the world, and Sonic and Amy with their usual group are his main enemies.

He has a big following of humans (who think he’s trying to save them from monsters) and a rather large army of other monsters who work for him - so he has a ton of resources despite being a 'regular dude', and he’s slowly collecting spellbooks and teaching himself magic.

He finds a rare grimoire, and it unlocks a treasure trove of dark magics. Now his big master plan is to summon a demon to serve him and gain ultimate power, to do this he needs the seven emeralds for the ritual.

Sonic and Amy are the main hero duo in the story, Sonic was cursed with lycanthropy as a child when a pack attacked his village, he was spared because he was young, and went to find a witch in hopes of a cure. The witch he found was Vanilla, her daughter Cream, and Amy who is her apprentice. Before Sonic could be cured he made friends with a few other cryptids who live in the same woods and in the end decided he’d rather stay cursed with them as he had nowhere else to go anyways. He’s not in a traditional pack (all were-creatures) instead they have a rag-tag group with all kinds of different monsters that live with the witches (Tails and Knux are in there somewhere I promise jkfgdhdf). He likes having the werehog strength so he can fight back and protect his new family.

Rouge is a born Vampire, not turned. Her parents were killed at some point and she took over their coven after she avenged them and proved herself worthy. She’s like the Queen of sorts and rules over a majority of the vampires across the world - she has eyes (and ears) everywhere, there's very little she doesn’t know about. So Sonic and Amy ask her for help when they realise Eggman’s planning something big. She has a huge hoard of gems locked up in a big spooky cliffside castle, she’s obsessed with treasure still. She agrees to aid them to overthrow Eggman in exchange for the seven emeralds for herself. She doesn’t want to use them for their power, so they agree.

Everyone teams up to find the emeralds first, but Eggman outsmarts them, and the ritual begins before they can stop him, and once it’s begun it’s irreversible. The only thing they can do at this point is change who the demon is bound to, so Sonic throws himself into the curse (he already has one after all).

Shadow is the demon that’s summoned. Typical demon pacts imply that he’ll do whatever the summoner asks, granting them ultimate power, but he’ll get their soul in return. The catch is if Sonic never asks him to do anything, he’s technically not indebted and Shadow won't get his soul. It’s a game of temptation, but since Sonic was technically an unwilling participant, Shadow's more intrigued than anything - he’s confident Sonic will eventually cave and ask him for something (they always do) so he doesn’t attempt to trick him, he sees no need.

Sonic now has a demon chained to him constantly, and he’s extremely on guard (demons are as powerful as creatures get in this universe) and he’s off put by how genuine Shadow comes across. Shadow asks a lot of questions, and Sonic assumes he’s doing it to learn how to manipulate him - Shadow finds it amusing. Eventually they get used to each other, Shadow and Rouge get along well (though they both tease Sonic mercilessly together so he tries to avoid her but Shadow will nag him to visit) Amy tries to work on a spell to break the bond between them but it's a notoriously hard spell to break (perhaps impossible as they destroyed the grimoire in the fight with Eggman), but eventually Sonic and Shadow are both unsure if they want it to be broken at all…

Sonic starts asking Shadow questions too, and finds out more about Shadow. Originally he was an angel - thousands of years ago he had a mortal friend (Maria) and the two of them were inseparable. Unlike demons, angels rarely interact with the world so her village mistook her good fortune as witchcraft and assumed Shadow to be a demon. They killed her over it, and Shadow was heartbroken - in a fit of rage he lashed out, wiped out their town and proved to them he could be the demon they thought he was. He became a fallen angel, scorned and bitter - not born of pure evil but clearly capable of carnage all the same.

Unlike hellborn demons, Shadow doesn’t enjoy mindlessly committing atrocities - he has to feel it’s a necessary evil or he’ll turn it on his summoner (this makes him dangerous to summon, he’s normally considered off-limits). He’s one of the more powerful demons but he’s hard to reason with to make it worth it. Eggman targeted him specifically because he thought Shadow would side with him as Maria was a distant ancestor of his.

Once the annoyance of being forcefully summoned wears off,  Shadow’s rather pleased Sonic isn’t trying to use him for anything - he’s secretly happy to have someone with decent morals to hang out with (he’s an outcast in hell for obvious reasons) but he’d refused to make mortal contact with anyone willingly after Maria for fear of resigning them to a bad fate all over again.

Again thank you for reading!! I'll have more art to share soon!! :)

[theocddiaries]

Sonic: Shads, I'm going to pick up Tails from his club. Rouge's apartment is near that. Wanna race? Shadow: I'd like to race. Assuming you actually go near Rouge's house. Sonic: …Where do you think I would take you? Shadow: Who knows? You said you'd be home yesterday, but you came home three days ago. You say you're racing me to Rouge's, but for all I know, I'll end up in a deserted amusement park. Or a cornfield maze. Or a back alley dog fight. You tell me. Sonic: …I'm going to pick up Tails and Rouge's apartment is on my way there. Race me if you want. Shadow: You know, I find myself wondering if anything you've ever told me is true. Sonic [grunts. Mutters to himself]: I didn't make it back. I plummeted to the Earth, dying heroically, but I went to hell because I shoplifted from the convenience store during the first ten years I was stuck here… Those years weren't as bad as I thought, I guess.

