#great fairy of flame

[katlimeart]

Made in 2022

If you’ve seen this anywhere else, I posted it back on my deviantArt when it was made.

Mario girls cosplaying as Great Fairies (The Legend of Zelda)

1 + 2. Fairy Queen (Wind Waker)

3. Oracle of Ages/Seasons

4. Link’s Awakening

5. Great Fairy of Forest/Great Dragonfly Fairy (Four Swords/Minish Cap)

6. Great Fairy of Flame/Great Butterfly Fairy (Four Swords/Minish Cap)

7. Great Fairy of Ice/Great Mayfly Fairy (Four Swords/Minish Cap)

8. Four Swords Adventures

9. Fairy Queen (Four Swords Adventures)

10. Twilight Princess

[redratoon]

I don't think I've ever posted him so, here's the big guy!!! Winx Club's GREAT DRAGON!!!!!

[blindmagdalena]

All That Glitters

18+ 15.7k words. Dragon!Homelander x F!Reader fantasy au, messy world building, referenced cannibalism, handfeeding, super dubious consent, sexual coercion, monster anatomy, size difference, cunnilingus, breeding kink, dirty talk, marathon sex, mating bond/bite, knotting, tongue baths, virgins, scent kink, overstimulation, body betrayal, fairy tale schmoop. AO3 Link!

Summary: In a world where the only currencies that matter are gold and blood, the gods are lavished with both. Your regions god is a fearsome beast said to reign hellfire from the skies should his appetite not be satiated. When the demand for human sacrifices increases, you make the choice to volunteer yourself, determined to bring an end to the bloodshed, and ascend into the jaws that await you in the old stone tower deep in the woods.

illustration by the ever incredible @anon-nee, who was instrumental to the writing of this fic. see the full piece here! originally written for Monsterlander Mania, but obviously spiraled wildly out of control.

For as long as you can remember, there have always been sacrifices.

Such a thing is not unique to your village. Gods–and the creatures worshiped as such–throughout the world demand all manner of recompense for protecting the lands of those who idolize them. If the slaughter of a single lamb ensures green pastures in which the herd may thrive, few ever think twice before they lift the blade.

Not all townships worship for benevolence, however. Yours has always worshiped for mercy.

For generations, stories of hellfire raining from the sky have been passed by your people. A great, terrible beast with wings as wide as ten men were tall once patrolled the skies above you, wielding power so devastating that not even ballistae firing bolts the size of tree trunks could fell it.

It had a hundred names, each more terrible than the last. Scourge of the Skies, the Red Death, Flame’s Maw, and perhaps most unfortunately, the Devourer. Named as such for the countless lives it began to claim when treasures were deemed an insufficient tribute. Sacrifices were initially sparse, required only every dozen or so seasons. As time went on, the Devourer grew greedier and greedier, with the timespan between sacrifices shortening.

By the time you offer yourself to the council, there has been a sacrifice every month for over a year.

The wagon hardly jostles on this well-trodden road. You imagine it used to be a rougher ride, but with the increase in frequency of travel, it has smoothed. The thought worsens the feeling of icy weight in your stomach. One might think the exquisite fabrics you’re dressed in would bring some measure of comfort–softer than anything you’ve worn before–but the extravagance of them only serves to further alienate you from yourself.

You have become a thing. A finely adorned offering, and the fabric makes your skin crawl for it.

The tree cover breaks, revealing a monolithic stone tower that stands so tall, it splits the sky in two.

The Tower of the Seven. It’s been generations since anyone knew exactly what it was named for, but legend speaks of mythic creatures that were once held in such reverence, this tower was built in their honor. It served as both a temple and home to these venerated beings.

The years have not been kind to it. The stone pillars have become wild with overgrowth, and the air about this place reeks of stale, old death.

It stands now as a graveyard.

Even the horses refuse to venture much further than the threshold of the treeline, forcing you and your attendants out of the wagon to tread the remainder of the trek on foot. The men who walk with you carry short swords, but they serve no practical purpose, their edges having long since dulled. They are not here to protect you, they are as much a part of the ceremony as your fine clothes.

You shield your eyes as you look up at the staggering height of the tower, but swiftly drop your gaze. Best not to think of what awaits you.

On paper, sacrifice seems a simple thing. Slitting one’s throat upon an altar, floating a burning pyre across the river, or feeding the tribute a concoction of sleeping death and burying them into eternal slumber. Murder can be a righteous thing in the hands of a believer, or so they say.

For you, and those who have come before you, martyrdom is not as effortless as lying down and dying for the cause. The tower presents a trial to you. You must willingly climb the hundreds upon hundreds of large stone steps in order to prove yourself a worthy tribute.

Why you must prove your flesh worthy of consumption is beyond you. You’ve never heard of a farmer who sends his cattle to run laps before the slaughter. It seems a petty thing to demand. Perhaps the Devourer has grown indolent and slovenly in its feasting.

It’s easy to dream up nightmarish images of such an awful creature. A legless winged wyrm with a ribbed body, fat and slimy like an oversized earthworm. It would have an enormous maw with hundreds upon hundreds of jagged teeth, its breath reeking of charred flesh and sulfur. Such a wicked beast would stink like the layers of hell. 

Somehow, tormenting yourself like this is an oddly calming distraction. The more nightmarish it becomes in your mind, the less real all of this feels. It’s just a bad dream.

No one speaks as you reach the base of the tower. There’s nothing left to say. You’re one of a dozen in the last year alone these men have ferried to their death. It almost seems cruel to expect eye contact, let alone sympathy. For that reason, it catches you off guard when one of the older of the three, a man named Hector with a thick set of troubled brows furrowed above kind but bloodshot, watery eyes puts his hand on your shoulder, offering a light squeeze.

The last sacrifice had been his own daughter.

In his gaze you find grief and gratitude in equal measure. Neither brings comfort. You return a small nod and move your eyes back to the ordeal that awaits you. 

The tower is like an optical illusion: the proportions make it seem a reasonable size at a distance, but the closer you walk to it, the more mythical a thing it becomes. The archways curve high above your head, sized for creatures of legend, and the head of the building disappears completely into the sky.

In the center of it, a spiraling stone staircase beckons you. The masonry is exquisitely smooth despite the age of it, carved in an era when magic was a hundred times more prolific than it is now. It’s wide and open, the steps so large that you’ll be taking them one at a time. Worse than that, however, is the complete absence of any kind of protective railing.

If you sway, you very well may fall to your death.

At the center of the spiral stands a pile of debris. As you approach, a rustling catches your attention and you freeze, eying the pile warily. The head of a creature suddenly pops up, startling your heart into a thunder, but after a beat you recognize it for what it is: a small fox, its muzzle dirty. The two of you stare at one another for a long moment before one of the men behind you calls out, “Shoo, shoo now.”

Everyone keeps hushed, as if terrified of disturbing what is yet unseen.

Moving closer, you anticipate you might see a dead rabbit, or perhaps a chicken. Anything would have been a more welcome sight than the gnarled half-eaten body of a woman dressed just like you piled amongst the debris. You gasp, both hands flying over your mouth as you stumble a few steps backwards.

For a horrifying moment, you swear you see your own face in the rotten remnants staring back at you with black, empty eye sockets. It’s the hair that gives away the delusion, however, and with a chill down your spine you recognize the sacrifice who came before you; Hector’s daughter.

“Nadja,” the man groans morosely, the weight of grief in his voice palpable. You move away, towards the stairs, and watch with a morbid sort of fascination as the man weeps over the corpse of his daughter, touching her hair and her clothes, the only parts of her not twisted and rotted with death, the body left for maggots and scavengers. It’s sick, nothing like the beautiful and noble gesture sacrifice is always said to be. You look up at the dizzying height of the spiral staircase, following the line of it until the stone disappears into darkness. Did she fall, or was she cast away, having somehow proven herself unworthy?

In a strange sense, watching the men wrap her body in cloth to be carried home feels very much like playing the part of voyeur to your own demise. You stand at a distance, hand braced upon the stone, unable to shake the dread that you’re witnessing a vision of the future. Your future.

No. You will not be left for the insects and carrion-feeders. You turn your back to the sound of Hector’s weeping and, without another world, determinedly begin your ascent one large stone step at a time. Although you feel the men’s eyes heavily upon you, they remain silent, as if already grieving you.

Do not, you think brazenly, skin flushed with unexpected fires that bring your blood to a boil. Do not dare mourn what isn’t dead.

Those flames burn hot enough to carry you easily up the first several floors, indignantly stomping your way. You’ve heard stories of this tower all your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the true scale of it. Most of it is in a terrible state of decay, full of overgrowth and rot that, centuries ago, may have been wood and cloth.

You stop for a breath beneath the remains of what looks to have once been a vibrant mural. You can see trace evidence of beautiful paints, but whatever it depicts has been brutally clawed from the stonework. You lift a hand up high to trace one of the deep gouges in the stone; the marks are spread too far apart for your fingers to reach, but you can make out five distinct patterns nonetheless, like drag marks from a hand three or four times the size of your own.

Beyond the ruined mural, there are statues, too. You pass a grand monument of a woman who stands over seven heads tall wielding a sword of equal might, the statue adorned with steel bracers. You think she might have been beautiful in the same way a frightening storm is, but the head of the statue is long since gone.

On the next floor, you see upon the ground the ruins of a statue of a mermaid–at least, you thought it was. Upon further inspection, however, you see that the statue depicts a man. He has the lower body of a fish and strange indentations along his ribs, just beneath his bare carved chest. He, too, is headless, torso split horizontally, stone strewn across the floor.

This temple must have belonged to these lost figures, their monuments as desecrated as the rest of the tower. Whoever the Seven was, the world has since forgotten.

You wonder if the Devourer did this, defiled this temple to erase whatever history of heroes came before its tyranny.

Ultimately, you only find six statues. None of them have managed to keep their heads, and some are in worse shape than others. You imagine the seventh might have been destroyed entirely. It’s easier to imagine how or why these things might be than it is to focus on how badly your body aches, how you started this venture with the morning sun barely upon you, and yet you barely feel any closer to your destination as the darkness of night encroaches.

Every limb screams for rest. You stop occasionally, but you feel you must not sleep. Was poor Nadja pitched to her death for sleeping through her trial? You’d rather not find out. You’re not even sure if you would wake with the same angry conviction that drives you forward now, climbing step after unforgiving step. It’s gotten colder the higher you’ve gone, too. There’s a chance if you slept amidst the stone, you would turn to it yourself.

“Grant me strength,” you whisper to whomever may be listening. Be they fae or devil, benevolent or malevolent, it would be a boon to know there was some manner of being on your side.

You lean on the wall far from the edge as you ascend the spiral, too nervous of a fall to look over the edge and gauge your progress. A brisk wind chill has begun howling through the tower, whipping your clothing about and biting at your skin. You hug one arm tightly across your chest, bracing against the cold. At this rate, you’ll make for a crunchy meal not just for your bones, but for the frost you arrive covered in.

Your foot slides on something on the step that shifts and clatters. You nearly fall, heart hammering in your chest as you manage to catch yourself. Looking down, you’re shocked to see a pile of shining gold coins spilling down the steps amongst the debris. There is enough wealth discarded on these steps to see a dozen families fed for years and years to come.

You must be getting close. Carefully, despite the tremble running through your body, you shuffle your way through the mess, kicking it aside when you need to clear more of a path. The sound of rubble and gold and the like falling off the edge of the steps makes you flinch, the prolonged clattering of it serving as a reminder of just how agonizingly high you’ve managed to climb.

The familiar flicker of fire light draws a gasp of relief from you, tears gathered in your eyes from the sheer pain of moving your body forward. You can see shadows dancing across the walls, beckoning you from the cold with the barest hint of a warm draft. You’re practically crawling up the steps now, every part of you aching horribly. The tremble in your body is so severe, you worry you would fall to your death if you continued trying to walk through the hoard of treasures that have spilled down the steps.

You practically sob with relief when you reach the final step, limbs quaking beneath you as you haul yourself up onto the top floor and away from the awful railless edge of the spiraling stairs. You bury your face in the fold of your arms. The mixture of relief and exhaustion is so intense, the rest of the world falls away briefly, and the only thing that matters is catching your breath while you all but dry heave on the floor.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you were going to make it,” purrs a resonant, honied voice, snapping you immediately back to reality. You shoot into an upright position so suddenly your head spins, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision.

Before you rests an enormous circular hall lit with dozens upon dozens of torches. The walls are lined with beautiful arched windows, and the interior is piled nearly to the vaulted ceiling with obscene amounts of coin, weapons, artifacts and similar treasure. Your gaze drifts towards the center of it all, where the source of the voice awaits you.

As it turns out, The Devourer is no oversized earthworm.

Reclined upon a magnificently carved marble throne, you behold a creature made of equal parts man and beast. Even sitting, his stature easily brings him heads taller than you. He is adorned exquisitely in gold embellishments–jewelry and piercings alike–and rich navy slacks, serving as a fine centerpiece to the lavish, untidy wealth that surrounds him. He wears a crown fit for a king, the jewel of it a radiant blue that matches his sharp predatory gaze. His lips spread into a wolfish grin. You’re utterly bewitched by the flash of his fangs.

“Rise,” he orders you, gesturing with a clawed hand that’s easily the size of your head. His rings shine beautifully in the firelight. “And speak.”

Shakily, you fight to climb to your feet. Worm or not, this man–this creature has been preying upon your people for generations. You remind yourself of the countless lives lost, of the mourning families, of Nadja’s desecrated corpse and the sound of her father weeping over the rotten remains of her. You steel yourself. 

“You who the people know as Scourge of the Skies, Red Death,” you begin, blinking rapidly. Your head began swimming the second you stood. You’ve never been so worn out in your life, and though there are flames here that offer a slight degree of warmth, the cold has sunk deep into your bones. As you speak, your vision gradually begins to tunnel. “Flame’s… Maw… and the Devourer,” you address, fighting desperately to stay focused even as he fades in and out of clarity. “I’ve come to pay my village tribute, and to… to…”

The darkness at the edges of your vision thickens. Your words feel heavy and slurred on your tongue. You sway, feeling your own head slosh like a bucket of water, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward, and the world goes black.

That was anticlimactic.

There was a time he would have been met with awe. Reverence. He didn’t expect you to simply black out.

Scourge, Red Death, Flame’s Maw… Maw. He’s always despised that word in particular, and the ugly imagery it evokes. Just a handful out of hundreds of names he’s been called over the years–if you can call them that. Many border on insults, if not are so outright. The most tolerable name he can remember is Homelander.

They called him that in celebration, he recalls. Those were the last of the days he had any care left for them.

He blows a smoky little raspberry as he stands, hands clasping behind his back beneath his wings. His tail sways idly as he approaches, tentatively intrigued by your splayed form. It’s rare that a sacrifice makes it all the way to the top at all, let alone in a single day. The last one only made it halfway before she decided falling to her death was a kinder fate than him.

Truth be told, he should have reigned hell upon their little village for her insolence. Fortunately for them, her display filled him with far more apathy than it did fury. He crouches down near enough to touch, though he hesitates, hand ghosting just over your body. He tilts his head to the side. Your breaths are shallow in your sleep, a slight wheeze to each one. Your body is clearly overexerted.

Delicately, he slips his hand under your cheek to turn your face to him, examining your features. You’re prettier like this, the tension drained from your expression and replaced with peace. Certainly not the worst tribute he’s been offered. You were at least determined to reach him.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He won’t kill you. Not yet.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, supporting your comparatively slight form with ease. You feel as frail as any mortal might, but the weight of you in his arms strikes him with a peculiar sense of melancholy. He takes pause, more closely observing the shape of you cradled in his arms, head lolled against his chest. You fit there nicely, small as you are. He can almost pretend you’ve simply fallen asleep in the crook of his arm; somewhere you’ve always belonged.

It’s an intriguing little fantasy. He hasn’t felt the need to indulge in one of those in a long while. He keeps his eyes on you as he walks you to the collection of pelts gathered on the far side of the room, where he lays you down atop them.

What had you been intending to say before you passed out? Your departing words spin round and round in his mind while he looks you over, lowering himself until he’s on his hands and knees above you. Tributes used to come richly adorned in jewelry and glittering things, but such pageantry has long since vanished. He’s surrounded by enough of it that the absence doesn’t bother him anymore.

The glitter of gold hardly catches his eye these days. He doesn’t call for sacrifices to add to his wealth. He only seeks to quell his boredom. Perhaps you will prove useful for this, at least for a time.

Pressing his clawed thumb lightly to your chin, he tilts your head away and leans in, nosing up the line of your throat, lips barely ghosting your soft flesh. He inhales the salt-sweet smell of you, a mixture of sweat, the dusty stone steps you’ve scaled, and the sweet herbal oil bath your kind always receives before you’re sent to him. The blend is strangely intoxicating on you.

It makes him wonder if you taste as good as you smell. Parting his lips, his split tongue spills past them and drags a slow serpentine pattern from your neck to your jaw. Mmm, fuck. You taste better than you smell, the rich oil you were bathed in still clinging to your skin beneath the salty tang of your sweat.

It would be too easy to devour you. He groans quietly at the thought, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s known few things more intimate than sinking his sharp teeth into warm, pliant flesh. The feel of a pulse slowing against his tongue. The metallic rush of blood down the back of his throat. He hasn’t craved human flesh the way he does right now in years, yet something in the scent of you has ignited that primal aspect of him. Salivating already, he swallows it away and draws back.

Not yet. He still wants to hear what you were going to say.

It makes him smile to see the goosebumps that have erupted on every inch of your exposed skin. He cocks his head to the side and trails his index claw down the center of your chest, dragging down the pretty white fabric of your sacrificial dress, stopping just shy of the swell of your breasts. More goosebumps there, too.

None of it compares to the sound that you make. In your sleep, your brows furrow, and you exhale a noise somewhere between pain and sheer exhaustion, your small hand brushing his as you adjust against the pile of plush fur pelts. His gaze drops sharply, hand lifting tentatively. After a beat, he sets it down lightly atop yours. Captivated, he watches your whole body respond to his touch, turning and curling in towards him like a flora bending to the light of the sun.