[theothernads]

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ ❛❛ ᶜʰᵃᵖᵗᵉʳ ¹: 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧...💀 ❞ ᯓᡣ𐭩

♡ྀི ₊ ❛❛𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬❞ ☰

𐙚 Synopsis: ₊˚⊹♡ : With the third magical academic year starting, you and Jungwon plan to have a normal school year and complete many goals. Except, you have to earn Enchantix with your frequent burn-outs, and Jungwon wants to become a full-fledged warrior and push past his anxiety. With their own goals in mind, they feel like 2 idiots that keep meeting by chance. However, when mysterious events threaten the magical kingdoms and schools, the specialists and fairies have to figure out the culprit and save the magical universe. But fate has other plans for their adventures and for your ‘coincidental’ meeting with Jungwon.

☰ TAGS: Winx Club smau, enhypen smau, slow-ass burn fic, violence, action and adventure, angst, college smau, fantasy au, strangers to lovers. ᯓᡣ𐭩

┈➤ 𝖸𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗐𝗈𝗇 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ ➤ft. NewJeans, Enha, TXT, BTS, esp, Jungkook, Itzy, Le Sserafim. ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

Wc: 925

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"THE BULLSHIT HE SAYS," YOU MUTTERED as you turned off your phone and shoved it into the hidden pocket of your white dress.

Minji saw your little look at your device and smirked a little. "Was that your older brother?"

Judging by the scowl on your face, she could tell that it was the correct assumption. With a small nod, you stood up straight and backed away from the wall you were leaning on.

"Yup. His lazy ass isn't bothered to get a drink," you replied solemnly. Hanni chuckled a little and crossed her arms in amusement.

"Older brothers are exhausting."

You sent a small smile to her as you looked towards the buffet table a few metres away. The party was thriving with people from the third and fourth years of their academic practices from Red Fountain, Alfea and Cloud Tower.

The specialists, fairies and witches.

The night was nigh, the purple sky embedded with stars in the clear landscape. Around the premises of the courtyard were lanterns glowing with rouge flames, giving the place a warm atmosphere that made your muscles relax. The music was faint, but it was there, people were talking and laughing, walking and lounging on benches.

It was crowded to say the least, but not so much that you couldn't navigate your way to the drink table.

Hanni spun a lock of her electric blue hair from the remaining black strands as she gazed at you. "I'll save you a dumpling."

"Thanks, Hanni," you murmured and absentmindedly brushed the flowers that just bloomed in your hair, above your ears. When you plucked a petal, you saw the white it appeared to be — symbolising the simplicity you felt.

Danielle smiled at the phenomenon. All the girls found it peculiar that your scalp basically had roots where flowers could sprout randomly and show your emotions. It was an interesting story to tell when you met them two years ago. Freaky, but intruiging.

"I'll be right back," you said and immediately set off, brushing off the petals softly to rid of them, and they shimmered into thin air when they floated away from you.

You managed to easily maneuver around the throng of people until you approached the long, white table holding an array of glasses of different colours. All looked tasty but you're here for your idiotic brother as well.

Sighing to yourself, you began to hastily walk along the table, thinking you were careful to avoid people.

There was a pink drink, the bubbles popping into the air and catching your attention. It also smelt wonderful, refreshing even.

Just as you walked and reached out to grab a cup, you felt someone jostle into you, making you yelp and stumble back a tiny bit. Then, you felt a wet patch at your stomach, and when you looked, you were horrified to find your white dress stained with a red liquid.

"Fvck!" Someone breathed and you gazed upwards with slight annoyance, not enough for any annoyed, crimson flowers to sprout among your strands.

When you actually saw who committed this abomination, you froze and saw a boy. He was tall, black wavy hair that slightly covered his eyebrows, brown eyes full of regret and apology. But he was wearing a mask and you couldn't see the rest. You stared, astonished before blinking back to reality.

He looked down to the clear mess on your clothes and his hands dropped the cup as they awkwardly hovered about your waist.

"I am so sorry," he said again, looking back up at you with those cocoa eyes of his. Oh, right. The damn stain.

"It's... fine," you said slowly, wondering if your magic could be pulled to your fingertips; however, you could not feel the magnetic pull on your energy, and that meant no spells.

You sighed and grabbed a napkin nearby. No one else seemed to notice thankfully, but you would need to find the girls to magic away the stain. You dabbed the napkin on your dress.

The boy stared and ran a hand through his hair as if wondering how he can compensate you. Then, he started to unbutton his white shirt. You blinked in alarm.

"Whoah, what are you—"

"I have a vest on underneath." He continued to unhook the buttons as he momentarily silenced you. "It's the least I could do."

He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and you were drawn to his broad shoulders, his biceps and honey skin. Then, the deep orange sun tattoo ingrained on his right bicep. You didn't say anything as he handed you his white shirt.

This was unusual, but until you could find your friend group again, you had no choice. And you felt grateful. He did not need to do so much, but he did anyway. You could tell he was feeling guilty.

"Thank you," you mumbled as you took his shirt and pulled it on yourself. It was warm of his skin and it covered the horrid stain. You only buttoned the bottom ones.

The boy in the mask sighed in relief, audibly, and looked you up and down before gazing away with frantic eyes.

"Um... sorry, again."

"It's fine. I'll try and return this to you," You said softly and avoided his gaze as well. The silence ensued and the boy nodded, before he backed away a little when he heard his phone buzzing from his pocket.

You took the chance to also distance yourself because, after all, you still had to get your stupid brother a drink.