Fascinated by your innate reactivity to him, Homelander lowers himself onto his side next to you. After a beat of hesitation, he encircles your wrist with his thumb and index finger and brings your palm flat to the warmth of his bare chest. A tantalizing shiver rolls through your unconscious form. Just as he had anticipated–hoped?–you follow the feel of him, moving completely onto your side and into him, breathing out a shuddering little exhale while the fire that runs through his veins warms you.

It isn’t enough to stop you shivering, though. Shifting, he spreads out his wing and curls that over you, blocking the draft that spills in from the surrounding windows. Only then does the tension in your body begin to ease, warmth chasing out the chill from your bones.

Homelander smirks, feeling inexplicably accomplished over this mundane little feat. He’s never particularly cared for the comfort of his tributes before; they’ve never served as anything more than playthings and meals. You should be no different. He knows you would be a delectable thing on his tongue, warm and wet down his throat, yet the thought of you in pieces–cold and unmoving–instantly vanishes his appetite.

He wants you in a new way entirely. Against him, with him. He wants to taste more of you, drag his tongue along the plains of your body and see how else you’ll react to him. He wants to find the places that quicken your breath. Would you sing your pleasure for him? He’s barely heard your voice, but already he can imagine it vividly.

You would. You will.

He’s begun to pant at the thought alone, smoke wafting from his mouth, his eyes softly aglow with crimson light. The smell of you has filled his senses so thoroughly he feels intoxicated by it, and between his thighs, his cock has begun to throb. He leans closer and nestles into your hair, inhaling deeply, a rumble leaving him on a warm exhale.

His entire body has taken on the heavy pulse of his heart, alight with the most visceral feeling he’s had in centuries. This is more than hunger, more than carnality–you mean something. Never before has he felt compelled to find pleasure in the frail body of a human, yet his blood sings it voicelessly in the back of his mind, his every instinct screaming one word again and again and again.

Mate.

Homelander had given up on the concept of a mate a long time ago, given that he’s… abnormal. Sterile. As an unnatural creature, there could not be a natural match for him. Someone who would call to his very blood and set it aflame. Yet here you are, seeking him as desperately as he once sought you. Is that why you were able to accomplish what so few before you had, pushing your body so clearly beyond your limits?

A low, possessive rumble leaves him. Reckless.

He pets your hair, testing the texture with his fingers awhile before letting his hand roam down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, up over your hip, down your leg. You’re no longer cool to the touch or shivering. He flattens his palm to your back and closes his eyes briefly. He’s never heard of a dragon bonding to a human before. He wonders if you’ll feel it too, recognize it for what it is, or if your mortality will make you oblivious to the depths of it.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to shake you awake to find out. 

Instead, he patiently learns the cadence of your heart. He commits your scent to memory, weeding out the natural musk of your skin beneath the herbs and oils you’ve been lathered in. Soon enough he’ll be able to pick you out of a crowd by the thump of your pulse alone, track you down from miles away with nothing but the barest whiff of you. 

Not that he’d ever let you get so far from him now that he has you.

All you’re missing now is his scent. Leaning down, he licks a line adjacent to the one he had prior, and then another, mindful of his horns. The sweet taste of you makes him moan. He spends hours with you tucked in against him, idling away the time by learning your body as well as teaching you his. He nuzzles his cheek lightly against yours just so that he can turn and taste that same spot, something deep and primal in him appeased by tasting himself on your skin. 

“My mate,” he half sighs, half growls. 

He can’t wait to meet you.

Consciousness comes back to you in a gradual slew of sensation. Your fingers twitch, flexing in what feels like a lush, thick pelt of fur beneath you. Your whole body is pleasantly warm, as if you’ve fallen asleep in front of a crackling hearth, the cold of those awful stone stairs a distant memory.

The stairs…

Your eyes snap wide open, your spine going stiff. You’re laying on your back. Something wet and hot is dragging along the exposed skin of your shoulder–your dress pulled askew–in repetitive swipes. Looking down, all you can see is a mess of flaxen colored hair and one long, angular horn, the tip of it adorned in gold. The press of what you can only imagine to be a tongue is unnaturally smooth, as hot as settled coal against your skin. The beast gives a growl, and sharp teeth graze your skin. Your throat feels tight, the scream that bubbles up locked behind the tension of your jaw.

Oh gods, you think, beginning to shake. He’s eating me! 

“Good morning,” purrs a familiar voice, the words vibrating against your skin. He lifts his head from your shoulder, though he doesn’t go far. You half expect to see his maw bloodied with your entrails from all the horror stories you’ve been told, but his grin is as clean as it was the first moment you beheld him. Up close, he’s even larger than you had initially realized. His face is well defined, with strong cheekbones decorated with smooth red scales that ascend into his hairline, where a golden crown sits neatly behind his horns. “Mmm, someone got their beauty sleep,” he says, the words a low, pleased rumble. You’re speechless, watching in bewilderment as he cups your face, hand so large it covers most of your neck, too. “You were out for hours.”

Your eyes dart to your shoulder, where your dress has been tugged down, but your skin appears unmarred. Around you, one of his enormous wings is curved over, shielding you both from the light and the cold beyond. You can’t move your legs, and with a glance, you understand why: his enormous tail is draped across both of them, pinning you in place. You look back at him, eyes wide in fear and confusion. You wonder if he’s been with you like this through the entire night. “You’re… You’re not eating me?”

The broad smile he flashes makes your heart skip a beat. His eyes, though sharp and a shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in the sky, are disarmingly human. Beautiful, even. They crinkle at the corners with what almost looks like fondness.

“No.”

“Why not?” You ask instantly, adrenaline making your voice sharp. “Not that I wish for you to eat me,” you say just as quickly. “But do you not–were you not–” He cuts you off with a noise that you belatedly realize is a laugh, the resonance in his chest so unearthly it gives every sound he makes an inhuman quality. “No, I was not eating you,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Tasting you, yes. And you do taste divine,” he says, leaning in again. You push your head back into the furs as much as you can, but he moves to the side, bringing his lips to your ear. “I knew my mate would.” Mate?!

Your hands fly up to his chest–gods, he’s as warm as hearth stones–as if to push him back, but you may as well attempt to push an oak tree aside. “What?”

He draws back, glancing down at your hands pressed to the bare skin of his chest before his gaze returns to yours, eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure. “Mate,” he says again, deliberately drawing the word out. “Dragons bond only once in a lifetime. Usually to another dragon. Clearly exceptions can be made, and you, precious little thing that you are… appear to be mine.”

His eyes fall shut, he leans in, and with a lurch of your stomach you realize he means to kiss you, his lips pursed and rapidly approaching. Your own lips part and a noise wholly outside of your control escapes you; a scream so shrill and sudden that it knocks even him back in surprise. 

Blinking several times, he gives you a quick once over, visibly expecting to see you wounded and bloody somewhere. He looks back to your face when he finds nothing amiss. “What?”

“I can’t–I don’t know you,” you blurt out, equal parts flustered and alarmed. You can feel yourself burning up, and it isn’t just from the heat of him against you.

“So?” He dismisses, smiling with an array of sharp pearly teeth. “I’m your mate.”

“Humans don’t have those,” you counter, squirming under the weight of his tail. It’s like he’s draped several sacks of grain across your legs. “My lord Devourer, I–”

He scoffs, tail lifting as he shifts, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees over you, his wing unfurling and allowing the sun to spill in, washing you both in its light. “Homelander. If you must use one of those silly names, use Homelander. I’d prefer beloved, though,” he says with a sly lilt to his mouth.

A shiver rolls down your spine. Along with light, brisk morning air has slipped in between your bodies. 

“Homelander,” you repeat, a name you’ve never heard before. It’s a great deal less menacing than the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has been eating your townsman for as long as anyone can remember. “I–”

He takes hold of your jaw with just his index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling lightly over your throat. “You talk too much,” he tells you, eyes hooded and hungry. “Are you going to scream every time I try to kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you choke out, fists clenched tightly in the furs beneath you. He leans closer, tilting his head, his nose barely brushing the tip of yours. “I’ve never been kissed by a dragon before. Like I said, we don’t have m-mmm!”

It happens so swiftly you don’t have time to gather the air to scream. He presses his lips firmly to yours, making a noise so close to a moan that, despite the relative chasteness of the kiss itself, you flush with the indecency of it. It feels… hot. The heat of him is nearly too much to handle, like touching your lips to a hot mug of tea, but there is something intoxicating about it. He uses that heat to mold you to him, pulling you closer, his body sinking down against yours.

You’re too dumbstruck by the whole of the situation to struggle–not that it would accomplish much–which leaves you to simply experience it. His lips are tentative against yours, not harsh or demanding. He coaxes yours with his as if to dance, luring you into something that almost feels good.

Your heart hammers in your chest, his warmth pooling in your belly and spreading slowly through the rest of your body like boiled water poured into a lukewarm tub. He’s immovable, inescapable, and to your dismay, not entirely awful.

 “I want to claim you,” he all but growls against your lips, his other hand clawing slowly down your side, tugging at your dress. 

Your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. “Homelander,” you say, though he’s hardly paying you any mind, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, carving a wicked trail with his lips while his hand dips lower and lower, seeking the bottom hem of your dress. Heart racing, you breathlessly cry, “Beloved!”

That gives him pause. He rears back to look down at you, head slightly cocked, eyes bright and attentive. Your breaths are shallow, pulse pounding in your throat. You swallow dryly. “I’m thirsty,” you tell him, which is no lie. Your throat is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “Horribly. And hungry, I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. You mean for me to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, expression twisting like he finds offense in your words. “You’ll want for nothing.”

“Then please. Water?” You push, praying that he is more man than beast.

He regards you quietly, eyes subtly darting back and forth. There’s a petulant kind of impatience to his gaze that catches you off-guard, like a boy who’s been told he has to wait before he gets to play with his new favorite toy. “Water,” he echoes eventually. You nod. He startles you when he exhales a little plume of smoke from his nose, reluctantly lifting himself off of you. The chill of his absence is immediate. “Don’t move,” he says, suddenly looking displaced. You’ve caught him by surprise. Perhaps you’ll survive this yet.

You watch him rise to his full height, standing easily eight feet tall. You sit up, pulling the furs over your legs to combat the cold seeping in. The muscles of his back give a mesmerizing flex as he stretches his wings out, the span of them just as jaw-dropping as his height. He wears furs over his shoulders held in place with thick leather straps that cross over his back and chest, emphasizing his musculature as well as the crimson plating that covers his body. Spines run down the length of his back, transitioning down into a tail that’s even longer than he is tall. It moves along the ground in zigzags, almost like a serpent. You don’t realize how intensely you’re staring until you look back up and realize he’s looking at you over his shoulder, those piercing blue eyes keenly set on yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. Something about his expression makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. You drop your gaze. “Back in a jiffy,” he says. You look up just in time to see him step off the ledge, those brilliant red wings fanning out behind him. He disappears so suddenly that you can’t help but gasp, sitting up on your knees. You hear the beat of wings against the air, and then a second later see him lift back up into the skyline, twisting in the air before gliding back down out of sight. 

You sit in stunned silence, listening to the fading thrum of his wings. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t know if this is some kind of twisted game he pulls with every sacrifice, or if you’re truly somehow different. You weren’t entirely expecting him to listen to you, but he did. He’s gone, presumably to fetch you food and water. You don’t know how, but you just commanded the Devourer to not only let you go, but bring you a meal.

In hindsight, you’re a little concerned that it was never specified what kind of meal. As far as you’re aware, he primarily eats people.

Adjusting your gown, you haul yourself up to your feet, crossing your arms in a vain attempt to protect the heat of his body lingering on your skin. When that doesn’t work, you pick up one of the several fur pelts strewn on the floor and drape it over your shoulders, sighing in relief. The pelt still holds some residual warmth; a boon over the lovely but ineffective fabric of your ceremonial gown.

In the light of day, you can make out a great deal more detail throughout the lair. The floor to ceiling archways deter you from venturing too far beyond the center, but still there is plenty to investigate. For example, the throne catches your eye immediately. The size of it makes you feel like a child again, navigating a world not built for you. The masonry of it is exceptionally smooth beneath your fingers, save for a handful of deep, jagged gouges that marr the arm rest. Tilting your head, you realize that you recognize these marks: they match those that you’d seen on the ruined murals.

You trace them with your fingers, connecting them now to the draconic claws that, just moments ago, had so delicately followed the curve of your body. He could so easily tear you apart, and yet in that moment you had never known a gentler touch. You pull your hand back beneath the pelt, feeling a shiver roll through you that has little to do with the morning chill.

Mate. That word sticks in your brain like a wad of gummy tree sap.

Circling the throne, you carefully step around the glimmering mess of gold, silver and jewels that litter the stone floor. There’s so much of it that it doesn’t even look real, stacked over itself like forgotten hay bales left to rot. There is more wealth here than you’ve seen in your life. A single satchel of it would keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, and yet here it serves as little more than clutter. As far as you can tell, it means nothing here.

The Devourer stopped seeking material treasure generations ago.

As you explore, part of you expects to find the corpses of all those who have come before you. Dozens upon dozens of bodies stacked up in varying states of consumption or decay, or maybe a monument built of their bones. You find no such construct, though. In fact, nothing about this place seems put together. You can’t imagine the madness that living like this for a week would induce in you, let alone decades.

To the east, movement catches your attention, startling your heart into your throat. It looks like a silhouetted figure at first, but your brain catches up quickly, and you approach the gently billowing fabric. It’s draped over a statue, giving it the illusion of a person, and your curiosity gets the best of you as you tug the drape down off of it.

You suck in a sharp breath. Once again, you find yourself faced with a legend given form– a painstakingly and intricately carved statue in the Devourer’s perfect likeness. It comes as no surprise that this is the only in-tact statue you’ve seen, but what you don’t understand is why it’s even here. If the Devourer was a usurper, some vicious interloper, why would there be a monument to him in the same vein as all the others?

The plaque beneath it reads: Homelander. Son of the Skies, Protector of the Earth.

Devourer, Scourge, Flame’s Maw–these names are all you have ever known, and yet this is the name carved in stone. He was once worshiped not out of fear, but reverence that you can see in every gentle curve of stone.

What happened?

Shuffling closer to the statue, the discarded fabric gathers at your feet. It’s not quite to scale, but it’s a handsome likeness nonetheless. It’s certainly been cared for more than anything else in this place. You wonder if it’s just vanity or if it’s something less obvious. You trace the smooth stonework, letting yourself get a better look at this version of him that’s less likely to eat you.

Objectively speaking, it’s a handsome visage. The resemblance is uncanny, clearly the work of an intensely skilled mason. His jaw is strong, eyes set forward in unerring determination. Tentatively, you touch the lips of the statue. He’d been so certain that he wanted to kiss you. Just the thought of his closeness and heat makes your stomach erupt in a flutter of butterflies.

Mate.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

You barely hear the full sentence, your own scream ringing loudly in your ears. You move to spin around, but your foot catches on the pile of fabric you had dropped to the ground and suddenly your whole body is pitching backwards, the back of your skull destined for the smooth, unyielding stone behind you. Fortunately for your brain matter, your descent is halted just shy of contact, one familiar clawed hand cupping the back of your neck while the other lands at your back, steadying you.

Homelander stands over you, a curious quirk to his brow. With his hand at the small of your back, his claws press lightly through the fabric, effortlessly upholding your weight. He holds you as if you’ve been caught mid dip in a dance.

“Gods, you scared me,” you say, eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you.” You had been so certain you would hear his return based on the sound of his wings when he’d left, but his approach had been terrifyingly silent.

“Yes, I know. It makes me a very effective hunter,” he says, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, taking advantage of how the pelt has slipped off of your shoulder. He inhales the smell of you, prickling goosebumps all over your body. “I missed you.”

“You’ve barely been gone,” you reply impulsively, awkwardly trying to adjust yourself out of this arch he has you in. No use. His size makes him impossible to maneuver around, and your foot is still tangled up in the fabric that he’s currently standing on.

He gives another one of those rumbling sighs, drawing back to look at you. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too,” he chastises you, and though his tone seems light, you’re sure you see a flicker of impatience or irritation in his gaze. Maybe both. Despite how fearsome the sum total of his features make him, you’re once again caught off guard by his eyes. Though the color of them is icy, there’s a distinctly human warmth to them that grounds you in his gaze.

Still, the last thing you want to do is make him angry.

“Oh,” you croak quietly, realizing he’s actually waiting for you to say it, staring down expectantly while he holds you. “I… missed you, too,” you return stiltedly, unsure your hesitant delivery will be satisfactory. Shockingly, his expression lightens, lips curving into a smile. He lifts you off of your feet, untangling you from the mess beneath you and turning around to set you back down on relatively clear flooring. 

“Good,” he purrs, stroking his hand down the back of your head like he’s petting an animal. He seems determined to touch you, but entirely unaware of how to. He cups the base of your skull and tightens the gap between your bodies, enticing you with his warmth as much as he terrifies you with the hunger in his eyes.

You put your hands to his chest, soaking up the heat of him as you vainly try to maintain an ounce of personal space. “Ah, the–the statue, it’s beautiful. Why do you cover it up?” You ask, the words leaving you in a flustered tumble.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, looking at the statue like he’s only just remembered it exists. “Oh, that. Mmm. Don’t always like what he has to say,” he replies, fitting his hand over top of yours, pressing it to his chest. You blink. What in the world does that mean? “You humans chill so quickly. I’ll have to light the hearth next time I leave you,” he says, earning a yelp from you as he abruptly lifts you up into his arms, tail slithering audibly along the floor as he carries you back to what you suppose for all intents and purposes is his nest. His touch instantly warms you to your core, making the fur you wrapped yourself in seem like a thin sheet in comparison. Despite your apprehension, you can’t help the way the tension in your body naturally eases with his warmth. Upon returning to the collection of pelts, you see the fruits of his labor.

Literal fruits, in fact.

Homelander has returned with a small bounty consisting of apples, two melons, and even a handful of peaches, all of it held in a beautiful–albeit aged–woven basket. You don’t get the chance to eat those often; the trees they fall from grow high on the surrounding mountains, and the farmers in your village are content enough with the established agriculture that no one bothers to grow them.

In addition, a tall golden pitcher stands filled to the brim with water. You’re once again hyper aware of just how incredibly thirsty you are, lips dry, throat parched. It’s the only thing you care about, clambering towards it the second Homelander sets you back on your feet.

The pitcher is heavy. It appears made of solid gold and it’s three times the size of any you’ve ever seen before. You don’t lift it so much as you just tip it back slightly, sighing loudly as you drink back the crisp, clear water.  You sputter as the flow abruptly increases, water spilling from the corners of your mouth. Homelander has lifted the pitcher to help you drink, holding it one handed as if it’s no more than a drinking cup, his other hand settled upon your waist. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded, lips gently curved upwards. Once you’ve drunk your fill, you push against his hold and he relents quickly, unnerving you with just how attentive he really is. He sets the pitcher back down and watches you wipe your chin dry.

“Thank the gods,” you sigh habitually, finally not feeling as though there’s grit in your throat with every word.

“I’d prefer you thanked me,” he says coyly, his gaze drifting down to where the water has wet your gown. The fabric clings to your skin, sheer where liquid has touched it.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Homelander,” you correct. It’s taking every ounce of your fortitude to speak in full sentences with the way he’s staring at you, let alone the idle way his thumb is stroking your hip. No one has ever touched you with this mixture of ease and clear intent, the weight of his hand practically thrumming against you. The magnitude of him is a difficult thing to parse both in terms of his sheer size and the legend he represents. You don’t know how to reconcile him with the monster you grew up dreading.

No one warned you that monsters could be warm and handle you gently.

“Time to eat,” he says, setting the pitcher back down. He takes hold of both of your hips and pulls you down with him as he sits cross-legged on the pelts, the circle of his legs large enough that you fit perfectly inside it, your own legs hanging out over his crossed calves. His tail loops around as well, encircling him and draping over your legs. The underside of his tail is not unlike the belly of a snake, with large overlapping scales that layer down the length of it. It’s just as warm as the rest of him, and feels like an unnaturally soft stone that’s been baking in the sun.

Reaching over, Homelander plucks one of the peaches from the assortment. It looked perfectly average in the basket, but between his fingers it looks almost comically small. With a deftness that you wouldn’t expect from a creature of his size, he begins to slice through the peach with his blackened claws, delicately cutting out a wedge that he does not hand you, but he instead brings it directly to your lips. 

You stare for a moment, struck by the rich red center of the fruit, how the juice of it drips onto his hand in sweet smelling rivulets. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he quirks a brow, nodding towards the slice of fruit. You decide that of all the potential battles you have in front of you, this one in particular isn’t worth fighting, and you part your lips, watching him as you do.

His own lips mimic yours, falling apart in quiet entrancement. He slides the wedge between your teeth and watches with rapt fascination as you bite down on it, holding his gaze in an exchange that feels so unexpectedly raw and intimate, your pulse ticks up a notch. You swear he notices it by the way his head tilts ever so slightly, almost as if he’s listening.

“Good?” He asks, voice little more than a rumble.

Gods above and below, it is good. Despite the preternatural heat of his hand, the succulent flesh of the peach retains the morning chill, sweet and cool on your tongue. It’s perfectly ripe, yielding easily to the cut of your teeth and flooding richly across your tongue as you chew. He feeds it to you until it disappears, pressing the last of it in with his thumb, which then follows the line of your bottom lip, smearing the sweet juice on it. You nod and lick your lips, tongue narrowly missing his thumb, and what that does to his expression makes your stomach flip. 

He’s quick to cut another slice to offer you. You repeat this process in silence, the air thick with tension that feels so palpable you’re sure you could swim through it. The sounds of the world have narrowed entirely to the sound of his claw cutting through the delicate flesh of the fruit and the tip lightly scraping the pit inside it. His hands have a sticky shine to them by the time he’s tossing the pit back into the basket, stripped as clean as a bone. 

You chew your final bite, jaw slowing as you watch him take his fingers into his own mouth. He’s unabashed in the way he slurps the nectar off his digits, tongue slipping between them. That’s when you realize that his tongue splits down the middle, dexterously sliding over his fingers to lap up every drop of juice. Not only that, but you spot a flash of gold; the same kind of piercing he has on his ears. Watching him stirs something hot in you, a radiating heat that lights a flickering pulse between your thighs. You audibly gulp the last of your bite, tensing subtly when Homelander looks at you.

Slowly, his lips curl into a devious smile. “See something you like?”

You flush, fighting the urge to look away. Don’t play into it. Change the subject. “What happened to your last mate?”

His expression shifts to something slightly more incredulous. “There wasn’t one. You’re my first, my last, my only. Dragons only bond once,” he says, that split tongue rolling along his sharp teeth, that gold tongue piercing clicking against them. You wonder where else he’s decorated himself with gold.

Wait, what did he say? Your gaze snaps back up from his mouth to his eyes, which are once more set into that self-satisfied slant. He’s closer to you now, and nearing by the second.

My first, my last, my only.

“But I am no dragon,” you say, leaning away subtly, though there isn’t far to go. He’s got you trapped nicely in place, like a butterfly beneath pins. “How could such a bond form?”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” he says, his hand sliding up the small of your back. “I didn’t think a bond was even possible for me. Apparently there’s something different about you,” he says, and you notice a brief twitch of his lip, a flicker that looks just a touch like disdain. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “Something special,” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. 

Your heart races, your capacity for thought slowly disappearing the closer to you he gets. New subject, new subject! You think, frazzled by the warm spiced smell of him. His hand flexes on your hip, claws prickling your skin through your dress. “Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, eyes darting to the basket full of fruit just to his side.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice so low you feel it reverberate. His nose brushes your cheek, trailing down from your jaw to your neck. You shiver, and the pulse between your thighs grows into a steady throb. He inhales deeply. “I’m famished.”

The world around you spins and the next thing you know, you’re on your back staring up at the aged banners draped along the stone ceiling, the fur pelts warm and plush beneath you. Homelander pins your arms down at your sides, once more poised on his hands and knees over you. His tongue draws a wet molten line from the collar of your dress to your throat, and you let out a soft, nervous cry as his teeth graze your skin.

Perhaps he’s going to devour you after all. 

Oh gods! Gods, gods, gods, please no!

“Wait, wait! Don’t–please don’t eat me,” you plead in a panic, pushing up against his hands with all of your might. He doesn’t yield at all. You may as well be pushing against the stone walls of the tower itself.

He does laugh, however. It’s that same rumble of amusement that travels through your skin and into the core of you. “For the last time, I’m not eating you. I can smell your arousal, though. Practically taste it in the fucking air,” he says, trailing lower down your chest with every word, brazenly nuzzling the space between your breasts before continuing down. A wave of humiliation rolls through you at his words, and you look away. He releases your arms in favor of sliding his hands up your bare legs, pushing your dress up with them. “I’m just going to have a little lick.”

Frantically, you try to grab at him as soon as your hands are free. “Hold on, stop–”

“Enough!” He snarls suddenly, startling you quiet. You swear for just a moment that his eyes flash crimson. You clutch your hands to your chest. “You’ll not be harmed. Understand? Just… let me,” he says tersely, gaze hard before gradually softening as you silence yourself, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Satisfied, he lowers back down.

His sharp claws kiss harmless welts all the way up your legs, up to your hips, where he catches the band of your undergarments. He hooks his fingers over the waistband and drags them down, seeming to enjoy the way you pant and writhe under him, your heart racing.

“Have mercy,” you slip in quietly, squirming beneath the hot press of his hands, though you’re no longer struggling against him. “I’ve never–no one’s ever–I’m inexperienced,” you desperately explain, your mind running wild with what his size will mean for you if he decides he wants more than to taste you–to claim you, as he’d said before.

“Good,” he replies simply, pushing your knees up into a bend on either side of his head. “As you should be. As am I,” he says, turning his head to drag his split tongue in swirling patterns on your inner thigh, moaning at the taste of you.

You grip the pelts beneath you, brows furrowing. You stare down at the top of his head in confusion. “You are?”

“I told you. I’ve never had a mate. I’ve never felt the need to put my cock into what I intended to eat,” he says against your skin, erupting goosebumps all over your thighs. That should horrify you, but you’re instantly distracted by the sheer burning heat of his breath wafting over your wet cunt, a gasp slipping from your lips when he eagerly presses his tongue to it.

His tongue feels as smooth as glass, like liquid in the way it contours to your every curve. The split of it rubs on either side of your clit, massaging it between the two sides in a way that makes your knees shake. “Ffffuck,” he groans, immediately pushing his tongue into you, licking up the wetness of you twice as eagerly as he had that ripe peach.

You buck against him, a moan escaping you. The sound only encourages him to plunge his tongue deeper, that golden stud on his tongue brushing hotly against your inner walls. He drags it up and pushes it flush, half inside you and half grinding against your clit before pushing back in deep. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever known, so much better than your own curious, clumsy fingers. He laves attention on you like he’s starved for it, drinking just as thirstily as you had from the pitcher.

There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, no sense of consistency. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs you forward with ease, lifting you to push his thick split tongue even further inside you, plunging it in and out, growing greedier with every dive. He growls low in the back of his throat, tail thudding repeatedly against the floor. Instead of the little lick he claimed he was after, he’s working himself into an obvious frenzy feasting on you.

“H-Homelander, please,” you keen, his relentlessness rapidly building an unfamiliar pressure within you. He’s as sloppy as he is voracious, the wet sound of him obscene and loud in the enormous lair. His claws bite into your ass where he holds it firmly to his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. If he does, he’s taking it only as encouragement. 

His tongue touches something inside you that makes your whole body jolt. You grab hold of both of his horns, your back arching as you desperately cling to them. You’re certain you meant to shove him back, to struggle. Instead, your body is ablaze as you yank hard on his horns, hitching your leg over his shoulder and riding his tongue with a shaking gasp.

The pressure bursts, and the wave of euphoria that crashes down on you is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You convulse against his mouth, walls tightening around the intrusion. You don’t recognize your own voice in the sounds you make as he continues to ruthlessly fuck you soaked and open with his tongue, his breaths so hot they nearly burn. The waves of your climax feel like they’ll never end, spurred on by every deep, wet thrust.

“Homelander! It’s too much, Homelander, too much, please, please–beloved, please, I can’t, I can’t,” you beg, desperate to get his attention. You’re on the verge of sobs when he finally withdraws his long molten tongue from you. You suck in a shuddering breath, releasing his horns and collapsing back against the pelts, sweat prickling along your hairline.

However, your shallow breaths are nothing compared to the sound of Homelander’s ragged panting. He looks entirely wild, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his cheeks flushed a dark red, the lower half of his face shiny with a mixture of your slick and his own drool. He takes his hands from under you and yanks the sash around his waist loose, dropping it to the side. Reaching behind him, he unfastens his pants.

Your mind is still a haze, but even through the delirium, you’re shocked by what you see when that rich navy fabric falls from his waist: his cock is as large as the rest of him, thick and dripping. The underside of it is strangely ribbed, a feature you’re certain is to be attributed to his draconic nature. Not only that, but he’s adorned in gold here, too, with a ring pierced into the head of his cock and studs between each ridge. Your eyes widen.

It’ll never fit.

Nevertheless, he looks entirely undeterred. Homelander adjusts himself between your legs, eyes thoroughly glazed over with lust, and presses his nearly scalding palms to your inner thighs, pushing them into a wide spread and down to the ground. Arousal and fear lance through you like a twin bolt of lightning.

“H-hold on,” you stutter, lifting a trembling hand. “I–” Bending over you, he silences you with a firm kiss. You press your hands to his chest and feel it thrumming beneath your palms, the heat of him more intense than ever. You can’t help but moan softly into it, overtaken by the smell of sex and something akin to burning incense. His tongue slips as deftly into your mouth as it did your cunt. Even after having felt it inside you, it’s thicker in your mouth than you’re prepared for, sliding in deeper, like he means to fuck you with it here, too.

It wholly distracts you until you feel a heavy, blunt press to your wet cunt. You make a half-hearted noise of protest, but his only answer is a low rumbling growl, claws biting into the meat of your thighs as he holds you still, effectively gagging you on his tongue.

His cock is as hot as the rest of him, but a great deal more solid than his malleable tongue. The thickness of it slowly spreads you wide, an aching pressure. You’re not sure if the burn of it is from the stretch or the heat, but either way it’s driving you insane. It’s hot and painful and good, frictionless with how thoroughly he soaked you, and despite your nerves, your cunt is loose with orgasm. It’s as if your body, independent of your mind, is eager to welcome him in.

You make a keening noise, the sound of it muffled in this devouring kiss. You grab hold of the leather straps across his chest and yank on them, twisting at them, but nothing takes your mind from how intense it feels to be split apart on the fat head of his cock.

The sounds Homelander makes in response are downright bestial, low and rumbling from his chest. Your only relief is when the widest swell of his cockhead finally breaches you, just the tip of it settling perfectly inside you. You cry out when he gives an exploratory backwards pull, and then shivers as he begins to rock gently, breathing heavily from his nose as he fucks you with nothing more than the head of his cock.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, pitchy little noises leaving you with every exhale. Homelander sharpens his pace, breaking the kiss with a loud, carnal moan as he tips his head back. He’s barely even inside you and yet the girth of him is overwhelming, the ridges of his cock stimulating you in ways you didn’t know possible, the fat curved head rubbing against that same spot inside you that his tongue had previously made you see stars with.

Thoroughly overwhelmed by the incomprehensible assault of sensations, tears gather in your eyes. That pressure is building back up in you once more, starting at the base of your spine and slowly crawling up it. Desperate to tether yourself, to feel connected, you move your hand from the strap at his chest and touch his face. To your surprise, that instantly snaps his attention down to you, his beautiful blue eyes lost in a crimson glow.

Homelander meets your gaze, some level of cognizance returning to him, and whimpers, something hidden and vulnerable escaping in that exchange. He bends down, his nose brushing yours, and rests his forehead against yours while his thrusts grow more and more erratic, but never deeper. He fucks you in shallow, jagged snaps until finally that mounting pressure overwhelms you and you come again, simultaneously squeezing him into his own sudden release. 

The flood of him inside you is burning hot, spilling into your core even from here, and he practically roars with it, burying that loud primal cry into the crook of your neck while his body stills, releasing pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed into you.

His breath billows hotly across your neck, the burning scent of him thick in the air. Your mind is so addled by your own euphoria that it takes you time to realize he’s speaking, fervent murmurings against your skin. “M’sorry, still, be still, I’m–don’t move,” he rasps, fractured little noises leaving him in between his words. You choke on your own breath when he sinks in, working you open slowly, shivers pitching up and down your spine. Gods above, he isn’t done.

Surely he doesn’t mean for you to take all of it… Does he?

You moan weakly, pushing your hand up into his hair and grabbing hold, which elicits a rumbling sigh from him in return. It’s silkier than you expected it to be. “Too big, it’s too much, it’s not–it’s not going to fit,” you pant out, screwing your eyes shut tight. While his release had initially softened him some, you can already feel his cock filling back out. Every bit he slips in further, you feel the mess of his release being forced out of you, come dripping down your thighs, slicking the way for the rest of him.

“It will,” he says at your ear, kissing the spot just below your earlobe, then your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sweat there before he kisses that same spot. He’s set upon you like an animal, lost to the drive of instinct, determined to fulfill his promise to claim what is his. “It will because it must. Because it’s yours. Because you’re mine.”

Homelander releases a breathy whine, sounding just as overstimulated as you are, nuzzling at your throat while he slowly works his way deeper, practically vibrating with restraint. He sounds as overwhelmed as you feel, but he refuses to stop, to lose. He holds you in place, growling whenever you squirm or struggle against him. The feel of it is dizzying, unbelievably hot and heavy, like fire given form, filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. You’re feeling it again, the slow rise of that carnal pleasure building to an inevitable climax, and your whole body trembles with it.

You make a desperate keening noise, and Homelander hushes you, kissing your shoulder. “Sshhh, good, you’re doing so well for me. Don’t move yet, it’s almost over. You were made for this, for me. You feel it, don’t you? How easily your cunt opens to me. Nnngh, hah… Fuck, you fit me. You fit me. You do, and you always will,” he pants, voice hitching.

He slides his hands from your thighs to your waist, the press of his claws just shy of painful. With one final move, he lets out a quaking moan as he pulls you down onto the last of it, finally burying himself completely in your snug, come-soaked cunt. 

The fullness of it breaks you–snapping the last tether that was holding you in place–and you come again, your velvety walls seizing up around him impossibly tight before spasming your pleasure around every vein, ridge and piercing he has. You can feel the shape of him so viscerally that you’re sure your body will remember it, carved out in the shape of his cock forevermore.

He cries out with your release, a reverberating sound that you feel all the way down to the marrow of your bones. You don’t know if he’s more in pleasure or pain, but he makes no move to retreat. Instead, he brings you that tiny bit closer, pressing every inch of your body to his. He rides out your pleasure, panting a wet spot into the crook of your neck.

Tears roll from your eyes to your temple, disappearing into your hairline as you breathe roughly. You’re overwhelmingly hot, oversensitized and raw, but as the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, your body steadily loses that quiver. You feel as if you’re melting down into the furs, struggling to even keep your eyes open as a gentle ecstasy sweeps over you.

Once he recovers enough, he lifts himself up onto his hands, and then sits  back onto his legs, his hands on your hips to lift you partially into his lap to keep himself buried deep, hitching your legs around his waist. His eyes are completely glazed over, lips parted around heavy, hungry breaths. He doesn’t look at all sated. If anything, the look of his desire has only intensified, despite his obvious sensitivity. Sliding his hands up your body, he pushes your pretty white dress all the way up over your head, tossing it to the side so that he may finally see all of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice utterly frayed. He stares at you as though you’re a vision sent from the gods, a nymph plucked from the heavens and nestled snugly upon his cock. His hand sweeps down your stomach, settling low on it, where he lightly presses down. You both moan with the pressure, with how keenly you both feel it. “Told you it would fit,” he says, but his voice is not smug. There’s a breathless wonder to it, like he’s awestruck by the look of your body against his.