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[NOTES]: omg, first chapter!! I am so excited, lmao <3 Also, I am STRESSED abt my girls NJ. I hate HYBE and MHJ for dragging my girls thru the mud 😕 anyway, REPOSTS, COMMENTS+ LIKES are appreciated. And ew, I'm so sorry abt the crusty ass quality

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊[TAGLIST]: @dreamiestay

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The Other Hand (Part 1): Satoru Gojo, Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: When an emperor finally finds his match, he'll do anything to keep her. But what they need most is an heir, which seems to be an impossible task. What one hand does, the other hand must keep secret.

wc: 1.2k

tw: mentions of nakedness

masterlist

next part ▶

author's note: jesus christ. Let me dust off this blog at least once a month.

This is a mistake.

Your hands shake under the weight of the rings being slid on, one by one, one for each finger.

A man who has dismissed his concubines - all ten of them - is not an emperor. He's a fool.

"And your wrists, Your Majesty." You shape your hand so the various bangles can weigh on your arms. Each metal adornment makes a clinking noise against the others, and for a second, you wonder if you're meant to be the noisiest woman in the room.

In and out of the bedroom?

Your thoughts veer to your martial duty as the doors to the outside world open wide. A black-haired, black-eyed man walks through, his face devoid of any expression as he approaches your metallic figure on the pedestal.

"The ceremony should begin in ten minutes." You swallow hard at his words but bow your head slightly anyway. The gold hair ornaments are silent, but they weigh on your skull, still.

"We're almost through with her," one of the women calls out, waving a hand at the man. "Geto, would you be so kind to hand me the... the..." She snaps her fingers, her face contorting into confusion. You watch as he reaches for the item in question - a pot of rouge - and hands it to the woman. "Thank you," the woman replies easily, taking the pot and tapping at it carefully. As she smears the color onto your lips and cheeks, you eye the Hand of the Emperor with curiosity. You'd spent only four days here in this new land, but Geto seems to be everywhere Emperor Gojo is not.

"Do you always read people's minds?" Once the question has left your newly red lips, you know you can't wring the words out from his mind and retract them. Geto huffs, frowning, but places his hand on his ceremonial sword, preparing to answer you.

"Only when they need me to." It's the driest answer you've ever gotten from the emperor's right-hand man, but nevertheless, it amuses you.

"Geto," you begin, dropping your voice down to a whisper. "Is it true what they say about the Emperor?" Geto frowns again, then leans closer to you.

"What do they say, Your Majesty?" Someone reaches down to remove your shoes, and you grunt with the effort, trying to find the right words to say.

"That he dismissed all of his concubines." Geto spreads his hands, glancing back and forth between two invisible people beside him.

"Do you see any here?"

A fool, indeed.

Sprinkles of jasmine fragrance are flicked upon you, and without much flourish or fanfare, you're finished. You're unable to ask your final question as you're led from the small quarters you called your rooms and towards the emperor's suite. Your cheeks flush at the thought of completing a marital duty without ever having seen the famed "six-eyed" man, but you know deep down that you'll do anything for the title you'll earn afterward.

Empress.

The ornate room - colored in deep reds, bright blues, and golden hues - is devoid of any other humans when the doors open for you. You exhale, expecting a waiting party of five or six others to greet you. Alas, there is no such party. It's just you and the woman who took the task of leading you here.

"You can undo your robe," the woman murmurs, taking her thin fingers and undoing the tie at your waist. You instinctively clutch at it, but let it go almost as fast.

"Sorry," you murmur, but no one gives you any assurance.

"Sit on the bed and tuck your legs." You do as you're told, the metal ornaments chilling your skin and making you shiver in the silence. As you wait patiently, the curtains are drawn closed, and a semi-darkness envelops you in the room, full darkness beat only by a two candles flickering.

Once the woman leaves, you sit still, listening to the silence. Blood rushes in your ears as you wait, and wait, and wait...

"... you'd think they'd have fixed that by now." Your eyes fly open at the sound of a familiar voice - Geto - and the door creaks open slowly, softly squealing with the effort. More than one pair of feet enter the room. They take measured steps, and each one brings you closer to--

"They lied." A new voice murmurs. You want to turn your head to meet the emperor face-to-face but there's no way you can do it without seeming insubordinate. "This isn't the one. Not the one from the portrait at least." You swallow hard, remembering the long hours you spent sitting for the portrait your family sent to him. A hand reaches out to touch your earlobe, and you tilt your head on instinct, leaning into the contact carefully. The hand cups your chin, smoothing over your skin before they take more steps toward you. The scent of musk overcomes you, and you shudder, goosebumps following the path of the hand on your skin.

"She's much prettier than that canvas led me to believe." A pause. The hand retracts, and you try your hardest to see anything other than the emperor's slim figure wavering before you. A glimpse of a face, a mouth, anything.

Without warning, the emperor leans forward, trapping you between his muscular arms and staring at you closely. A pair of ice-blue eyes meets yours and you gasp, leaning back in a cacophony of metal and tinkling.

"Don't you think, Suguru?"

A hand reaches up to touch your bare belly and runs downward over your smooth flesh before you attempt to wriggle out from his grasp. "Where are you going, beautiful?" The blue eyes turn curious, and you mutter something intelligible. Emperor Gojo smiles at you, then takes your shaking fingers and places your left hand on his clothed chest. He crawls over you without another word - without express permission - and you stare in shock as he envelops your vision entirely.

"She'll do just fine, won't she?"

"Your Majesty," Geto grumbles, obviously unamused. Your breath hitches in your throat and something in you urges you to run from such a predatory type of man, but you're frozen underneath him, naked and afraid.

"All of these ornaments," Gojo quips, grabbing your wrist and sneering. "Didn't I specifically ask for--"

"You know they don't listen," Geto answers quickly.