His tongue rolls out to sweep along his lips. He opens his mouth, and you can see threads of saliva snapping between his sharp teeth, his mouth wet with hunger. He continues to reverently stroke your stomach, his large splayed hand easily covering the expanse of it. “You’ll make a beautiful mother,” he says, a concept you don’t even know how to begin to unravel, but the way he says it makes you feel worshiped. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me,” he says, a shudder in his voice. His crimson wings spread and curve in on either side of you, the hooked tips of them bracing on the stone floor.

“Mother?” You slur belatedly. You feel dizzy, your body as warm as burning coals and tingling all over. He lifts your legs one at a time, bringing each one up parallel to his chest. They hook over his shoulders as he leans forward, wasting no before time kissing you. His wings support his weight while he grips your thighs, squeezing possessively.

“Mother,” he confirms between kisses, bending you practically in half as he begins to rut against you. He’s not thrusting so much as he’s grinding into you, wringing a low moan from you. “You want that, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. Feed you. Fuck you. I’ll take care of you, be yours, and you’ll be mine, won’t you? Sweet little thing, fucked happy and heavy with my children. Tell me. Tell me you want that.”

“Yes,” you moan, kneading the furs on either side of you. He paints a beautiful picture in your mind of fresh fruit, crisp water, and this dreamlike pleasure for the rest of your days. Beneath him, any thoughts of the world outside this moment melt away. There’s only the two of you, resplendently warm and living amongst the clouds. “I want it. I want–I want you,” you say, touching either side of his face. He leans heavily into your touch, his eyes falling shut. A soft noise that sounds like relief escapes him as you kiss him, coaxing that long, clever tongue out to meet yours.

The eagerness with which he reciprocates nearly chokes you, his tongue slipping over yours and halfway down your throat before pulling back, practically devouring you in this kiss. In your fever, this consuming passion feels so much like love it makes your head spin, makes you forget where, when and who you are.  He breaks the kiss to moan unabashedly,  shifting to put his lips to your throat, mouthing at your skin like he’s trying desperately not to sink his teeth in. The thought thrills you. You almost want him to.

“Again,” he pants, grip tightening on your thighs. “Say it again, please.”

“I want you,” you say again, more certain now. The desperation in him is disarming, and despite the animalism of him, you can clearly see the man in him now, hear it in the way he pleads for you to indulge him. That and the euphoric spill of pleasure electrifying your every nerve imbues you with some kind of sense of power, and however misplaced it may be, you immediately feel drunk on it. You can feel your body beginning to build back towards that ultimate swell of euphoria again. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

He groans, dipping lower to suck a mark at the junction between your neck and shoulder. This time, when you feel the brush of his teeth, you don’t shy away. You cup the back of his head and drag your nails down his scalp. Homelander thrusts his hips jaggedly, wringing a throaty gasp out of you. “Keep talking,” he demands, but you hear the plea for what it is.

“You feel good. Y-you fit,” you say, echoing his own words, though it’s getting harder to speak with the way he’s starting to fuck you in earnest, just barely withdrawing before he drives back in, as if he can’t bare to be more than an inch outside of you.  You moan for him, chasing the bliss swelling rapidly between your legs.

Wait… Something really is swelling.

“What is that?” You ask, voice reedy. You whimper. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting bigger. “What’s h-nnngh, what’s happening?” Your words are starting to slur together again, your mind split down the middle between your mounting orgasm, and the surreal feeling of the base of his cock growing inside you.

“Knot,” he explains between swipes of his tongue. “Keeps every drop of me inside you,” he says, giving a shuddering moan as that swell catches on the rim of your cunt when he tries to draw back. Just when you thought you had adjusted, that swell makes you ache, has you whimpering and squirming under him.

He could have told you it would get bigger!

“Oh gods, it–mmm, I’m–it feels–” You stop and start again and again, writhing, but he keeps you firmly in place, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud in your ears as he fucks you harder and faster, spurred on by the quiver of your cunt as your own climax nears.

“Come for me again. Show me that you want it. I want to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze my cock for my come,” he urges, voice reduced to a rough growl in your ear. He sounds like he’s barely holding himself together, every word more strained than the last. “Give it to me. Give yourself to me.”

The tug of his swollen knot bouncing off of your rim and the feel of his thick ridged cock massaging your walls completely overwhelms you. “Y-yes, okay, I’m–oh gods, gods, I’m–I’m coming, Homelander, Homelander!” You call, lips falling open on a silent scream as your throat locks up, a third orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Homelander muffles his own cry into the crook of your neck, stilling halfway through your orgasm with one final slam. This time, the rush of his release is pressed tightly against your cervix, pooling inside you with nowhere to go, his knot doing precisely what he said it would. The heat of it fills you in hot, rushing spurts, his cock jerking against your spasming walls with every load he empties into you.

A sudden stinging pain makes you gasp, confusion seeping into the euphoria that has thoroughly addled your brain. Fuck, you realize he’s biting you. His teeth sink in as smoothly as a knife through fresh butter, the sting giving way to the sheer heat of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the inexplicable way it intensifies your orgasm.

The room falls deafeningly quiet save for the pound of your own heart in your ears and the heavy way you’re each catching your respective breath. Your arms fall bonelessly to your sides as you pant, your vision slightly blurry. Homelander begins lapping at your shoulder, soothing the spot he’d bitten. Your whole body feels heavy, stuffed fuller than you ever could have conceived possible. All you can do is whine as he adjusts you, gingerly bringing your legs down to settle on either side of him.

You’re not sure how you’ll ever get off of his cock now that you’re on it. His knot feels like a permanent part of you, fitted so snugly that, just as promised, you don’t feel a single drop spill.

Homelander doesn’t stop at your neck. He drags his tongue down to the dip of your clavicle, where it splits apart slightly anywhere it moves over bone. It feels surreal, but somehow different from the first time you woke to him licking you. For starters, you’re not terrified he’s going to eat you. That has an entirely new connotation now.

He moves down further, slinking down into the valley between your breasts, sighing as he pushes them together to lave his tongue between. He’s languid, practically purring with each breath as he savors the feel and the taste of you. You don’t have it in you to feel much more than exhausted, your limbs as heavy as stone, but it does feel good. Your breath catches when he opens his lips around one of your nipples, sucking almost half of your breast into his preternaturally hot mouth. His pierced tongue swirls over your nipple while his teeth flex precariously against the tender flesh. You lurch, letting out a breathy noise.

“Careful, please,,” you exhale, earning a glance up from him. His eyes are completely glazed over, soft and dark in a way that takes your breath away. He hums quietly in some weak acknowledgement before his eyes flutter closed, his throat bobbing with every swallow as he sucks your breast with unexpected gentility.

Watching him stirs a wash of strange feelings in you. With what little strength you have, you bring your hand up to touch his horn, contemplating the texture of it beneath your fingers. You follow the line of it down to his skull, tracing his hairline just beneath the crown that adorns his head, slipping behind his sharply pointed ear. He’s truly incredible to behold up close like this, beautiful without the lens of terror you had been viewing him through.

On some level, you know you should still be afraid, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when he’s warm and lax on your chest with his cock buried inside you, suckling on your breast as you’re still riding the high of three consecutive climaxes.

You push your fingers into his flaxen hair. You’ve never seen hair this color before except in very young children. In your experience, age always darkens it away to a sandy color, but his is as bright and warm as sunshine. There doesn’t seem to be any part of him that isn’t golden. He exhales a deep sigh as you run your nails along his scalp, nuzzling sweetly against you. You smile despite yourself.

Who would have thought that a dragon might be so very much like an overgrown house cat?

When Homelander lifts his head, his tongue is the last to leave, returning to his mouth with a wet slide across his lips. He’s left your skin shiny with saliva, but he isn’t finished. He immediately lowers himself to your other breast, taking it into his mouth in precisely the same way. You bring your other hand up into his hair and continue to massage his scalp, earning yourself an appreciative little moan from low in his throat, his tail sliding audibly back and forth on the stone floor.

The two of you lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. You drift in and out of consciousness, worn thin and soothed by the heat of his body seeping into your muscles, fairly certain you’ll never be able to sit up on your own again. Homelander eventually releases your breast with a soft pop and settles his head on your sternum, narrowly avoiding taking one of your eyes out with his horn. You continue to stroke through his hair as your strength gradually returns.

The swell of his knot, too, lessens, but even soft his cock fits snugly inside you. It isn’t until Homelander gingerly lifts himself off of you that it slides out, coming free with a significant gush that soaks your thighs and puddles beneath you. You flush, making a strained little noise. You feel carved out and left hollow by the sheer size of him. His wings withdraw and tuck in behind him while he sits back on his legs to admire the splay of you beneath him. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down your thighs. You’ve never felt as exposed as you do in this moment, laid bare under his gaze. Even now, visibly drunk on pleasure and thoroughly satiated, there is an undeniable lingering famine in his stare. He sinks down and slowly spreads your legs apart, leaning in to run his tongue up the crease of your inner thigh. He laps languidly at your skin, earning hitched little breaths and sounds from you as his tongue deftly cleans the mess he’s made of you. He’s much more tame now than he had been, focusing not on overstimulating you, but simply washing you. It’s a strange and animalistic thing to do, but it’s intimate, too. Sweet, even.

Gods, he’s really done a number on your psyche.

Once he’s satisfied with the state of you, he climbs back up and settles on his side, looking at you with his hand poised over you, hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with it. His expression starts to shift, concern seeping into it. “You’re quiet. Did I hurt you?”

You huff a little breath. You’re quiet because you’ve just been fucked within an inch of your life by a dragon’s cock, but aside from that, of course he had. “You bit me, for starters.”

He turns somewhat sheepish at that. “Instinct. I wanted to mark you.”

“You succeeded,” you say, touching your shoulder tentatively.The skin is still raw, but it isn’t bleeding. It doesn’t even feel like it’s going to scab. 

You must wear your confusion plainly, because Homelander is quick to explain: “I sealed the wound. It should be fully healed by sundown.”

“How did you seal it?” You ask, bolder now with how you touch it. It feels like simple indentations, a perfect mold of his teeth.

“My saliva has particular properties. There was a method to my debauchery,” he says, pointedly licking his lips.

You suppose that’s far from the most miraculous thing about him. “That’s convenient,” you say, to which he smiles. It’s bizarre how easily this comes now. You’ve heard of breaking the tension before, but this is certainly the most intense way you’ve ever broken through that initial barrier to more casual conversation. 

Seeing that his hand is still hovering over you, you make a choice and take it, pulling it down to settle on your hip. Relief and excitement flash in his eyes in equal measure, and he takes that as permission to tuck you the rest of the way against him, settling on his side. He rests his head in his palm, propped up on his elbow. You curiously explore the plains of his chest with your fingertips, testing where flesh meets scales. They feel almost like bone, crimson colored protrusions that catch the light as prettily as rubies. They’re smattered along his body in the same way a human might have moles or birthmarks, incidental and seemingly without rhyme or reason.

His ribs are guarded by stiff plates that aren’t as solid as the scales, but look to serve as hardy protection. You let your fingers swoop down the ridges of them, comparing the textures along different parts of his body. It’s fascinating.

“I’ve never seen anything like–” you begin to pull your hand away as you speak, but Homelander takes hold of your wrist, bringing it back to his chest.

“Don’t stop.” You look up at him. His expression catches you off guard. He looks wounded, those fiercely blue and ever human eyes of his intensely focused on you. Swallowing, you nod. He lets go, and you begin to traipse your fingers along his chest again, following the line of the leather straps that cross over it. He lets out a heavy breath. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” he tells you after a long few beats of silence. “Not that I can remember.”

You glance up at him, but he’s staring down at your small hand tracing patterns on his chest. “What happened to this place?” You ask, because that seems politer than asking what happened to him.

“Guess it’s been too long for anyone else to remember. They’re all dead,” he says, the mood of his words difficult to discern. He inhales a contemplative breath, clicking his tongue at the end of it. “Time happened. I used to be something else to my people. I was… war. I brought fire down on their enemies, and they loved me for it. I won them their home. Homelander. There were others like me, but I was the best of them,” he says with conviction, though you sense bitterness in his voice, too. “When all the wars were won, they built this tower. They built monuments to their gods, and they placed us here with them as though we ourselves were relics.”

The end of his tail has begun to slap lightly against the ground. You can feel a slight uptick in the heat of him beneath your palm. 

“They placated me with gold. Adorned me in it. At times they would summon me to festivals. Use my strength to build their stone cities, but they didn’t celebrate me. They had forgotten their love. They treated me as you would any other tool. Something to be taken off the shelf for work and put away when the task is done.”

The seething resentment is more clear in his voice than ever. While you didn’t ask it, it seems he understood what you really wanted to know. You’ve never heard this story before; The Devourer had only ever been a tyrant upon the people. No one ever spoke of a Homelander. No one ever spoke of a hero.

“When treasure failed to keep me impotent and obedient, they tried meat instead. They sent me livestock, as if the simple act of killing a cow would satiate me,” he snarls through his teeth, smoke wafting between them. He sucks it back, tipping his head up slightly in a bit to regain his composure.  “They thought they could control me indefinitely. Out of sight, out of mind. It worked for too long, but only because I allowed it. Because I thought things would change. They never did. So I took their gold and their cattle and their crops and demanded more still. I demanded until they couldn’t ignore me any longer. When they failed to provide, I reigned fire down on them as I did their enemies two hundred years ago, and I gave them no choice but to look at the monster they made.”

His tail cracks like a whip against the stone floor. His anger is so visceral it makes your heart race, but there is more in his gaze than just fury. You feel as though you’re watching him rip apart the stitching over a wound that has been festering for far too long. “After that, they sent people. Simpering peasants who had no fucking idea who or what I really am. They bathed them in oils like slaughtered lambs basted for roast,” he growls, the blue of his eyes fading into an eerie crimson glow. “So I did. I devoured them, and I spat their own blood in their faces. If they wouldn’t have me as a man, they would have a beast instead.”

The Devourer.

You sit in stunned silence, watching as the glow of his eyes gradually fades, though his temperature remains the same. He looks at you, his expression braced, as if he anticipates a specific reaction. Rejection, you suppose. It seems to be the only thing he’s known for centuries. Within his gaze, you recognize a profound need to connect, to feel you, to hear that there might be a single soul in this gods damned world that wants him.

What does one say to such a story? The anger in his voice strikes such a wounded chord, you can practically smell the blood. The rawness of it alone makes your eyes prickle with tears, a lump gathering in your throat. How warped he has become not for the absence of love, but the deprivation of it. It’s clear in the way he speaks of them how desperately he wanted them to still love him.

“I’m sorry,” you say so quietly it’s a wonder he hears you. His expression flips completely, morphing into bewildered surprise.

“What?” His voice sounds small.

“I’m sorry that they abandoned you.”

If his own words are a knife in the wound, yours twist it deeper. He flinches like he’s been struck, staring at you with such bruised incomprehension. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s as though he doesn’t even believe what you’re saying enough to formulate a response. He kisses you instead, holding your jaw in his claws. “I was good once,” he says against your lips, voice hushed as if he’s confessing a far graver sin. “I’ll be good for you. Let me be good for you.”

The desperation in his voice sets loose your tears. You nod, kissing him just as fervently. Centuries of bloodshed on the back of willful neglect is difficult to stomach, but you believe him. You believe the love that went into this tower–this beautiful prison–that they made for him, and you believe the love that you saw in his face carved in stone. You have no doubt that the wonder of him once inspired all those who beheld them, and that they were fickle enough to grow weary of him. Desensitized and disinterested.

When he rejected their apathy, they rejected his humanity.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, sitting up, kissing you properly with a hand cupping the back of your head, his arm around your middle. His wings curve in around you, and he kisses you until your lips turn sore and you have to protest, your words melting into muffled laughter. He draws back with a brilliant grin. It’s different from the others you’ve seen; it’s the kind of smile that brings deep warmth to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. He lingers close to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I stopped believing a long time ago that you could be real,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from stealing another quick kiss, his nose purposefully brushing yours. He’s thoroughly starved for every little touch.

“I am. So are you. Not the Devourer, the Scourge, nor the Red Death,” you say, tucking back the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his crown. This, too, had been carved for him. He had been loved once, and as he said, he had been good. There is love in you enough to help him find that goodness again. There’s no reason you cannot live for the being you intended to die for. “Just you. Just Homelander.”

He kisses you, and suddenly you feel as if you’re free falling. From this point on, your life is something new. Something inexplicable and unpredictable. It’s yours, but it’s also his.

All that glitters is not gold, and sometimes the monster in the dark is just your reflection.

phew. thank you SO much for reading. this fic took me almost a full month to write, and it often felt like it was never going to end. that said, i'm already kind of chomping at the bit to write more in this universe. i feel like these two have a ton of potential, and there's just so much more that i want to do with them now that we have the groundwork done. once again, a huge shoutout to the amazing artist @anon-nee, who not only illustrated our dragon boy himself, but these awesome environment sketches as well. please be sure to go give them some love! The Tower of the Seven

The Dragon's Lair

[flawseer]

#29b - "Pokémon"

Smaugust 2024

I felt bad for kind of phoning this one in. So I cut into some of my down time to resurrect a small portion of my original plan for this prompt.

You may or may not be confused by some of the typings I have chosen for these characters, foremost likely why none of them have "Dragon" as their type. Dragon, in the source material, is supposed to be a rare type, and I believe this characteristic would become muddled and meaningless if it was given to basically every character in the story. So the Dragon type here is reserved for Queens, great leaders, and characters of mythical significance. This means that Glory will evolve into a Poison/Dragon type somewhere down the line.

Another, smaller source of befuddlement may come from making Starflight a Dark type. I had this idea that, in ancient times, Nightwings used to be Psychic types, but then became Dark types when they lost their powers.

And lastly, it's not relevant for the characters on these cards, but the Fairy type is reserved for animus dragons.