"You don't need these." Hands quickly make work of the bangles, the rings, the necklaces, the gaudy hair pieces, tossing them to the floor with various clinks until you're fully undone and bare. "No one needs that many jewels. Especially not you, y/n." Gojo smiles to himself and sits back on his haunches, eyeing you with admiration, not greed. "She looks much better, don't you think, Suguru?" Geto grunts once. You look over at the stoic and see him avert his eyes carefully, attempting to protect some of your modesty by not leering.

"Would you do your concubines like this?" you ask breathlessly, finally finding your voice. Silence answers you. Gojo blinks a few times, then huffs a short laugh, shaking his head slightly.

"That's what they call them now? Concubines?"

"'Playmates' is juvenile," Geto responds, now looking at you with a blank expression.

"It's all pomp and circumstance," Gojo replies, waving his hands. "It's got nothing to do with reality."

"But you got rid of them."

Gojo tilts his head at you carefully, his lips pursed. "Wouldn't you get rid of others if all you needed is right in front of you?"

[promiscuouspomegranate]

✧. ┊     My Little Dancer // 1

⇢º. AFAB! Showgirl Reader x Mysterious Person 🤫

.❥❧ Y/N temperament is confident and rude.

TWs: Stalking and extortion. More down the road

You are responsible for the content you consume! Stop reading if you feel uncomfortable.

I never liked the bitter aftertaste Marlboro reds left on my tongue, but I’d still finish the pack by the end of the week—a few days if work was particularly stressful. My former psychoanalyst remarked that I was stuck in the oral stage. I was too drunk to recall how I responded, but I am no longer welcome in his office or most in the city. Anger, what an amusing emotion. I forget where the quote comes from, I was always too pretty to pay attention in school, but most regard it as a temporary loss of the senses. I believe it is a heightening.

I took a final drag of the cigarette before I put it out on my aching neck. I flicked the butt onto the sidewalk and stumbled to the back door. A lithe, timid woman quickly scurried past me, fumbling with her string of cream-colored pearls as she muttered a few curses and prayers. I had half a mind to shout at her for shoving into me, but I was like any other gentleman—couldn’t bring myself to do it when such a pretty little thing was in tears. Poor girl just wasn’t cut out for the life of stardom; I could hardly blame her. Come into a jazz club with those periwinkle eyes and adorable angel curls, and you’ll only last a day before you break.

“Where the fuck ‘ave you been, Y/N? I’m telling ya, I can’t do this shit anymore! I can’t,” My beloved manager shouted in between unsteady breaths, “You’re on in five fucking minutes? Did ya spend so much time whorin’ around in school ya can’t read a clock? I swear, ya woman and your—”

“And our what, Kolenkov? Tread lightly,” I hummed as I strolled past him toward my powder room. I smirked at him to send a benign threat, “If you piss me off anymore, I’ll break the pretty little ornaments on stage… again.”

“Break whatever ya want… ya bitch!” He wiped the sweat off his lightly wrinkled forehead with an embroidered handkerchief and hoarsely shouted for a cola.

“Sweetheart, I think you need water and a beer,” I shouted from inside my room as I lounged at my vanity, “Too much sugar and your poor heart is going to finally give out.”

I muttered the sultry lyrics of my performance as I touched up my makeup. I never let another girl touch my face; jealousy tended to style me when I did. I opened the intricately carved drawer and gently rummaged through it.

“Where did I put it…?”

My practiced gentleness and poise dissipated, and I pulled the drawer out and angrily dumped its contents on the tabletop. In the process, I chipped a fingernail and felt like bursting a blood vessel.

“Laura, for the love of God, where the fuck is my rouge? I’m not wearing the cheap shit on stage anymore. Find me my Djer-Kiss or—”

“I uhm, I don’t know where it’s at, but you’re on in two,” Her lip quivered as she held her clipboard in front of her face. I pushed past her trembling form to get what I needed.

“My hair needs to be sprayed again! Where’s the hairspray at, Annie?”

“Like I know what you do with all your junk! Where’s my hat? Bettie, where is my hat?”

“Keep track of the men you meet up with after shows and maybe you’d have an easier time finding it, Annie.”

“Y/N, your fuckin’ rogue is over here,” Kolenkov’s legs trembled as he puffed out smoke, “Ya fuckin’ bitch! Get out there before you miss your damn cue!”

“Oh, go cool off you fat fucking tomato,” I quickly applied a dark burgundy onto my cheeks and powdered my face again. I rushed past fellow showgirls and slammed into Laura as I tried to grab my heels, “Laura, doll, either you do something useful or you get the fuck out of the way.”

“B-but your—”

I grabbed Laura by the collar of her silk blouse and pulled her close to my face.

“Did you ever wonder what you sound like to others? Because, doll, your voice is something so grating, I can’t even begin to express it to you. So, here’s how it’s going to work, okay? You’re going to stay the fuck away from me until I am shouting for you. I don’t care about what a backstage bitch has to say about my performance,” I took a deep breath and flashed a smile sure to break her heart, “It’s all about me, doll. Maybe if you lost fifteen pounds, you’d be able to sing with the big girls. Stick to Sunday choir, and I’ll stick to fully booked shows.”

I looked down at Laura as she started to cry and scoffed. She wouldn’t last a week more if she kept on fucking crying.

“Y/N, get the fuck on stage, now. I will finally fuckin’ fire—”

“You can’t fire what everyone comes to see; this place’ll close down the second I step out or realize I’m better than this joint.”

I glared at Laura again before reaching behind her to grab my heels. I noticed she flinched, and my brows softened.