Here are some other characters who didn't make it:

Moonwatcher, PSYCHIC, Quiet nature, Forewarn

Winter, ICE, Serious nature, Dazzling

Kinkajou, POISON, Impish nature, Vital Spirit

Turtle, WATER/FAIRY, Timid nature, Battle Armor

Qibli, GROUND/POISON, Naughty nature, Adaptability

Peril, FIRE/FLYING, Lonely nature, Flame Body

Riptide, WATER/FIGHTING, Serious nature, Contrary

Deathbringer, DARK/GHOST, Quirky nature, Infiltrator

Fatespeaker, DARK/PSYCHIC, Jolly nature, Anticipation

Flame, FIRE/DARK, Hasty nature, Pickpocket

Squid, WATER, Naive nature, Damp

Ochre, GROUND/ROCK, Lax nature, Gluttony

Viper, GROUND/POISON, Bold nature, Aftermath

Anemone, WATER/FAIRY, Sassy nature, Klutz

Icicle, ICE, Serious nature, Competitive

Ostrich, GROUND/POISON, Impish nature, Keen Eye

Tamarin, POISON/GRASS, Modest nature, Flower Gift

Webs, WATER, Timid nature, Defeatist

Dune, GROUND/POISON, Calm nature, Slow Start

Kestrel, FIRE/FLYING, Hardy nature, Anger Point

Morrowseer, DARK, Lonely nature, Mold Breaker

Scarlet, DRAGON/FIRE, Bold nature, Bad Dreams

Coral, DRAGON/WATER, Adamant nature, Merciless

Burn, DRAGON/GROUND, Bold nature, Beast Boost

Blister, DRAGON/POISON, Careful nature, Corrosion

Blaze, DRAGON/GROUND, Relaxed nature, Emergency Exit

Darkstalker, PSYCHIC/FAIRY, Impish nature, Wonder Guard

Clearsight, PSYCHIC, Serious nature, Telepathy

Fathom, WATER/FAIRY, Timid nature, Triage

Indigo, WATER/FIGHTING, Hardy nature, Stalwart

Whiteout, DARK/PSYCHIC, Quirky nature, Own Tempo

Blue, BUG/NORMAL, Mild nature, Simple

Cricket, BUG, Jolly nature, Power of Alchemy

And probably many more that I didn't get around to.

The default ability of Rainwings would likely be Color Change, for Mudwings it would be Earth Eater... Maybe Sturdy for Sandwings.

Okay, I think that's enough.

[emsartwork]

ALL OF DAPHNE'S TRANSFORMATIONS. INCLUDING UPDATED NYMPHIX.

Previously Fairy of the Dragon Flame now Fairy of Embers. She doesn't have any transformations others than these because she was fast tracked into the nymphix path, and unlike the winx the majority of fairies don't pursue additional transformations past enchantix. (i think Daphne would be interested in Dreamix tho, so maybe I'll draw that eventually.

Her major color shifted after dying and being revived, which is shown in her winx and enchantix.

other lore and design notes below!

I changed her major color from orange/yellow to more of a teal/green because. she just doesn't look good in yellow I'm sorry I really tried but it wasn't working. Also little updates to her hair color, nothing huge tho. Daphne's primary motifs are a branching "Y" shape and a double oval/tear drop. She's a pants when possible girlie and a one set winger(yes her nymphix looks like it have multiple wings but they all merge into one stem on each side) . Her scars from her Sirenix being ripped out of her caused her winx/enchantix to change a little to cover them(mostly seen in the arms) due to insecurity. Her Dryadix/nymphix flower is a daffodil! because pun Daph-Daff, and Daffodils symbolize rebirth and new beginnings (also creativity, energy, resilience, forgiveness and vitality). Her Harpix wings aren't super specificly patterned, but she has darting wings common in small song and seed birds (robins, finches, brown birds etc.) the coloring is referential of a Shrike (also called a Butcher Bird), because Daphne was. incredibly dangerous and if she had sided with the ancestral probably would have been given a moniker similar to Butcher of Domino or Daphne the Slaughterer. (some people do call her these but its mostly among people who dislike Domino/The Royal Family.)

Lore! Daphne doesn't have a great sense of self, she was planned as a necessary successor to Marion/the dragon flame in a period as the ancestral witches were escalating their attacks and search for the dragon flame. Bloom was a back up baby in case both Daphne and Marion got dead and basically worked as intended haha. Daphne was also much more publicly involved in the kingdom than many of the other royals in winx (Stella, Aisha, Krystal and even Galatea to an extent all had rather sheltered upbringings) in a way Daphne is much more like Sky and Thoren in the since that none of them really had the space to develop their own personality outside of their familial duty.

Daphne's 1st winx and enchantixes are as direct a copy of her mom's Enchantix as you can get with transformations, right down to the more greenish tint of her major color. Growing up Marion used her fairy form liberally, so that, combined with being the next Dragon Flame holder left a deep impact on Daphne's subconscious. Daphne was also heavily influenced by Faragonda during her Alfea and Nymphix Quest years, but since she was older this isn't as deep an influence. After being revived, Daphne's years of defining herself as her connection to Bloom causes her major color to shift more blue in response to her trauma. Daphne is slowly starting to develop a sense of self outside of her titles/connections but it's unlikely her major color will shift again unless she has another major trauma.

(for the record the Winx do have trauma over the timeline I have laid out that would potentially cause their major colors to shift but I didn't do that for a couple reasons 1, their colors are iconic and make them easily recognizable as characters; 2, I'm a tired bitch. )

[kifkay]

I love when magic has an effect on the body & soul of its caster. like!! you don’t get to be a reality-bending demi-god and walk away with no strings attached. there’s always a price.

Bloom’s dragon fire consumes her from the inside, leaving lightning-like tissues of scars along her limbs - be careful, rumbles the Great Dragon from within, don’t let your emotions consume you. Bloom wails from the pain and clutches whoever is in the vicinity - but cannot fully stop it. just prevent it or treat the aftermath.

Musa gets migraines. Stella becomes ill when she doesn’t get her daily dose of sunshine. Aisha’s senses get muddy sometimes, almost as if she’s submerged underwater. Nabu experiences uncontrollable tremors in his arms, when he creates too many of his phantoms. all of those are - yes, horrible to experience but manageable enough for the school (and the Magic community at large) to tell them to just suck it up and weather through.

once you get your enchantix though, you start developing… unique abilities. almost like, in achieving the final fairy form, you became one with your brand of magic.

Bloom starts producing smoke. Like - she snorts at something funny Riven or Sky say, and literal puffs of smoke emerge from her nose. It’s jarring at first (“Bloom Peters, when did you start smoking? do you know that it kills??”) but quickly becomes endearing once they realise it’s not life-threatening in any way (after speed-running through like fifteen Magix apothecaries). Among her other ‘oddities’: too hot to cuddle with (only Stella can stand the high temperature, since she has a resistance to heat), becomes strangely overprotective and a little possessive, her eyes sometimes become a startling orange hue as if she’s embodied by the great dragon himself (it’s just a party trick).

Stella becomes more ethereal. In certain lights, her skin looks translucent - like a mirage weaved with moonlight. Her hair glints in the sun, almost too bright to like at; her touch feels phantom-like. She becomes even more beautiful, but less - human, earth-bound, Stella-esque. A curse and a blessing, that one.

Musa’s hearing gets really fucking good. She has a steadily growing dossier of blackmail on every student in Alfea - simply because shut doors or longer distances are no longer obstacles for her. It’s annoying too, because she can’t exactly turn it off - and now she gets to hear all the things people say about her, behind her. but here’s a consolation - she can influence other creature’s emotions through the melodies she hums! like how in canon, she pacified the bird Roc and brought mirth to the arguing fairies.

Flora gets much sturdier. Her skin harder than bark; her body able to withstand thirst and hunger for much longer than the rest. It’s honestly so intimidating. Here’s this sweet young woman — known to cry for trampled flowers and cut weeds!! — absolutely bodying a sharp ass ice shard that Icy attacked her with. It just — crumbles upon colliding with Flora’s body. insane and frankly so so hot for others to see.

As per the negatives… I like the idea of Flora being able to connect to the memories of nature around her and literally absorb the pain/fear/anguish of whatever she witnessed.

Aisha and Bloom are similar, in a sense that both of them are vessels to primordial divinities of their universe — Bloom is the holder of the Dragon Flame, and Aisha is the child of the Infinite Ocean. therefore, both experience a more extreme transformation than their girl friends. like, Aisha’s dreams are infiltrated by visions of past and future; memories of those who were lost to the Ocean. she dreams of Politea, of Tritanus, of her mer cousins and ancestors, and even those who were not yet born. if Aisha was not so mentally wilful, she might’ve folded under the weight of those prophesies.

Aisha can also breathe under water and her body gets the musculature it needs to be on par with her mer cousins while swimming, because why the fuck not?

Tecna - I frankly have no ideas for and would love to hear suggestions!

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Sebek Zigvolt - Platinum Jacket Vignette

"Happy 100th Anniversary"

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Sebek: That pedestal there is a reproduction from the King of Beasts' bedchamber, and that teacup yonder is ceramic wear with a Queen of Hearts motif.

Sebek: Heheh… That's right, my preparatory research is completely perfect. With this, there shall be no opportunity for me to embarrass myself due to a lack of artistic knowledge.

Sebek: There is no way I can allow myself to appear unsightly now that I've been appointed a supporter of the Land of Dawning National Museum of Art.

???: Hm? What's with this green light in the middle of the painting…? Oh, it's just a bonfire flame.

???: Those fairies look like they're having a blast partyin' like that, I wonder if something good happened.

Sebek: How dare you claim them to be "partying." This is a painting depicting the Thorn Fairy's men extolling her grand exploits!

Ace: Ack, Sebek… Looks like I got caught by an annoying one. So what, you're tellin' me this painting's got something to do with the Thorn Fairy?

Sebek: Exactly. It is often said that these men were as proud of the Thorn Fairy's achievements as if it were their own, and would express their joy with their whole body and soul.

Sebek: Anyone should be able to infer how magnificent the Thorn Fairy was just from witnessing these men's unwavering loyalty.

Ace: Uh-huh, okay. Kinda just looks to me like they're just partyin', maybe masking it as a celebration for the Thorn Fairy.

Sebek: Don't you dare liken them to superficial humans like yourself. Each one of those fae that appear in this tale are all diligent folk.

Sebek: Back in my hometown there are many stories of the Thorn Fairy and other fae passed down for generations. We even have special functions held to emulate their greatness.

Ace: Sure. Can't see those functions as being anything other than boring, though, if it's attended by lame, "diligent" faes～

Sebek: Heh, curious, are you? One such event that has been around for a long while now is a dress color changing competition. Whosoever is able to magically dye the dress to the color closest to the provided example is the victor.

Ace: Ugh, that pisses me off that it's actually kinda cool-soundin'…

Ace: But I guess the whole having to use magic for it just shows it really is an event in the fae-rich lands of Briar Valley.

Sebek: …In my youth, my elder brother and sister took me to witness one such competition and I was struck with amazement.

Sebek: I was completely taken in by everyone's astounding magical prowess to turn a dress vivid blue or pink in the blink of an eye…

Sebek: I remember how excited I was to learn magic as soon as possible so I may also take part in this contest.

Ace: Guess even you have adorable moments. So, what place in the competition did you get once your long-awaited magic finally manifested?

Sebek: Don't be absurd. Color changing magic is a course of study that human mages only learn in their courses at an arcane academy.

Sebek: This was merely something I found enchanting as a mere child. Obviously I would not take part in such a contest now.

Ace: You suuure? Sounds pretty fun to me. Oh hey, then how about you and me have our own little contest with color changing magic back at my dorm sometime.

Sebek: Why would I set foot in Heartslabyul…? Wait.

Sebek: Surely I am mistaken, but… Were you intending on shoving your rose-dying tasks onto my shoulders?

Ace: No way, I wasn't saying that at all! C'mon, don't you think it'd be a great little competition to have with a fellow freshman?

Sebek: Your excuses will not work on me! I know for a fact that you constantly complain over having to paint the roses.

Sebek: The only contest I had any interest in attempting was the dress color changing competition in Briary Valley. Do the tasks assigned to you on your own!

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Ace: Oh hey, I know this one. It's a painting of a girl and some talking flowers.

Sebek: According to the legends, the flowers native to the country the Queen of Hearts' presided over had the ability to speak.

Sebek: Who would have thought that the flowers cultivated there would be able to speak or sing as such. I'm sure it was disturbingly loud in the Queen's country.

Ace: Sure, probably. But hey, probably a lot less loud than your voice can get.

Sebek: …Perhaps if you were to cease your own impudent retorts, I wouldn't have a need to raise my voice.

Ace: Reeeaaally, you think? 'Cause to me it feels like you're always angry about something.

Sebek: Of course not. I simply find the uncouth antics of you humans to be utterly aggravating.

Sebek: I know there is a time and place for everything. I myself would never do something as rude as to throw a damper on enthusiastic festivities.

Sebek: In fact, I attended a performance at a live music club just the other day and I did not chide the audience for their overjoyed shouting one bit.

Ace: …Eh. What did you just say? YOU WENT TO SEE A LIVE MUSIC PERFORMANCE!!!???

Sebek: Why would you react as such?

Ace: I mean, come on, didn't strike you as someone who'd go to something like that. So, like, what was the live show you went to go see?

Sebek: My latest venture brought me to attend a small show that showcased a collaboration between bands that primarily performed heavy metal music.

Sebek: This was all due to Lilia-sama, who imparted on me that this was the best way to train my imagination, and that listening to live music is an important part of life.

Ace: Aaah, that makes sense now. But hey, do you even listen to heavy metal?

Ace: I mean sure, you can kinda get into it once you're at the concert even if you don't know the songs, but if you don't even like that kinda stuff in the first place, ain't it tough to actually take in?

Sebek: "Get into it once you're at the concert"? Don't liken me to someone like you. Of course I went to the show after doing my due diligence in research.

Sebek: If I were to attend the show without a full understand of what I am to partake in, it would be an absolute disservice to Lilia-sama's recommendation.

Sebek: I studied everything from the exact times the music club opened their doors and how the audience would be filed into the venue, to the established rules on refreshments, to the proper cheering behavior utilized by the crowd near the front of the house…

Sebek: I believe it is called a "mosh pit." Prior to attending the performance, I made sure to carve into my body and soul the different techniques and proper etiquette as well.

Sebek: On that day, I purport that I banged my head back and forth much harder than anyone else there, shouting and cheering alongside them.

Ace: Don't think I've ever heard of someone practicing to mosh before. But I guess it sounds like you had a pretty fun time, though.

Sebek: Indeed. Although, I did run into slight trouble.

Ace: Huh, what kind of trouble? Cause some mischief, did ya?

Sebek: Absolutely not! I'm not sure if they lost their footing during the show or what, but the performer fell forward towards the audience.

Sebek: I immediately caught the performer and returned them to the stage. After that, the show continued smoothly until the end.

Ace: PFFT! You seriously returned the performer to the stage!?

Sebek: Obviously. I could not allow this concert that Lilia-sama had recommended to me be cancelled merely because the performer had become injured!

Ace: Bwahahaha! Looks like all that prepping you went through didn't help at all. All they wanted to do was stage dive, too.

Sebek: A stage dive…? Hold on now, don't tell me that was part of the performance!?

Sebek: I suppose the performer did look rather stunned when I returned them to the stage… Ghurk, what a blunder…!

Ace: Oh man, that's so hilarious. Wish I was there to see it. Hey, let's hit up a show together next time.

Sebek: SHUT IT! WHO WOULD EVER GO ANYWHERE WITH YOU!?

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Sebek: This is a painting of the hyenas who served the King of Beasts, I see. Their countenance depicts an atmosphere overflowing with trust from their liege and confidence in their own abilities.

Ace: Yeah? To me it just looks like they're up to something.

Sebek: Isn't that due to your own wily tendencies?

Sebek: I have seen you multiple times in locations outside the gymnasium during what should be basketball club hours.

Ace: Hey, it's not like I'm slacking off or anything. C'mon, I'm a freshman, right? Sometimes I get saddled with odd jobs from the upperclassmen.

Ace: But, man… Sometimes I do want to skip morning lessons on cold days. Hey, aren't there times you don't want to get out of bed when it's way too cold out, too?

Sebek: It's true that back home it has happened that I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. However, that was not because I wished to skip my training!

Ace: W-Woah, really? I thought you woulda hit me back with another "Don't liken me to you!" or something.

Sebek: I could not help it. I was thoroughly chilled to the bone that morning. It was so cold that there were numerous icicles dangling from our roof, as well.

Sebek: I did not even wish to fathom the temperature outside, but… I somehow forced myself out of bed to begin my morning training.

Sebek: Perhaps it was due to not having slept well, but I could feel my eyelids start to droop. So I decided then to attempt to wake myself up further with the bitter taste of coffee.

Sebek: I swallowed down the strong black coffee and believed myself ready to go. But that was the last thing I remembered.

Sebek: I ended up falling back asleep on the couch and when I finally woke up, it was past noon… An absolute blunder. This is a blot that I will carry with me forever.

Ace: Hey now, that's pretty normal, c'mon. Pretty steep to say you'll carry that forever.

Sebek: No, you are just weak-willed. I, however, strived through trials and tribulations to overcome the bitter cold of mornings and finally found "that" thing.

Ace: What're you acting so pompous about now?

Sebek: Heh, of course you'd be curious. I suppose I can tell you. The thing I am talking about is… A HOT WATER BOTTLE!

Ace: A hot water bottle…? You're seriously using a hot water bottle? Even in this day and age when we have air conditioners and heaters!?

Sebek: Do you seriously not understand? That thing is a fantastic item that warms your entire body without fear of causing a fire or desiccation.

Sebek: Cold winter nights not only diminishes my ability to fall asleep, but also affects the quality of sleep I am able to get. In turn, that makes it difficult to rise from bed…

Sebek: However, a simple hot water bottle prepared at bedtime can warm my body and lull me to sleep even in the coldest winters!

Sebek: The temperature can even be easily adjusted by wrapping it in a towel, or adding water to the bottle. A very convenient item.

Ace: Huh, interesting. I mean, sure, it might not use electricity, but I'm surprised you're using a "human" item.

Sebek: I received this hot water bottle from my father. Back when he had just arrived in Briar Valley, it apparently was very useful in keeping him warm even without magic.

Ace: Oh, so it's a hand-me-down, huh. And here I thought I'd get to hear another hilarious story or something～

Ace: Since it sounds like there ain't gonna be a punchline anymore, I think I'll go check out the shop. Byeee―

Sebek: YOU ASKED THE QUESTION, HEAR ME OUT UNTIL THE END! Good grief, I can't stand that human. …Hm?