“The fuck— I don’t have time for this,” I sighed and shoved past every other girl.

I strutted up the metal stairs and could hear the audience chattering outside. A scruffy man helped me into the bedazzled birdcage, and I slouched on the perch. I emptily stared at my fingernails and swallowed the lump in my throat. Everything had to be perfect.

“The other girls are melting away. Kolenkov is melting away. Laura is melting away. My chipped fingernail is melting away,” I mindlessly maundered as I heard Kolenkov tapping on the microphone.

“Welcome, ladies and gents. It’s truly a pleasure—a blessing from the Lord above—to see so many of ya faces again. Though, can’t say some of ya have aged well!”

I grimaced as the audience roared at his quips and wit; he wasn’t very funny or charming. I knew why they were here. I chewed on my already broken fingernail as he rambled about the girls and how he loved us to death.

“Just—”

“Now, I know when I’m no longer welcome! Honestly, if I didn’t love ya folks so much tonight, I’d have half a mind to kick ya outta here,” He chuckled, and it queued the audience into laughing as well, “But it’s time for the star of our little show here. Ladies and gents, meet the prettiest little peacock in all of America! Introducing our beloved Cherie Flambe, the Pittsburgh Princess herself. Careful trying to get a slice of that pie, ya have one bite, then you finish the whole thing.”

Blood trickled down my pointer finger as the crimson curtains slowly unraveled. I sucked in my stomach and fluttered my long black eyelashes, and the bird cage slowly descended. This was it; it was all about me. The lead saxophonist started to snap his fingers, and the white spotlight nearly blinded my eyes, but thank the stars, I was born for the stage. The second my wine-red lips opened and started to sing that jazz, everyone was utterly enthralled with me. What I wore, oh God, if only I could see those ladies' eyes as they bitterly whispered to their pathetic lover boy, “Why can’t you ever buy me something like that?”

I rocked back and forth in a vibrant array of blues, greens, and purples that shimmered underneath the hot spotlight. My bodice gleamed with vibrantly iridescent plumage that formed some sort of intricate pattern, dipping low enough to reveal the costars of the show. As I sensuously swayed across the stage, my skirt flowed and swished around my hips, and I made sure I not only ruffled tailfeathers, but showed them. As the show progressed, I tore away the skirt, revealing all the flamboyant little feathers adorning my legs. I knew the uptight ladies in the crowd would scoff and flutter their flimsy fans to showcase their disapproval. I wish the same happened to their senile husbands. I threw the old dogs out there a bone when I tossed my garter into the audience.

I blew kisses as the music came to a glorious swell, and I began to glide offstage. I didn’t bother to stay for the raucous cheering; there was always plenty of time to schmooze with all the gentle and rough men after the show. I noticed Annie’s legs were shaking and furrowed my thin eyebrows at her.

“Hun, you’re too much of a catch to be shaking like that. Save that for the lads out there, and they’ll lose their damn minds.”

“Easy for you to say, Y/N…I mean, Cherie! You have a whole lot to show off and, I dunno, I feel—”

“Save your feelings for when the audience heads home. We’ll open up a bottle some sucker gives me after the show, if you don’t find your own.”

I squeezed her and rushed off before Kolenkov could have a heart attack over our interaction. I ambled through the dressing rooms until I came across mine. I rolled my eyes as I noticed the old door was cracked open; Annie must’ve borrowed my lipstick again. I sighed as I sat down, staring at my face in the mirror. I plucked my eyebrows with my tweezers, hoping to cool off a bit—we weren’t allowed to smoke until the ladies were gone, something about etiquette. There was a shy knock at my door, and I knew exactly who was hiding behind it.

“Laura, I’m not actually going to kill you. Look, I— Just say what you need to say,” I yawned and poured myself a glass of merlot to unwind.

“You.. You have some gifts already. C-can I come in?”

“Just leave ‘em outside. Don’t really care unless it’s diamonds or cash.”

“O-okay.”

I waited until I heard her kitten heels scamper to the next thing before I opened the door. I noticed the basket of neatly organized letters, roses, exotic perfumes, and chocolates.

“No wine? Fuck, I’ll have to bat my eyelashes at Kolenkov, these bastards are getting cheap.”

I disregarded the rules of not being allowed to eat in costume as I opened a box of imported French dark chocolates, crumpling the note on top of it and tossing it out. I sorted through the letters and saved the prettier ones to read with Annie. I finished a bonbon and felt oddly nauseous as I stumbled across the last letter. It was damp—never a good sign—and simply had my name on it in a beautiful cursive.

“Oh, what the hell, why not.”

I ripped it open and choked on the piece of chocolate I was trying to swallow. As I spat it up, the half-chewed treat had the decency to cover my nudity. I languidly rummaged through the photos and felt tears burn my eyes. Usually, I’d never be terrified of my body, but I felt like the devil himself was dragging me to hell. I didn’t bother with reading shit the degenerate must’ve written as I tore up the photos. A fist pounded on my door, and I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted metal.

“Get ya ass outta there. You’ll have plenty of time to brood after ya show off to everyone. Got a couple of friends who wanna greet ya, maybe give ya somethin’ nice in exchange for a kiss or two.”

“Uhm, alright.”

There was a brief silence, and Kolenkov came inside.

“Normally, I’d tell ya to get ya shit together, but I’m feeling exceptionally decent tonight,” He sat beside me for the first time in a year and stared at me, “Spit it out.”

“I don’t know, I’m fine.”

“I hate it when women say that, y’know?”