Sebek: This is… A painting depicting a the human chattering along with animals. I've read this story in a book my grandfather gifted me.

Sebek: This young lady speaks of her dreams to these critters… Does she truly believe that her wish will come true without any effort on her part? What a lazy creature.

Requested by Anonymous.

[fandom-hyperfixation]

𝗗 𝗥 𝗘 𝗔 𝗠 𝗜 𝗡 𝗚

Summary: You had a dream but unfortunately there was a misunderstanding.

Characters: Valtor x Reader (she/her) / Bloom

Words: 1091

Warnings: Implied smut/Nsfw, some spice but nothing detailed. Cuddling with a friend. Secret relationship. Enemy to lovers. Kind of betrayal. (Please let me know if I should add anything)

A/n: Hey Ho. Well, this is only the second fandom for which I post fanfiction and I haven’t written for a while. And my native language is not English, so please forgive me for any mistakes and it was more of a spontaneous idea I had. Please just don’t expect a Jane Austen novel. (I'm not nervous, you are xD) Okay, I’ll stop talking now and just hope that at least one person will kind of enjoy this here. Have a great day/evening/night.

"Y/N! Hey, Y/N, wake up. You’re having a nightmare." The voice of bloom breaks through the wonderful dream you just had.

"Y/N, come on, please, you have to wake up, it’s all right, I’m here, it’s just a bad dream."

Confused, you slowely open your eyes but the second after you closed them again, blinded by the bright light of the lid lamp.

"Ugh," escapes your mouth while you press your face into the pillow.

"Y/N, finally! Everything is fine." Bloom’s deliberate calming words only add to your confusion. More carefully this time you turn your head to look at her.

The brightness lets small tears shimmer in your eyes, quickly you try to blink them away.

"What’s the matter?" you ask without really opening your mouth but Bloom understood you anyway.

She carefully puts a hand on your cheek, stroking a tear from your skin with her thumb. "Hey, don’t cry. Everything's okay, it was just a nightmare, don’t worry, Valtor’s not here."

Suddenly your eyes widen, "What? Valtor?" Your voice sounds nervous as you're pushing yourself up to sit, capturing her gaze with your own.

"Hey, I told you everything was okay. It was just a bad dream. You called Valtor’s name in your sleep, I can understand it, I often dream about him. But we’re with you, we protect each other, don’t worry."

The Guardian of the Dragon Flame moved closer to hug you. Still overwhelmed you let it happen, placing your head on her shoulder.

You can’t find the right words to get yourself out of this uncomfortable situation. And the only option you have is to play along and just agree.

You close your eyes, still not accustomed to the brightness and two more small tears roll over your cheeks, your chin and finally land on Bloom’s arm.

Your friend sighs, "Back a little, I can sleep next to you, maybe we’ll both dream better."

In your head you hear the laughing of the lord of evil. He's laughing at you for this situation. Gloatingly, teasingly.

You nod indecisively but at the same time shake your head to banish the magician from your thoughts, which rather ends in a strange circular movement.

The fairy lets you go and crawls behind you on the bed, patting on the mattress next to her and slowly you lie down.

With a snap, the light goes out. Bloom approaches you, wraps an arm around you before snuggling up to you.

You grab her hand to cross your fingers with hers.

"Try to sleep a bit more, I’m here now," she whispered.

Your heart is racing incessantly as you can do nothing but nod again, it has absolutely taken your breath away.

For the next few minutes it is quiet, you do not dare to move. Not until you are aware of the regular breath of the fairy. She fell asleep.

You sigh and are sure that your cheek must be red like a tomato from shame.

Your mind worked at full speed to realize and process the things that have just happened. You must summon all self-control to avoid giggling. At the same time, however, you feel your guilty conscience eating through your body, burying cell by cell.

Your friends were always there for you, they helped you every second without asking questions, they trusted you blindly, just like you trusted them. They made every effort to protect and support you.

You all had nightmares about all the things you had to go through and survive. But since Valtor came into your lives, everything has gotten worse. Hardly anyone can sleep for a whole night. Hardly anyone can dream of anything beautiful.

Hardly anyone can feel something like true joy.

But while all your friends were plagued with nightmares and are not allowed to have a careless second because of the dark wizard, he is the reason that you can sleep well. That you still feel something like satisfaction or happiness and can forget all that terrible things for a moment.

It was pure irony.

While they all suffered because of the wizard, every night you dream of his hands gliding over your entire body when you sneaked out of Alfea to meet him in the cloud tower again. How his lips invade every spot of your body, leading you into another dimension. How his rough voice sounds musically in your ears when he groans your name or tells you how perfect you are for him. How his hot breath flits over your skin when you lie in front of him on the desk. How he makes you feel as good as no other has done before.

What was your dream, was their nightmare.

What became your joy, became their sadness.

What deprived them of all their powers was what made you feel more alive than ever.

Valtor was their curse, but he was your blessing.

The more you thought about it, the more your mind became weary. And as soon as your eyes closed, you were back at the sport you were before Bloom woke you up.

In a storeroom in the cloud tower, without clothes, while the magician knelt in front of you, throwing your head back in pleasure.

***

In the cloud tower, Valtor laughed deeply as he turned his gaze away from the sphere through which he had observed you and your friend.

He could hardly wait to make you blush with the events of today and evoke your shy side the next time you would come to him, your enemy, to wind under him in passion.

He had taken off his coat and pulled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. Sitting in the big desk chair he turned in a semicircle. He looked through the large windows of Miss Griffin’s office into the dark night. Then he leaned back, closing his eyes as well before mentally diving into the same memories you are exploring.

This little fairy had fallen for him, just like he had fallen for her.

Thanks for reading. 💚

[moonydustx]

Hi, I was wondering if you could do Zoro, Ace, Sabo, Luffy, Crocodile, Mihawk, Buggy (Cross guild), Whitebeard, Izou, and Charlotte Katakuri x Reader where They are in a Disney/ Fairy tale Story? (I've been watching Disney lately, and it's living in my Brain-Free.) Also a bonus: They break out in a song number.~

Hi Hi! I think this was the most complicated request I've ever received and to be honest, all my drafts didn't get anywhere that was interesting to read. So, in order not to be left without an answer, but also not to deliver something terrible, I decided to change the format a little (and I really hope you don't hate me for it)

--

Even though her father (grandfather in this version) is against all this, our little mermaid wants to find the surface world (again, pirate world) and see all the wonders that await him. You'll make different friends along the way and, above all, collect incredible things like a certain hat along the way.

Luffy

Our Beauty and the Beast story is a little more troubled here. Instead of a beast cursed by the witch, we just have an evil-looking and somewhat threatening man who still hasn't found a reason to let anyone get close to him. When the right person arrives, he will definitely become someone lovable - even if it involves some fights, wars and everything that can prevent anyone from interfering in the lives of the two of you.

Crocodile, Katakuri

Living the best life, without growing up, without responsibilities, just him and his people living happily in Neverland and disturbing the life of the pirate who passes by. Despite trying to bring our beloved Peter Pan to the real world, you would ultimately understand that Neverland is the place made for him to be free.

Buggy

I know, I know it's not exactly a fairy tale. But, our beloved Puss in Boots would be just as stubborn, adventurous and showy as this one. His sword would be the sharpest and most agile of all the kingdoms, apart from all the flame that only he has.

Mihawk

Bonus point: in a universe where Cross Guid is made up of enemies and we are in fairy tales/animations, Crocodile would be the wolf in the second film.

This one would be Sleeping Beauty, I don't think we even need to explain why. However, this sleeping beauty here chose to sleep for days straight after being in battle and when you tried to wake him up in a kind way - aka, the kiss of love - he hated it, after all, he was in the best part of sleep.

Zoro (and I'd include Buggy here too, I can see him grumbling about it).

The world was just a small view of the tower his mother trapped him in and of course, his mother knows better. Until he found himself being saved by someone fearless, brave (a bit of a scoundrel) who took him from his cruel mother's clutches and took him to explore the world - and that includes the nearest bakery.

Charlotte Katakuri, Sabo (I mean, his parents were pretty shitty)

He would definitely be Mufasa and he would make us suffer terribly with his loss, but he would have been a great father. (and you can't tell me that Ace wouldn't be the son with the chaotic and adventurous spirit also known as Simba)

Whitebeard

Bonus:

He would have to put up with you singing Let It Go in any situation, but he probably wouldn't get angry about it. Except when you were in a more intimate moment and you said that the cold wouldn't bother you anyway (and of course, he would create little ice drawings for you in the winter)

Aokiji

We also have Snow White: dreamy, kind, fearless too. Instead of seven dwarves, he has loyal companions. Some are more serious and angry, but ready to help our Snow White here and other cute and funny eaters.

Shanks (and yes Benn Beckman is our angry one in this one) ---

a/n: ok, I had more fun writing this than I thought I would

[hotdogdynamitezzz]

Your Fashion and Style Guide

Pt.1

Part 2 (Libra - Pisces) Here

Use your Rising & Venus sign!

Aries:

Prioritizes comfort but doesn't compromise for their fashion style

Absolutely rocks streetwear & athleisure

Prefers sporty fits the most!

Looks best in red & black clothing

Their style always has some sort of edge to it

Big on grunge and vintage rockband t shirts

They love combat boots and they generally prefer flame or camo print clothes

This sounds odd but they kinda remind me of a racecar aesthetic?

Very Sharp with their fashion choices

They look great in leather jackets

A bold colour paired with a neutral for a high contrast look suit them best

They love the rockstar or baddie aesthetic

Looks ~

Taurus:

They have three modes, classy bitches, edgy e-girls & bohemian botanical.

But generally, I see classy and soft the most

Green, Brown, Beige, White, Black, Pink & Red for sensuality.

They love wearing neutrals but they often mix it up with some colour now and again

They usually have some sort of special necklace

A fan of pearls because it's classic

But diamonds are their best friends too ofc

Fuzzy & Fluffy cardigans or sweaters have their heart, especially the white and brown colours

They are into floral and flannel patterns

Their favorite colour options are brown & pink or white & pink 🕊💕

They usually dress more modest but make it look high fashion

They usually like to incorporate silk or a corset into their outfit, being ruled by venus makes them into a sensual and seductive look

Generally they favour comfortable fabrics and silk

Looks ~

Gemini:

I noticed they don't really like dark colours and generally prefer brighter neutrals or colours

They like off-the-shoulder, cold shoulder, cutout tops & cool designs on their shirts whether its long sleeve or not

They choose tops based on the arm style such as balloon sleeves or cutouts

Asymmetrical styles suit them best

Colors are white, bright pinks, and green.

Earrings & Bracelets are their favorite accessories

They like a fairy aesthetic, something that feels whimsical

Likes to switch between feminine and masculine clothing frequently

Very experimental with their clothes

Looks ~

Cancer:

Either soft and girly or moody and dark!

They prefer to keep it modest unless showing off their chest

Their choice of jewelry are pearl necklaces

The shoes they tend to favour are chunky block heels & sandals

Prefers blue, pink & white or black

Soft and flowy clothes like cardigans or kimonos

Knee high socks + sweater dresses look great

They love sweetheart necklines

Into crop tops! Usually silk crops

They like to pair tight clothes with a flowy jacket! Especially if it has a pop of colour

Overall style changes depending on how they're feeling that day

Looks ~

Leo:

Everytime I looked up a Leo rising celebrity that were ALWAYS wearing sunglasses

A fan of sunhats too!

Anything bright & metallic suit them perfectly

They look lavish in silky and shiny materials

They tend to wear fur coats

They like long and sturdy coats in general!

Usually they own big statement jewelry

Everything looks shiny tbh especially their hair.

Sparkly clothes & sequins are their weakness

They could rock sundresses

They look great in animal print, specifically cheetah or leopard.

Bold fashion is their go-to

Even if they wear neutral colours they make sure the texture stands out

Jumpsuits were really popular among them! I think they like to look playful but glamorous at the same time

They will not leave the house unless they look ready for a fashion show lol

Their motive is to standout and turn heads.

Looks ~

Virgo:

Less is more for them

They like simple t-shirts with cute mottos like "be kind" or some shit that HAS to be written in small font or they won't wear it LOL

A Preppy Style & Sweater Vests are their thing

So is gingham print

They rock high-fashion looks

Fake glasses are a cute trend they look good in

A big fan of trench coats and cardigans

They prefer a business casual look

They prefer earthy tones & greens.

They are all about the simplicity in versatility! For instance they usually like black jeans and a white top but the top can be a tube top or a halter top based on what they want that day

They LOVE BLAZERS

Very picky about fashion, I find super bright colors often turn them away

Quality > Quantity for them

A lot of them look great in crop tops, or waist accentuating clothing like kim k is known for

Watches are usually a staple item they prefer

Looks ~

[dragonfly0808]

How Daphne Haunts the Narrative

I love the concept of a character haunting the narrative. Just… ugh I can’t even explain it.

My favorite examples of this are Sejannus and Lucy Gray in the Hunger Games.

I always found the concept of Daphne to be a very interesting one in the OG, this girl who was a Nymph and an amazing fairy sacrificing it all for her sister and winding up a ghost in a lake.

But I felt like that concept was never used to it’s full potential.

So… I tried to do just that.

In my rewrite, Daphne is almost this larger-than-life entity. She wasn’t just Bloom’s sister. 

She was an amazing fairy in her own right, she was a Nymph and the best Guardian of the Dragon Flame that’d been seen in centuries. On top of all of that, she was a dedicated Princess.

That’s part of what makes her tragic, she was the best, and she was still taken down.

Now, Daphne’s situation isn’t what I would call a proper haunting of the narrative, but she’s definetly very present in the way that, in some way or another, almost everything leads back to her.

Bloom is haunted by the idea of having to live up to Daphne, the more she learns about her sister the more she feels like she won’t be able to do just that. 

Bloom’s haunted by the memory everyone has of her sister, everyone who remembers Daphne has an insane level of respect for her and misses her dearly. That’s something that can intimidate Bloom from time to time and even make her jealous.

Then, there’s the fact that, if Domino hadn’t fallen and Daphne hadn’t been cursed, then Bloom wouldn’t even be a fairy in the first place.

Daphne gave up, not just the Flame but also a big part of her own power in order to keep Bloom safe and give her the power she would need to be the Guardian of the Flame.

Due to this, Bloom is haunted by guilt and resentment. Guilt due to the fact that pretty much everything she has could technically be seen as something that was ‘taken’ from Daphne. There comes the guilt, which then meets… resentment. Guilty resentment towards Daphne for giving her the Flame and being the action that drops the dominoes towards arguably every bad thing in Bloom’s life.

So, Bloom’s view and relationship of/with Daphne, is complicated to say the least.

This is something I love, since it allows for Bloom’s complex feelings to turn into something that I feel a lot of little sisters can relate to, just the confusion of loving and adoring your sister but also feeling jealousy and resentment and just, not being sure whether you should be like them and trying to be your own person when you have the same teachers… I think it’s kinda relatable in a way. If you take away all the magical shenanigans of course.

This is how Daphne haunts Bloom specifically, but this is named after the narrative, so how does Daphne haunt the very narrative of Veiled Wings?

That, is a very interesting question that has a bit of a complicated answer.

There are two ways in which Daphne haunts the narrative.

The first is ala Star Wars; the story ‘rhyming’. I don’t know if you’ve watched this very old interview with George Lucas but he said something along the lines of “the story rhymes”, what this means is that the same beats occur in the story, in opposite or contrasting ways. They ‘rhyme’.

This is what happens with Daphne and Bloom, in a sense, their stories rhyme.

Both grow up a bit lonely, both find their heart and soul in Alfea. Both make life-long friends there. Bloom finds her connections with fellow fairies while Daphne preffered witches and warlocks and Palladins.

They meet Tabitha and Stella, both with similar personalities but opposite powers. Avalon and Timmy, with the same habit of diving head first into research about anything they’re passionate about and being just a little (unapologetically) weird.

Then there’s their romances. Both Daphne and Bloom have tragedies as romances. Daphne and Valtor started off great, it was their ending that was oh so tragic. While, for Bloom and Sky, it’s Valtor that turns them into a tragedy in the middle of their relationship.

Politea and Selina, both dear friends lost to inner darkness.

Bloom’s story parallels a lot of Daphne’s. (Even if a lot of it is stuff that I just made up that hasn’t really been mentioned or explained).

The second way in which Daphne haunts the narrative, is that, like I mentioned before, almost everything leads back to Daphne in some way or another.

A lot of the villains or people we encounter have ties to her or are situations that she began/participated in in some kind of way.

Darkar was created in part due to Daphne. Darkar attacks Daphne, in turn, Valtor curses him and he becomes the red skeleton we know and love. Daphne is his origin story.

Before Bloom fought Icy, Daphne fought Icy’s cousin and her coven, who was the first to awaken the Ancestral Witches spirit. That is one parallel that I really like just, adding to the fight even if neither Icy nor Bloom are fully aware of the history of previous family also fighting.

Teachers we know (Griselda, Tabitha and Avalon most of all though Codatorta and Palladium also fall here) were once friends with Daphne.

Valtor’s entire reason for fighting is avenging and trying to bring back Daphne. And of course, the Ancestral Witches are locked away in time back in Domino as Daphne’s final act as a warrior. 

The end of Daphne’s story sets up the world the Winx start off in.

In a sense, all roads lead back to her.

The narrative can’t escape Daphne’s past actions, her choices, her story rhymes with Bloom’s and a lot of what happens in the story happens due to Daphne’s past and things that she once did.

I always felt like she was never fully utilized in the OG show and I really wanted to have her be a nearly constant presence, I wanted her to be perhaps even more than a ghost.

And thus, the idea of her haunting the narrative and Bloom.

[the-broken-truth]

Yuu - Child of the Great Seven [2]: Meeting The Headmaster

Broken: Welcome back. Here are some more critical points for the new parts. This will make things more interesting in my opinion:

Yuu has different Parental Terms of Endearment for all Seven of their Parents.

Yuu calls the Queen of Hearts 'Mum'

Yuu calls the Sea Witch 'Mom'

Yuu calls the Fairest Queen 'Mama'

Yuu calls the Thorn Fairy 'Mother'

Yuu calls the King of Beasts 'Dad'

Yuu calls the King of the Underworld 'Papa'

Yuu calls the Sorcerer of the Sands 'Father'

[NIght Raven College - Crowley's Office]

[After the paralyzing shock caused by the arrival of the Great Seven wore off for the Dorm Wardens (+Jamil), Yuu takes their parents to the Headmaster's Office for a discussion. The Dorm Wardens (+Jamil) followed them at a distance; completely shocked that the 'Magicless Student' they all knew Yuu to be was actually the Spawn of the Great Seven. The Dorm Wardens (+Jamil) are standing outside the door while peeking into the room while the Great Seven are having conversations with Crowley, who looks like he is about to panic at the sight of the Snarling King of Beasts glaring at him while folding his arms.]

King of Beasts (Looming over the trembling Headmaster): Give me one good reason why I shouldn't tear you limb from limb after all of the hell you placed upon my cub by making them do YOUR JOB!

Yuu (Places a hand on Their Dad's arm to calm him down): Dad, please, calm down.

[The King of Beasts keeps glaring and snarling at Crowley.]

Yuu (Exhales and turns to face the King of the Underworld): Papa, please, talk some sense into Dad and get him to calm down.

King of the Underworld: Forgive me, Little Flame, but I have to agree with your dad this time around. Not only were you responsible for maintaining your grades during your time here, but you also had the burden of dealing with the Dorm Wardens and the Vice Dorm Warden of Scarabia when they Overblotted, and do not even get me started on the fact you have been doing the Headmaster's Paperwork while checking up on the well being of all the other students.

Riddle (Whispering): I knew about 3 out of 4 of those things, but I didn't know that Yuu was also doing the Headmaster's Paperwork.

Jamil (Whispering): I know. Now that I think about it, when do they have time to sleep or do things they want to do? When they aren't in class, they are literally running around the school, trying to help everyone in need with no reward.

Vil (Whispering with tears in his eyes): My Poor Potato... So much responsibility on someone so young but so humble and refuses to ask for aid.

Azul (Whispering): Honestly, I don't see why the Higher-Ups haven't made Yuu the Headmaster of Night Raven at this point; they have literally done more for this place in the time they have been since than Crowley ever did since becoming Headmaster.

Dorm Wardens (+Jamil) (Whispering while nodding): Agreed.

Yuu (Raises an eyebrow): How did you know about all of that? Have you guys been spying on me again?

Queen of Hearts: That would be my fault, My Little Heart; I just wanted to make sure that you were having a good time at Night Raen without overworking yourself. It was by pure chance that I happened to be watching you while you were doing the Headmaster's Paperwork.

Yuu (Exhales): It's not your fault, Mum, just please calm Dad down before he kills Crowley; I really don't want to deal with that later.

Thorn Fairy (Walks over to the King of Beasts): King of Beasts, please calm yourself down; Yuu has expressed that they do not want you to slaughter this waste of space of a Headmaster.

King of Beasts: After all the crap he's put my cub through? You expect me to let him off without losing at least one limb? Preferably his head!

Thorn Fairy: My Thorn has bested you in your challenge and you are to yield to the demands they give you; that was the condition you crafted when you started these challenges. (Raises an eyebrow) You wouldn't go against a rule you made yourself, would you?

King of Beasts (Exhales and stands up straighter while glaring out the window to the Destroyed Fountain in front of the school): Very well.

Sorcerer of the Sands (Walks over to Crowley's Desk): Now, I am aware that you have Yuu's Grades on file; I want to see them, now.

Yuu (Groans): Father...

Sorcerer of the Sands (Holding his empty hand to silence Yuu): You know how serious I am about your education, My Little Desert Flower; you have always been rather brilliant and I shall not allow you to waste your brain. (Looks at Crowley) The File. Now.

[Crowley reaches for Yuu's File and holds it out to the Sorcerer of the ands who waves his staff to cause the file to leviate and open before his eyes; he scans his eyes carefully over the paper before flipping to the next page. There is silence for a while before he closes the file and uses his magic to place it back on the desk.]

Sorcerer of the Sands (Looks at Yuu): My Little Desert Flower, it would seem your vigilance in your classes allowed you to maintain high grades; I am rather pleased with this.

King of Beasts: Hold on. Are you telling me that you didn't see what I just saw?! My Cub is suffering in Magic Related Classes! (Looks at Yuu) Are you still repressing your magic and refusing to use it, Cub?!

[The look on Yuu's Face answers the King of Beasts' Question.]

King of Beasts (Running his hand through his hair as he exhales): Cub, we talked about this: You should not repress your magic and refuse to use it. Your magic is a part of you and you need to accept it just as you accept everything else about yourself.

Yuu: I know, Dad, but I was too scared to use my magic around here; you know that my magic is stronger than Overblot Magic, I didn't want to risk harming the people I have come to care about here.

King of Beasts: You are keeping your magic locked away for those mere mortals?! How is that fair to you, Cub?! When are you going to stop being so selfless and do something for yourself for once?!

Yuu (Flinches): I'm sorry, Dad!

Fairest Queen: King of Beasts, please remain calm; you know that our child is selfless by nature. We are here now and we shall spend time together with them. You shall have time to aid them in exercising their magical prowess.

Sea Witch: She is correct, King of Beasts; do not be angered by our child's selfless nature.

King of Beasts (Exhales): Fine. You both are correct.

Yuu (Looks at the Fairest Queen & Sea Witch): Thanks, Mom & Mama. You guys are going to remain here to spend some time with me?

Fairest Queen: Oh, that's right, we have not told you. For the remainder of this week, we shall remain at this college to spend time with you; you shall be relieved from your classes and other duties to spend time with us and have a break to yourself.

Yuu (Scratching the back of their head): I don't mind you guys spending time with me, heck, it would be awesome to have my parents here with me but I don't think Ramshackle is large enough for all of us to stay in.

King of the Underworld (Raises an eyebrow): Ramshackle?

Yuu: The Old Dormitory.

Thorn Fairy: There are 7 Dorms that are fully functional where you can stay but you are housed in an old dorm?

Yuu: The Dark Mirror couldn't place me in a dorm since it thought I was Magicless, and I needed a place to stay so Crowley placed me in Ramshackle.

Thorn Fairy: Understandable.

Sorcerer of the Sands: Very well, I have a solution to this issue: Whenever we are not together or spending time with Yuu, we shall remain in the Dormitories that represent us. I am curious to see just how things are run within the walls of Scarabia.

King of Beasts: That sounds like an interesting idea. That Lion Beastman from earlier was the Dorm Warden of the Savanaclaw Clan; I am curious as to how he runs his pride. However... (Smirks) I'll be having a conversation with him about calling my child an 'Herbivore'.

Leona (Trembling while Whispering): Oh, crap. I'm done for.

Yuu: Dad, do not harm my friend! He means a lot to me and I shall not forgive you if you harm him or the others in Savanaclaw Clan.

King of Beasts: You speak defensively of him as if he was your chosen mate but I am sure that is not the case, correct, Cub?

Yuu (Looks off to the side with a slight blush across their face):...

[The Great Seven look at the Blushing Face of Yuu.]

King of Beasts:... Oh... Hell...No.

Vil (Smirks while Whispering): This is gonna be interesting, Kingscholar, however, I have no intention of just handing over my Sweet Potato to you just because they have possible feelings for you. I am certain that I am a better match for them.

Leona (Growling Whispering at Vil): Screw you.

[END]

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

diasomnia ice-cream parlor au doodles

[Referencing this post!]

Hello, yes, I’ve been thinking about the Diasomnia ice-cream parlor AU again 🍨🍦 I guess I must have been really hungry lately www

I see them as offering not just ice-cream, bur also variants like gelato, shaved ice, milkshakes, etc. (They can afford it with support from the Draconia royal family’s funds 😂) The focus here will be ice-cream though, just because that’s Malleus’s favorite.

Imagine walking in and not knowing what to order (there’s so much to choose from!), so you ask the staff to pick something for you… (Yes, I’ve thought about this way too much and now I’m going to shovel this at you—)

Malleus strikes me as a very traditional and old-fashioned guy, so I’d see him falling back on ol’ reliable. You can’t go wrong with a classic sugar cone and a healthy scoop on top!

He recommends mint chocolate chip because it adds an additional pleasant cooling sensation to the actual coldness of ice-cream. Malleus is fond of the flavor himself; it’s great for cooling down a mouth that’s hot from breathing flames!

You’re brave if you accept anything Lilia hands you… You ask him what this is (the ice-cream looks… discolored in some places, and there’s all this weird stuff jutting out from it; is that a piece of lettuce???). He just winks at you and calls it “Lilia-chan’s Super Cute ⭐️ Special”, featuring a bunch of “unique” flavors he created himself.

It comes served in a cup because it’s easier to eat it while walking that way. For Lilia, who is a well-seasoned traveler, foods that are able to be eaten on the go are a plus!

Silver picks out a waffle bowl (it resembles a sturdy bird’s nest) and encourages you to try a lot of different things. It’ll help you to gain an appreciation for the new and unfamiliar! With how wide the waffle bowl is and how many flavors and toppings are in there, this can be good for sharing with friends from all over.

The particular version featured in the doodle has three kinds of ice-cream, each one representing one of the three Good Fairies. A pink flavor, a blue flavor, and a green flavor—maybe rose or strawberry, blueberry or cotton candy, and pistachio? It’s a very naturey palate.

His animal friends have helped with the ingredients; there’s honey drizzled on top, as well as crushed nuts. Freshly picked berries and edible flowers garnish the bowl too—oh, and we can’t forget a generous chunk of honeycomb!

… I don’t know much about Kingdom Hearts, but I’ve heard that Silver resembles Riku from KH?? So maybe Silver can offer some sea salt ice-cream too as a throwback 😂

… Was anyone surprised by this? No? No.

Sebek chose a tall parfait glass for serving so that the dessert can be as tall as possible. It’s a matcha and ube soft serve, swirled high. The green is Diasomnia’s color, and the purple is meant to be the color of the underside of Malleus’s cape. (Sebek wanted to include black ice-cream to for the Draconia royal color, but couldn’t find a good flavor.)

Art isn’t his forte, but Sebek did his best to “recreate the imposing, elegant image of wakasama” in his dessert. The cherry on top, flanked by two conical chocolate pieces, are meant to be Malleus and his horns. The wafer poking out is supposed to “enhance the young master’s presence”. All the other things are extra details in an effort to make the ice-cream larger than life: candied fruit peels arranged in a line (to resemble the spines on a dragon’s tail), mochi balls (“magestones”) piled to one side, and a chocolate biscuit stick + wafer that, together, look like Malleus’s staff.

Sebek tried really hard! … He will aggressively try to sell you on this item.

If you’re really hungry or with a large group, why not go for the Diasomnia Family Fundae? It’s their take on a sundae, served in a glass boat. There’s a whole banana, chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and three maraschino cherries! The bramble is made of dark chocolate.

Each student is represented by one scoop and a little candy or chocolate that helps to characterize the boy (horns, bat wings, lightning bolt, or sword). Sebek is a lemon-like sherbet, befitting of his loud, in-your-face personality. Lilia is a bright red berry flavor (strawberries, cherries, cranberries, etc.), like his favorite red juices, deep and complex. Silver is vanilla bean, pure, simple, and earnest. (He could also be a subtle lavender flavor, since that's a flower known to ease you into sleep.) And Malleus… well, that scoop is a pitch black, but the flavor is something you can’t quite place your tongue on. It’s a mystery, just like he is! (Maybe the shop changes the flavor every now and again. They can run a promo where if you guess the right flavor combo for that particular week’s Malleus scoop, they give you a discount or a free cone.)

A lot of chocolate sauce is dripping down from the Malleus scoop; this is because the sauce is supposed to be his “blot”. The bottom three scoops—Lilia, Sebek, and Silver—are blanketed by the chocolate thorns as a reference to how those three were sentenced to sleep.

[sevenop]

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: The Countess's carriage

A/n: You get your driver's license, and Billie just likes to mess around sometimes.

Billie's point of view. Small references to "Oxytocin".

"Okay guys, we're done, you're packing up the equipment! You all did a great job!" - The photographer gives the command and his booming voice shaking the bright studio like a fairy-tale giant easily lifting a log cabin into the air, and for a second it seems that even the huge vertical plane of the cyclorama behind me is swaying, absorbing his powerful, bassy voice. Something reminiscent of huge stage speakers, quite amusing. - "Thank you more for such a pleasant cooperation, Ms. O'Connell."

The stocky man smiles as kindly as if he were a boy of five, making his truly French mustache bounce upward in curls. And he himself is a living embodiment of Parisian chic, making an impression of some incompatible between windiness and seriousness. Chinos pants in gray plaid, expensive white shirt that is deliberately not buttoned up on the first button, black classic Vans slip-ons, brown jacket, and his majesty - yellow scarf. It's like I never left Paris, a really wonderful photographer.

"Just Billie," - I sank blissfully into the blue pouffe with my foot on the leg, - "and thank you, it's mutual."

The good-natured uncle walks away, looking at the camera screen with incredible satisfaction as he walks (perhaps even calculating the profits from the magazine covers, as evidenced by his dreamy feline smile), and I can finally exhale, relaxed. When I lean my head back and close my eyes for a few seconds, the studio around me is as noisy as a forest: someone removes the nozzle from the softboxes with a characteristic rustle like the sound of leaves, or heared alternating clicks that make the studio lights go out, reminiscent of a woodpecker's knocking on wood. And it's all mixed in with the rushing of people stomping around, muffled speech that I'm not really trying to make out. With an exhalation I open my eyes leisurely, and while long-legged tripods and reflectors, so similar to buds opened under the sun, are "flying by", I fumble for my phone in the pocket of baggy jeans. Even in this consonance of work noise, I hear most sensitively the sound of the notification from you. Or maybe I don't hear it, but already feel it in my heart, who knows? A light swipe up and our chat window obediently pops up. Emoji of a burning heart in place of name and your photo in the profile circle, where you deliberately playfully shine your sharpened bare collarbones, which for me is the most delicious cherry that I want to savor on my tongue.

"Hey, guess who can surpass you on the road now? 〜(꒪꒳꒪)〜"

A warm smile spreads on my lips: your efforts have really paid off despite the itchy worries in your soul. So proud of you, though I can't help but tease jokingly - the newfound opportunity is too sweet, since you and I can have such an unconditionally good time.

"Debatable about surpassing me, my girl..." - And immediately followed by a new blue cloud of a message that slipped right out from under my fingers. - "But I'm eternally proud of you, you're incredible."

"Then why does it look like you want to take me on as a bet, Eilish?"

Bingo. As soon as I slyly cast my rod, you immediately swallow the bait, even knowing full well what's involved. Your deliberate submissiveness is so enticing, it makes me bite my lower lip, automatically stoking the hungry flames of my obscene thoughts. The false fang scratches my lip from the excessive pressure. Shit... Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a tall, thin shadow looming over me, causing me to raise my head, reflexively blocking my screen.

"Billie, ready to go yet?" - Laura smiles, holding the thick day planner in one hand and holding it out to me with the other like a caring fairy godmother. I nod and immediately brag to get up from the blue ottoman in one motion. - "You look a little tired, dear, but luckily that was the last activity for today."

"And this is coming from a person who should be on a well-deserved vacation twice already, but has been putting it off for about six months now," - I chuckle, and Laura playfully folds her fingers pistol-wise, tucking her "sacred" texts under her armpit. A few impromptu shots, and I play along like an unlikely Hollywood movie actor, grabbing dramatically at the heart. - "Okey, my lip zipped."

"That's right!" - Ramsey, with a cheeky grin, alternately blows imaginary smoke off her fatal "weapon" before she get back in the same mood. - "Should I call a driver to give you a ride home?"

"No, that's okay,"- I sluggishly wave her off as the two of us weave our way toward the exit of the room, keeping our course toward the intricate weave of several dark corridors and dressing rooms. - "Better tell me, can I keep those awesome fangs?".

"I think, for a small fee, it's quite possible."

"Great!" - I dip my hand into my pocket again, unintentionally blinding myself with the display in the unfamiliar darkness at first. My fingers immediately touch the necessary letters, as if in a sharp and passionate tango. - "Simply marvelous."

One can now tread on this fragile ice far more confidently than before.

"It is, I want." - The blue cloudlet goes to you, losing the final "you" along the way, which I did, after all, erase as soon as I typed it. Not because it's not true, but because it's too boring and stupid to open all the cards at once. - "Will you pick me up?"

Two thin, white checkmarks appear almost immediately in the corner, notifying me that it's been read. The three dots at the top of the screen bounce meditatively as I say goodbye to Laura, who's walking further down the maze of narrow corridors, and I'm touch the handle of the dressing room with the palm of my hand as I make mine way inside.

"Yeah, only if you're want ride on a bicycle." - The words skillfully build into your traditional irony, and I can hold back a burst of laughter. - "I don't have a car yet, and I don't think you're so dreamy about having all of LA running after us when they recognize you."

"Take my Dragon, and show me what you can do. I'll be waiting."

I write the address and set the phone back down on the table contentedly, settling into the high chair in front of the mirror: I smile languidly, and a pair of snow-white fangs and silver grillz catch the glow of light from the warm backlighting running along the mirror frame. The silver star shining especially brightly. I notice the playful blue sparks in my gaze that flicker with the stirring dirty thoughts already running rampant in my head. Well, this is going to be fun!

×××

As soon as I leave the building through the back door, under the usual escort of two trustworthy guards and the responsible Laura, I hear the familiar, soft rumble of the engine and my favorite rustle of wheels in the deep dark blue twilight: you pull into the parking lot like a careful panther, so as not to attract unnecessary attention. Although I know how much you want to make noise for the whole block and press the gas pedal to the floor. I like to do that. And I think I like to see you driving my car, which I'm just now finding out.

"You're too sexy against the obsidian black metallic, you know that?" - I dive into the passenger seat, which feels a little unfamiliar, and you almost drop your jaw to the floor of the cabin in surprise when I look at you defiantly from under my dark glasses and smile. I bite my lip deliberately, setting the stage. - "You like it?"

"Insanely." - You look adoringly into my blue waters, so beloved of you, and I can't hold back a slight blush, immediately covering myself with a smirk. - "You seem to have surpassed even Carmilla herself, Countess."