“Better get used to it. Women hate you.”

“Atta girl! Now, c’mon, I’m doing ya a favor,” He extended his bulky arm for me to grab, and he escorted us out into the bar, “These guys are richer than the Rockefellers, I swear.”

I had never felt so exposed in my life, but I guess that was the life I was hellbent to live. I flashed the group a lovely smile, knowing my performance wouldn’t be over until I was alone.

[aimfor-theheart]

kaeya figure skating au? :O

ANON........you are a genius for this.....need you to know this fr almost killed me. i took psychic damage reading this ask. its haunted me all night. i wanted to get to it last night but it sent me on an ice skating youtube binge watch. specifically watched tessa virtue and scott moire's 2018 olympic routine for the millionth time. then it sent me on a moulin rouge binge. you understand....

i swear i could probs turn this into a whole fic/series.

figure skating au

kaeya x reader

cw: none? sorta rivals to lovers.

∘₊✧───────────────────✧₊∘

this isn't working.

you slam to a halt on your skates, ice flaring and coating your partner's leg warmers with a layer of frost as you stop directly in front of him. just short of him.

the music, this passionate tango of baying strings, blares around the ice rink still.

"keep up," you snap over the music, "you're lagging behind me too much."

kaeya alberich, three time silver medalist, raises his brows. "perhaps you shouldn't rush through the routine."

"you're holding me back—i need momentum for these leaps and lifts."

"i'll guide you into them," he says breezily, "you don't trust me."

"how can i?!" you demand, arms flaring, "when you're always too far behind me!"

the music abruptly cuts off and jean, your coach, finally gets herself onto the ice to try and stop whatever argument has sparked this time. it's been like this since the beginning; since they announced the two of you would be paired together this season.

with your usual partner out on an injury and kaeya's desiring a season off for her wedding and honeymoon, you'd both nearly not skated this year. which, for you, would've been devastating. you'd do anything to stay out on the ice—even take kaeya alberich as your partner.

separately, the two of you are powerhouse skaters. the better half of each of your previous partners; you both can do the more impressive turns and tricks. but together? a volatile cocktail of arrogance and passion.

"what's the problem now?" jean asks, already tired.

"he's lagging behind me!"

"she's rushing the routine."

jean sighs, shaking her head. "you two need to get on the same page about this."

"tell him to speed up—"

kaeya huffs, "tell her to slow down. she's missing beats."

"as always, there's a middle ground here—" she says, then looking to you, "you are rushing a little, some moments you need to let breathe."

kaeya's smile is a satisfied curve, a cat that got it's canary. you feel an angry flush hit your face.

but then jean rounds on him, too, "and you do need to pick up the pace a little—you're peacocking too much on the ice. the piece needs passion, momentum."

"ha!"

"it needs you two to focus on each other." she says sternly, "there's a story here, between you, and you need to tell it. right now it's like you're skating separate routines, together."

after a moment of tense silence between the three of you, jean looks between you. "was that clear?" she demands.

"yes." you both respond, unwilling to look at each other still, though.

"try again. and focus on each other—listen to each other's bodies. skate together."

with that, she turns away from you both, grumbling something about the two of you being impossible. maybe something about divas. finally, you pick your eyes up to meet kaeya's.

"i need passion." you snip.

"i need breath." he replies back. but then he offers his hand to you, "come on."

you take hold of it, the feeling natural now to have his hand in yours, to find their places against one another. the two of you skate back to the center of the ice and resume your beginning positions across from each other.

you look at him, across the ice from you. he looks back. you take your poses.

"just focus on me this time." he calls out to you.

"you focus on me this time." you bark back.

he smiles, an amused curl and vows, "i won't take my eyes off you."

the music starts with low, plucking piano notes. you breathe deep. you keep your eyes on him. he lowers his chin, determined, eye lidded as he keeps his gaze on yours, too.

the first moment of contact is a leap into his arms, a burst of passion when the strings come in. he catches you easily, nimble and strong, as he lets you down onto your skates—then the two of you are moving, swirling, gaining speed.

as he guides you around the curve of the rink, taking position behind you, his hand on your middle, he says, "breathe here—take your time."

you arch into his hands, let him guide the moment as your arms flare in a bird's wing glide. he turns you to face him and you skate backwards.

"eyes on me." he says then, low and only for you, moving with you, gliding, and you—

you pick your head up to really look in his face now, to sway and move and see him. you move around each other, swirling, head whipping back around to keep your focus on him—only him.

the music swells.

your eyes on his. your heart races.

you move harder for speed. a lift sequence is coming up, followed by some quick-style turns.

"catch me if you can, alberich." you call to him, pushing for it.

and in an instant, he's picking up his pace, racing for you with speed and grace and determination. his hands come around you, one beneath your thigh, the other over the curve of your body.

in an instant, you're airborne, skates clear off the ice and flipping backward onto his shoulder. he's got you easy—he's got you fast—and when he sets you back onto the ice, he gives you a burst of speed and you launch from his arms like a bird taking to flight.

your turns are a sharp, brutal set. you keep tight, you keep fast and brilliant.

"come back to me—slow—slow." kayea calls and when his arms find you again, he says, "breathe again here."

and he takes you like that, gliding, guiding, showcasing the arch of your back, the extension of your leg and arms. you breathe with his hands on you here, body flaring.

you can almost feel his smile, turning around him like petals on the wind, like the swirling waves of the sea, or a fire licking around the tree, "that's it." he purrs, "now let me chase."

and he sends you reeling, sends you off with a burst.

for once, you both get through the entire routine. it isn't as clean as it could be but—

jean hollers when the music ends, coming back down onto the ice while the two of you are still breathing hard.