"I hope the first vampire in the history of literature doesn't take too much offense at me." - I grab to my seatbelt, letting a chuckle pass through my lips.

"She will. It's impossible to be offended by you."

As we pull out of the parking lot, the right to stare elegantly becomes my authority, which you've unknowingly handed over to me, as if you've performed a gothic sacrament in the semi-darkness of the cabin by your mere appearance and demeanor. The massive gold chain that weighs so seductively on your neat neck is worth it. And the long coffee-colored jacket that accentuates your sculpted shoulders? My gaze falls on the thin strap threaded into the laces of your casual pants - the belt plaque is gold-plated, too. You lower your right hand, gently touching the gearshift knob, and I stare so dumbly, hungrily outlining each phalanx and the line of rings playing on your beautiful fingers. Oh my God... You're doing absolutely nothing obscene, and I'm practically dying already.

"Is everything okay?" - you ask, not taking your eyes off the road. Your face is so unaccustomedly focused, though I catch some concern in your gaze.

"Just admiring you," - I take off my sunglasses, clinging them with one earpiece on the collar of my T-shirt. - "And... I wanted to offer you something."

"Listening attentively, my Countess." - You look at me expectantly, just as we slow down at the stoplight waiting for the signal, a purring chuckle on your lips. - "Anything for your gothic majesty, the finest carriage at your service."

"Is it really the best? It's not like I'm driving right now." - A smirk shoots up on its own, causing you to do nothing but tsk tsk and roll your eyes theatrically. You're my flawless opera.

"Stop taunting and tormenting me and tell me what you're up to, slick."

The air sticks in my throat barely in time to form meaningful words, or at least syllables: a red Audi comes nose to nose, honking softly. My hands reach for mine glasses, clawing them back onto my face as a kind of reflex. And you're instantly taut, like a string twisted in the right direction by a peg on top of the fingerboard. Hands on the handlebars in perfect position, for all the flashy high marks. Again another slight honk of a car suddenly appearing nearby breaks the silence of the night.

"Did I do something wrong?" - You ask perplexedly, arching your eyebrows slightly in a frown and turning your head toward the window, just in time for the expensive source of the rich scarlet-colored sound. The Audi immediately winks playfully at you a couple times with its high beam lights, making you squint more and more with the question hovering right above your head.

"No, relax." - I run my hand down your thigh, which immediately tenses under my palm. You turn your gaze back to me, still as questioning, but you spread your leg closer to me without further ado. You're so obedient, it's a miracle. - "It's just that you're being called to a stoplight race."

"Uh, just like in the movies?"

"Uh-huh." - I slide my hand thigh , down to your knee to come back up and rest on the border of my inner thigh. The look is attentive, eye to eye, you're not even looking down yet. - "When two or more drivers in expensive cars meet randomly on the road and try to prove who is 'cooler' by overtaking each other, flashing high beams, playing 'checkers' usually with significant speeding."

"And... How do I win?" - My palm dives down, and you start breathing a little confused, which someone else wouldn't even notice unless you knew you properly. But I do know, and that brings a satisfied smile as if on cue. - "Eilish..."

"I'll tell you if you promise to grant my wish," I return back, squeezing your thigh through the fabric of your pants. - "Whatever it is."

"I promise." - You nod confidently, even without any pause. A small spark of excitement shines in the depths of your pupils. Wonderful.

"Usually this sort of thing ends with one heavily outmaneuvering the 'opponent', like while he's stopped at a stoplight, bumping into slow traffic, and stuff like that." - I lower my glasses a little, peeking over the edge of the frame. Your gaze drifts momentarily to the rich blue of my lashes, and then you're back at the mercy of my calculating eyes. - "Racing from stoplight to stoplight, usually starting on green, then rapid acceleration, 'checkers' and braking before the next stoplight.

"Well, there's no other cars here now, obviously."

"In our case, all we have to do is run a green light to get our opponent 'stuck' into a red light." - feeling the coolness of the gearbox knob with the palm of my hand is nice, even sitting in the passenger seat, even if it feels completely different. - "Roar if you want to compete."

You pause for a second, arching your back into the seat, staring appraisingly at the distant traffic light in front of you, and then place your hands on the steering wheel. Seeing the blue ribbons of your veins on your tense wrists is pure sex. You squeeze the gas pedal, shaking the silence of the intersection with a powerful roar - and that's sex multiplied by x-two. You really know how to make the Dragon sound. And I know how to make you sound. The scarlet Audi responds immediately, making noise and "shooting" the engine in a cocky, open and brazen challenge.

"I dibs pay on the fines, Eilish." - you exhale tensely with a chuckle, staring at the red light as if someone's life depends on it. Oh, you're nervous as if you're on your deathbed, waiting with your hand clasped on the handle.

"The Countess is betting all her treasure on you, my coachman." - I lean back in my chair with too much wimpy pathos on my tongue, and as I smile my teeth catch the glow of the streetlights again, which is especially visible in the side mirror. Red changes to yellow, to which the Audi growls again, and you don't make a single extra move, just wait. - "Prove it to me what you better."

Five seconds of silence - the yellow cycles to green. And you sharply push the knob on the box forward in a split second, at the same time pressing the pedal to the floor. The wheels grind to a devilish speed, and I'm immediately sealed into the seat. It's pure madness, but I like it. The Audi pathetically "shooting" the exhaust pipe, being bumper to bumper with you again. At the last decisive meters, when the green circle blinks, as if saying goodbye for a while, and the "Dragon" on half a bumper rushes forward, you confidently pull the handle a little on itself, including the second gear, then - clutch, smooth wheel spin, gas. With a whistle of tires, you fly sideways behind the traffic light hanging from above, immediately leveling off to the proper lane and driving away, kicking up dust. The red Audi stays behind the red light, a little further away.

With the realization of the outcome, we yell something unintelligible to each other, me nearly bouncing out of my seat even though I'm buckled in, you, a five-finger running through your hair disbelievingly while the road is still empty.

"Wow, I definitely have one of the best carriages of all," I whisper half hoarsely, feeling the tight ligaments in my throat peppering.

"And yet not the best?" - you pout playfully, biting down on the bottom one so your smile doesn't give you away. Still too flighty and excited from the dose of adrenaline shooting through your bloodstream. - "I won, hey!"

"You won, but you didn't win against me," - I show you my tongue, sticking it exactly in the gap between my fangs, and you laugh childishly. There's no hint of resentment or anything like that on your face.

"So be it, Eilish." - You look distractedly at the rearview mirror, as if convincing yourself that this isn't all a figment of your imagination. - "So what about your wish?"

And here comes the prize for audience sympathy! Personal and unique, so long awaited.

"Remember my apartment in the apartments near the center?" - I place my hand back on your thigh, stroking extremely close, making you almost hiss, "Head over there, right into the underground parking lot."

×××

Passing the security checkpoint without the slightest problem, and pulling into the parking lot just out of camera range - good idea, great even. Unbuckling the seatbelts on both of us and getting my lips on yours before your mechanism hit the car wall with its metal detail was great. Ordering you, so panting and disheveled from my hands and lips, to move into the back seats right out of the front seats, following me is stunning in its uniqueness. You are sprinted by me to the back seat without any mercy or excuse, with your lips slightly swollen and reddened from biting. And I deeply don't care that we're somewhat cramped right now, perhaps that only plays to our advantage. I don't care because it's my wish, and you promised to fulfill it.

"You're crazy, you know that?" - Your gaze is so serious - pure surgical steel, but you're breathing intermittently and without noticing it you're fawning your body only closer to me, your legs in expensive pants spread wider, giving more space. - "Why don't you back off and pick something safer?"

Sitting on you in the small interior of Dodge: pure insanity. Hovering over you again and tongue leaving a lust-hot stroke on your neck, pulling back the collar of your thin white turtleneck: a complete breakdown of brakes and decency. But can't I be bad sometimes? Oh, yes, I can! Especially when there's a hot girl like you in my car.

"Can't take it back once it's been set in motion," - I clutch that most fucking licentious gold and massive chain in my fist, pulling you closer by it so you're sure to hear every word crystal clear in my whisper. - "Cause I like to do things God doesn't approve of if she saw us."

"Eilish, fuck...," - I rest my knee so shamelessly between your thighs, deliberately creating friction, and you melting, letting go of any moral guardrails, your face hidden behind your Artemis palm: fingers so thin and chiseled and beautiful, like you're a perfect portrait descended from the paintings of antiquity. Mine. So excited and almost swaggering.

"Girl, I'm going to drive you crazy," - I run the very tip of a fang along the curl of your ear, and you pant in heat, swallowing your own moan so obediently that my own thighs shake from the tension. Gently I wrap my fingers around your hand, moving my hand away from your face. - "Wanna see what you can take, take you right in the my car, such a deadly hot girl. Will you be obedient for me?"

"Yes," - you wheeze, clinging to my lips, and I allow it, only biting lightly. It seems like you're about to have bloody scratchy cracks on your lips as it is, my weakness. I leave a few hickeys on your neck, and I almost laugh as you purr a muffled moan: I think I'm getting too into the vampire role, don't you think?

I touch you just everywhere, every precious cell of your body, and you still don't beg: you endure and only occasionally look away from me, wishing you could find some respite to save your soul in this four-wheeled Purgatory that is more sinful than hell itself.

"You couldn't look away, look away, look away..." - I hum mockingly right in your face, grabbing your chin, but you only roll your eyes with the new thrust of my knee. You're so interesting to 'break', my dear, so unadulterated and interesting to me.

"She'd wanna get involved, involved, involved..." - you deftly parry my own sentence. A slight smirk flashes across your lips, and then I'm nearly folded in half when you thoughtfully shut my mouth with your hand and wedge your knee into the very point of infernal heat in my body. There, between my thighs.

"Slut..." - I feel the sweat begin to trickle down my forehead, and a bitchy smile spreads across my lips. You don't look away, staring straight into my irises, wanting to swim in those seas, to stay there forever. But I won't let you - I just can't do it without you. Your parched lips fold silently into "yours," and so hard tightens the knot of heat in my lower abdomen as if all five letters were belladonna petals.

Deftly I unbuckle your belt, pull the zipper tongue down and you instantly break down, no longer having any strength to continue this teenage game we're playing.

"I'm begging, Billie, please..."

Click! And you broke, just seconds before I would have lost all patience myself, pounding into you with fingers so frantic and selfless that you never dreamed. Good girl. And good girls should be encouraged, shouldn't they?

Already half-naked, you crawl back to the narrow window with your back to the max distance, and I slide down the seat to the opposite side with my feet on the floor. I run my hands over your absolutely uncovered thighs, touching them smoothly with my lips as if they were expensive velvet. You want to grab my hair with your hands, speeding up the process, but you stopped yourself so obediently that I personally place your hand on the back of my head-you deserve it.

I run my tongue between the hot petals, and you nearly bang your head on the roof, wanting to arch your body in a beautiful arc of pleasure. Your hands are tangled in my dark hair, and I'm just trying not to scratch you with my two snow-white "gothic blade", stolen from the photo shoot so successfully. The star-shaped grillz are so contrastly, it's so cold on your aroused clit at first, isn't it?

You cum even without fingers, too taken to extremes in foreplay. All I do is suck in the pot of your clit with my lips, and you do fly into the low ceiling of the car with your forehead, jerking from your orgasm too sharply. You squeeze your eyes shut in pain, barely able to recover again from the new wave of small shudders.

"Hey, hey, hey," - I'm settling in just as you do, pulling you closer to me, resting your head on my chest. Your feet dangle to the floor, but you don't seem to care. You only squint, trying to calm the mottled galaxy before your eyes, and poke your lips against my neck. - "Gently, be accurate, my girl."

You open your eyes, and you look at me so wildly, the word Fallen Angel on Alexander Cabanel's canvas. Madly, with burning eyes, with unknown power. You don't say a word only kiss endlessly, and with one hand you manage the thin Gucci belt and the zipper on my jeans. You enter with two fingers so unexpectedly and precisely that I would have left a hole in the roof with my head if you hadn't put your hand there in time.

"The Grammy Academy still needs some talented twists, careful," - you chuckle, but I'm just feverishly thrusting against your tense fingers, eager for release. I bite my lip until it's bloody, and the star-shaped grillz blinks silver. - "Nah, that won't do..."

You pull your fingers out, and I feel like crying or biting "vampire-style."

You slide down between my thighs, throwing my legs over your back as best you can by virtue of the space, and then you say, looking into my eyes with Edenic pleasure like you've tasted forbidden fruit:

"Beg me, Billie Eilish."

Click! And I break under you in my own car, burning with excitement.

[wizzard890]

And I saw another beast come up out of the earth...and he spake as a dragon. (Revelation 13:11)

.

The Coronation of His Majesty King Bastian I - The Hour of Wolves

When he was born he was a small thing. A screaming infant, a second son, destined perhaps for military greatness, but never dukedom. Never inheritance. Never conquest.

But at the inception of the light, the birth of the world, the moment between silence and splendor when The Glory breathed across the scope of creation: he was no small thing then.

Even then, he was coming.

His rise runs with blood: knives in the back, poison, betrayal, kidnapping and vengeance.

His rise burns with greatness: glory, family, rescue, love and ferocity.

The secret world recognized him before he knew himself. A fairy witch marked his passing and offered her slender wrist for his talons. A dead sun opens its mouth for him, a vanished Christ is his counterpart, a death knight worships before him, a raven-haired little girl holds the hand of her doting and beloved father.

The world we know calls him king of France, the monarch of a seized throne, a general who has promised the great lords England on its knees.

The Devil, in his own tongue, may call him son. The Glory has said nothing.

Would you know him if you saw him? Would you recognize what he is?

Bow, while you consider, and kiss his ring. There is a crown of flame upon his brow.

[snarky-art]

Thriving vs Survivng, am I right, lads?

Bloom and Stella eventually get married, Daphne and the woman with her, Nadia, an oc I made and have mentioned a few times, get married with Daphne to be next in line as Queen of Domino, and Aisha and Musa get married one day, but are currently in this pic going through some Shit that’s putting a huge damper on that.

More info on everyone and political drama stuff below the cut!

Bloom and Stella are thriving.

Polyamory is super duper normalized in a decent amount of places, and is considered a norm on Solaria. Stella is eventually married both to Brandon and Bloom. Both of Bloom’s sets of parents love Stella and are incredibly happy for her. After much talk and deliberation between Daphne, Bloom, Marion, and Oritel to see how Bloom and Daphne are feeling after Daphne is healed up and in a good place and has processed shit, it’s decided Daphne will continue as heir and shall be next in line for rulership. Bloom meanwhile shall continue her role as guardian fairy, Holder of The Flame, and eventually upon her marriage to Stella will be Queen Regent of Solaria. She has a lot more flexibility this way too to go where she feels most comfortable, between Earth and other areas in The Magical Realm. Oritel and Marion don’t want Bloom or Daphne to feel trapped or be stifled with immense pressure if they can help it, and Bloom is still most comfortable on Earth, so having the option to go back and forth is important and something Marion and Oritel want her to not feel cut off from it, a mistake they made early on when they first got brought back from their stasis.

Formal picture of Nadia finally! An oc from Earth I made who’s Daphne’s gf and eventual wife. I thought it would be nice for Daphne to not worry about contextualizing her grief and trauma with someone who already had preconceived notions of her from myths and legends over the last 1000+ years.

Nadia: so you’re Bloom’s sister! That’s so cool! Do you have magic too?

Daphne, who at this point while not the holder of the flame anymore is still an incredibly powerful fire elemental who retains her nymphix and could hand bloom’s ass to her and call upon The Dragon at will whenever she wants: uh, yeah, some I guess.

Bloom: glad to see being a useless lesbian is a universal trait instead of just earth specific

Daphne: exCUSE ME-

Royal balls be like “The Incarnation of God Itself, heir to The Great Pillar of all of Magic Domino, The Dragon Reborn, Supreme Nymph of Magix, Princess Daphne, and Nadia, Barista on Tuesday, Thursday, and Weekends, of the plant Earth”

Like, oh boy, THEE DAPHNE, and Nadia from Starbucks.

Also don’t worry it’s not actually a Starbucks. It’s a small local cafe and bakery spot that Bloom really likes. Daphne went with her once, saw Nadia, and went 👀. Daphne doesn’t even like coffee also she just goes there for Nadia and was too anxious to ask about any other drinks so she just gets what Bloom got, would makes Bloom, who is not at all rich on Earth, pay for it, and then didn’t actually drink it.

Also, Nadia is definitely wearing heels here.

She’s only around 5’9 or ~175cm, while as I’ve mentioned before, Daphne is 6’7 or ~200cm.

She like to wear different heels and go “ok NOW how close am I to being taller than you” or sometimes go “ok, I think I beat you this time” when she tries on a new pair

She’s never close obviously and they both know that because hehe funny joke, but Daphne will still go “oh, you just might’ve this time.”

Musa and Aisha meanwhile are Struggling. Not only is Musa someone who is already insanely anti-monarch in her governmental views, even one that operates more as a democracy, the government she’s working with can’t stand her.

I’ve mentioned in these posts how marriage works on Andros, and Musa is Not It. She’s not even a Land Androsian, which would’ve been considered a bit of a scandal because of how their government structure is set up. No it’s much worse, for oh no, she’s not an Androsian at all! Truly horrific (I say this sarcastically, but that’s genuinely what the nobles and a chunk of the population feel).

Musa is doing what she can to appease Androsian court.

Gold is a big fucking no no on Andros, but she doesn’t want to give that up since it’s a really important part of her culture.

Aisha is standing with her on that, but it doesn’t make it easier to deal with the assholes in court.

She’s even muted her reds to lean more towards purples and blues.

Muting the reds was a huge olive branch of sorts and she’s pissed about it and doesn’t like doing it (but she did it, and it wasn’t even appreciated, but WHATEVER), but she refuses to get rid of the golds (good for her).

Aisha has gold nail polish here also. She’s doing what she can, and eventually is just gonna say fuck it and start wearing straight up gold with her silvers and tell Musa to get back in the bright red or so help me-

Stella let’s Aisha borrow her stash specifically when she first start and immediately commissions some custom ones done for Aisha’s measurements.