"finally!" she says, meeting the two of you, "a glimpse of hope!"

you laugh, breathless, as you skate over to her. kaeya's hand lingers on your lower back for a moment from the routine, before you feel it slip from you.

"did that feel better?" jean asks the two of you pointedly.

you look at kaeya. he looks back at you.

"a little." you admit sheepishly.

"it's a start." kaeya replies.

jean sighs, but she says, "now listen close—i have critiques—"

and you try to focus on her, but you can feel kaeya's gaze still on you. you can feel his attention burning straight through you, you can feel him at your side and behind you, all around you, like you're still out on the ice.

you can feel him, his voice still in your head, his hands guiding your body through every turn and lift and move.

i won't take my eyes off you.

[h-worksrambles]

I haven’t really spoken much about Sonic x Shadow Generations here since it came out but I have to say, I absolutely loved it. It’s the most fun I’ve had with 3D Sonic since…well, the original Generations in 2011. It has brilliant levels, fixes most of my problems with Sonic Frontiers and was an all round delight of an experience. In addition, it’s the first time in a long time that a Sonic story has genuinely impressed me. In a series where the narratives tend to either be a hodgepodge of badly executed anime tropes (sometimes in campy charming ways and other times not) or barebones excuse plots, this one (especially factoring in Dark Beginnings) was focused, cohesive and well presented in a way Sonic stories rarely are. I don’t have to add any qualifiers like ‘it’s camp!’ or ‘it’s a good idea’ or ‘it’s got some good moments’. It’s just legitimately well done.

And a big part of that was how well the game captured the character of Shadow. So I thought it would be fun to look back at the turbulent history of this guy, why the concept of him getting his own game this year had me both excited yet worried, and why the result so pleasantly surprised me.

Shadow first debuts in Sonic Adventure 2 and he’s a really entertaining character, here. Aside from having an aesthetic and music presentation designed in a lab to be the coolest thing a 2000s kid will have ever seen. He’s just smug and confident enough to bounce off of Sonic in an amusing way, but he has enough pathos to his character and backstory to remain endearing. There’s a lot of surprisingly thoughtful concepts regarding identity, memory and revenge that his story touches on. Couple that with his backstory that gets into darker territory than anything in the series prior and he’s easily got the most going on of any Sonic character. The only real critique I have is his story feels like it tries to do too much in such a short game (with a wonky translation). It asks a lot of big questions about the nature of memory to an artificial life form but doesn’t have much in the way of answers. Plus, his heel turn to the heroes’ side definitely feels a bit rushed. It effectively comes down to his true memories coming back a narratively convenient moment, and doesn’t give him much agency to make his own decisions. Like, nothing Amy says to him really gets through to him, nothing in his experiences over the game prompts a change of heart. Amy conveniently just happens to say the right thing to jog his memory. Shadow starts the game wanting to honour Maria’s memory and dies the same way. He’s just remembered what she actually wanted now, But his death is still pretty effective in the moment.

Is he basically just Mewtwo from the first Pokémon movie with the serial numbers filed off? Yes, but he’s the perfect encapsulation of SA2’s appeal. It’s a game that is camp and brave enough to own it. Even at its clumsiest and most derivative it’s consistently charming, and plenty of moments of unironic sentimentality shine through.

Unfortunately, he got so damn popular that Sonic Team refused to let him rest, so the next game, Sonic Heroes, saw him immediately revived and given amnesia. Which is a huge shame, as there was a lot of potential in Shadow coming back, reflecting on his actions in SA2 and actually having to put the work in to redeem himself and find a new purpose after clinging to revenge for so long. But we skate over that with a lot of pretty undercooked intrigue about how he survived that goes nowhere til the next game. Partnering him up with Rouge and Omega to create Team Dark is a good idea, even if this game gives them very little to do. But it’s the next two games where Shadow’s prominence would really peak, and where I have the bulk of my criticisms.

Shadow the Hedgehog and Sonic 06 are two of Shadow’s most prominent showings in the series and to their credit, they do in some ways rectify that lack of agency I mentioned in Adventure 2. Shadow’s own game is all about an amnesiac Shadow’s search for answers while everyone around him puts pressure on him to be where they want: be that a hero, a weapon, or the villain of their story. The game then ends with him renouncing the expectations everyone else has placed on him. Not just Black Doom but even Gerald and Maria, renouncing his past entirely and so forging his own path, which carries neatly into Sonic 06. As much as I find reviving him with amnesia to be a trite and frustrating direction for the character, this is probably the best thing you could do with that premise. Making the new Shadow distinct from the old Shadow and so, in a sense, keeping that character dead.

That being said, there’s a big issue Shadow runs into here: He starts to become really boring. Maybe it’s just being in two Sonic games with bad writing and voice direction but Shadow loses so much personality here. There’s none of that cocky charisma that made him such a good rival to Sonic. In his own game, his amnesia reduces him to a blank slate, whose demeanour and motivations change in a dime depending on the last person he talked to because of the game’s botched morality system. Meanwhile, in 06, he suffers the same character writing issues as everyone else, droning out the plot in flat monotone delivery. While he makes out a little better than most of the cast as he gets an actual villain to face off against and more meat to his story, the presentation really hurts it. 06 tries to confront Shadow with a character who wants to tempt him back to his old vengeful ways, in the form of Mephiles, thereby cementing how far Shadow has come. Unfortunately, that temptation was pretty much Black Doom’s deal in the last game, so once Shadow rejects Mephiles outright, there is no conflict. It’s a case of like…two good scenes amidst three hours of nothing. There’s a fine line between stoic and dull. As compeling as the idea of making post amnesia Shadow effectively his own character is, these games struggled to give him a personality distinct from his SA2 persona. Now his personality is just ‘does cool shit’. I think Takashi Iizuka and Shiro Maekawa both got a little too fond of Shadow, and he really started turning into a creator’s pet. Cartoonishly badass and hyper competent in a way that upstages every other character. Shadow basically dominates 06’s plot and upstages every other character, but so much of his charisma has been lost at this point that he still ends up feeling dull. It’s played so straight and framed as ‘sooooo cooool’ but is so overwrought that he already feels like a parody of himself (think Legolas in The Hobbit movies).

After that, Shadow took a huge backseat from the series for over 15 years. With his backstory put to rest and with the series skirting away from the kind of dramatic or complicated plots that would give a character like Shadow a meaningful role, he’s left to hang in the background. And as much as I love Sonic Unleashed, Colors and especially Generations, this didn’t really prove a long term solution. Execution has always been the Achilles heel of Sonic writing and switching from clunky melodrama to clunky jokes ended to just being a short term bandaid, that worked fine for a few games but led to diminishing returns in the long run. A lot of people criticise this period of Shadow being ‘written like Vegeta’ more concerned with his rivalry with Sonic than anything else, with no time given to the pathos and relationships with other characters that kept him relatable. But that’s a mostly a product of how minimal his role is here. In something like Sonic Generations, where Shadow’s role is to be a boss fight and his motivations have to be understandable in two lines tops, that flanderization is the unfortunate result. Aside from a decent showing in Sonic Forces, where he serves a simple but serviceable role, there’s not a lot to say in comparison to when he dominated the franchise. And while I think that overexposure was a problem, I never wanted him to go away. I just wanted something that reminded me why I liked him in Adventure 2 to begin with, where his edge and ‘badassery’ didn’t make him feel like a parody of himself.

Then comes Shadow Generations. Shadow Gens borrows from both aspects of him. It walks back on the idea of post-amnesia Shadow being wholly distinct from SA2 Shadow, which some might not like. But it’s worth it for the story it tells. Shadow’s rejection of his past is reframed as him effectively running away from the trauma of it all because it’s simply too painful, nearly demonstrated in the final scene of Dark Beginnings. Providing him with a chance to meet Maria and Gerald again draws out some vulnerability from him without being overdone or too cloying. There’s a nice arc about Shadow learning not to run away from his past, to accept the good parts while still renouncing his ties to Black Doom. The result is that it simultaneously feels Ike both a tribute to Shadow’s 2005 spin off and a do-over, revisiting those concepts with a clearer head and more time to cook. His overall characterisation is also closer to that stoic confidence mixed with pathos that made his SA2 self so likeable, especially when you factor in Dark Beginnings. Yes he’s framed as so cool that it starts to get a bit ridiculous, but it’d easier to embrace the campy fun of that when he’s also legitimately sympathetic. His arc feels more focused and tighter executed than past attempts to develop him, but it still builds on those older concepts despite their hit or miss execution. And it all builds to an ending that is just the right mix of earnestly sweet and restrained to end the whole game on a genuinely touching note.

It’s also nice to see the Team Dark dynamic be used in a less…cursed game than 06 where it can shine a bit more. Rouge and Omega aren’t in the game a ton, but the optional conversations with them, and especially their role in Dark Beginnings, gets the to heart of what makes this found family of badass messy bitches so appealing. It takes a lot to draw any emotional frankness out of any of these three but it hits hard when they do finally open up to each other.

Shadow as a character is sort of a perfect encapsulation of the good and bad of Sonic storytelling. It’s admirable that the series tries to tell bigger stories, but the writing often isn’t strong enough to carry it. But walking back that scope and energy doesn’t really fix the issue, as it simply leaves the series feeling vanilla and only brings those fundamental issues of poorer execution into sharp focus. And Shadow Generations’ ability to recapture that energy while avoiding the common pitfalls is what makes it so refreshing.

The last few years have seen Sonic as a franchise experiment more with storytelling than they have in years and the results left me decidedly mixed. While Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog was a delightful reminder of just how charming these characters can be with good writing, Sonic Frontiers felt like a return of all the series’ bad writing habits. Overwrought, derivative, tonally dissonant trend chasing that reaches for big ideas that it can’t do justice, with poor presentation, rushed, forced execution and a general sense of thinking it’s way more profound than it actually is. It really felt like 2000s Sonic was back in the worst way, moments of promise amidst a hot mess that felt both over and undercooked.

But that just made Shadow Generations even more of a delight. It didn’t feel like it was intentional downplaying itself to avoid scrutiny like Sonic Forces or Lost World did, but not did it feel like it was constantly chasing after trends like Shadow the Hedgehog or copying frantically off its anime cheat sheet like 06 or Frontiers. It kept a clear consistent focus on exploring and celebrating Shadow’s character, with good pacing, a refreshing attention to continuity, solid emotional beats and well done cutscenes.

This feels like the sort of thing the Sonic series often wanted to be, but regularly fell short of. A campy, exciting action romp focused on its likeable characters. And it was the capstone on an already really fun campaign that made for a brilliant addition to what was already my favourite 3D Sonic game.

I’m delighted that Shadow Generations got me excited about Sonic again, but I’m just as happy that it made me excited about Shadow again.